Three Wishes (12 page)

My grandmother agrees, so Papa drives off as we bundle up in our winter clothes. Though it's only a short walk to their house, over my dressy outfit I am wearing wool socks, a sweater, snow pants, my parka, earmuffs, muffler, and gloves. You can't worry about fashion when it's eight degrees outside, even if Pete is snickering at my puffy marshmallow-man appearance. He's showing off his testosterone level by wearing only a winter coat — nothing helpful like gloves or boots for him.

I roll my eyes at him, then I stick my strappy heels in my bag and pull on my snow boots before we all step outside. At least it isn't windy, but the clear skies amplify the bitter cold. My eyes start watering from the chill. Outside is utterly silent, save the sounds we are making with the brushing noise of my snow-pants-attired legs moving against each other. Normally I love quiet, cold winter nights like this that take my breath away, but there's something ominous about the darkness tonight.

I slow my pace for a moment and shiver. “What's wrong?” Mamère asks, noticing my hesitation.

“I don't know,” I answer through numbed lips. “I had a weird feeling all of a sudden.”

“You and your imagination.” Pete laughs. He takes my hand and guides me toward the bright lights of the party. “Let's warm up inside and then you'll feel normal.”

But it's a long while before I feel normal again.

Mamère's cell rings just after we get to the Hirsches', and I see her face empty of color as she listens in silence to the information coming over the phone. With a few quick questions, she ends the call and turns to me. “Right,” she pauses and swallows.

A rock lands in the pit of my stomach. My grandmother is never at a loss for words.

She clears her throat and starts again. “That was Karl Klocke, the chief of police. Papa's been in a car accident. It's very serious. He's unconscious and in an ambulance right now, and we have to get to the hospital right away.”

The horrified expressions on the faces around me mirror my own feelings.

Pete steps forward. “Do you want me to come, too?”

He's being so kind, but I'm too much in shock to even tell him
no
. Our relationship is too new to handle this level of intensity, and if I'm going to lose it, I want to be with my grandmother or by myself. I can tell Leia already knows that, and she gives me a firm hug before we leave. Pete grabs my hand and tells me to call him if I need him for any reason, at any time. I nod, numb, and then we're off.

The trip to the regional hospital should take fifteen minutes, but Mamère's nimble driving gets us there in ten. After telling me she doesn't know any more details, she's tight-lipped the whole way. Although I don't remember losing my parents, I'm sure the car accident that took them from us is replaying in my grandmother's mind. I keep gulping breaths, trying to keep from crying or throwing up, or both.

At the hospital, we're not allowed to see Papa and are told it will be near morning before he'll be in recovery. The staff directs us to a waiting room and tells us he's having surgery to repair damage to his internal organs. I've seen enough hospital TV drama to know that's not good. Mamère's sharp intake of breath suggests she knows the same.

We approach the hard plastic chairs, and her hand dips into a pocket of her purse, from which she pulls out two rosaries. Taking a seat, she offers me one, but I demur. I am not much into church stuff anymore. Still, I know that the rosary will bring comfort to her, and so I put an arm around her while she begins praying silently, hoping for the best for my grandfather.

I begin focusing in a different way, raging at my powerlessness to help Papa. I'm tempted to take up the rosary for something to do with my hands when the obvious solution comes to mind. Being a genie must bring with it some privileges when it comes to saving a loved one. My excitement over this idea makes me sit up straighter, and I drop my arm from my grandmother's shoulders. She pauses and glances at me, probably puzzled by the sudden hope on my face.

While I am excited, I am also nervous, as this wish will go far beyond my experience level. I want to consult my mother's diary, and I ask Mamère if she would be okay if I go home and get some things to make us more comfortable. She nods, knowing it's going to be a long night. We're still in our dressy clothes from the party and didn't eat anything before coming to the hospital. In books, people who are nervous and upset always lose their appetites, but the growls in my stomach are reminding me I haven't had dinner. I offer to pick up a couple of grinders for us to eat.

