A Flash of Magic

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write something that features a globe. This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn.

Cathy’s writings have been published in over four hundred print and online publications. Check out her website (www.writingwicket.wordpress.com) for more information.

 

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 A Flash of Magic

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

“I saw it,” I say, looking up, positive I had—if only for an instant.

“Don’t be foolish, Melissa,” Jeff says. “Stuff like that only happens in movies.”

I sigh, wanting to scream to anyone who will listen. My nearly eighteen-year-old brother doesn’t believe in anything. Not God. Not wishes or dreams. Definitely nothing make-believe. I’m skeptical at times, too, yet I’m lured in. I want to believe in miracles and magic—the things that keep us young and alive. I’ve watched our mother stare into her bedroom mirror, mourning years that passed too fast. “Don’t wish your life away, Melissa,” she tells me. “It creeps up on you, and before you know it, you’re old.” She thinks she’s starting to look like Grandma though, to me, she’s still beautiful—they both are.

The next night, I return to the woods alone, retracing my steps as I’ve done every evening since Mike died. Last night was the first time Jeff had come along. He’s hurting as much as I am, and I’d hoped he might find a sliver of the comfort I’ve found here.

The woods smell faintly of pine as if Christmas has just passed instead of my twin brother. But it’s April. Cool, but spring’s in the air, and the early evening is refreshing. The moon hangs low, illuminating the path.

Ten minutes later, I reach my destination. I sit on one of the two rounded humps on the large rock that I’d dubbed “the heart rock.” Feet away from the edge of the cliff, it’s almost as if I’m at the edge of the world. The Atlantic Ocean stretches in front of me and disappears into the horizon. Far below, waves crash violently against the rugged shoreline. Despite the roar of the surf, I’m at ease on that rock, where I’ve always felt comfortable. Even before Mike died.

This is where Mike and I used to sit and talk. It feels like another lifetime, but it’s really just one: Mike’s. A life ended in an instant. Car crashes are like that. Little warning when someone rams head-on.

“Killed instantly,” the police told our parents.

But how did they know? Who’s to say Mike didn’t linger, panting for breath, wishing for life? Did he know he was going to die?

We were close. As close as twins are: finishing sentences, reading thoughts, sharing secret smiles.

Brian, Mike’s best friend, had invited me to tag along that fateful night. Mike had told me months before that Brian had a crush on me, but I already knew.

Usually, I would’ve accepted the invite in a second. But that night? I had a bad vibe. While I tried to convince Mike to stay home, he tried to convince me to go.

“Let’s go sit on our rock instead,” I said.

He squinted at me in an odd way. I hated when he made expressions like that, as if he knew more than I did—and he didn’t. His eyes squished into narrow slits and his forehead furrowed.

“Nah, I feel like going for a drive. We’re going to grab a bite to eat. I wish you’d come with us.”

For several moments, I hesitated, wavering: should I? Mike thought I was going to back down.

I almost did. I clenched and unclenched my hands, wanting to grab him close to my chest as if he were my child even though he was inches taller than I.

Then his mood shifted. His eyes softened back to their usual blue-green.

“Never mind. You stay here. Gotta go. Brian’s waiting.” He took my hand, raised it to his lips, and pretended to kiss it as if he were a prince charming a hesitant future princess. “Love you, Mel.”

“Love you, too.”

“See ya later. We won’t be gone long.” He stayed for a few more seconds, swaying from foot to foot, almost as hesitant as that imaginary princess-to-be.

Did he know the night was doomed? Did he know he was going to die? Had he protected me in that last split second?

What would have happened had I gone? Could I have saved them? Were they busy chattering in the front seat, neither paying attention to the road? Would I have been alert in the backseat? Would I have seen the advancing semi? I like to think I would’ve screeched, “Look out! Look out!” and Brian would have veered away from the oncoming horror. Brian, at seventeen, was a year older than Mike and me. Had just gotten his driver’s license.

I wonder, too, belted in the backseat, could I have been the lone survivor? Could I have ducked? Protected my head from danger?

Pondering what-ifs is torture. Who can travel back in time to change the future or know if an outcome could have been prevented?

That night he died—before the police ever rang our doorbell—I had been sitting on our rock. At eight minutes past eight, the low moon seemed to give birth when a smaller, luminous globe emerged from its light. It drifted toward me, glowing so brightly I had to shield my eyes. My heart hammered violently against my ribs. A sudden ache of homesickness swept over me.

I had looked down at my watch: 8:08 p.m.

I sauntered home around eight-thirty. An hour later, the news came.

I’ve returned to the heart rock every night since. I arrive by 7:45, needing those few quiet minutes. Precisely at 8:08, that same shining globe appears, hovering near the ocean’s edge before veering softly toward me.

Jeff didn’t see it last night because he doesn’t believe. Besides, Mike doesn’t return for Jeff. He returns for me.

I’m the older twin. Mike was born eight minutes after me, at precisely 8:08 p.m. It was the exact time his heart stopped, too; I feel that in my heart. No one—not Mom, not Dad—realizes the significance, and I’ll never share my globe with anyone again.

I still have regrets. That night, three months ago, I should’ve donned my big-sister bonnet. I should’ve gripped my brother to my chest. I should never have let go.

 

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The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/