Page 64 of Sort of Seeing Someone

“This is serious stuff, Moonie. I’m going to guide you through this step-by-step. But you’ve got to be the pilot here. I’m not landing the plane. Deal?”

I nod and mouth the wordsThank You.

Angeline looks nothing like my mother, who is essentially an iteration of Miss Rachel from YouTube, just a couple decades older. Angeline doesn’t sound like her, either. Angeline is brash, with a smoker’s voice. My mom is soft, flowery, and eloquent. But this moment is giving mother-daughter-bonding in a way I can’t really describe. It’s giving…going shopping for your first bra, being taught to put a pad in your underwear after starting your period, getting coached through your first heartbreak. This is a moment my mother probably wanted with me, but thanks to my dad, it would never happen. So as I stand in Angeline’s shop, taking all the mental notes as we mix up a potion recipe my mother invented, I think not just about her, but about my dad, too. While we haven’t spoken in forever, if I could talk to him right now, I’d tell him this: “Sorry, not sorry.”

“Put all the dry ingredients in the mortar,” she says, waiting for me to remember that’s the bowl thing.

“Good. Now smash them with the pestle.”

I grab the heavy wand and begin to jackhammer the herbs.

“It’s more of a slow, grinding motion,” she instructs as she mimics the move with her own hands.

“There. That’s better,” she confirms after I give it another try.

“Now grab the funnel and pour the mixture into the glass bottle.”

I do. A few leaves come loose and land on the counter. Angeline tells me not to worry about them.

“Now add the essential oil and put the cap back on.”

The herbs settle at the bottom of the slim glass jar. This looks more like homemade salad dressing than a potion.

“Shake hard,” she says.

When I do, the herbs finally marry into the oils. The jar resembles a snow globe with the little pieces of lavender and rosemary floating through the liquid in slow motion.

“It’s beautiful,” I note.

“Nice job. Now, put a sticker on it and label it. It’s important to always label your mixes. You don’t want to be mistaking your smudge spray for your lube. Been there, trust me.”

Angeline slides me a black permanent marker and a white, peel-and-stick label.

“What should I call it?”

“Don’t over think it. Just write down what it does and who it’s for. That’s good enough.”

I stare back at her, still unsure what to write.

“Oh, god. Give it to me,” she says, taking back the marker and paper and scribbling something down. “Here you go.”

“Ollie’s Cock Block?!” I read aloud.

“Like I said. What it does and who it’s for. Now you’ve got to use your mom’s spell on page thirty-seven for ridding unwanted energy. Next time you think you’ll be holding hands with your Swedish lover boy, spray a fine mist all over your palms and rub them together. Thatshouldcreate a protective layer from your horny visions, but I’m not sure how long it’ll last. And if you wash your hands or put lotion on them after, forget about it. You’ll cancel everything out. Questions?”

“Are there other recipes for potions in my mom’s book?”

Angeline pushes her readers back in place as she fixes her eyes on the pages of the spell book.

“Yeah. This one is for love. Here’s one for good energy. Here’s one for manifesting.”

“I’ve got a table at the Bucktown Holiday Market on Saturday and nothing quick and easy to sell since the sage stock is so depleted. I’m wondering if…”

“Those Bucktown hipsters would buy a Love Potion for twenty bucks a jar? Yeah. They would. Want me to pull enough product for thirty?”

I walk my way to the front of the store and flip Angeline’s “closed” sign back to “open.” Drawing up the shade once again, we see a line of ten people who were anxiously waiting to get in the whole time we were mixing up my mom’s potion.

“Make it a hundred,” I tell her before I dip out. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

---