Page 28

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

I’m prepping a giant batch of Love Potion in the bathroom of the coach house, which is eerily reminiscent of my college “jungle juice” days. As all of the ingredients marinate in the tub, I take time to do something I’ve been meaning to do for a while now.

I flip to some blank pages in the back of my mom’s spell book, where I begin to transfer the FIELD NOTES from the app on my phone to the paper.

The more I dabble with my gift (and dance around it), the more important it is to keep track of things.

Something feels right getting the notes off my phone and into this book. Like it’s where they belong.

As I date my most recent entry in the journal, Nora announces her presence in the coach house. She doesn’t come over often, but today she arrives bearing a fresh linen restock.

“What in god’s name…” she asks, plopping a pile of folded towels on top of the bathroom vanity. Her eyes dart to the seemingly stained bath tub.

“It’ll wash out,” I say of the reddish standing water, even though I am highly unsure that it will.

“You’re lucky I’m dealing with another crisis right now,” she says. “Check out this text from Liv.”

Nora hands me her phone and I read the message.

Be honest. Do you actually think I’m ever going to get pregnant? This feels like it’s way harder than it should be.

“That’s intense. What are you going to say back?” I ask, noticing there has yet to be a reply in the text convo.

“Hell if I know. We’ve got to help her,Moonie.”

“I agree. Should we DoorDash her some Mucinex?”

“Excuse me?”

I shrug my shoulders and give my bathwater a stir. Clearly TikTok hasn’t been serving Nora all the #TTC (trying to conceive) content it has been for me since we’ve all been discussing fertility so much as of late. Maybe Gerda was on to something with these cell phones after all…

“Give me the spell book, will you?”

I hand it to my sister and she thumbs through the pages, landing on exactly the one she was looking for, before handing it back to me.

“A fertility ritual? You can’t be serious.”

“It’s better than Mucinex!” she fires back.

“Is it though?”

“Moonie, Liv is not having success with IUI. Which means, next stop is IVF. Unless…”

She directs her eyes to the book and nods my way. I read the first few sentences before stating the obvious: “This is insane.”

“Clearly I won’t touch this kind of thing—and neither would she—but… you can. Do it for Liv, will you?”

Nora and I are at a standoff staring at each other, through each other.

I’m already elbow-deep in a tub full of potion while simultaneously trying to dodge palm reading abilities, and now my sister wants me to go full woo-woo and cast a spell on my other sister behind her back so she can get pregnant. I swear I used to be normal.

I scan some more of my mom’s handwriting and preview the steps. Honestly, it doesn’t seem that hard.

“Get me three candles, three sheets of paper, a pen, and a crystal off my nightstand,” I order.

Nora runs off in her lululemon to fetch what we need for the ceremony.

It’s the most actual exercise she’s done in those leggings.

Meanwhile, my phone pings with an incoming text from Ollie.

It’s a selfie of him reading The Phantom of the Opera.

The text says: Name a better book that’s stood the test of time, I’ll wait.

Shockingly I’m not tempted to send him back a photo of my mother’s spell book, even though it’s a worthy contender.

Nora returns, out of breath but with everything I asked for.

“Before we get started, you have to promise me something.”

“Not to tell Liv?” I guess.

She nods her head.

Nora procures three large scented candles, all iterations of seasonal scents: Pumpkin Spice, Apple Cider, and Pecan Pie. Next to them, she sets a lighter along with three sheets of computer paper and a fancy black pen. I begin to read the intro paragraph to the ritual.

“This is a Cord Cutting Ritual to help break free of the etheric cords that tie us down from the ability to conceive. The ceremony also removes old, stagnant, useless cords that drain the energy and disrupt the aura needed to conceive.”

“Wow, that’s exactly what Liv needs,” Nora comments. “A compete aura overhaul.”

She should talk.

“Step One: Create a sacred space. In a quiet area, light three candles and place them in front of you in a line from left to right,” I read aloud.

