Zephyr

August 8th

I was firm in my belief that I was different, that I would make it. It was this faith that kept me resilient throughout film school. I stayed steadfast through the visceral scrutiny of professors and the rivalries that emerged - sure, French New Wave created a movement but it’s the Czechs who had more fun with it.

Being a college-educated artist without a trust fund makes for an excellent customer service rep. I stayed in Philly after school, got a job with in medical devices, and rented an apartment built essentially from plywood. My roommates were a Twitch-streaming stoner and his maniacal, type A sister.

That morning, I sat in my cubical, droll scrolling my rival’s Instagram feed as gloomy clouds rolled in outside. She was what I wasn’t: glamorous, living in NYC, rich, and her short films were premiering at festivals all over. We were the only two women at film school and everyone pit us against each other, as Hollywood might. She and I fed that fire, as some in Hollywood might.

The desk phone rang me out of my haze.

— Thank you for calling Primary Therapeutics, this is Melissa. How can I help you?

Shane, my useless boss, and his artificially saccharine smile appeared. One hand flashed me a 5 minute warning and the other held a Keep Calm and Carry On mug. My mind flashed to Timur Bekmambetov’s Wanted.

I was somewhat confident I wouldn’t get fired. If Shane’s head didn’t explode by the time he told me whatever “feedback” he needed to share, they’d just move me around departments.

— Mel! Come on in! Feel free to close the door behind you!

Shane didn’t interrupt the awkward silence until he had taken some more slurps of coffee. A single tear of coffee ran between the patches in his beard.

— How are you, Mel?

— Good. You?

— Yeah, yeah, I’m... also, good.

Was he was going to spit it out before his nose started to bleed? It was a rumor that one employee got close once. All I noticed about Shane’s nerves was the sweat flooding his armpits.

— So here’s the thing, Mel. Your performance reports have been good.

— Okay...?

— It’s just that...

— Yes, Shane?

— Well... you scored lowest out of the department.

— But you said my performance reports were good.

— And they are, Mel! Totally! It’s just that...

— Yes. Shane?

— You’re doing the bare minimum... of your job description.

— But I’m doing my job description?

— Yes, totally, Mel. Totally.

I was 26. Shane was 23. Not having many opinions of his own, he drank the juice of whatever this company’s “mission” was.

— See, Mel, the way we’re able to function here at Primary Therapeutics is by going above and beyond and you...

He got lost in the swell of his own voice. My fingers itched to scroll through my phone.

I did a guided meditation in my car after work. I was trying to “fill all my lungs” when the cupholder clattered. My phone vibrated, as if possessed.

Eugene Reina Thompson, 8lb even, born at 3:14PM. (Clara, my perfect sister.)

Photos!? (Tanner, my clueless little brother)

The legacy lives on! (Uncle Nick, equally as clueless)

Congrats! You’re next, Melissa! (Aunt Laurie, married to Nick, bless her heart)

Congratulations, darling! How auspiciously timed with spring’s first bloom! (Aunt Ginger, she petitioned her parents to send her to a boarding school in England and won)

Melissa needs a boyfriend first. (Thanks, mom.)

That day only got worse when my car caught on actual fire on the country road I take back to Philly. I liked the road because it delayed my coming home to the Tweedle siblings and sometimes I saw deer. On this day a fireball erupted under my GeoTracker’s hood.

I pulled over, threw it on park and ran out. Would it blow up? Was I supposed to kill the engine? Or would it blow up if I did? I was sure the car would go up like a stunt from the Bourne franchise.

Just as the fire started, it died. Smoke curled upward, the engine died, and a tense stillness settled.

A rustle in the woods caught my attention. Expecting to see a deer, I was floored to witness... my grandmother. My nana stood barefoot on the forest earth in a tea-dyed dress, neatly hemmed with forest green embroidery floss. She had a daisy tucked behind her ear and turned to pick wildflowers, moving further into the woods.

My gaze rapidly clocked the situation, but my memory of it is in slow motion. The smoking car, no service on my phone, and my dead Nana looking very much alive and heading into the forest.

— Nana!

Was I dead, too? Did the car actually blow up and now I’m dead?

Past the pines and oaks, the path was nothing more than rivulets of dried leaves, pine needles, and dirt. I couldn’t lose sight of her.

I stopped at the clearing. My eyes scanned the small shed set next to a chicken coop and what looked like an apiary. Set in front, was a sturdy handbuilt cabin. A pot simmered with aromatics over an open fire in front of the cabin. The woman simmering was elegant, with hair the color of rage, passion, and... what the...?

— Aunt Ginger?

— Melissa! You’re just in time!

Nana, with her silent footfall, has vanished.

— What’s going on, Aunt Ginger?

— What do you mean, darling?

— You’re in Pennsylvania. In the woods. In some hidden cabin in the woods, cooking over an open flame.

— I’m not cooking, darling. I’m brewing.

Nana exits the cabin with a tray of dried herbs, which Ginger readily accepts. As Nana re-enters the cabin, I get closer to my aunt.

