Page 27

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

“Angeline, it’s an emergency,” I say bursting through the doors of her Lincoln Park shop the next morning. She’s got a lavender diffuser puffing on high speed and I sneeze twice before she can greet me back.

“If this is about the Palo Santo , I already told you. It’s backordered and I can’t get it for another three weeks.”

“No, it’s not that,” I say. “I need to reverse the curse of Exexveei.”

She stops stocking crystals and makes eye contact with me for the first time since walking in.

“First of all, quit calling it a curse,” she reminds me. “Secondly, what are you talking about?”

“You know when I put my palm against someone else’s, I can see a vision?”

“Duh. Yes. Classic Exexveei.”

“Okay, well I need a kill-switch.”

“And I need a lover who is twenty years younger than me with a penchant for doing housework. Doesn’t exist, sweetheart.”

“Well then how do I avoid visions that include my own self?” I ask.

“Say what?” Angeline is shocked. “That’s not how Exexveei is supposed to work.”

“I know that,” I say, reminding myself of what Liv told me after the manicure training session. “It’s never about us. It’s supposed to be visions of other people and other people only .”

“Hmmm. Something seems to be misfiring. But, is that such a bad thing? To know what you’re in for?”

“The vision I had was of me possibly having sex with this Swedish engineer. You be the judge.”

“In that case, I’ll take a life sentence.

Swedes are fabulous lovers, honey. And an engineer is probably great with his hands.

I once hooked up with my building’s super and let me tell you…

” Angeline thankfully stops there and goes back to sorting a new shipment of crystals. I’ve officially lost her interest.

“No, no, no, Angeline. You don’t understand. I don’t want to know what’s going to happen with this guy.”

“What’s his name? Ludvig? Gustav?” Angeline is clearly going through her Rolodex of Swedish lovers.

“Ollie,” I say. “It’s Ollie.”

“Come with me on this,” she begins. “If you know ahead of time whether or not it’s going to work out, you can decide if you want to waste your time seeing Ollie. ”

“Sure. That’s one side of the coin,” I explain. “The other? I’m not jonesing to know his penis size, shape, how long he’s going to last, or what kind of kink he’s into when I’m trying to learn things like, I don’t know, his favorite animal?”

“Honey, people would pay big money for X-rated intel. I still have a jump-scare every time I encounter an uncircumcised penis.”

I cringe at the thought of Angeline face-to-face with male genitalia, but I put the image aside in the name of getting help.

“Look, I see your point. I really do. But Ollie and I have already touched palms twice and something tells me we’re going to do it again. And the next time it happens, it may not be just an accidental brushing. We might touch each other because we actually want to.”

“You like this guy, huh?”

“Ugh.”

“I don’t speak Gen-Z. Should I take that as a ‘yes’?”

“Ollie is the first guy that I’ve hung out with since being back in Chicago,” I begin to explain.

“We had a bit of a rough start, but it turns out we’re…

kind of compatible? Point is, I’d like to eat deep dish pizza with him for dinner without knowing if I’ll be giving him a blow job for dessert, capeesh?

Plus, I already know he’s really not super into all this woo-woo stuff.

It’s best if I can keep it somewhat chill. At least for now.”

“Are you sure that’s not what this is really about?” Angeline asks. “That the two of you will stop being so cutesy compatible once he finds out the extent of your abilities?”

When Angeline asks me, I think about my mom; divorced because my dad was too freaked out by her.

I also think about Olivia and Nora and the way they’ve decided to live a part of their lives in complete secrecy from their husbands who most likely couldn’t handle the truth.

I quickly convince myself that this is not that. This is more about me than him.

“I just don’t want to get lost in a vision of him going down on me every time we accidentally brush hands. Can you see how that could be a little disruptive during the getting-to-know-each-other phase?”

“Wait. You saw him going down on you? How was it? Did you…”

“Angeline! Please. Can you just stay focused and help me?”

She fans herself with her inventory sheet and apologizes for her head being in the gutter.

“Here, I brought this with me. It belonged to my mom. There’s got to be something in here to help turn down the volume on my visions.”

Angeline grabs her readers from the chest pocket of her oversized tie-dye t-shirt and rests them on the bridge of her nose.

She carries the secrets and spells book to the counter and sets it down.

She licks her pointer finger as she thumbs through the yellowed pages of the old book filled with my mom’s handwritten notes.

“I don’t know, Moonie. This all just sort of looks like jumbled notes. Why don’t you just give your mom a quick call and ask her yourself?”

“I tried. No answer. Only you can save me now, my spiritual queen.”

“Kid, I’m flattered. I really am. I just don’t know—”

“Please.”

Angeline stares deep into my desperate eyes before taking a breath and returning her attention to the spell book.

“Ah, here’s something,” she says, pointing at the chicken scratch. “It’s a recipe for a sacred smudge spray.”

“Tell me more.”

“Essentially, it cleanses unwanted energy. In your case, that could be the visions. You’d make this mixture, then spritz the affected area—I’m guessing it’d be your palms in this case.

It may not be a permanent fix, but the spray coupled with some serious intention setting to block your visions temporarily… might just work.”

“I’m willing to try anything. What do I need to make it? Do you have all the ingredients here?” I ask.

“Am I your spiritual queen or am I your spiritual queen? Of course I have it all here. First, you’ll need a two-ounce glass spray bottle,” she says, handing me one from a shelf.

“Then some sage, some rosemary, and some lavender.” Angeline stacks all three in my arms.

“What else?”

“Reiki-infused essential oils.”

