Read Online Don't Expect Magic by Kathy McCullough - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kathy McCullough
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supernatural, but it’s a perfectly natural physical process. You’re not creating something from nothing. You’re manipulating what’s already there.”
“So you can, like, read all these people’s minds?”
“I can’t read anyone’s mind. For small wishes, you’re guessing what they want, in that moment, from observing them. But with your client, because of the bond you have with them, you … feel their yearning, and the feeling doesn’t go away until you’ve granted their wish.”
I point the pen at him. “So this is your big secret. The reason you left Mom, right? You didn’t want her to know.”
Hank takes the pen out of my hand. “That
is
why our relationship ended. But it’s not because she didn’t know.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“She didn’t like that I was always running off to help a client. She thought it meant I didn’t care enough about her. As if I had a choice.” He pockets the pen. “She wantedme to quit, but that’s like asking someone to quit being half Irish. It’s not something you can change.”
“I don’t believe you. She wasn’t like that. Plus she would’ve told me.”
“She wanted to protect you.”
“From
what
?” Hank doesn’t answer. I try to come up with proof that he’s making it all up, but my brain has hit information overload.
A trio of kindergartners run onto the lawn behind the fountain, waving those toxic neon glow-in-the-dark sticks, chasing each other around and shrieking. It’s one quasimagic wand too many, and a bunch of images suddenly hit me at once, banging together like scenes from a frenzied music video. Mom in the hospital, the stacks of photos and letters in Hank’s desk, Andrea in her dress and in her car, and flashes of light. Over and over, they speed past in my head. It’s all too much.
“I’m sorry, Delaney. This is a lot of emotionally intensive information for you to have to take in all at once.” If he really cared about me, he’d stop the Dr. Hank pseudoscience crap, because that’s making my brain swirl even more. “We should sit down.” Hank guides me over the tiny toy bridge toward a small bench beside a brass statue of a little boy and his dog, frozen in a state of carefree joy. I never thought I’d be jealous of a piece of metal.
I don’t want to sit down. I want to get away.
Ding ding
. The trolley that takes awed tourists, excitedkids and lazy shoppers from one end of the mall to the other grinds up its track at one one-hundredth of a mile per hour. Hank steps aside to let it pass, but I dart across the tracks so it separates us.
I shake the images crowding my head loose and text Posh: “Mental Health Emergency.” No response. The time on the screen is 8:15 p.m. That’s 11:15 New Jersey time.
Star Trek
reruns on Syfy. Why is she always out in geekland when I’m in a crisis?
There’s a department store ahead. It’s the closest thing to an escape I can find, so I cut in front of a man opening the door for his wife and slip inside.
I hate department stores, with their crisscrossing escalators, hairless cardboard-colored mannequins, piped-in piano music and women with pinched faces, as if the shopping bags hanging from their elbows are a cruel burden they’ve been forced to bear. I especially hate the shoe departments, because they’re always filled with too many stupid styles that you
know
will be on the sale rack tomorrow so why did they even bother, and fashion crimes like leopard-print sandals and ballet slippers with plastic roses safety-pinned to the toe.
The boots are no better. There are the usual red cowboy boots and slouchy suede ankle boots in lollipop colors like orange and grape, and Uggs in all sizes. Nothing I would be caught dead—or alive—wearing. The display shoes are always size 6, which is my size, so I grab a pair of basic black calf-length boots and put them on.
I hate them. The toe’s too tight and the calf’s too loose and the zipper scratches. The heel
“So you can, like, read all these people’s minds?”
“I can’t read anyone’s mind. For small wishes, you’re guessing what they want, in that moment, from observing them. But with your client, because of the bond you have with them, you … feel their yearning, and the feeling doesn’t go away until you’ve granted their wish.”
I point the pen at him. “So this is your big secret. The reason you left Mom, right? You didn’t want her to know.”
Hank takes the pen out of my hand. “That
is
why our relationship ended. But it’s not because she didn’t know.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“She didn’t like that I was always running off to help a client. She thought it meant I didn’t care enough about her. As if I had a choice.” He pockets the pen. “She wantedme to quit, but that’s like asking someone to quit being half Irish. It’s not something you can change.”
“I don’t believe you. She wasn’t like that. Plus she would’ve told me.”
“She wanted to protect you.”
“From
what
?” Hank doesn’t answer. I try to come up with proof that he’s making it all up, but my brain has hit information overload.
A trio of kindergartners run onto the lawn behind the fountain, waving those toxic neon glow-in-the-dark sticks, chasing each other around and shrieking. It’s one quasimagic wand too many, and a bunch of images suddenly hit me at once, banging together like scenes from a frenzied music video. Mom in the hospital, the stacks of photos and letters in Hank’s desk, Andrea in her dress and in her car, and flashes of light. Over and over, they speed past in my head. It’s all too much.
“I’m sorry, Delaney. This is a lot of emotionally intensive information for you to have to take in all at once.” If he really cared about me, he’d stop the Dr. Hank pseudoscience crap, because that’s making my brain swirl even more. “We should sit down.” Hank guides me over the tiny toy bridge toward a small bench beside a brass statue of a little boy and his dog, frozen in a state of carefree joy. I never thought I’d be jealous of a piece of metal.
I don’t want to sit down. I want to get away.
Ding ding
. The trolley that takes awed tourists, excitedkids and lazy shoppers from one end of the mall to the other grinds up its track at one one-hundredth of a mile per hour. Hank steps aside to let it pass, but I dart across the tracks so it separates us.
I shake the images crowding my head loose and text Posh: “Mental Health Emergency.” No response. The time on the screen is 8:15 p.m. That’s 11:15 New Jersey time.
Star Trek
reruns on Syfy. Why is she always out in geekland when I’m in a crisis?
There’s a department store ahead. It’s the closest thing to an escape I can find, so I cut in front of a man opening the door for his wife and slip inside.
I hate department stores, with their crisscrossing escalators, hairless cardboard-colored mannequins, piped-in piano music and women with pinched faces, as if the shopping bags hanging from their elbows are a cruel burden they’ve been forced to bear. I especially hate the shoe departments, because they’re always filled with too many stupid styles that you
know
will be on the sale rack tomorrow so why did they even bother, and fashion crimes like leopard-print sandals and ballet slippers with plastic roses safety-pinned to the toe.
The boots are no better. There are the usual red cowboy boots and slouchy suede ankle boots in lollipop colors like orange and grape, and Uggs in all sizes. Nothing I would be caught dead—or alive—wearing. The display shoes are always size 6, which is my size, so I grab a pair of basic black calf-length boots and put them on.
I hate them. The toe’s too tight and the calf’s too loose and the zipper scratches. The heel
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