That’s not an option this time.
I find Mama sitting in a chair by the window, looking outside. I walk over, making a wide berth so she’s sure to see me in her peripheral vision, and smile when she looks up at me.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Millie.” She smiles and glances around. “Are the other girls here, too?”
“No, it’s just me today,” I say and sit in the chair next to hers. We’re facing each other at a ninety-degree angle. “I brought you a present.”
“Oh, how sweet,” she says. “This is a wonderful surprise.”
“Go ahead and open it,” I urge.
She parts the tissue paper in the gift bag and pulls out the small box inside. “My favorite chocolates.”
“I remember you loving those when I was little,” I say. “I thought you might like them.”
“I don’t even know when the last time was that I had these.” She lovingly runs her hand over the top of the box. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“You’re welcome.” I clear my throat. “I also wanted to come in and talk with you, Mama. You see, I’ve been angry since you told us that you’re a witch.”
“I know, I could see it in you,” she says. “I just don’t know how to change it.”
“I don’t either, but I think talking about it might help.”
“Honey, I’m always happy to talk to you. I’ll tell you anything I know, and if I don’t know, I’ll do my best to find out.”
My lip quivers, and I press them together as I try to collect myself.
“Why does that make you emotional?” she asks.
“Because this person sitting across from me is the mother I longed for all of my life. Mama, I’m a hedgewitch.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful.”
“And now that I know I could have been learning from you all this time, I guess I’m grieving for everything we lost. And my first reaction was to be angry.”
“You ain’t got nothin’ to be mad about.” The words snap out of her mouth in a thick Cajun accent, and then Mama’s eyes go round, and she clears her throat. Her eyes are changing from brown to blue. “I’m sorry, honey. Of course, you’re angry. I’m mad, too. I lost all that time with you girls, and the way you were treated is just horrible. I’d give anything to be able to go back and change it all.”
“I know you would.” My words are careful now as I watch the physical transformation happening in front of me. She’s starting to hunch a bit and suddenly has a twitch in her left cheek as she looks around, as if she’s confused about where she is.
“Mama?”
“Huh?” She eyes me and then scowls. “Who are you? I ain’t got no chillins.”
My hand immediately flies to the amethyst around my neck, and I start to chant the spell from my dream, the one Lucien made me memorize a lifetime ago. I watch as whatever or whoever has taken over my mother’s body turns from confusion to rage.
“You stop that,” she growls. “You won’t bring that voodoo hoodoo shit around me. You stop it right now.”
She stands and raises her hand as if she’s going to hit me, but I duck out of the way and keep chanting, starting over at the beginning when I reach the end.
Lord and Lady, lend me your might.
Guardians of the Watchtowers, make this right.
Ancestors and guides, hear my plea.
Toxic energy there will no longer be.
Evil and darkness be out of my life.
Leave my space with only light.
But it doesn’t help. She only gets angrier as she curls her lip. With wild eyes, she forms her fingers into claws and comes after me. The noises coming out of her mouth don’t sound human as she’s suddenly pulled back from behind, two men in scrubs holding her arms.
A nurse comes running with a syringe and plunges the needle into Mama’s arm, only infuriating her more.
“What’s going on?”
Lucien’s suddenly at my side, and his eyes take in my mother from head to toe.
“Ruth.” His voice is loud and strong. “Ruth, I know you’re in there. You fight back, darlin’. Whoever’s got you has no right to you.”
Mama’s slumping now from the medication, and all signs of the being that possessed her is gone. She’s crying softly, murmuring, “I’m so sorry,” over and over again.
“Mama.” I frame her face in my hands. Her brown eyes, now free of the blue, look back at me. “It’s okay, Mama. I love you. We’re going to protect you.”
“You can’t,” she whispers before she falls asleep and is carried away on a gurney to her room.
Lucien and I wait for her doctor to examine her, and then we meet with him in his office.
“It’s not abnormal for patients to have moments of regression during their treatment,” he says.
“That’s not what this was.”
His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he stares at me from across the wide, expensive desk. “And where did you get your psychology degree?”