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A Spell of Grief

by Rae A Shell

The library was closing in ten minutes.

Lucas stared at the picture books, paralyzed by both indecision and nostalgia. Hurry up! he screamed at himself. If he was late, if he screwed up the ceremony again….

Sure, Lucas would be hardest on himself. Aunt Meg was more likely to comfort him than scold him, but the two of them had agreed, were adamant, that this year, this year he would succeed.

Lucas swallowed and grabbed the four Frog and Toad books, along with some Amelia Bedelia and a couple of titles that just looked fun. If he had more time, he would have grabbed Little Women—Jo was his favorite character, for obvious reasons—but at best, he’d only have about six hours. If anyone asked, he was babysitting a nephew. No one would ask, right?

When he reached the check-out desk, the librarian smiled as they checked out Lucas’ collection, as if remembering their own childhood. “Have a good day and a nice time reading these.”

“Uh, you too?” Lucas said before blushing. But there was no time for dwelling on how long the awkward exchange would haunt him: he had to get to his shrine before sunset.

Lucas rushed home, reciting the newest revision to the spell’s recipe in his head:

Recipe for Contact with a Soul—revised:
• Items precious to the late person(s). Check, he had their wedding rings.
• Scents that will trigger memories in the dead. Check: He had experimented with this over the past six years of attempts. This year he had settled on his late father’s Old Spice (at least it wasn’t Axe) and some Herbal Essences Shampoo for his mother.
• A candle that has been burning since sunrise. This was Aunt Meg’s contribution; she had some long-lasting enchanted candles that were nigh-impossible to burn down houses with.
• The names of the dead person(s), written thirteen times apiece on ink with ultramarine. Check— this was by far the costliest part of the process. You wouldn’t want to ruin the spell by cutting costs. Ultramarine, as precious and expensive as gold, apparently.
• A functional Teddy Ruxpin doll. Check? This was Aunt Meg’s idea after last year’s failure. Lucas had never had one of these, had never even heard of them until Aunt Meg produced the stained, matted teddy, seemingly haunted by the scent of dust. She did not appreciate him calling it “junk”.

Finally, he was home. After a quick greeting, he rushed to the shrine in his room. He caught his breath, and arranged the Teddy Ruxpin doll behind him just as Aunt Meg had instructed. Good, the candle was still burning. He poured a little of the Herbal Essences and Old Spice in a small dish next to the candle, then took a cautious sniff. The cinnamon and cedarwood stood out to him for a moment before the floral scent— roses maybe— overtook his senses. Regardless of success or failure, he was revising the amounts of scent next year!

As Lucas spread out the library books on the floor, he decided to make one last change to the spell. While he was supposed to burn the sheet with his parents’ names and repeat them aloud, did it really make that much sense to call his parents by name when he certainly hadn’t when they were alive? Would they even respond to that? The point was for the two of them to know it was him, no matter how much he had changed. He took a deep breath and held the sheet to the candle.

“Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad, please, Momma, please Dad, I miss you, please please please answer this call.” He sniffled. “Please?”

He would repeat the names countless times until they responded, or until his voice gave out and it was clear he had failed— whichever came first.

The problem with needing years to learn magic was that the longer someone had been dead, the harder it was to contact them.

It had been fifteen years since the accident. Lucas was certain he was running out of time.

“Momma, Dad. Please answer this call. It’s—” His voice cracked, and he took a deep breath. No. Aunt Meg had promised. “It’s your son. I know I’m far different than you remember. I’m Lucas now. Not… you know.” Aunt Meg had promised him that he would not need to deadname himself to get his parents to acknowledge him. Perhaps for different spirits, he would have had to, but Aunt Meg was certain his parents would understand.

But as Lucas chanted, his eyes burning both from candle smoke and tears, he was swallowed by self-doubt. Could that really be true? Could you really know someone before you revealed yourself to them? He recalled countless rejections, countless misgenderings, countless dead-namings from supposed friends when he came out.

No. Not now. Have faith. Think of your parents. They loved you. They’d accept you. If they wouldn’t, would you really want to see them?

Lucas shook while he chanted and begged. The candle consumed the last of the paper and, mere moments later, went out.

From behind him, there came a sound not unlike what the “Degauss” button on Aunt Meg’s ancient computer had done. Then the noise of static filled the room.

“Lu…”

“…cas…”

Lucas tried to turn around, but a frigid grip pinned him in place.

The freezing cold hands— which for some reason he did not mind at all— suddenly embraced him. A jolt of nostalgia reached his brain.

“Don’t look,” came a voice from the Teddy Ruxpin doll.

