Jessica
Journal Entry from 2008
To attract good health and sweeten thy dreams, place a sprig of thyme beneath thy pillow.
Goody Fletcher, Book of Useful Household Tips
It turned out Mark’s uncle Richie had been right: there weren’t any lofts left in Manhattan for college girls to rent cheap and fix up.
But there were plenty of unair-conditioned walk-ups in Washington Heights.
That’s how I found myself dragging my heavy art portfolio up and down the five flights of stairs to the one-bedroom apartment Dina and I were sharing.
Not that I was complaining. My life in New York City was everything I’d dreamed it would be, and more. I didn’t even mind cramming myself and my giant portfolio onto the subway every morning for my hour-long commute downtown to school. I was living in the most exciting place in the world. What could be better?
As I undid the many locks to our place and opened the door that day, I saw that the mail had already arrived. Dina usually got home before I did, grabbed the mail and brought it upstairs, then changed and left for her volunteer job at the neighborhood animal shelter. No dogs were allowed in our building, and Dina, a dog lover, couldn’t stand being without one. I could hear the shower in our single bathroom running, so I knew she was already home from her puppy-loving.
The mail that day consisted of the usual pile of bills, junk, and multiple magazines to which I subscribed for inspiration (Vogue, Allure, Harper’s Bazaar, all of which always seemed to arrive on the same day), along with one mysteriously large cream-colored envelope addressed to me “and guest.” It had a West Harbor, Connecticut, return address. The sender was Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Hopkins, Rosalie’s parents.
“Oh my God,” I called to Dina, who’d just that moment turned off the water. “Did you see what I got in the mail?”
“No. What?” I heard the hooks on the shower curtain rattle as Dina threw it back and stepped from the tub.
“A wedding invitation.” I found a butter knife and opened the thick, expensive envelope. “Rosalie Hopkins is getting married.”
“Oh, yeah.” Dina appeared in the hallway wearing only two fluffy white towels, one wrapped around her body, the other around her hair. “I forgot to tell you. My mom said she saw Rosalie and her mom at the Westfield Mall in Trumbull last week, and she could have sworn they’d been looking at baby stuff in GapKids.”
“Jesus!” I jumped, both at Dina’s words and the cascade of fake gold rose petals that fell from the envelope when I pulled out the invitation. A confetti bomb. So Rosalie. “How could you not have mentioned that until now?”
“They could have been shopping for a relative.” Dina shook her head as she stared at the mess on the floor. “But now it’s looking like maybe not. What dumbass did Rosalie Hopkins get to knock her up and then agree to marry her?”
I looked at the invitation, which was exactly what I would have expected from Rosalie: extremely proper and stuffy.
Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Hopkins
request the honor of your presence
at the marriage of their daughter
Rosalie Anne
to
William Robert Walker
Saturday, the twentieth of December
at six o’clock
First Protestant Church
West Harbor, Connecticut
Reception to follow
West Harbor Yacht Club
RSVP
Black Tie
I looked at Dina in astonishment. “Oh my God,” I said, suddenly barely able to breathe. “Billy.”
“No.” Dina snatched the invitation from me. “No way.”
But it was true.
I had to go sit down on the futon (which served as both my bed and our living room couch) because I felt a little light-headed.
“How could he have been so stupid?” Dina raged, still staring down at the invitation.
“It’s Billy,” I murmured. “You know how dumb he is. He never stood a chance once Rosalie decided he was the one she wanted.”
“Yeah, but he could have worn a condom. What’s he going to do now?” she asked. “Drop out of Notre Dame and be Rosalie’s full-time arm candy slash baby daddy?”
“I guess so.” I put my head between my knees, not so much because I was still feeling light-headed, but to avoid having to see evidence of Rosalie’s latest offense—the invitation in Dina’s hands, the fake rose-petal confetti on our floor. Instead, I studied the insoles of my boots.
“Still, you have to admit,” Dina said, “he’ll make a good dad.”