— You can see her, too?

— Who?

— Nana.

— Nana? My mom?

— Yes.

— Darling. She’s dead.

— I’m aware, Aunt Ginger. Are you dead, too? Am I?

Not-Nana pops her head out.

— Is it ready, Bridget?

— Almost, Terra. Where’s Lorelei?

The more Terra speaks the more I realize she isn’t my grandmother. My nana never spoke with a Slavic accent.

— Finishing the buckets.

— Help her out while I chat with Mel, please.

With dramatic flourish, Aunt Ginger raises her arms high.

— Welcome to our coven, Melissa.

The flames flash lavender, heightening the herbs’ aroma.

— Did she just call you Bridget?

Never dulled by a lukewarm reception, Aunt Ginger carries on.

— Yes, darling! We choose witch names when we join the coven. I chose to name myself in honor of Bridget, the Celtic goddess of... well many things. One of which is fire, my specialty craft.

— So you have an entire second life as a witch in the woods with your coven? Why am I here?

I was finished with today and, if anyone can handle a spoiled baby, it’s family. Ask Dominic Toretto. The wind rises, rustling the forest.

— Is that what you want me to believe, Bridget?! That the whole time you said you’ve been acting on stages in the UK. That’s a lie? Is your accent even real or is that part of your “theater”?!

Ginger/Bridget’s raises her hands in a slow clap, her amused expression lit with the now raging flame.

— Brava, darling! I didn’t know you were a thespian yourself. The air quotes were a bit much but otherwise it was lovely. No, darling. Terra’s lived here ever since she retired. I am merely visiting.

— Why am I here?

Terra comes bursting through the front door of the cabin, in her sturdy yet silent way, a stack of wooden buckets in her arms. The graceful creature behind her must be Lorelei.

I would learn that Lorelei used to compete in triathlons until a drunk driver hit a country curve too fast. She moves with grace and fluidity, unencumbered by her wheelchair-bound body, and still competes in the Paralympic games.

As Terra came closer, I noticed her nose was slightly longer, her eyebrows thicker, and her mouth more scowling that my Nana’s. Lorelei breezes down a ramp I hadn’t noticed and comes to a stop in front of me. Her handshakes are firm and her smiles are warm.

I watch the trio work collaboratively and begin to disagree with Shakespeare’s interpretation of witches. They close their eyes and attune their breathing to each other. The “potion” in the buckets multiplies.

I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe my own eyes. Though, those days, I didn’t believe in myself at all. That was the best part of the worst day of my life. Now it’s my first chosen memory of my new chosen life.

Terra lists the herbs with a Bridget/Ginger echo. Call. Response.

— Eyebright herb...

— ...to open the third eye.

— Lavender...

— ...to sooth and calm.

— Cinnamon...

— ...to warm the heart.

Terra mixes it with some fresh berry juice and honey from the apiary to make it more palatable.

I stay. It’s more welcoming than my apartment and, after assuring me it wasn’t the trippy kind, I drink the herbaceous sangria with them.

Maybe I should have asked if there was a landline I could use or asked them if they were a cult. Those never occurred to me in the moment. Mesmerized by their ease with themselves and each other, I stay. They share their stories and their food with me without expecting reciprocation. I don’t share. I just take it all in.

Ginger/Bridget and I zip from the shed in an all-terrain golf cart contraption as the last shards of golden hour slip through her auburn halo. We are met with a fire truck and several police cars attending to a small branch fire across the road from my car. Ginger/Bridget’s West End charm convinces one of the officers take me home. She stays behind to arrange a tow and flirt with firefighters.

That night I have strange dreams. Was the potion really was laced with a something? But I’m not hallucinating. I’m dreaming. My dreams show me a vivid retrospective of my life.

I eat dinner alone in my twin bed, the Tweedle siblings twittering in the living room.

Droll scrolling in my unadorned cubicle.

Arguing with my last boyfriend, the one my mom was convinced was “the one”.

Losing an internship placement to my art school rival.

Finger painting in my dorm room.

Orientation weekend, where my rival and I became instant friends.

Escaping to the art room while being bullied in high school.

My first date.

My first kiss.

My first sleepover with school friends.

Morning carpool with mom.

Finger painting my childhood room.

New friends at the playground.

Being held.

Being born.

My scream mixes with the thunder.

The universe pulsating.

Lightening hits a stormy beach.

The wind.

The wind pitches and screams.

Lightening hits the shore as a wave rolls in.

Gentle rain falls.

The skies clear .

Stars twinkle.

Palms sway in the breeze.

The breeze.

The following day at work is when it finally happens.

I had been staring at the first few spring buds on the maple outside my window, their exoskeletal bodies ready to burst with abundance. I contemplate everything, anything and nothing.

— Hi, Mel! Could I maybe see you in my office if you have a sec?

