The Calling

Chapter 2

Celeste wrapped the tarot set in tissue paper, put the stones in a small black velvet drawstring sack and carefully placed them in a gift bag that had "Trinkets of Time" printed on it. The necklace, delicately encased in a simple white cardboard jewelry box. I hand the quirky store owner $45 to pay for the items. "Thank you for shopping at Trinkets of Time, dear. From one witch to another, wish your mother a very happy birthday for me." I reply with a small smile and nod then leave the unusual store.

I get in my car and check my phone. 7 missed calls from Jenn and 3 text messages from Marissa. I glance at the time. "s**t!" I am late. I hadn't realized how long I had been in that shop. I open the text messages from Marissa.

Where the f**k are you?

Hello!

Everyones here and were waiting on you!

Yeah, she's pissed. I drive as fast as traffic allows to my destination. I am not surprised to see it's a packed house tonight. You have to make reservations months in advance just to get a table. I pause beneath the carved sandstone archway of Cliques, the most talked about dining room in Sedona. The restaurant is built directly into the base of a small mountain and the transition from desert twilight to candlelit cavern feels almost sacred. Cool air brushes my skin as I step inside, the scent of mesquite and dry-aged beef waft through the space.

The walls were not constructed, they were revealed. Natural red rock curved upward in sweeping formations, striated with deep rust, burnt sienna, and copper tones. Subtle uplighting traced the contours of the stone, emphasizing its organic ridges while leaving soft shadows that made the room feel intimate rather than cavernous. Veins of quartz glimmered faintly in the rock face like stars caught in sandstone.

The dining area opened wide, yet the acoustics were hushed. Every sound softened by fabric panels suspended like desert canopies between the rock outcroppings. A hostess in a tailored black suit leads me to my family. The table a slab of polished walnut, thick and substantial with a live edge that mirrored the rugged cliff walls. The wood gleamed under warm pendant lighting, its grain swirling like desert wind patterns. Each place setting featured heavy matte-black flatware, crystal stemware that caught the candlelight, and white porcelain plates edged in brushed gold. A low arrangement of desert blooms, white cactus flowers and pale sage sprigs, rested in a carved stone vessel at the center.

The chairs were upholstered in caramel-colored Italian leather, structured but inviting, with brushed brass nailhead trim and solid oak frames. They felt sturdy and luxurious, designed for lingering over courses and conversation.

I slide into a seat next to my mother. "Happy birthday mom," and I hand her the gift bag. "Oh, you didn't have to, Clara." She inspects the bag, "Trinkets of Time! I have been meaning to go there since they opened. Thank you, sweety." She places the bag with the rest of her gifts on the floor beside her.

"Finally, what the hell took you so long, Clara?" Marissa barks in a hushed tone. I roll my eyes in response and take another look about the room.

From my vantage point, I could see a recessed bar carved directly into the rock wall. Backlit shelves display rare bourbons and Arizona wines, their bottles glowing amber against the crimson stone.

A server arrived with leather-bound menus embossed in copper foil. I open mine slowly. The menu balanced southwestern influence with classic steakhouse tradition. I almost choked at the prices next to the course options. I remind myself that Jenn is covering my tab tonight, so I am careful in selecting what I order.

"Hello everyone, my name is Stacey and I'll be your server this evening. What can I start you with tonight?" the server asked.

Mom orders first, "Ill have the A5 Japanese Wagyu, 4oz with a baked potato side and cauliflower."

"And to drink?," the server asked.

"We'll take a bottle of Pinot Noir" Marissa answers for her. "Excellent choice," Stacey scribbles in her notepad.

"For you," the waitress looks to Jenn. My sister bites her lip as she always does when she's contemplating a decision. "Everything on the menu sounds so delicious it was hard to decide. But I'll do the 16 oz Prime New York Strip with garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus. Can I also have a glass of water?" The server nods. "Of course," then looks to Marissa.

"Chilean Sea Bass with citrus beurre blanc for me please."

"Last but not least," she offers me a sweet smile. I chose the cheapest course on the menu at $68, "8 oz Filet Mignon and fries with a side of Au Jus and ice tea, no lemon."

We gather our menus and I hand them to the waitress. "Ill have that right out for you."

"How was work sweety?" mom asks me.

"Same old. It was a busy day." I sighed in frustration.

"I don't know why you continue working those crap jobs, Clara. Wasted potential." Marissa offers her two cents.

"Leave her alone, Marissa. Not everyone can be as "perfect" as you. All high and mighty with your fancy job. Tell me, how is Mrs. Jenkins' husband these days?" Jenn clapped back with veracity.

"What exactly are you implying, Jenn?" Marissa, practically foaming at the mouth.

"GIRLS!" My mother yells in a whisper. "Can we please not fight tonight," she hangs her head.

We all give our apologies and keep the conversation civil. Our dinner was served, and it was the most delicious steak I have ever had. Everything was cooked to perfection. Mom opened her gifts, saving mine for last. She loved the new to her tarot deck and the beautifully picked stones. Marissa ended up taking the check, saving Jenn from having to splurge tonight. Had I known she was going to do that, I would have ordered the $150 steak. Petty I know.

While my sisters and I may fight, argue, and chastise each other, we still love each other. There is nothing I wouldn't do for them and them me. Marissa may seem like the outcast between us, but that doesn't make her any less my sister. She just wants the best for Jenn and me. I just wish she would stop treating us like we're still kids.

We say our goodbyes and final birthday wishes to mom.

