The Body Farm, page 4
There had to be more to life than life. While other kids rode their bikes to the park or experimented with shoplifting, you kept track of the solstice and the equinox, Lammas and Beltane. When you were bullied or ignored at school, you imagined your astral body flying up through the ceiling and far away, leaving your mortal flesh behind. You wrote a list of intentions and burned it at the new moon. You pricked your finger and watched the blood collect in a bowl, drop by drop.
To this day, you have told no one about that time—it is too intimate, too precious. More than anything, you wished for a coven: a collective of witches, bonded by faith and sorcery, closer than family. More than anything, you wished for love—real love, the kind in songs and storybooks. After all, what could be more magical than two souls adrift in a heedless universe, happening to collide, and not just collide but open to each other, turning toward each other in a mutual dance?
The Spell for Disappearing may alter your perceptions. You may find that you can see through time. You may find that the true names of objects and people enter your mind unbidden. While working the ritual, you will be more powerful and astute, entering a heightened state.
You almost tear Ruth’s card to pieces. You almost stuff it down the garbage disposal. You almost hand it to Ulf, telling him everything, letting him take the reins and relieving yourself of this bizarre, dreadful burden.
It is Ruth’s scar that stops you—the precise outline of an iron, glowing neon in your memory.
Over dinner that night, you are quiet. Ulf whips up a sensuous repast, complete with a carafe of wine and acoustic guitar on the stereo. He raises a glass and toasts your good health. Over and over he calls you min fästmö, the Swedish word for fiancée. In response, you smile vaguely, pushing the food around on your plate. You have never treated him this way before, as though he is not the most interesting thing in the universe. Your obvious distraction sends him into a tizzy of praise—“my darling, so beautiful, so unique, min skatt, mitt liv.” For the first time, you sense a false note somewhere. Ulf tells you that the engagement ring is perfect on your finger, that you are alight with love, as though he is willing these things to be true.
“Listen, min fästmö,” he says. “How would it be if we went to Canada for our honeymoon? It is not so romantic as other places, perhaps, but I have a cabin there. It has been in my family forever, and it is my favorite place, yes, my very favorite place in all the world. Shall we go there together, as man and wife?”
“Perfect,” you say absently.
There is no sex that night.
“I’m too tired,” you tell him.
“Then let me fill you with energy, min fästmö,” he says, nuzzling your neck and breathing in your ear.
“My head hurts,” you say, harsher this time.
He pulls away like you slapped him. For a moment he stares, his eyes cold and narrow. Then he recovers himself, flashing a seductive smile.
“Poor thing,” he coos. “Let me tuck you in. I’ll massage your temples. Back home in Uppsala, min farmor taught me just how to heal a headache. That is Swedish for my grandmother. She would have loved you!”
You pretend to fall sleep. When Ulf slips out of the room, switching off the light, you take Ruth’s card from your pocket and turn it over in the darkness, warming it between your palms.
A coven is needed for this magic to reach maximum efficacy. Alone, you will not be able to manage the rite. Ideally there will be a full cohort of twelve. But if you do not have the time or opportunity to gather so many witches, even two, working together closely, can achieve strong results.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” you say for the third time.
You are seated as far away from Ruth as possible while sharing the same park bench. A man pushes a stroller along the path. A lawn mower starts up in the distance. Ruth tips her head back, drinking in the sunshine with her eyes closed.
“Ask me anything,” she says.
“I should go,” you say, but you do not get to your feet.
“Want to know his real name?” Her eyes are still closed, her chin lifted.
You don’t answer.
“Jeff Watkins,” she says. “We grew up together.”
“You grew up in Sweden?” you ask helplessly.
Ruth turns to you, her forehead crumpled. “No,” she says. “No. I grew up in Dayton. And so did Jeff.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He changes his identity,” Ruth says. “He likes to be different people. I think it’s almost . . . I don’t know, I can’t diagnose him, I’m not a medical professional, and he’s . . . well, he’s beyond the pale. Changing his whole persona seems like something he has to do, like a compulsion. He’s pretended to be a California surfer. He’s pretended to be a good old boy from the Deep South. Once he was an upper-class Brit. He remakes himself each time.”
“But he speaks Swedish,” you say.
“Nah. He’s never even been to Europe. He probably just memorized some catchphrases, got a translation app on his phone. You don’t speak Swedish, do you? How would you know the difference?”
“Look,” you say. “I’m not saying I believe you. But if I did—I mean—why? Why would he do this? Why would anyone?”
Ruth sighs. Her hair is a rumpled pixie cut, and she keeps smoothing it, a nervous habit.
“I should be better at this,” she says at last. “God knows I’ve done it enough times. Here’s the deal. You have money, right?”
The question hits like a gut punch.
Yes, you have money, but no one knows this. You have never told another living soul.
You lost your grandmother when you were twenty-two, in graduate school, getting your degree in library science. It was sudden, a car accident. A major trucking company was at fault, and there was a substantial settlement. All your grandmother’s property went to you. Her house was worth over a million, to your surprise. Despite its dilapidated roof and rambling garden, the surrounding neighborhood was up-and-coming and the acreage was precious.