I don’t know how sacred the coach house is, but I get up to draw the blinds as Nora light the candles. It feels dim and cozy for it being the middle of a sunny day. We take a seat across from each other with the candles between us.

“Step Two: Take five deep breaths with your eyes closed as you hold your crystal to your belly.”

“That’s all you, Moonie,” says Nora. She’s officially reached her threshold as an active participant. “Really focus on grounding yourself,” Nora whispers from the sidelines.

After five breaths, I read Step Three to myself: Set your crystal down and pick up a pen and the first piece of paper.

“What’s it say to do next?” Nora asks.

“We have to write a few sentences about her past and what she’s ready to let go of. Then we fold the paper and put it in front of the first candle,” I explain.

Step three is innately harder because we are approaching this exercise as if we are Liv. I take a moment to think about what she’d say is holding her back.

“Societal expectations,” Nora suggests. “Or maybe too much sugar and butter?”

I go with societal expectations.

“Step Four says to grab the second piece of paper and write a few sentences about where she is in her present. This can include both positive items as well as struggles,” I read. “Then we fold that one and place it in front of the middle candle.”

Again, we try to channel Liv. Nora suggests the frustration that’s tied to the clinical aspects of trying to get pregnant.

We both agree on adding resentment toward Ted about his conveniently long hours and distracting job as a busy veterinarian in a big city that’s constantly plagued by cases of dog flu.

“Step Five is to grab the last piece of paper and write down the manifestations for the future. We’ll put that one in front of the candle on the right,” I explain.

This one is easy. We keep it short, sweet, and to the point. I write the word BABY in all capital letters and underline it with a heavy hand. Done.

Step Six has me picking up the crystal again and taking another five deep belly breaths.

“Now what?” asks an anxious Nora.

“We set shit on fire,” I say, pointing to Step Seven in the book. Nora reads the page from a safe distance.

“Pick up the piece of paper representing the past and hold it to the flame of the candle on the left. Let the paper burn as you repeat the following: ‘I declare to cut and remove all cords and karmic ties, across all planes of time, across all dimensions and past lives that do not serve my [sister’s] ability to conceive in this lifetime.’”

A beat of hesitation pulses through me, and a bit through Nora as well, as we wonder if burning paper will set off any alarms. The last thing Nora needs right now is for Esteban, who is working from home today, to be distracted by a chirping smoke detector because his wife and her little sister are having a séance of sorts in the coach house.

“Maybe we should skip this part,” I say.

“We can’t,” says a determined Nora. “We have to stick to the steps.”

I put the paper to the flame and whisper the words from the page.

Step Eight has me picking up the piece of paper representing the present and holding it to the flame of the candle in the middle. I let the paper burn as I repeat the following:

“I declare any soul imprints that are not beneficial for my [sister’s] fertility become dissolved immediately into a space of love.”

Step Nine: I pick up the final piece of paper representing the future and hold it to the flame of the candle on the right. I watch the paper burn as I repeat a fertility mantra five times.

“Healthy baby come to Liv . Motherhood is what she’ll give,” I say in almost a sing-songy way over and over.

“Are we almost done?” Nora asks.

“Last step,” I say. “Blow out the candles, place the crystal on a window sill facing the moon. Fall asleep and wake up feeling sufficiently unburdened.”

I close the book and Nora blows out the candles.

She rushes to open the blinds and crack a window for fresh air.

She quickly gathers everything back up—the candles, the lighter, the pen—and discards the ashes of the burned paper into the garbage in my bathroom. I place the crystal on the window sill.

“You did a good job, Moonie .”

I smile at my sister’s approval.

“Remember: not a word about this to Liv .”

Nora makes the zipping-her-lips motion with fingers across her mouth. I hold up the Scout’s Honor sign.

Weird as this whole thing was, a feeling of undeniable hope—and true sisterhood—washes over me.