But maybe—maybe she wanted me to see it. This isn’t exactly hidden away, after all. She could have destroyed all the things she didn’t want found. It wasn’t like her death surprised her; she knew for ages she was going to die. No, I am certain she put everything exactly where she wanted it, and for a purpose.

My hand touches the leather cord, and I take a deep breath, and then I’m pulling on it slightly and opening the journal. I’ll read a little bit, I tell myself. See if she mentioned me. I have a right to know if I was mentioned in her journal, don’t I? After all, she left me her house—maybe there are instructions here on what else I should be doing.

And there it is, the thing that breaks my heart.

She has listed the spells she was using for healing, and the date she employed each one, and the results. The Acorn Good Health Spell, for instance, that she used the previous fall. “I threw the acorns in the air. They scattered over the ground.”

On another page of her journal: “I’m frightened sometimes in the morning. I look at Houndy and I feel the fear. But it’s not like I’m desperate,” she wrote in a beautiful, looping scrawl with curlicues and little stars. “Everyone thinks medical science can cure this cancer. Why don’t they see what I see? That death is not the enemy.” Here she drew a starburst. “I know that my tumor is a living entity and that the tumor and I together can heal ourselves if it is meant to be that way.”

I turn the page and see, “I am not afraid of death, and I am not afraid of life. These days are full of passion and love and richness, now that I know the end is coming. I carry the ocean in my blood. I float out into the night, knowing that when the time comes, I will leave on the luminous huge milky moon. I am disappearing by degrees, yet I want to stay longer, look back at my whole glorious life. Where did you go?”

Later, she invoked Obatala, whoever that is, and said she’d gone out at night, offering him milk and coconut, for healing. She summoned the Dark Moon Spirit and the Ancient Egyptian Fumigation for Expelling Disease Demons.

My heart is beating hard.

Oh my goodness, she did use spells.

“I am wearing the special blessing crystals and the amber beads,” she wrote. “But Cassandra is strong. I am making myself ready, but sometimes I am filled with a longing to stay. Is that so bad, to want to stay a bit longer, to see my projects through?”

There’s a buzzing in my ears. I run my fingers over her printing. Where she wrote Cassandra’s name the handwriting is jazzy, almost childlike, with lowercase letters all in different colors. She dug into the paper so hard that when I run my fingers over the name, the writing feels almost three-dimensional.

A few more pages in: “Houndy calling to me from the other side. Last night I saw my mother and my grandmother and sat with them in an orchard. My mother told me that I know what I need to do. I had a conversation with Houndy, and he reached over and touched my arm and it left a little mark. He says Patrick will see me through. Patrick knows the way.”

I am fingering the pages, letting my eyes drift over them—when I hear the front door slam.

I jump up, startled and guilty. Bedford lifts his head and wags his tail.

“Marnie! You home?” calls Noah up the stairs, and I close the book quickly, shoving the journal deep inside—except that as I do, I see my name on a tiny piece of paper lodged into the binding of the book, and I pull it out, fast.

At the top she’s written the date, September 10, which I remember was the day before she died. The handwriting looks like it was scratched with a pencil that had hardly any lead left to it. I have to strain to see what it says.

Then my heart twists. She has written in capital letters, each one etched deep into the paper:

MARNIE NOAH HAS TO LEAVE DO NOT LET HIM STAY!!

THIRTY-FOUR

MARNIE

I’ve only barely managed to stash the book of spells away when Noah clumps up the stairs, bringing his jangly, disruptive vibes into the room.

Blix didn’t want Noah here. Blix didn’t want Noah here. Blix didn’t want Noah here. That sentence runs through my head on a continuous loop—and now here he is, standing in front of me, eyes crinkled in a smile—and I’m in the middle of the kitchen, feeling like a trapped animal. Who stands in the very middle of the kitchen, for heaven’s sake? And who stands there looking like she just completed the hundred-yard dash to arrive there, cheeks flushed, hair standing on end, looking like she’s just seen a ghost?