As I go to open the door of my car, I feel a hand touch my shoulder. I jumped so high I thought my heart was going to jump out its chest. I hear my mom chuckle "I'm sorry honey, I didn't mean to scare you."

"You can't just sneak up on a young woman in a parking lot like that mom. I nearly had a heart attack. You're lucky I don't have my pepper spray with me." I clutch my chest dramatically.

She stares at my car with an expression I had never seen her wear. Her brows furrowed and worry painted her face. Her right hand hovering over my car as she circles it. Her eyes glossed over as if in a trance. She stops at the front passenger side and looks through the window.

"Mom, are you OK?," I ask, genuinely concerned. She stares at the white box sitting on the passenger seat. "Mom?" I ask again. She snaps up to look at me and shakes her head quickly. She walks around the car towards me and rubs her hands at the sides of my arms. "I'm sorry honey, it must be the wine." Her right-hand moves to her temples and gives them a pinch.

"Do you need me to drive you home?," I offered.

"Thank you sweety, but no. I'll be alright. It's just been a long day." She gives me her million-dollar smile and starts to walk away.

"I love you, mom," I shout. She quickly looks back. "I love you too, Clara." and with that we went our separate ways.

The entire drive home I couldn't stop thinking about mom's behavior. She is always so cheerful, poised. To see her out of step with concern bothered me at my core. There was something she wasn't telling me and that perplexed me even more. We tell each other everything, or so I thought. Maybe she just had a long day. Or maybe it was just the wine like she said. I park my car in its usual spot, grab my things and head to my apartment.

I push the door open with my shoulder, the hinge whining in protest as it always did. The apartment greets me with familiar scents. Stale air tinged with old coffee and my favorite strawberry body mist. The living room is small enough that three strides carry me from the door to the couch. The walls had once been white but now held the yellowed memory of a dozen previous tenants. A secondhand gray couch sagged in the center like it was tired of existing. A narrow coffee table bore the faint ringed ghosts of mugs long gone. A single floor lamp leaned slightly to the left, casting a dim honey-colored light that made everything look softer than it was.

The kitchen clung to the far wall. Faux-wood cabinets peeled at the corners. The linoleum floor is scratched and scuffed in need of replacement years before I had taken occupancy. The small fridge hummed loudly, as if working harder than it should. Two mismatched plates sat on a thin towel beside the stove, left out to dry from the night prior.

I slipped off my shoes, dropped my phone, wallet, and white box on the counter. I padded down the short hallway to my bedroom. The room was barely larger than the bed it holds. My narrow dresser leaned against the wall, mirror spotted with age. The curtains were thin, filtering the city's sodium streetlights into a faint amber glow. It wasn't much, but it was mine. I change into my red silk pajama shorts and matching top. The fabric slid over my skin cool and whisper-light, a small luxury I allowed myself in a place otherwise defined by compromise. The silk caught the light each time I move, like embers breathing.

Back in the living room, I curled onto the couch and opened my book. The pages fluttered as if sighing. I tried following the lines, tried to anchor myself in the rhythm of the prose, but my gaze keeps drifting to the counter. The white box sat there. Simple. Matte. unremarkable. Yet it seems brighter than it should be in the dim room.

The purchased moonstone necklace still inside. Even closed, the box felt present. As though it occupied more space than its shape allowed. A quiet pressure hummed at the edge of my thoughts. I press my thumbs between the pages and close the book. "Stop," I mutter, but whether to myself or the box, I'm not sure. I set the book down on the coffee table and walk the few paces to the counter.

I reach for the box. The cardboard felt warm. Not physically hot. But alive, somehow, like holding a small animal with a steady pulse. I carry it down the hall, my steps slow, almost ceremonial. In my bedroom, I set the box on the dresser and lif the lid. The moonstone caught the dim light. A soft inner glow like trapped moonlight beneath water. The stone itself felt dense when I picked it up, heavier than it appeared.

I fasten it around my neck. The stone settled against my collarbone, cool at first. I look in the mirror. For a moment, I simply admire it. The moonstone made my skin look luminous. The red silk framed it perfectly. It was beautiful. Not flashy, not loud, but quietly commanding. As if it belonged there. Then the dizziness came.

It began subtly, a soft tilt beneath my feet, as though the floor had shifted an inch to the left. My reflection seemed to ripple. The mirror's surface wavered like disturbed water. My stomach dropped. The air thickened, pressing against my ears. A low hum built, not audible exactly, but vibrating in my bones. The room stretched. The corners pulled away from me, elongating into impossible angles. Light fractured into thin strands, weaving through the air like silver threads. The moonstone burned cold.

My vision tunneled, not into darkness, but into brightness. A pale, endless glow. My body felt both impossibly heavy and utterly weightless. I have the sensation of being folded inward, like paper creased along invisible lines. Time thinned. Seconds elongated. Then came the tearing. Not painful, but vast. As though the surrounding space had been unzipped.

The air rushed past me without wind. Colors I had no name for spilled into my vision. Hues that seemed to hum with their own frequencies. Gravity dissolved. Up and down became suggestions rather than laws. I felt myself pass through something. A remembrance of cold silk and static, and for one suspended, breathless instant I existed nowhere at all. Then--silence. The pressure released. My feet touched ground that was not my bedroom floor.

The hum faded, replaced by a distant, resonant stillness. The moonlight here was different, softer yet sharper, as if every particle carried intent. I inhaled, the necklace warm against my skin. I was no longer in my apartment. And somewhere, impossibly far away, the sagging couch and flickering lamp waited in a room that suddenly felt like it had belonged to someone else.