“Please tell me that’s it…” It feels like I’m about to buy half the store for something that may or may not help stop my visions.

“And three packs of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.”

“What do I need the candy for?”

“So I stop eating all of the inventory when the store is slow.”

I roll my eyes.

“Now what do I do with all this stuff?”

“Muddle it all together with a mortar and pestle.”

“A what and what ?” I ask.

“Good god, woman. Haven’t you ever made a mojito?”

“I’m more of a screw-top wine girl. Getting a buzz shouldn’t take too much effort.”

If Yas heard me say that…

Angeline waves me on to follow her once again to another section of the store, where she adds a small, heavy bowl and something that looks like a mini baseball bat to my massive haul.

“Okay, that’s officially everything,” she says.

I follow her back to the cash register and set everything down on the counter. She scans them in one by one and tells me my total is $98.83 with my discount. I can almost feel my brain exploding.

“What’s with the face, Moonie?”

“This face? The one of someone who just had to spend a hundred bucks so she can date a guy in the same way every other normal twenty-six-year-old gets to? I know I’m Chicago’s most popular woo-woo woman right now, but my god. This make me feel incredibly alone.”

“You’re not alone. You’re just special,” Angeline reminds me.

“Well is there anyone else out there who’s special , too?”

“I’ll put my feelers out. I have a lot more customers now because of you.

I’m sure I’ll be able to sense when another person comes in here with Exexveei.

And when they do, I promise to do what I can to bring the two of you together.

Just be patient, Moonie. Be patient. Now let’s get back to the task at hand.

When you get home, are you confident you’re going to know what to do with all this? ”

“Throw it in a crockpot and make a stew, right?”

“Eeennnhhh!” Angeline’s fake buzzer noise startles me a tad. “Wrong.”

At that, she waddles her way to the front door and locks the deadbolt. She flips her “OPEN” sign to the side that says, “BE BACK SOON” and draws a shade to cover the small window that leaks a sliver of natural light into the otherwise dungeon of a store.

“This is serious stuff, Moonie. I’m going to guide you through this step-by-step. But you’ve got to be the pilot here. I’m not landing the plane. Deal?”

I nod and mouth the words Thank You.

Angeline looks nothing like my mother, who is essentially an iteration of Miss Rachel from YouTube, just a couple decades older.

Angeline doesn’t sound like her, either.

Angeline is brash, with a smoker’s voice.

My mom is soft, flowery, and eloquent. But this moment is giving mother-daughter-bonding in a way I can’t really describe.

It’s giving…going shopping for your first bra, being taught to put a pad in your underwear after starting your period, getting coached through your first heartbreak.

This is a moment my mother probably wanted with me, but thanks to my dad, it would never happen.

So as I stand in Angeline’s shop, taking all the mental notes as we mix up a potion recipe my mother invented, I think not just about her, but about my dad, too.

While we haven’t spoken in forever, if I could talk to him right now, I’d tell him this: “Sorry, not sorry.”

“Put all the dry ingredients in the mortar,” she says, waiting for me to remember that’s the bowl thing.

“Good. Now smash them with the pestle.”

I grab the heavy wand and begin to jackhammer the herbs.

“It’s more of a slow, grinding motion,” she instructs as she mimics the move with her own hands.

“There. That’s better,” she confirms after I give it another try.

“Now grab the funnel and pour the mixture into the glass bottle.”

I do. A few leaves come loose and land on the counter. Angeline tells me not to worry about them.

“Now add the essential oil and put the cap back on.”

The herbs settle at the bottom of the slim glass jar. This looks more like homemade salad dressing than a potion.

“Shake hard,” she says.

When I do, the herbs finally marry into the oils. The jar resembles a snow globe with the little pieces of lavender and rosemary floating through the liquid in slow motion.

“It’s beautiful,” I note.

“Nice job. Now, put a sticker on it and label it. It’s important to always label your mixes. You don’t want to be mistaking your smudge spray for your lube. Been there, trust me.”

Angeline slides me a black permanent marker and a white, peel-and-stick label.

“What should I call it?”

“Don’t over think it. Just write down what it does and who it’s for. That’s good enough.”

I stare back at her, still unsure what to write.

“Oh, god. Give it to me,” she says, taking back the marker and paper and scribbling something down. “Here you go.”

“ Ollie’s Cock Block? !” I read aloud.

“Like I said. What it does and who it’s for.

Now you’ve got to use your mom’s spell on page thirty-seven for ridding unwanted energy.

Next time you think you’ll be holding hands with your Swedish lover boy, spray a fine mist all over your palms and rub them together.

That should create a protective layer from your horny visions, but I’m not sure how long it’ll last. And if you wash your hands or put lotion on them after, forget about it.

You’ll cancel everything out. Questions? ”

“Are there other recipes for potions in my mom’s book?”

Angeline pushes her readers back in place as she fixes her eyes on the pages of the spell book.

“Yeah. This one is for love. Here’s one for good energy. Here’s one for manifesting.”

“I’ve got a table at the Bucktown Holiday Market on Saturday and nothing quick and easy to sell since the sage stock is so depleted. I’m wondering if…”

“Those Bucktown hipsters would buy a Love Potion for twenty bucks a jar? Yeah. They would. Want me to pull enough product for thirty?”

I walk my way to the front of the store and flip Angeline’s “closed” sign back to “open.” Drawing up the shade once again, we see a line of ten people who were anxiously waiting to get in the whole time we were mixing up my mom’s potion.

“Make it a hundred,” I tell her before I dip out. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”