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“It seems most of the verifiable stories fit into one of three categories.” Bradley spoke in the serious manner of a detective. He pointed to one of the stacks. “The cursed object.” He pointed to the next stack. “The accidental self-curse.”
“Like when someone messes around with a magic they don’t fully understand?” Devra was only beginning to wrap her head around concepts Bradley already appeared to be an expert in, learning about curses and witchcraft with the same fervour he’d displayed chasing her through the hardware store. The memory felt like it was from a lifetime ago. But it had only been a couple weeks. She had no reason to feel this dejected that he didn’t want to kiss her a second time. Even if it had been the best kiss of her life.
She could still feel the pressure of his lips on hers. The shiver along her spine. It might have been a fleeting moment, a blip in the grand scheme of her life, but deep down, she knew Bradley’s kiss had left its mark.
“Exactly,” Bradley said. “And finally, the purposeful haunting, most commonly associated with a wrongful death and a vengeful spirit.” He shifted position. “So?”
“So?”
“Which one do you think applies most to your situation?”
The question dropped into her brain with a thump. Objectively she knew the point of this research was to apply it to her own life. And yet despite the hope, despite the goal, these concepts still felt adjacent to her. More theoretical than applicable. But now they needed to turn theory into a testable hypothesis and search for evidence within her own personal history.
“Well…” She tried to think. “None of them, really. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“One step at a time, right?” Bradley flashed his lopsided and—god help her—impossibly handsome smile. “My therapist says that to me all the time. We have to take this one step at a time, Bradley. So let’s break this down into manageable chunks. How about we begin with the idea of a vengeful spirit?”
Her panic began to subside, a soft grin forming on her face. He was lobbing her a softball just when she needed it. “Well, I can say for certain I have never killed anyone, and I feel fairly confident that despite their regular human flaws, no one in my family has a history of murder either, accidental or not. At the very least, that one seems the most unlikely.”
“Agreed,” Bradley said. “So let’s put it on the back burner for now. What about the accidental self-curse?”
“I can’t recall David or me playing around with a Ouija board or anything as kids. And I certainly can’t picture Papa messing around with potions or calling upon dark spirits. He thinks technology is a complicated enough magic. I think we can rule out that one too.”
“What about your mother?”
Another skull-cracking question casually tossed out.
“My mother?”
“Yeah. I know she left when you were fairly young. Ten years old, right? But you must remember some details from before then. Do you recall her doing anything out of the ordinary? Was she into that sort of thing? Witchcraft? The supernatural? Or more generally, do you think she would be the type?”
Would she?
An image appeared in Devra’s head. This flighty woman who jumped from one trend to another. Big on dreams, low on practicality. In fairness to Papa, Devra understood why he must have found her mother so captivating in the beginning. She was a lot of fun, always quick to suggest they play a game or indulge in another scoop of ice cream. The problem wasn’t how she behaved when life was good. It was how she acted during the bad times, like she was the only person suffering, unable to see past her own emotions. And as the curse brought an excess of bad times upon their household, the rift between Devra’s parents began to grow. Even as a child, she recognized how much farther apart they would sit from each other in the living room, going from cuddled up on the couch to opposite chairs with no eye contact.
Could she picture this self-centred woman messing around with mystical powers she didn’t fully comprehend? Lighting candles in dark rooms, repeating incantations, hoping to bring about her acting career by any means other than hard work?
“Yes,” Devra said before consciously coming to the conclusion. “Yes, I absolutely could imagine my mother doing something so reckless.”
“Then let’s start there.”
“It isn’t that simple. I have no idea where my mother is. No idea how to get in touch with her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“You don’t think there’s any chance we could track her down?” Bradley hesitated. “I mean, have you tried?”
Of course she’d tried. Once. When she was sixteen and her hormones were raging. When a confusing world of double standards and complicated relationships and yearly terrors had overwhelmed her. She was certain every answer to every question would be discovered if she could only track down her mom. It was her classmates’ relationships with their mothers and the idyllic portrayals she saw in teen sitcoms that made her believe this, really. That told her mothers were supposed to be the ones to comfort, to nurture, to guide their daughters through the trials of adolescence. So she tried a bazillion dead-end searches on a World Wide Web that was still in its infancy. She even made it to the intercity bus station with an overnight bag before she was overwhelmed by all the possible choices. Where would she even start? Toronto—a city of millions? What if she’d fled all the way to LA? Devra returned home deflated, to the open arms of her waiting father. She understood, then, that her family dynamics were different. It was Papa who comforted and nurtured. And she was okay with that. He was enough. He always had been.
Which was why the thought of his heart disease felt like someone stepping on her chest.
“Not recently,” Devra admitted. “I suppose it might be…” The confession temporarily lodged itself in her throat—did she even want to try? “It might be easier to find information on her now than it was back then.”
“Then let’s give it a shot.”
She didn’t reply, and Bradley scooched closer.