You added the totality of your grandmother’s estate to the settlement from the trucking company. You have not touched that money, which has been sitting in the bank, accumulating interest at an astonishing rate, for over a decade.
You do not speak of it. Your friends, your coworkers—whenever someone asks about your family, you wave your hand noncommittally and change the subject. You have worked your entire adult life, put away money of your own, and saved carefully. You cannot bring yourself to spend one penny of the sum you were given as recompense for your immeasurable loss. Even magic cannot restore the dead. You cannot wish your grandmother back, but you will not grant the premise that cash could ever replace her raucous laugh, her perfect posture, her soft hands.
“How did you know?” you gasp.
“They’ve all got money,” Ruth says. “Jeff is good with computers; he finds these things out. It’s blood in the water. He can sniff it out a mile away. You’re loaded, aren’t you?”
She glances at you, finding confirmation in your face.
“You ran into him someplace random, I bet,” she continues. “He bumped into you, spilled your drink or something, and your eyes met. Love at first sight.”
“Kismet,” you say. It was Ulf’s word, and you had to look it up.
“Whirlwind courtship,” Ruth says. “Quick marriage. He’s already picked a date, right?”
“Next month,” you whisper. “He said he always wanted a July wedding. ‘Why wait?’ he said.”
“Right. And no prenup. You see?”
“But he pays for everything. He told me that his salary is amazing—he always picks up the check—he insists . . .” You cannot breathe. A wheezy whistling escapes you, and Ruth scoots closer, rubbing your back like a mother soothing a colicky child.
“It’s difficult to hear, I know,” she murmurs, but her tone is mechanical. How often has she said these exact words before?
“Go on,” you say, steadying yourself. “Tell me what I need to know.”
Ruth stares at you as though assessing your mettle. Then she nods.
“Jeff and I both grew up dirt-poor,” she says. “But you’re right, he does have money now. This is his job.” She points to the diamond ring on your finger. “He can afford to pay for everything at the start of each relationship. It’s his investment. It reaps huge benefits.”
“And after? Once he’s—married?”
“Well.” She shakes her head. “He’s got a temper. He can only be sugar and spice for so long. He keeps up the performance until the papers are signed. Then the true colors come out.”
“True colors?” you echo on a high note.
She pauses, biting her lip. “Slaps and punches. Black eyes, broken nose.”
“Jesus.”
“He threw one woman through a glass door. Put her in the hospital.”
You wrap your arms tightly around your middle.
“So you get divorced,” Ruth says. “And he gets half. Sometimes more. One of them—one of his brides—her family had this beautiful cabin in Canada, on a lake. They’d owned it for generations. It was her favorite place in the world, she told me. I found her too late. After they were already married. His lawyer nabbed the cabin in the divorce.”
A young couple strolls down the path in front of you, holding hands in companionable silence. You resist the urge to separate them by force.
“It’s a lot to take in,” Ruth says sympathetically. “Sleep on it. Think about it. And when you’re ready to leave him, call me.”
When—not if.
The sun breaks through the clouds, dappling your skin. There is a question hovering in the air. Finally you find the courage to ask it.
“Did he do this to you? Take your money? Lie to you?”
Ruth bows her head.
“I was the one he loved,” she says after a moment, her voice expressionless. Her hand lifts to her chest, rubbing the scar beneath her T-shirt. “He pursued me since elementary school; he told everybody he was going to marry me. He would show up at my house with flowers, throw pebbles at my window. My friends thought it was the most romantic thing in the world. But I always said no. He scared me somehow. That anger. And—” She breaks off. “I felt like there was nothing behind his eyes, you know?”
You watch her, waiting. Her gaze has slipped inward.
“I finally gave in,” she says. “He wore me down. Or maybe he got better at hiding who he really was. We dated for a few years in high school, then got engaged after graduation. I didn’t have money. Not a red cent. There was nothing for him to gain. So I think he loved me, as much as he’s capable of that emotion.”
You realize you are holding your breath.
“He gave me that.” She points to your ring again. “Then he gave me this.” She points to the brand left by the iron.
Be conscious of what you eat and drink before performing the rite. Vegetables are best, as they will strengthen your flesh and nourish your spirit. It is wise to avoid heavy foods and sweets.
Haggard, you stumble through work like a zombie, making mistakes, earning concerned looks and a few reprimands. The world around you is unreal, flattened, like the set dressing on a stage, a facsimile of an actual place. The backdrop of the library might as well be made out of cardboard. Your coworkers are actors reading lines: “Hey, did you forget to check the inventory?” “You’re looking a little green, are you okay?”
You are not okay. You are engaged to a villain. You have no doubts anymore. Your conversation on the park bench with Ruth was only yesterday, but that is long enough for the truth to sink in, all the way down to your bones.
You will break up with him. When, not if. You will choose a public place to do it. You will get your locks changed first. You will be brave, like Ruth. Maybe you will install a new security system. Maybe you will get a guard dog.
It felt too good to be true because it was too good to be true. You will survive this, you tell yourself. It will not be difficult to untangle your life from Ulf’s. The man has been in your orbit for only two months now.
