Hexed

Leather Jacket Guy leans against the stucco side of the fast-check-cashing place across the street, hands in the pockets of his black pants and one army-booted heel up against the wall. Signature pose, I guess.

 

“You? What are you doing here?”

 

Laughter rings out through the night. “Relax, I’m not going to attack you. Just pointing out that you might want to get inside. Lots of baddies in L.A. at night.”

 

“Aren’t you full of helpful hints,” I say, backing up.

 

The light from a streetlamp etches shadows into his laugh lines and makes his smirk look sinister. He pushes off the wall.

 

“Don’t come any closer.” My voice comes out much shakier than I’d planned.

 

I climb up the steps, careful not to fully turn my back to him as I unlock the front door. Only it’s not locked. My stomach churns. Mom would never leave the door unlocked after close. When eight p.m. strikes, it’s the first thing she does.

 

Hands shaking, I push the door open. The little bell jingles as I enter, which, in the dark, sounds anything but inviting. I do a quick check to make sure the guy isn’t going to try to push me inside the shop, and then hurry inside, slamming the door so hard it rattles the windows. I flip the dead bolt closed.

 

 

 

 

 

7

 

 

 

 

 

I’m afraid to flick on the lights, afraid of what I’ll see. Then I hear Mom’s moan and I can’t turn them on fast enough. My hands fumble for the panel next to the door. I feel the cold plastic under my fingers and bash all the switches up.

 

I don’t see her right away. Having adjusted to the dark, my eyes are seared even by the dim lighting of the shop, and I have to shield them from the candelabra. And then Mom moans again, and I find her.

 

The ceiling-high solid oak bookcase has been overturned, and underneath it is an absolute mountain of books. Mom’s black-heeled boots poke out from underneath all the rubble. If it weren’t for the cauldron on display in the center of the room, which caught one end of the bookcase, the whole thing would have landed on top of her. Would have killed her. And judging by the way the bookcase bows in the middle, an inch-deep crack splitting the center of the arc, it could still happen at any moment.

 

“In-Indigo?”

 

“Mom!” I snap from my trance and run to where she lies, falling to my knees and frantically pulling books off her. “Mom, what happened? Are you okay? Can you get up?”

 

Her head is steeped in the shadow of the bookcase, but it shakes minutely.

 

“I’m going to pull you out, okay?

 

She moans as if to say “Don’t touch me,” but what else can I do? I can’t leave her like this. What if the wood cracks while I wait for help to arrive?

 

I grab her by the ankles and use my weight to pull. I’m able to drag her out a few inches, but then her body snags taut, and she lets out a piercing cry.

 

“What? What’s wrong?” I drop her legs and fall to my knees again.

 

“My arm,” she mutters. “It’s stuck.”

 

“Oh God. Okay, um, if I lift the bookshelf will you be able to move it?”

 

No answer.

 

“Mom?”

 

“Okay,” she says, her voice a harsh whisper.

 

“All right. This is going to be really heavy, and I’ll only be able to hold it up for a second, if that, so you’ll have to move fast, okay?”

 

I widen my stance, brace my hands under the wood, and lift, lift, lift until my face turns hot and an artery pulses in my neck and my hands shake and I have to give up. It’s not budging. I release my grip and massage the deep indents the bookcase left in my palms.

 

“I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t do it.” A sob escapes me and I fall to the floor. I’ve never felt more useless. “I’m calling nine-one-one, okay? Hang in there.”

 

“Need a hand?”

 

I scuttle back like a crab. The guy from outside pokes his head into the shop.

 

“Stay back!” I yell. “I’m calling the cops.”

 

“Could be a while before they get here.” He pushes the door wider and leans against the frame, inspecting a chunky silver ring on his middle finger.

 

“Listen, creep, I don’t know how you knew about my mom, but— Wait a minute, how did you get in here? I locked the dead bolt!”

 

“Look, you want my help or not? I’m not in the mood for dramatics.”

 

I don’t want his help. He’s probably the reason Mom’s under the bookcase in the first place. How could he have known she’d been hurt if he wasn’t involved? But some part of me knows this doesn’t quite make sense, because then why stick around? Why warn me at all, offer to help when the police could be on the way as we speak? And he’s right. The cops could take a while to get here, and I can’t risk that—not with that ominous crack in the bookcase.

 

“Okay, then. Guess I’m not needed, so I’ll just—”

 

“Wait!” I push to my feet. “Help me lift this bookcase and then go away.”