Over the Heart

OVER THE HEART

Mother Jasper lifted the book reverently from the shelf and paged through it with care. A faint, moldy scent drifted from the turning pages, the movement disturbing dust motes floating in the thin shaft of light that slipped through the gap where the heavy curtains didn’t quite meet.

“Let’s see what I have,” she murmured.

Mary hadn’t expected the harsh Inner City accent, nor the fact that Mother Jasper was probably her own age—or younger. She didn’t know what she had expected a fortune teller to look like, but this wasn’t it. She shifted nervously in her seat and wondered, not for the first time today, what she was even doing here in this cluttered apartment on the lower side of town, placing any trust—any belief at all—in the woman muttering to herself as she ran a perfectly manicured finger down the margin of a yellowed page.

Look at me. Sitting here like a fool. How did I get this desperate? And for what? For a man who barely knows I exist?

That was the problem. William Emerson Taft was certainly worth this trouble and more. If she could only get him to notice her, she knew she could handle the rest. He was one of the most eligible bachelors at the firm, and if she could get him to marry her, she could leave the reception desk behind and finally live the life she’d always dreamed of. She was repeating Mrs. William Emerson Taft to herself, savoring the sound of it, and didn’t hear the other woman call her name until Mother Jasper raised her voice.

“I said, how much do you want this to work, child? It won’t work if you don’t use it with intention.” She emphasized the word with a tap of her finger. “The craft is only a vessel—a way to focus what you already know. If you don’t mean it with your whole heart, it won’t work.”

“I’m sure,” Mary said, perhaps a little too forcefully. “If you could just get him to notice me, to fall in love, I could be so good to him. I’d make him happy.” And to herself, she added, I could finally stop being invisible.

“As long as you’re sure.” Mother Jasper glanced at her through partially closed eyes. “Let me brew the tea and we can get started.”

“No, really—” Mary hesitated. (Is it even safe to drink anything in this place?) “I just ate.”

“Just ate ain’t got nothing to do with it,” the woman replied, adjusting the head wrap that had slipped, revealing a tight curl of brassy red hair. Mary would bet her weekly salary that neither the wrap nor the color was natural. “You have to put your essence into the tea leaves for the craft to work.”

A few minutes later, Mother Jasper set a mug in front of her. It read Coffee helps me do stupid things faster. A small chip marred the rim near the handle, and the lettering had faded from age and too many washings. Again, Mary wondered what she had expected. There were no Gypsy caravans in the city—had she been imagining something out of an old werewolf movie? Esmerelda? Mother Gothel?

She took a tentative sip. The tea had a musty tang, offset only by the chemical bite of city tap water.

Perfect. Mold and chlorine. Exactly what true love tastes like.

“Drink it all,” Mother Jasper instructed. “Then hand me the mug with your non-dominant hand.”

Mary obeyed. The woman turned the mug three times clockwise, then three times counterclockwise, before dumping the leaves onto a small plate—also chipped.

“Are you going to read my tea leaves?” Mary asked.

“I could, if you want. But that’ll cost you an extra twenty.”

“We can skip that part.” Truth be told, Mary already regretted handing over the ten twenty-dollar bills Mother Jasper had specified over the phone. Fresh from your wallet. Don’t get them from the ATM today. The electricity blocks the Vortex. Mary had had to postpone the appointment because—especially these days—who carried that much cash? Now she found herself thinking of all the things she could have bought with that money.

Two hundred dollars is nothing compared to a lifetime. People spend more on handbags. I’m buying a future. I’m buying a chance. That’s not foolish—it’s strategic. Anyone would do the same if they were brave enough.

She watched as Mother Jasper divided the tea leaves into four piles, drew circles in each, then sprinkled sugar over them and mixed everything with her index finger while muttering something barely audible. Mary couldn’t tell if it was even English.

Mother Jasper rose and tore a sheet of wax paper from a roll in the cupboard. On her way back, she plucked a leaf from the vining plant creeping up the dusty curtain. She placed the tea leaves and the leaf in the center of the wax paper. Before Mary could protest, she reached over, plucked a strand of Mary’s hair, and added it to the pile. Then she folded the paper into an envelope and secured it with a rubber band crossed into an X.

“Keep this in your bra for three days. It must lie over your heart. Sleep with it under your pillow at night. Tell no one what we’ve done here. The craft won’t work if you breathe a word before it has a chance to take hold.”