At lunchtime, he texts you: I will pick you up at 4. We must go to the bakery and try wedding cakes. I prefer chocolate, but I will defer to you.
A wave of nausea crests beneath your breastbone. You barely make it to the toilet in time, expelling everything you have eaten that day, vomiting until the sides of your stomach clang together and there is nothing left to come up.
Be prepared for strange and unpredictable bodily changes. The Spell for Disappearing has a way of altering and warping the flesh. Before, during, and after vanishing, your anatomy will undergo extreme stress and may swell, ache, or scar. You will emerge transformed.
Sitting on the toilet, you clutch the pregnancy test in both hands. It will take five minutes to give you results—enough time to make a cup of tea to soothe your stomach, peppermint, as your grandmother taught you—but you can’t seem to move. You are trapped like a fly in amber, pants around your ankles, legs going numb, gaze fixed on the window of the pregnancy test, an oval the size of a grain of rice.
This is the most reliable brand on the market. One blue line means business as usual. Two blue lines means that the world, already sideways, has turned all the way upside down.
You run through your list of symptoms again. Fatigue, which you assumed was due to your all-night marathons in bed with Ulf. Hot flashes, possibly attributable to Ulf’s good looks. A vague feeling of nausea when smelling grilled meat over the past couple of weeks. A few moments of eerie light-headedness that you assumed were lovesickness, back when you were still in love. And one intense bout of vomiting earlier today. Nothing conclusive. Your period is a few weeks late, but that’s not unusual. Your cycle has always been irregular, easily thrown out of its rhythm by stress.
The past few days have been extremely stressful. Since Ruth stepped out from behind that tree, you have inhabited a waking nightmare.
You left work early, telling your coworkers you were sick. You texted Ulf the same, hoping that he would give you space—a moment to breathe, to think, to find your footing. Instead, he bombarded you with messages, asking how you were feeling and offering to come over with medicine. You made excuses: I don’t want you to catch whatever this is, I don’t want you to see me like this, it’s gross. He was undeterred, volunteering to lay a cool cloth on your brow, calling you his fitta, his skatt, his liv, words he learned from a translation app and was probably misusing.
I’m going to nap, I’ll text you when I’m up, you wrote finally, then turned off your phone, relishing the silence.
Now your gaze is locked on the tiny window like a laser. You spin your engagement ring, a nervous tic, digging a shiny groove into the flesh of your third finger.
A sound from downstairs startles you—a key turning in the lock. Ulf calls out, “Mitt allt? Are you awake now? I have a surprise for you.”
You glance back at the pregnancy test and muffle a cry in your palm. Two blue lines. Sperm and egg. Blood and bone.
Ulf’s footsteps climb the stairs, quick and eager. You splash water on your face, ashen in the mirror. Then you realize you are still holding the pregnancy test. You lunge toward the trash can, intending to stuff it down beneath the soiled tissues and used cotton balls. But what if Ulf searches the garbage? You have no idea what he’s capable of. The damn thing is too bulky to flush.
“Mitt allt?” Ulf repeats playfully, just outside the door. “I know you are in there. I can hear you breathing.”
The window. You always leave it slightly ajar, even in cold weather, to reduce steam and odors. You lean across the sink and hurl the pregnancy test into the alley behind your house.
The knob rattles. Ulf pounds on the door with his fist, making you jump. “Are you all right? I am growing worried. Open, please.”
You obey. He fills the bathroom with his bulk, holding out a bouquet of flowers, and you bare your teeth in what you hope is a smile.
The moon is a potent force in the lives of witches. You must learn how your own magic responds to each phase. Most practitioners find their abilities to be strongest during the full moon and weaker during waxing and waning. The new moon offers its own dark power, erratic and mysterious.
In the dead of night, you call Ruth, who answers after one ring, as though she was waiting. She sounds fully alert, not a hint of sleepy slurring.
“Are you alone?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Good. Where is he?”
“Asleep upstairs. I told him I wasn’t feeling well and I wanted to be on my own tonight. He wouldn’t go. He said he couldn’t stand the idea of abandoning me when I’m under the weather.” You pause, a chill tracking down your nape. “It’s like he knows I’m on to him. He won’t leave me alone for a second.”
A low chuckle. “How can you tell when he’s lying?” Ruth asks. “His lips are moving.”
You settle on the couch. The moon hangs in the window, a delicate crescent. You are not yet ready to tell Ruth about your pregnancy. Speaking the words aloud will make the situation real.
“How many women has he done this to?” you ask instead.
“Twenty-three, including you.” Her answer is immediate, no need to tally it up in her head. She knows the count; she carries it with her.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah, he’s prolific. And I haven’t always been able to stop him. He gets around; he’s clever. He’s gotten married eight times.”
“Eight? Seriously? Isn’t that illegal?”
“Oh, no. He gets divorced each time. No bigamy. Right side of the law.”
The house is absolutely silent. For once, you are grateful for the loose floorboard outside your bedroom door that squeals like a banshee whenever you step on it. You’ve been meaning to have it fixed for years, but now it will be your lo-fi alarm. You are sure Ulf is sleeping; you waited to leave the bed until he was snoring, his mouth pooling open, fingers twitching. The board will tell you if he wakes.