I didn’t look up. I didn’t say anything, either. What was there to say?
Then Dina’s bare feet, with her dark purple pedicure, appeared in my line of vision, and I felt her sit down on the futon beside me.
“Hey,” she said, patting my shoulder. “Come on. You know I’m right. He will make a good dad. And you know what? I bet he’ll be happy, too. The only thing Billy’s ever wanted is to love someone. Like, really love someone.”
I looked up then, and gave an unsteady little laugh. “To a nearly suffocating degree.”
“Exactly. I think all those spells you did for him, wishing him success, worked. This is what success means to Billy.”
“Being a teen dad?”
“Yes. I’m serious. And you know what else? There’s a reason you got an invitation and I didn’t. Rosalie doesn’t expect you to come to her wedding—”
I sat up so fast, I gave myself a head rush. “I would never!”
“Of course not. But she wants to rub it in your face that she got Billy and you didn’t.”
“Why? She knows I broke up with him. Why would she think I care? It’s so weird.”
“Oh, come on, Jess. You do care a little. Why else did you do all those spells? You want Billy to be happy, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do. That’s why I was so glad when he finally went off to school. I thought he might have a chance at getting away from her at last—and from me, and from West Harbor. But now Rosalie’s figured out the one way to drag him back, and keep him there with her forever.” I looked down at the invitation dangling from Dina’s hand, and something clicked. “Do you think Rosalie sent me that invitation herself?”
Dina followed my gaze. “As opposed to having her mother do it? Or one of her dad’s many personal assistants? I guess so. She probably took great satisfaction in it, too, licking the envelope herself and everything. Why?”
“Because there’s a spell in Goody Fletcher’s book that I can modify to send happiness to someone remotely.” I plucked the invitation from Dina’s hand. “All I need is something the person has touched.”
Dina made a face. “Why would you want to send happiness to Rosalie? She’s done nothing but try to make your life miserable. And now Billy’s—if you consider having a baby with Rosalie Hopkins a misery, which I definitely do.”
“I don’t care about Rosalie’s happiness. I care about Billy’s. Rosalie’s marrying Billy. And if Rosalie is happy, Billy will be happy, too. Want to help me?”
“Sure.” Dina shrugged. “Why not?”
So that’s how we found ourselves, a little while later, sitting cross-legged on the floor with Rosalie and Billy’s wedding invitation between us. I’d circled it with gently flaming tea lights and sprigs of purifying thyme, and opened the windows of our corner apartment to let in the cool evening breeze—and of course the traffic noise from the avenue, below.
“Oh, Gaia,” I said, “mother of us all, we ask you to protect this couple, and send them all the love, blessings, good health, and good fortune that you can.”
Dina, whose eyes had been closed, now opened them and looked at me critically. “Sorry to interrupt, but do you really think it’s appropriate to ask Gaia to send good fortune to the kids of two of the richest families in West Harbor?”
I considered this. “You’re right. Let me try that again.” We closed our eyes and concentrated.
“Oh, Gaia, mother of us all,” I said, “please protect this couple, and send them all the love, blessings, good health, and good fortune that you can spare from those who need it more.”
A gust of wind blew in so suddenly from the open windows, it caused our long white curtains (repurposed bedsheets) to swell and then loudly snap. Dina and I shrieked, not only because of the sound, but because the wind blew out the flames on all of the tea candles I’d arranged around the wedding invitation, and we were plunged into semidarkness. The only light to see by was the yellowish glow of the streetlamp outside. In it, I could see the blue smoke from the candlewicks drifting across the living room.
“Holy shit,” Dina said, her eyes wide. “Do you think that was a sign?”
“I don’t know.” I watched as the wind died, and the curtains fell back into their normal positions. The gold rose-petal confetti from the wedding invitation and the thyme had both been blown across the room and now lay tossed together in a pile. “I guess the real question is, if it was a sign . . . was it a good one, or a bad one?”