The Listening

The wind howled outside. Branches cracked against the rain-swept walls. In the window, the golden flame of a single candle fluttered whimsically to and fro, a witness to the chaos of the storm outside. 

Nim peered into the deepening belly of clouds, hoping for a glimpse of the full moon. She didn’t show herself, but Nim could feel her power, ripe and heavy, rippling languidly through the storm.

Nim stretched their arms overhead, rolled their neck. Loosening up. 

They had deep Magick to work tonight.

Nim carried the candle to the center of the room, their hands guarding the flame with care while their feet shoved aside dirty clothes and scattered pens and the cast-aside math worksheet that was due yesterday. They plopped on the floor and settled the candle neatly in the center-most spot. The fragrance—peony, with an underlying whisper of honey and balsam wood—swirled around Nim, around the room, up to the ceiling, the scent at once a beckoning and an invitation. To afford it, Nim had picked up an extra shift at the deli run by Abuela Vera, who wasn’t really Nim’s abuela but Johan’s. Not that it mattered; everyone called her Abuela. Once Nim tried to call her “Ma’am” and she laughed so hard that Nim had to retreat to the kitchen to hide the beet-red embarrassment plastered on their face.  

Normally Nim would never spend so much on a simple candle. Mama wouldn’t allow it. 

But the moon was only full in Capricorn once a year, and Nim needed this to work. (And besides, Mama couldn’t forbid what she didn’t know.) 

From their desk, they brought a plate of cold chicken marag and yellow turmeric rice, and channeled their inner Bobby Berk to style the plate elegantly beside the candle. The dirty clothes scattered around their summoning circle kind of killed the effect, but Nim didn’t have time to clean all that, so they did what they did best: pretended not to notice. 

“Perfect,” they whispered, clasping their hands together. 

It was time. 

Nim closed their eyes, and reached Inside. 

Nim had always felt close with their mother’s grandfather, Jaddi Omar. He was ancient when he died—Nim had been fast approaching twelve, and they towered over his withered form—but his presence lit up any room. He was the life of the party and would let nothing get in his way, not even the looming spectacle of death and the deterioration of his physical form. But he could switch in a moment to stern and commanding. He could break up a fight with a look and settle a blood feud with only three words. 

It was his words that Nim needed to borrow. Mama would never listen to Nim alone. Now both Baba and Abed were gone, so Mama had no one left whose words she would respect. Nothing left but anger to fill the places where their love used to be. 

Jaddi, Nim called, inviting their ancestor. Are you here?

Then they waited, and listened. 

Nim knew something about Magick that most folks couldn’t understand. Technically, anyone can do it—it’s hardly even taboo like it once was. A simple Google of “Witchcraft for beginners” or a visit to a local bookstore will reveal books, spells, incantations, crystals and cards and smoke bundles—everything you need to look like a Hollywood witch. 

Sure, anyone can call themselves a witch these days, but when it comes down to it, most people don’t have what it takes to do Magick—real Magick. 

They burn the herbs, they line up the crystals, they say the gobbledygook and feel a bit silly. They follow the steps perfectly and then wait expectantly for something extraordinary to happen, like a ghost to say “whoo” or the mirror to fog over or the ouija board plainchant to start moving itself around. 

But that isn’t Magick. It’s just lame horror movie stuff. 

Real Magick isn’t about the words or the crystals or the herbs or any of that. 

Real Magick is simple: just poke at the Ancestors, and then listen for them to poke back. And the ancestors aren't ghosts or mirrors or ouija boards. They’re Inside. 

Like a drop of water doesn’t stop being sea water once it has left the ocean, a person doesn’t lose their Ancestors when they’re in a new body. They are the Ancestors. The wholeness of the Ancestors lives on in the wholeness of every person, all scrambled up and jumbled together and reforged into a new shape, a new person, a new life. 

Anyone can hear them, as long as they’re ready to listen. 

Nim was ready. 

