One would think after so many lifetimes the pain would dull a little, but it never did. If anything, every passing year just made it ache that much more. She missed him more than ever and thought about him every day. That was the problem with motherhood: not only did it make you fat and put anxiety lines in your forehead, but the love you felt—that intense, all-consuming love for one’s child—was like owning the sharpest and most exquisite knife. It stabbed her right in the heart. Her boy was alive somewhere but he might as well be dead to her, since she would never get him back. They had taken that away from her. It was the worst kind of sentence a mother could endure, which was why it had been given.
Her beautiful boy, her happiest child: his smile was the sun, his light lit up the whole entire world. It was true what they said about mothers and sons: it was a special bond, a mutual admiration society. It was also true what they said: one loved one’s children the same amount, but sometimes you liked one child more than another. She had been mourning his loss for so long, and the girls were a great comfort. Still, it had never been the same. But now she had this wonderful new boy: this Tyler Alvarez, of the quirky flapping hands and the mischievous smile, who would not embrace her yet would head-butt her if he wanted a kiss on the top of his head. He did not heal the hole in her heart, but he did fill a gap that had been empty for a very long time. Joanna took to the boy immediately. He called her Abuela, or “Lala” for short, and she called him Checkers. She wasn’t sure where that came from, something with his cheeks maybe. She was constantly pinching them. She loved her daughters, but they did not need her anymore. They were grown-ups with their own problems. Tyler was another story.
Right now they were making a pie. Motherhood might have robbed her of her figure, but to be honest Joanna had been something of an accomplice in that matter. Aside from constantly renovating the house, her other weakness was baking. The kitchen always smelled like melted butter, enveloping the air with its rich, creamy, caramel fragrance. Joanna was teaching Tyler how to make a nectarine and blackberry pie. The fruit had been picked from the family orchard, the nectarines bursting with sweetness and the blackberries tart and tangy.
Tyler held the measuring spoon. “How much sugar?” he asked, his fingers hovering above the bag of sugar on the counter. She had given him the task of sweetening the syrup.
“More, darling, more,” Joanna urged as she pounded and rolled the dough that would form the crust.
After Tyler had added what looked like two cups of sugar into the mix, she cut into a long black vanilla bean and scraped the contents, adding it to the filling. Once the pie was assembled, Tyler helped her place it into the oven, an old Aga stove that she had purchased during a previous renovation.
“Now what?” he asked, his face smeared with fruit stains and his hair white with flour.
“Now we wait,” Joanna smiled.
Yesterday they had made brownies, the day before cupcakes, the day before that a moist and chewy nut roll. It was an orgy of baking, more so than usual, and Ingrid and Freya had begged the sugary tidal wave to stop. They might be immortal but their bodies were not immune to the havoc wreaked by a steady diet of baked goods.
Joanna had told them they would just have to deal with it the way everyone else did, with discipline and restraint. Just because she made these delicious treats did not mean they had to eat them. She wasn’t shoving brownies and cake into their mouths, now, was she? Besides, Tyler loved baking, and she was enjoying herself too much to stop. She was finding it was great fun acting like someone’s mother without the burden of responsibility. All she had to do was nurture and feed while someone else would do the disciplining and the time-outs.
“We’ll need ice cream to eat with the pie,” Joanna said, removing a carton from the freezer. “Extra scoops?”
Tyler nodded vigorously and she ruffled his hair. There was something about little boys. Boys in general adored their mothers. Girls were tricky. She knew the girls loved her, but she also understood that deep down, they blamed her for their father’s absence. They didn’t understand her, and sometimes she didn’t understand how to talk to them. Everything she said was taken as criticism, as judgment. Over the years she had learned she should never comment on anything.
So did she say anything when Ingrid moved back home and, instead of taking that position at the university, chose to work as a clerk at the local library? No! Did she ever mention her disappointment that her brilliant daughter with the doctorate had steamed paper for the last several years? Not a word! Did she say anything when Freya opened that bar in New York without a proper liquor license? Nope! Did she ever suggest that Freya might want to dress a little less provocatively? Never! Or that perhaps she was rushing into marriage? Of course, Freya and Bran were meant to be together; just one look at their happy faces told her everything a mother needed to know. But even if she did not approve, Joanna knew better than to get into it with her daughters. Because just one “Perhaps we have had enough cookies?” (After all, the girls had eaten three each already!) and there was that face. The one that said Mother knows least.
Or else she would be shut out as she had been that morning. Did they think she did not notice? She was jealous sometimes, of the bond the sisters had between them, just as she had been jealous a long time ago of the easy relationship they had had with their father. Daughters. They could cut you with a look.
She knew Tyler would never look at her that way. Tyler adored her and the feeling was mutual. Joanna now paid for him to attend a fancy children’s year-round preschool, and while his parents shared the morning drop-off it was Joanna who picked him up every afternoon with a snack or a treat in hand. After school they would go to the beach, where Tyler would spend the rest of the afternoon chasing birds and collecting seashells while Joanna watched him.
There hadn’t been anything odd since the three dead birds a week ago, and Joanna was starting to relax. Maybe that nagging worry in the back of her mind was just a by-product of their history. Perhaps she was just seeing signs where there weren’t any. Life in North Hampton never changed; she herself had seen to that when she first moved into town.
Oh dear, the pie had burned. She had forgotten to set the timer and now it was black and smoking. If she had been Freya, this would never have happened, but her magic was of a different sort. Tyler’s face crumpled, threatening an avalanche of tears. Lala had promised that there would be pie and ice cream.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” Joanna sighed.
“Pie,” Tyler said stubbornly. “Pie.”
“We’ll just have to make another one . . .”
“Pie.”
Joanna put her hands on her hips. She had overheard her daughters talking that morning. Something about how Freya had made a love potion—of the three of them, Freya had always been the bravest due to her natural impulsiveness and daring. But if nothing had happened to Freya, then . . . well . . . wouldn’t it stand to reason that she could do the same? It would just be a simple flick of the wrist, one little incantation and all would be right with Tyler’s world. It wouldn’t use up that much energy, after all, and truly, the oracle had been silent for many years; who knew if the restriction even applied to something so small? . . . Joanna’s hands began to shake. She wanted to do this. She would do this. It was just a pie, after all, she told herself. It was just part of the baking process. Bake pie. Burn pie. Restore pie.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered. Recovery and renewal was her brand of witchcraft. She covered the burned pie with a dish towel, whispered a few words, and when she removed it, the crust was golden brown and perfect.
Tyler’s eyes widened and he began to bounce on his heels. “You’re a witch!” he said with glee.
“Shhh!” Joanna’s eyes danced but she looked around in fear. No one had called her that for centuries. It brought back too many memories, not all of them good.
“Are you? Are you a witch?”
Joanna laughed. “What if I am?”