He put a hand on one of the freezing, spectral arms. “…Mom?”

They tightened in response, but not uncomfortably.

“Lucas. Lucas. Lucas.” The Teddy Ruxpin’s voice suddenly sounded like what he thought—what the faint memories told him—was his father’s; the same timbre Lucas’ voice had settled at some months after he began T. His heart fluttered at the similarity.

“Yes. It’s me, Dad.”

“It’s so good to see you. What a fine… a fine young man you’ve become.”

Lucas swallowed. “You don’t mind?”

A hiss of air came near an ear, turning into what he thought was his mother’s voice. “I’m so sorry, kiddo, that we had to leave you so soon, that we didn’t— couldn’t see you for yourself until now.”

Lucas clutched the spectral arms as best as he could, his hands hovering over his bound chest.

“Meg has been taking good care of you,” Father-Ruxpin said.

“We can’t stay forever, kiddo,” his mother whispered.

He knew this. Aunt Meg had drilled it into him right from the start, when he declared on his 12th birthday—when he was finally old enough—that she had to let him help, had to let him learn, that he wanted to learn magic for just this purpose. He had to get to business. The knot in his chest tightened.

“First, Momma, what’s the secret to your zucchini cake? I’ve tried countless times to replicate it and it’s not… It’s just not!”

“Are you using small zucchini?”

Lucas nodded, before realizing he had no idea if his parents could see that. “Yeah.”

“A written recipe, even if it has every single detail, never comes out identical to what another person made. You can’t recreate my zucchini cake, because you’re not me, you’re your own person. I’m sorry kiddo.” He felt nigh-imperceptible cold lips on his forehead. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t make a zucchini cake that means something to you.”

“Got it.”

The knot in his chest unwound a bit.

“What else, kiddo?”

He had until midnight. It was plenty of time, yet not enough, never enough.

He could feel himself becoming a kid once more. “I want… Momma, Dad, can you read me stories?” He lifted a couple of books. “I… I really miss you two reading to me.”

His mother’s hands closed his eyes and pulled him downwards, so he was laying on the rough carpet— Aunt Meg was right, it needed vacuuming. He couldn’t be in her lap anymore, maybe if he had succeeded at this spell years earlier he could have— but he could feel the cold hands stroke his face. It wasn’t the same, nothing would ever be the same, but he would enjoy this while he could.

“Frog and Toad Are Friends, by Arnold Lobel.”

“Remember to do the voices, dear,” his mother whispered to his father.

“…Frog ran up the path to Toad’s house…”

As the reading went on and on, like he was four once more, Lucas could feel himself getting sleepy.

Noticing he was fighting that urge, his mother caressed his cropped hair. “Sweet dreams, kiddo.”

“Can we…” he whispered, afraid of shattering this moment, “do this again next year? Do it over and over again until I… I join you?”

“Shhh, your father’s reading,” his mother said.

His eyes fluttered once, twice, and then closed.

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When the first rays of sunshine prodded Lucas, he awoke with a start, wiping away some residual tears.

Yesterday had been surprisingly warm, but despite the freezing cold temperature of his mother’s arms— despite the fact those were gone, now, and all he felt were the warm kisses of the sunbeams reflecting off a blanket of snow— he felt colder than ever.

He composed himself and went to make coffee.

To his surprise, Aunt Meg was there. “How’d it go?”

“You were right,” he said, beaming, “They knew who I was, and accepted me.”

Aunt Meg hugged him. “Glad to hear it worked.” She broke the hug and smacked his back. “Now, why don’t you make me some zucchini cake as thanks?”

He chuckled. “As long as you’re fine with it being my version,” he said, as he grabbed the kitchen tools.

“Of course. I want the Lucas Special.”

He frowned as he grated a zucchini. “Aunt Meg, does it… does it ever stop hurting?”

She sighed and stared at a wooden clock, made by a long-dead son, a son Lucas never remembered meeting. “Not really. The feelings change over the years. Sometimes they’re numb, sometimes they’re raw. There are good days, there are bad. There are days where the grief bites at you—devours you, like the teeth of Winter on those Windchill Advisory days. It never really stops hurting outright. But, more importantly: the love never goes away, either, you just have to remember it’s there, always, forever. You just have to remember.” Aunt Meg turned to him, her eyes damp, but smiling regardless. “And now you know why I keep my positively antique ‘junk’.”

Lucas let her words settle into his mind.

Aunt Meg patted his shoulder. “After the cake is in the oven, why don’t we talk about how the spell could be improved?”

Lucas smiled. “I’d like that very much.”