Still praying the rosary, Mamère nods again, with a wan smile indicating she's grateful for the idea. I borrow her keys and promise to drive safely, then head home to change and grab the items she and I will need during our vigil — a couple of pillows and blankets, some clothes, toothbrushes, and a few other toiletries.

Breathing rapidly, I sprint back up the stairs to my room and dig into the piles under my bed for my mom's diary, certain I'll be comforted. “Mom, Mom,” I pant. “Papa's been in a car accident. He's in critical condition, and he's in surgery right now. I have to do something!”

I could tell there was something wrong
.
But Eugénie, what can you do? You're no doctor.

“No,” I say. “But I can make a wish come true.”

Oh,
ma chérie,
no, please! This is too much for any genie, let alone one who has not yet gained her full wish power. You cannot do it.

“Yes, I can, and I will. I have to help him. I've already grown up without you and Dad. I can't bear to let Papa go if there's something I can do.”

Genie, let me make this clear: you may die if you take on this wish.

“I don't care.”

I do!

“What's the point of having powers like this if I can't use them to help the people I love?”

What's the point of killing yourself before you're eighteen? Do you think this is what your grandfather wants? Don't be overconfident. It has taken down more powerful genies than you in the past. What can I say to persuade you not to try this?

“Nothing, Mom. I'm sorry.”

Any uncertainty I may have had has now disappeared. There is no question I will do whatever I can for my grandfather, even if my mother won't provide the guidance I probably need. My decision is made, no matter what she says, and I close the diary with a
bang.
I lost my parents; I can't lose my grandfather, too. Besides, if I decide to continue being a genie, I've got to make it work for me.

I don't know what I expected to learn from my mother, but it sure hasn't brought me much confidence. At least I now know the possible outcomes of this choice. I couldn't live with myself if I was able to help Papa and chose not to out of fear.

I have enough presence of mind to pre-order the grinders with a side of fries before heading out the door. Sure, I could have wished them up — all of this stuff, but I'm figuring I should be judicious with wish power right now.

Back at the hospital, I juggle with the large duffle full of our gear in one hand, and the drinks and dinner in the other, nearly spilling the drinks as I punch in the floor number at the elevator. I manage to keep it all together until I get back to Mamère. She hasn't budged since I left and is still praying the rosary.

“Any news?” I ask. She shakes her head, then sighs and puts the rosary down. I can't afford to break down and cry, so I rub her shoulders and encourage her to walk and stretch for a minute while I get our dinner ready.

There's a small side table I pull in front of our chairs, cleaning the surface with a sanitizing wipe before putting our food and drinks down. Unwrapping the sandwiches with a flourish, I call my grandmother over for the meal and hope it will help cheer her.

“I've never understood people who can't eat during tragedies,” she tells me between bites, echoing my earlier thoughts. “Maybe it's a survival mechanism, but I found I wanted more food than ever when I was faced with — well, the accident…” She falters, clearly saddened at the memory of my parents.

I am determined not to repeat the outcome of that accident and again resolve to make this wish come true. Could there be a more important use for my power than this?

We finish our meal in relative silence, save the slurping sound of the straw as I down every last bit of my chocolate shake. I'll need calories and energy for what's up ahead, I rationalize. And sleep, too, I remind myself as we settle in for the night after a less-than-halfhearted
Happy New Year
exchange at midnight.

The sympathetic looks from the skeleton staff on duty this holiday evening do little to encourage us, though the many texts we get from our friends tell us we were on their minds at the countdown.

The chairs seem designed to keep us awake, but I manage to get in a few hours of sleep anyway — I don't know about Mamère — until a nurse comes in around 5:00 a.m. to tell us the surgery is over.

The doctor soon follows and says Papa is still woozy and not fully conscious. “He seems stable,” she says, “so I can let you in to see him. But it will have to be a short visit. No more than ten minutes.”

Always dignified, my grandmother bows her head in thanks and then ushers me ahead of her down the bright corridor. Papa's room is tiny, filled with his bed, the monitoring equipment, and a small armchair. The lights are dimmed, and the curtains are drawn over the window.

