I need to tune everything out: Mrs. Pucher’s questions about tilling the soil, Pom-Pom’s low growl, the clatter of doubts ricocheting in my head. I need to concentrate because I’m supposed to be able to read Mrs. Pucher’s mind.
If only I could read my mother’s mind, maybe I’d get a clue as to how I’m supposed to read Mrs. Pucher’s mind. But we can’t read fellow Jinn’s minds. Even reading human minds only kicks in during wish-granting rituals.
Which is why, when we arrived at Mrs. Pucher’s under my breath I muttered the first of the incantations I spent yesterday memorizing. And ever since I’ve been waiting to find myself plopped inside her head.
On and on, Mrs. Pucher’s peppering my mother with questions about bottom rot and calcium, and even though my pupils are drilling a hole into her white-haired head, I’m getting zip. Supposedly the longer I do this and the more I practice, the earlier in the ritual I’ll be able to read my wishee’s mind. But that doesn’t help me today.
Today, I’ll have to rely solely on the circulus incantation, which, bizarre as it sounds even to me, will allow me to connect with Mrs. Pucher’s psyche. It is there that I’ll find her truest wish. Being able to read her mind first is like seeing the trailer to a movie. It preps me for what she might want, what and who in her life might be an obstacle to this, and what elements I need to be conscious of when crafting the wish.
The psyche is all heart. All emotion. Without the mind-reading, without the head and the logistics, I’m working with a genie handicap.
My mother’s I-just-ate-a-lemon face as she sips a cup from the new pot of tea means it’s go time. I give up on mind-reading and nod to my mother, who moves to the edge of her peony-covered chair. I’m looking Mrs. Pucher in the eye, starting to utter the words that will set things in motion when my mother interrupts me.
“Azra! Your … your cloak!”
Mrs. Pucher cocks her head. “Cloak? Why it must be seventy-five degrees today.” She turns to me. “Dear, are you ill? Is it that migraine? Heavens, if it was my tea, I’ll never forgive myself.”
I assure Mrs. Pucher it wasn’t her tea, smoothly transitioning into a lie about getting over an early summer cold.
My cloak. Pretty clever of my mother, really, but I can’t believe she had to remind me. I almost forgot the cloaking enchantment. The incantation that blocks this memory from forming. I was about to grant Mrs. Pucher a wish without ensuring she wouldn’t remember the event. That’s basic stuff. I know better, and even if I didn’t, my mother’s lessons should have made sure I did.
Angry at myself, I whip through the rest of the required incantations and have Mrs. Pucher where I need her to be within seconds. I ball my hands into such tight fists that I’m cutting off the circulation to my fingers.
One moment I’m planning how I’ll get around conjuring her another puppy since we can’t actually conjure living creatures, and the next I’m wondering if I’ll die before my sister forgives me.
What? I don’t have a sister.
Phyllis, what I wouldn’t give for us to bury the hatchet.
I don’t know a Phyllis. I have never used the word “hatchet.”
I am in Mrs. Pucher’s head. I am reading her mind. I am doing this.
I spy my mother out of the corner of my eye. The worry lines creasing her face cause me to turn away from her. I can’t lose my focus. Especially as I’m flooded with such intense emotions that tears spill down my cheeks. My stomach hurts, my hands shake. I push through and go deeper.
The intimate details of Mrs. Pucher’s life fly at me. Mrs. Pucher—Eva. Her sister, Phyllis. Phyllis’s husband, Frank. Eva and Frank. Kissing. More than kissing. Phyllis walking in. The anger, the fight, the tears, the relationship, broken. Sisters no more.
The wrongness of invading Mrs. Pucher’s privacy makes me want to stop, but I can’t. Because underneath the aching sadness lies her wish: to reconcile with her sister before it’s too late.
Was there any amount of research that would have led me here? To this?
My mother thought this would be easy for me because I’ve known Mrs. Pucher my entire life. This proves how much I don’t know Mrs. Pucher. How little I’ve tried to know her. She used to change my diapers, but this is the first time my mother or I have sat down with her for tea. That’s why we had no idea she had such an aversion to sugar. This is the problem with being Jinn. We can’t open ourselves up to the humans we should know best.
I’m determined to grant her this wish, but I don’t know how. We are all in limbo for several more ticks of the grandfather clock when I finally have an idea.
“Mrs. Pucher, call your sister,” I instruct. “Call Phyllis.”
My mother widens her eyes, but I raise a finger to indicate I’m in control. Mrs. Pucher is already at the phone, dialing.
When Phyllis answers, I know she’s about to hang up. I know because I can read Phyllis’s thoughts too. I burrow into her mind via the receiver both Mrs. Pucher and I are listening through. Underneath the painful betrayal is Phyllis’s yearning to reconcile with her sister—with Mrs. Pucher.
In Phyllis’s mind, I find the words Mrs. Pucher must say in order to earn her sister’s forgiveness. I prompt Mrs. Pucher to recite them, but I don’t have to make her believe them. She already does. And once I get her going, she adds more of her own.
“It was just the one time, Phyllis. I promise you that. I loved him. I did. But I loved you more. I still do. Oh, how I’ve regretted that moment. Every day of my life, I’ve regretted that moment of weakness that made me lose you. Made me lose us. I’ll never forgive myself, Phyllis. But I pray that you can.”
Once the two women are laughing instead of crying, I relax the cloaking enchantment, easing Mrs. Pucher back into a place where she can remember this part. She’ll want to remember this part.
Weakened and a bit dizzy, I allow my mother to guide me to the couch. We listen as Mrs. Pucher talks with a voice full of lightness and joy.