They listened, to the wind outside, to the breath winding softly in and out of their lungs, and to their own Alive-ness, the same Alive-ness that their Ancestors struggled for and wrestled with and cried for, painfully and joyously. 

And they waited. 

Nim’s left hand spasmed, and the memory of a scent tickled their nose. Sizzling spiced meat, made Jaddi’s favorite way, with extra ginger and a touch of cinnamon. 

He was here. 

Welcome. Stay a while. How is the food? Nim said politely. Ancestors, like living elders, demanded respect. 

It’s cold, Jaddi answered, and his laugh rocked Nim’s belly. 

It’s from yesterday. Mama still doesn’t let me cook, or I would have made it fresh for you, Nim said, a roundabout apology. They wanted nothing more than to learn the secrets of herbs and doughs and spice-crusted meats, but Mama stood firm that men should stay out of the kitchen, and Nim—

Well. Mama was still struggling with the agender thing. She used the right name now! (Usually.) That was a start. 

So, you need my help, little monkey? Jaddi’s curiosity was like an itch in the back of their throat. Nim swallowed. 

Mama changed when Abed left, Nim explained. At first we thought, she just needs time. It wasn’t like this when Baba died. She struggled, but it got easier. She came back. She was gentle again. She laughed again. But this… 

Nim was trying, but the words wouldn’t come. 

Show me, commanded Jaddi. 

Nim wanted to refuse. But they had invited Jaddi Inside, and now everything Inside was open to him.  He poked—hard—and the memory broke through. 

Isa’s small form crumbled against the bathroom door. Nim held their narrow arms out in front of her. They trembled. The air rocked. Skin met skin. The world tilted. 

The house smelled of blood and broken trust. 

Nim’s heart quailed and they wrenched the memory away from Jaddi, folding it up and tucking it away someplace deep, deep Inside. Hiding it in the cellar of their heart, because otherwise they could not still see Mama every day and give her hugs and talk to her about school as though nothing had ever gone wrong. 

They touched a hand to the pickle-relish bruise decorating their cheekbone. 

Inside, Jaddi watched gravely. 

Nim dropped their hand. 

She doesn’t apologize. She won’t listen to Johan. They’re fighting nearly every day now. She stopped going to services. She barely leaves the house. Tears squeezed themselves from the corners of Nim’s eyes, big ugly things, heavy and scurrying, like rats leaping from a burning building. I just want her back. I want things to go back to how they used to be. I want us to be happy again. 

Jaddi said nothing. 

Jaddi, please, Nim begged, something feral and afraid clawing the insides of their ribs. What can I say to her? To clear away this…demon, sickness, whatever it is. Whatever she has. Give me the words. I want to heal my family. I need to. Please.

Thunder grumbled outside. The rain lessened a bit. Nim sat, listening intently, their eyes closed, their ears aimed inward, toward the Inside.

They heard only silence, and the sound of their own ragged breaths. 

Jaddi? Nim frowned. Opened their eyes. Peered out the window. The moon still hid coyly behind her silver mantle. 

Maybe their body couldn’t receive Jaddi’s message on its own. Nim whispered the name of their tarot deck as they shoved aside blankets and laundry, a simple spell to find it faster, and located the little deck of cards at the bottom of their closet beneath a pile of forbidden cookbooks from the school library. 

They shuffled once, twice, the movements fluid and soft, well-practiced. They whispered their query once more—how do I help Mama?—and flipped over the top card. 

The Devil, reversed. 

Your surroundings no longer serve you, they read in the guidebook, but you won’t admit it to yourself.  There is a hard decision you need to make about where you’re spending your energy, and whether you are appreciated in your current situation. If you continue to stay here, you may find yourself becoming the very thing you were once afraid of. 

Nim’s heart stuttered. Surely Jaddi, who endured so much and worked so hard and gave everything he had for his family, would not be telling Nim to leave their family behind—

Would he? 