His face, surprisingly, is fine, if you ignore the tubes coming out of his nose. The rest of his body is a mess, swathed in a variety of dressings and with a number of IVs and other needles poking into him. As we enter, he opens his eyes with a start. He seems disoriented, but then he forces out, “I'm fine, ladies,” his voice hoarse.

“Oh, Pat.” “Oh, Papa.” We say and together rush forward for a loose, awkward embrace. His arms are tangled in bed sheets and tubes, and so our gentle efforts are one-sided.

Sighing deeply, Mamère settles into the one armchair, while I perch on the edge of the bed. “What happened, Pat? Was it a drunk driver?”

“You mean you don't know? About the woman? Is — is she okay?”

“Nobody has told us much of anything,” I explain, trying to keep him calm, as Papa is becoming agitated by the conversation.

“There was a woman in the road — I only saw her at the last minute — it was so hard, she was all in black — but I don't think I hit her — I swerved and hit the tree — I don't remember what happened afterward.” The words tumble out, and Papa's hands are clenching into fists on the sheets.

“If we haven't heard anything, it must mean nothing happened to her, Papa,” I attempt to soothe him. “I'm sure it's okay.”

“I have to know. You have to find out.” He begins thrashing in the bed, and there's an unrecognizable look in his eyes. I can't tell if he's frightened or angry, but as his movements escalate he collapses, mouth agape.

“Pat? Pat!” my grandmother calls out, her hands fluttering over his body, seeking a place where she can touch him. I waste no time pressing the button for the nurse, but he is already on his way in, having seen the flat line from the heart monitor at the nurse's station.

Another nurse and two doctors enter, and we get bustled out the door. Heart in my mouth, I guide my grandmother back to the waiting room where we both sit down heavily on the cursed chairs. It feels like we've lived our lives here at the hospital, though it's been only about twelve hours since the accident. I can see from Mamère's face she's giving way to despair, the circles under her eyes as purple as bruises. We both know this is bad.

“Just breathe.” I attempt to comfort her then get up from the chair and start pacing. I know I can't waste any more time and have to carry forward with my plan, or risk losing Papa. I am scared, but I push those feelings aside to be strong for Mamère and Papa. She's staring into the distance and doesn't seem to notice my presence, but I still alert her when I decide to visit the chapel on the first floor of the hospital. It's so early in the morning only the cafeteria workers are around, and I can smell the first batch of coffee brewing when the elevator doors open.

I pause before entering the chapel, not quite sure what I am seeking, but once I walk inside I am glad I chose this place. It is a quiet, interior room, paneled throughout in blond wood, with a light gray carpet to soften my footsteps. The pews are empty, and I glance at the faux stained-glass windows lining the walls with scenes of healers helping the sick. I bow my head as I sit down and am rewarded with a feeling of peace, or perhaps it is relief at being able to do something about my grandfather's situation upstairs. I can't stand being so powerless about it — so here's my chance.

With a deep breath, I begin concentrating, trying to center my power. I don't know if what I'm doing is right, but at this point I have to believe in myself and hope that's enough. Since the previous night's conversation with my mother's diary, I have been contemplating how to best make my wish come true. I know from past situations that my wishes can go awry.

Closing my eyes, I count down from twenty and then focus on a deceptively simple phrase:
I wish for my grandfather to heal
.

I repeat the wish over and over in a whisper, like a mantra, and soon start noticing the effects of what I am attempting. I grow hot then cold, and my legs tingle and feel numb, as if they have gone to sleep. My stomach begins roiling, and I worry last night's dinner will make a reappearance. Oddest of all, I literally sense my hair standing on end, while goose bumps cover my exposed arms.

Ignoring these phenomena, I keep my eyes shut and continue to focus on the wish, even as my breathing grows more shallow and rapid. I feel lightheaded. All of this happens in less than a minute, and I grip the back of the pew in front of me to keep from slipping off my seat. Still repeating the words, I am losing myself, and I start spinning into the darkness behind my eyelids.