I follow Shane on auto-pilot, noticing the misery of this place anew. Underpaid, overworked employees, motivational posters and pizza parties funded by executives to appease the people who are actually doing the work. We settle uncomfortably before Shane gets up to close the door and re-sits. He clears his throat, the armpits of his dress shirt pooling with perspiration.

— How ya doin, Mel?

— Me? I’m...good, Shane. How are you?

— Good, good. Yeah. Going fishing this weekend.

I look around his office. No photos of family, no knick knacks. Just his diploma and a bunch of employee appreciation certificates hang on his wall. Fake potted chrysanthemums line his shelves, dotting between management and business books. Was middle management what he dreamed of when he was a boy?

— What did you wanna be when you grew up, Shane?

— When I... what?

A single tear of sweat caresses his face, from temple to chin.

— When you were little and someone asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up, what did child Shane say?

— Well, I...

Someone has to say it.

— Is this the life you dreamed of, Shane? Sitting here in this office with your fake flowers to mask the fact that you’re basically running a sweat shop?

— Sweatsh... hehe... what are you talking about, Mel?

I realize that Shane thinks we’re friends. I realize that what a friend would be is brutally honest.

— I bet you had dreams once, Shane. You wanted to change the world or make something cool or be someone famous. To see the world. To make mistakes and not always make the safe choices. To risk living life to the fullest, even if that risk is death. Because I’ll tell ya what, friend, we’re all gonna die eventually anyway! It’s not a newsflash. And I’m sick of everyone around here wasting away their lives living in denial!

I aim my chaotic smile at Shane and am met with streams of blood gushing out of his nostrils.

I completely misread the situation. Due to my projecting my own existential epiphanies on my boss, Shane didn’t have the blood left in his body to fire or transfer me. So, I quit.

I cycle back to my apartment. The bicycle met me outside of my apartment that morning with a note from Lorelei saying there’s a reason cycling has always been there for her and now I could give it a try. I find myself relieved to be unemployed. I’d get another job and return to my art in the meantime.

I’m elated with my newfound freedom and treat myself to an ice cream cone. I walk into my crappy apartment with my crappy roommates, dried ice cream from fingertip to elbow and I know it’s the first day of my second chance at this life.

I would make different choices. I had to.

I can’t find another job and, after 2 months of floating me rent, my crappy roommates kick me out of our crappy apartment. With no job and nowhere to go the day before my eviction, I sit among the series of boxes that compose my life and droll scroll. A photo of my perfect sister and her newborn son, who looks like Carl from Up prompts me to text Aunt Ginger, who comes up with a creative solution.

The entire spring and the most of summer, I live with Terra in the woods. I purge my digital presence, downsize my belongings, and live by the schedule of a woman who I learn is both a dictator and a total softie.

Every morning, we cook and eat breakfast together. Foraged berries, eggs from the chickens in the coop, honey from the apiary, and fresh baked bread. We eat our treasures while operating a two person salon, educating and debating each other. Terra teaches me about the story of Lilith, the actual first human woman, according to some texts. I teach her TikTok dances. We read books in silence. We read books aloud.

Some afternoons, we take trips to local farmer’s markets to sell and barter with local farmers and craftspeople. Others afternoons, Terra teaches me to forage. I learn what is edible, what would kill you, and what will make you have vivid hallucinations. Terra always pockets a few of the last one. I never accept her offer to drink the trippy teas and she never disrespects my boundary.

In the evenings, we have free time. To dance, to sing, to do whatever we please. When it gets dark, we cook dinner from our forages and barters while watching sitcoms from the 1950s and 60s. We finish every dinner with ice cream.

Bridget visits and we put on theatrical performances avec pyrotechnics and sans audiences. Lorelei visits and we float back and forth on the semi-moat, dug around Terra’s property like a horseshoe. When all four of us are together, it doesn’t matter what we do. The world around us, and within us, feels balanced.

The education of witchcraft comes in the tangents, more subtext than exposition. It comes through as memories. Aunt Ginger as a neophyte touring actor playing Blanche DuBois sparking the theater curtains and nearly burning down the Academy of Music. A young volunteer firefighter named Kelly succeeds in extinguishing the flames. Ginger flirts with Kelly’s squad. Terra, an Eastern European drama teacher, with a crush on the late Konstantin Stanislavski, teaches Ginger and Kelly how to harness their natural abilities. Ginger chooses to be Bridget. Kelly becomes Lorelei. Terra used to be Lyudmila.

It is Terra who teaches me how to harness the wind. She hammers in storm shutters and bears the gusting storms that follow as I retrace my life. I unlearn how to repress and re-learn how to express. I start drawing again. Small doodles on dirty napkins, then sketches of Terra and landscapes of the forest. I graduate to my trusty acrylic paints on canvas when Terra surprises me with them, after a day at the farmer’s market.

She knows what I have forgotten: it is my 27th birthday today. I am reborn but not totally remade. I hold onto bitterness but I’ve accepted that learning my craft means learning myself and being at peace with both. Some days are hard. Today is idyllic. Terra bakes me a cake and wants to pipe icing on with my name. I ask her to write Zephyr.