If Wishes Were Horses

An aspiring author needs to write to get experience. I had a good name to write under, I didn’t even need a pseudonym. Sapphire Squires. A romance novelist’s name if ever I heard one. I decided to write in a journal about people I know, for practice on character development. No one would ever see what I wrote. Just wishing to improve.

Be careful what you wish for. As the saying goes, there’s more tears shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones. I wonder.

From my journal:

My co-worker Peggy. I met Peggy a few weeks after I’d started my office job in a clinic--greeting patients, scheduling appointments, answering phone inquiries, working with electronic medical records. She’s a psychiatric nurse practitioner. I bet all of her patients tell her anything she needs to know to help them. She’s in her mid-sixties, widowed at a young age, with long thick gray hair pulled back into a braid, pink tortoiseshell frames on her glasses, and a kind expression.

“I love your necklace,” I said to Peggy the first time we met, as we were washing our hands in the bathroom.

She glanced down at the silver tree of life pendant on a delicate silver chain. She smiled at me and thanked me, saying the necklace was a birthday present from her daughter Crystal. Then Peggy picked up her cane and shuffled out the door to the elevator, to go back to her office upstairs.

I’ve never known the reason why Peggy has mobility issues, whether it’s an injury, some degenerative problem, some form of arthritis, or a combination. She’s never said and I didn’t like to pry. I just wish Peggy could walk better.

The next morning after writing this entry I saw Peggy at work. She looked cool and comfortable in a royal blue tunic over black leggings and black moccasins. But no cane. No walker.

“Are you walking better today?” I asked.

“Walking better?” She gazed at me, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

I stared at her and stammered, “I’m Sapphire. I’m your friend. We’ve been talking for months. You told me all about feeding birds in your backyard, your recent trip to Ireland, your visit to Burning Man last year.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, you’re mistaken. I’ve never seen you before in my life. I think you should make an appointment to see a psychiatric provider. One of the other therapists here.” Peggy’s voice softened. “Dear, you need help. You’re imagining things.”

I spent the rest of the day confused and miserable. Every time Peggy went past my work station, she would stare over at me with a mild frown, as if she were trying to place me but couldn’t quite remember who I was. I decided she might have had a stroke, or be suffering from amnesia. But when I asked other co-workers, they hadn’t noticed anything wrong with Peggy at all.

Peggy never spoke to me again. I soon put in for a transfer to another part of the clinic, where I could avoid her.

I picked up the journal after about six weeks. I didn’t realize it had been that long until I looked at a calendar. I had started this journal with such high hopes. I decided to write about a friend of mine.

From my journal:

Jayne, always the center of attention with her platinum blonde hair, husky voice, and sharp bursts of laughter. We met on a riverboat casino, where I was wandering around and watching more than I was gambling. Jayne was beating three men at blackjack. We attended a Yo La Tengo concert together. We went to an exhibition on Frank Lloyd Wright.

But I can’t stand her boyfriend Martin. I’ve never told her that. I wouldn’t put up with him. A guy who made fun of her looks on a Facebook post. Nagged at her until she gave him all of his Christmas presents early. Who made her drive for four hours even when she was sick with flu because he doesn’t like driving. A jerk posting about breaking up online, and then hours later, after making Jayne cry, stating that it’s just a joke.

I know they’ve been together almost nine years, but I wish they’d break up.

Later that evening after putting my journal in a drawer and eating some pizza, I received a text from Jayne.

Martin and I have broken up for good. He’s packing up his stuff. I’m going to move to Largo, Florida and live with my aunt. I’ve decided I need some space, so I’m blocking everyone I know. That way I can start a new life in Florida. It’s too painful to be reminded. I’m sorry, Sapphire. It’s been nice knowing you.

I reread the text, shaking my head in disbelief, then walked into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I had no super powers. Just a young woman not making much money, with shoulder-length sandy hair and cat eye glasses. Belonging to a book club for nerds, dreaming of being the next Stephen King, only female.

I glanced over at the drawer containing the journal. Not some ancient leather bound book from the attic of a wizard. Just a cheap notebook from a drugstore.

Why did my wishes for my friends come true? Good wishes to come true, even if in both cases I lost the friendship. I decided to experiment.

From my journal:

My supervisor, Roxanne. What a snot. I know her from another job where she wasn’t the boss. She was my equal. Now she criticizes me every chance she gets, and piles more work on me while her favorites get to scroll through their phones all day. She gave a promotion to someone who just started two weeks ago instead of giving it to me. I’ve been there nine months.

I wish she would leave my workplace, go far away, and that I would get a nice new boss.

The next day I went into work early. One of my co-workers, Natalie, looked up as I approached. “Did you hear what happened?” Natalie asked.

I shook my head. Natalie said, “Roxanne was in a car accident. She’s in the hospital, in critical condition.”

I dropped into a nearby chair, stunned. In the hospital. Critical condition. That means she could die. I wished for her to go far away, but not that far. An evil side of me was thinking of all the time I’d wasted ending relationships and friendships that had run their course. If only I’d been writing in the journal then.

I dragged myself back to the present moment and gave myself a stern silent talking-to. I had to stop playing God. Just because I wanted something to happen didn’t mean that it should happen. Suddenly I found myself doing what just the day before would have been wholly unthinkable—praying for my supervisor, Roxanne.

In about nine days Roxanne had recovered, been released from the hospital, and had quit her job. She set up her own business as a dog walker. I bet if she treated the dogs the way she treated her employees that she would get growled at and the dogs would escape from her. I’d heard from Natalie that Roxanne was reflecting on her life, wanting to change for the better. I hoped so.

Speaking of changes for the better, I did get a nice new boss, Joe. A guy who looked like an older version of Harry Styles. He and his wife live in a house built in 1868 in the Italianate style. Remodeled in 1910, the house is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. They spend their spare time, when not doing upkeep, giving house tours.

Joe soon told me I was doing a great job. He’d be finding opportunities for me. In time, I found out that Joe really was caring, compassionate, fair, and appreciated hard-working employees. Having him for my supervisor helped ease the sting of losing my friends Paula and Jayne.

I said the hell with character development and put my journal on a high shelf. I thought I’d better keep it, though. Just in case Joe quits or gets promoted. And I get another nasty boss.