Back in her car, Mary started the engine and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She touched the spot where the odd packet nestled in her bra, its corner scratching her skin when she shifted.

“It will all be worth it,” she reminded herself. “A little discomfort will pay for itself soon.”

She pulled into traffic and headed north. She’d go home, have a glass of wine to celebrate her soon-to-be new life, and then take a long bubble bath. “Or maybe the bath first,” she mused. “Or maybe a glass of wine in the bubble bath.” After all, she reminded herself, she was about to become a lady of leisure.

Turning onto South Street, she saw a couple walking hand in hand, the woman’s head resting on the man’s shoulder.

That could be me. That should be me. If he just felt what I feel—if he just saw me the way I see him—we’d fit together so easily. Like we were always meant to.

That was the truth of it. Even without the prestige, the glamour, the upward path of marrying William, she did love him. There was a charisma about him, a spark of charm and boyish mischief in those steel-blue eyes. All the women in the office were taken with him. He flirted casually with each of them—never enough to be accused of anything, but enough to make them dream of having him to themselves.

I’m the one who acted. I’m the one who dared. They’ll all be jealous when he chooses me. And only I will know why he loves me.

She touched her heart again, feeling the packet tucked firmly in place.

“What am I even thinking?” she said aloud, though she was alone. She’d read that people who talked to themselves weren’t crazy—they were creative problem solvers. “I’m not superstitious. This is just superstition. Two hundred dollars for what?”

I’m sensible. Rational. I make lists and budgets and meal prep on Sundays. I don’t buy magic. So why am I clutching this stupid packet like it’s a lifeline?

“Calm down, girl,” she continued. Jennifer had said Mother Jasper was the real deal. Hadn’t she read Jennifer’s palm last year at the psychic fair, told her she’d find unexpected riches—and hadn’t Jennifer found that ten-dollar bill on the street days later? And Sylvia’s mother’s fever had broken after a week, just like Jasper said it would—granted, with prayer and ibuprofen, but still.

What could possibly go wrong? Either it would work, or she’d be no worse off than before.

As she rounded the corner of Fifth and Main, she began to daydream. “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife…” the preacher would say. Hold. She shivered at the thought of William holding her. “He’ll love me for all our lives together.”

He had to love her. She’d paid a huge sum to guarantee it. No returns and all sales final, Mother Jasper had said. But how did one return a love charm?

She pictured them in the park on a Sunday afternoon—her pushing a baby carriage, him carrying a toddler on his shoulders as they walked to the pond with frozen peas for the ducks. Would he love children? Did the charm only work on her? What if he didn’t love the children?

No matter. She could always go back for a charm to make him love children.

Make him love? How did that work? Did it amplify affection already in his heart? Aim it like a spotlight? What if he disliked her? Would the charm overpower that—or would she end up trapped in a loveless marriage in an empty Uptown condo?

No. She wouldn’t think negatively. In for a penny, in for a pound, her mother always said. She’d win his heart, and the children would follow.

Wait. Am I the package? Did I buy his love—or sell myself to it?

And then the worst thought struck her, sudden and cold, dropping through her stomach like a stone.

“How will I know if he loves me—really loves me—or if it’s just the charm?”

She pulled over and put the car in park.

“Will he love me for me,” she whispered to the gathering dusk, “or will he love me for the charm?”

The dusk said nothing.

Before she could think twice, she pulled back into traffic and circled the block. She had to go back. She had to ask. She hoped Mother Jasper was alone—not with another customer. Client? Did she call them clients?

She ran up the stairs and banged on the door.

“Yeah, keep your shirt on,” a voice yelled. The door opened a crack, held by the chain. Mother Jasper had removed her headdress, and a tangle of bleached brassy red hair rioted around her face. She’d changed into cutoff shorts and a Metallica T-shirt.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, though her tone suggested she meant, Why are you here again?

“You’ve got to take it back,” Mary blurted, breathless. “Or at least tell me what it will do—what it’s likely to do.”

“No refunds,” Mother Jasper said quickly, already closing the door.

“Tell me what it does!” Mary shouted through the narrowing gap.

“I told you—extra money if you want your fortune told.”

The door slammed.

Mary removed the packet from her bra, set it on the welcome mat, and walked away, leaving the charm, $200.00, and hopes for a quick fix behind.