Nim needed clarity, not more questions. They made to shuffle again, but as they bridged the cards, the door clattered open, and a force collided with Nim, sending the cards flying. 

“Tigger, down!” Nim hissed, and the door closed. Soft hands bumped Nim as little Isa tried to wrangle the dog away, and only succeeded in moving his head so he licked Nim’s ear instead of their mouth. 

“Mami is shouting at Papi again.” Isa’s voice warbled across the floor like a whisper across a canyon.

Nim’s anger dribbled away, and they heard what they’d been pretending not to hear all along. Waves of anger radiated all throughout the house, rattling their bones. 

“I know. Come on.” They lifted up the blanket to Isa’s secret hideout under their desk. 

Sometimes Isa snort-giggled or hummed her own little Disney parodies while she wriggled beneath the blanket. 

Not tonight.

Nim stared at the cards scattered across the floor. They rubbed their face and wondered if Jaddi had ever shouted at his children. In Nim’s memory, he never raised his voice, but the anger must have come from somewhere. Did it come from Jaddi? From his mother? From hers? 

How long had the anger lived inside their family? 

How long would it live?  

One day, would it be Nim down there, angry, and Nim’s children up here, watching the moon and begging the Ancestors for answers? 

“Are you doing cards?” 

“I’m all done, habibi,” Nim answered, and abandoned their haphazard attempt to gather the cards in favor of crawling beneath the desk with Isa. Tigger lolled his head in after them, making the tight space tighter, wetter, and smellier. Nim just patted his head and kissed Isa on the forehead, the border where her fever-hot brown skin met the soft flyaways of her hair. “No scary stuff for you tonight.” 

Isa didn’t understand the cards; they frightened her. Most everything frightened Isa. 

Mama didn’t understand either. She thought it was Satanic. 

All the worse for her, Nim thought strongly, to cover up a smaller, deeper thought, that maybe no one would ever understand, and maybe Nim was destined to a lifetime of this horrible feeling, an ache of emptiness below the collarbone and stretching all the way deep into the belly. 

An ache like when their teacher used the wrong pronouns and called them by the wrong name. 

An ache like shoving their head between their knees in the bathroom stall and trying to disappear while their classmates laughed outside. 

An ache like, if the mother who shared their food and their language and their blood couldn’t understand them, who could? 

There was a thud downstairs, and then muffled sounds that could have been anything if not for the stagnant stench of violence that drifted through the house. Isa flinched, tucking her small self even smaller into Nim’s side. 

Nim pressed their eyes closed and wondered what it would feel like to carve hatred into the walls of the candle and burn it in their mother’s name.

Harm returns to the doer threefold, Jaddi said, in shivers down Nim's spine.

Nim hated the words for the truth they carried. 

You’re here, Nim accused. Why won't you help me? 

In answer, Jaddi pulled Nim's mind to their arms, snuggled tightly around Isa, and then to a song Nim hadn’t heard in years. He straightened their spine and stiffened their toes, and drove their diaphragm down with a force, sucking air into their lungs. Nim opened their mouth, and the song began to flow.

Nim closed their eyes, and the rain laid down the rhythm, and from deep inside, Nim borrowed Jaddi’s words, Jaddi’s voice, Jaddi’s love.

Their voice crackled and wavered and skipped over holes in their lyrics. They carried on, relentless as a river carves a canyon.

Time moved, and the rain rocked, and Isa fell into a merciful sleep, her small weight pressing heavy against Nim. Their voice grew dim and breathy but still they carried on. 

Downstairs, the chaos passed. Outside, the thunder slowed. In their chest, Nim’s heart moved laboriously from one awful pump to the next.

There goes the full moon Magick, Nim forlorned, staring at the buttercup pattern on the quilted roof of Isa’s blanket fort. So much for their great plan to talk some sense into Mama. 

Johan knocked at the door. Nim knew it was Johan because Mama never knocked. “Come in,” they breathed. 