I feel I am seeing the truth of things. Everybody tried to tell me that she didn’t mean to leave the place to Noah, that she didn’t want him here. And somehow I dismissed everything they said.

But now here it is, in her own words. The day before she died.

He stops and stares at me, and a grin spreads across his face. “Hey! What are you doing?” he says. “What’s going on?” And for some reason, his eyes drift over to the bookshelf. Maybe I’ve run from there so fast that a trail is still visible.

MARNIE NOAH HAS TO LEAVE DO NOT LET HIM STAY!!

“Nothing. Just fixing up a few things. Cleaning a little bit. This place gets so dirty!”

He laughs, then comes over and puts his arms around me. I feel myself bristle, but he pulls me to him, presses my face against his chest.

“No, really. What’s with you? Did I scare you when I came in?”

“No,” I say into his shirt.

“God, you look sexy today.” He kisses the top of my head. “Soooo . . . whattya say we go downstairs and have sex? I just got done with my paper, it’s the weekend, and I feel like celebrating. Especially when you look so hot! Did you do something to your hair?”

“Nothing. It’s just uncombed. And actually I was about to go out.”

“Yeah? Where to?”

“Um, I was going to see Lola, see how she’s doing.”

“She just left. I saw her when I was coming in. Leaving with that man again.”

“Really?” I pull away from him. “The New Jersey guy?”

“I didn’t exactly talk to him to find out where he’s from.”

“His car has out-of-state plates. If you looked at them, you’d know.”

He laughs. “What do I care what the license plates say?”

“I bet it was him. Which is great. But never mind.”

“Anyway,” he says. He points to himself and to me, tries to take me in his arms again. “So . . .”

I don’t want to have sex with him. I do not want to have sex with him. I manage to extricate myself and go over to the sink and turn on the tap. I’ll water the plants; that’s right.

“Actually, I can’t just now. After I finish up in here, I’m going out.”

“Mmm. So you said. But Lola’s gone.”

“Yeah?”

“I told you. She left with the guy, and you said that was great news. What’s up with you anyway? Are you all right?”

“Tell me something. What was Blix like when you got here?”

I walk carefully to the window with the water glass. I can feel him looking at me as I drizzle some water over the roses and then the chamomile.

“She was dying,” he says after a moment. “I got here a week before she died.”

“And, tell me the truth . . . did she want you here?”

“Are you kidding? She said I was the one who could help her make the transition to the other side.” He comes over and takes the glass out of my hand, puts it on the table, and holds on to both my arms. “What. Is. Going. On?” He leans closer, starts running his lips down across my jaw.

I pull back and look at his face. “Nothing. I was just thinking how it must have been very hard for you. To see her that way. Dying.”

He flushes. “You know what was hard? It was hard that she wouldn’t do anything to help herself get well. God forbid anybody call a doctor. I wanted to help her, but she just wanted me to sit there and watch her die.”

I pull away from him. “But she had the right to do it her way.”

“Well, sure. But my point is, why was I the guy who had to watch it happen? That’s what hospitals are for! But whatever. I did it anyway. For her. And then . . . she goes and leaves her place to you.” He gives a short, bitter little laugh.

“I don’t think her death was about you.”

“Well, whatever. It’s done. I did what she wanted. Case closed. It’s all good.” He runs his eyes over me and holds out his arms, smiling. “Why are we talking about this anyway? Let’s go make ourselves happy. You and me? Downstairs?” He motions with his head toward the door.

But I can’t. In fact, looking at him right now, I can’t believe I ever let myself get involved with such a self-absorbed, egotistical child. Who can only see things from his own perspective. I actually feel a little sick.

“No,” I say. I swallow, trying to locate some moisture in my mouth because it has suddenly gone dry. “Actually, I have to tell you that this isn’t really working for me anymore.”

“What?”

“I feel weird about what I’m doing. I shouldn’t be with you like this when I’m getting married to someone else. I feel guilty. This is a terrible thing I’m doing.”