He opened the door softly, and closed it behind him. He stepped carefully over the laundry and the homework and the still-flickering candle. He came to his knees in front of the desk and gently pulled the blanket aside. The skin of his cheeks glimmered with tear trails, and his left ear was puffy and red. 

“Thank you, Nim,” he said softly, and rested his hand on their shoulder, and Nim felt care flowing from him like warm honey. “Are you all right?” 

That was something Nim loved about Johan, how he moved with care, always, like everything held a preciousness that deserved his love, even the mess on Nim’s floor. 

Even Nim. 

He and Mama were nothing alike. 

Nim shrugged. Of course they weren’t all right. Johan knew that. There was nothing left to say. 

“We’re leaving,” Johan said to Nim, gathering Isa into his arms, stroking her soft hair. “I don’t know where she went, the woman I fell in love with. But she’s gone. And my daughter deserves better.” 

In Nim, something crumbled. “Yes, she does,” they said, just to say something. To show Johan that they understood. That they could be strong like him, too. 

But they didn’t feel strong. They felt small, and alone, and afraid. Just like when Jaddi died. And Baba. And when Abed left. 

Left them behind. 

Now Johan was leaving too, and Isa and Tigger, and Nim would be alone in Mama’s big empty house, defenseless, without allies, without love. Alone. 

“When?” 

“Tonight. Now.”  

The words hit like a physical blow. Nim crumbled, and couldn’t meet his eyes. 

“Nim,” Johan said, and grasped their hand. His skin was dry and warm. Nim latched onto him like a lifeline. 

The moon broke through the clouds, finally, finally, and her light washed into the room, cradling the three of them, and Johan’s eyes shone like beacons in the storm.

“Nim, come with us,” he said, his voice raw. A love spilled from him that tasted of desperation, and it drew tears to Nim’s eyes. “I know we don’t share blood. But I love you, kid. I couldn’t live with myself if I left you here. If I didn’t—” his voice broke. “If I didn’t at least try.” 

Nim could only stare at him, the words they never would have imagined pooling in between them, the whole room gone still and tight, waiting. 

“I…”

How could they leave Mama?

But how could they stay here? 

The clouds returned with a vengeance, swarming in front of the moon, and the room went dark. Johan’s face shifted. “I’m sorry,” he said, his hand still gripping Nim’s as though he couldn’t bear to let go. “I shouldn’t ask you to choose. You’re just a kid.” His other hand went absently to the budding bruise on the side of his face. “Nim, I need you to know that you will always—always—be welcome in my home. Do you hear me?” 

“Yes,” Nim whispered. Yes. 

The cold air on their hand was like ice after the warmth of Johan’s grip. The floor creaked, the door latched, and then Nim was alone. 

Alone in a big empty house, with only the body who used to be Mama for company. 

They wondered if they should go check on her. 

The thought woke a fear so violent that they couldn’t breathe, and they doubled over, breaths coming shallow and fast, the heaving in their chest rocking the desk around them. 

Nim didn’t know how long until their breath calmed. As they slowly lifted their head, a sudden itch sprang up beneath their sock. They sucked air in through their teeth, reaching for it idly. Their fingers met the curved corner of a tarot card. Nim flipped it over. 

The chariot.

Keep moving forward, whispered Jaddi, and now his voice was clear like a bell, and pealing through it were the voices of his mother, and his mother’s mother, and more and more and more, all the Ancestors and all their struggles and all the truths of all their lives, the truth that Nim carried now, buried, hidden deep Inside, but there, so very there. 

Just keep moving forward, and you will come to a better place.

I promise. 

Outside, Johan’s car roared to life. 

“My phone,” Nim intoned desperately, and like Magick, they found it already in their hands. 

Please, Jaddi, they begged as they pressed call. Lend me the words. 

Three words, Jaddi whispered with love. You only need three. 

“Nim?”

“Wait. I’m coming.”