Spirit Box

by Joy Mills

In late summer of that year, when Gemma was nine, the cicadas and the heat were competing for dominance. They seemed inseparable, as though the persistent buzz in the trees was the wrist watch for the sweltering days, keeping slow track of interminable twilights. Both were invisible to Gemma and her sister Polly, who was only five. But it would become a floating backdrop in their memories. Almost equally as prevailing were the thunderstorms, wild and full of mystery. The mystery came down into Gemma's life that summer, pinning her heart to the ground.

When she wasn't helping her father chase Polly around, Gemma was running with her friend Angie, a year older, who lived three blocks away. Neglect and nature had given Angie an entire world to roam in. She lived in a clapboard house with a leaning carport where her mother entertained men, the dream of a patron husband, and cheap chardonnay. Angie didn't have rules imposed on her as Gemma did, and was always trying to push the boundary edges wider, like the time she insisted they stay in the park after nightfall just to swing in the dark. Having been reprimanded more than once before, Gemma had to battle Angie frequently to remain in her father's good graces and retain Angie's friendship. Angie responded bitterly usually and held grudges like a vise.

One evening in early August, Gemma and Polly sat on the porch swing with their father, Paul, between them. The land was in a torpor from the haze and humidity. Currents from the swing brushed their faces in a warm hush. The sun was down at last. Dad stretched his arms across the top of the swing, his daughters' heads bobbing against them with each new push into the forward air.

"Gemma, now that I have to start back to work, things are going to be a lot more hectic for me," Dad said, his voice befitting a man that towered over 6 foot 3. He was set to return for another year as a history professor at the small Jesuit college in town. "You have been such a help to me, taking care of Polly and the house and doing your chores. I want you to know that I do notice it, and it makes me very proud of you. Things are a little easier."

She laid her head against Dad's shoulder, he moved his hand onto the top of her head.

"So, here's the thing, kiddo. I'm going back to work in a week, and there's still two weeks left of summer vacation for you and Polly. I think you are old enough now to take care of yourself. Do you think can handle watching Polly all day for two weeks?"

"Yeah," Gemma said, looking up at him.

"I want you to be sure. It's a big job, and if there's any doubt, I can send you both to Mrs. Ivory's down the street for the day," Dad said. Mrs. Ivory was a round, old lady with a collection of perfume bottles from the 1920s. 1920-"And if this is how we're going to do it, I want you to remain on this street, okay? That means no running around with Angie." Dad looked down at Gemma.

"But can Angie come over to play with us?" Gemma asked.

"Of course, but you must remain on this street. I know Angie can run around wherever she wants, and her mother is very absent. I want to feel like this is okay to do; I want to trust you. Can you stick to the rules?"

"Yeah, I can," Gemma said.

In the year since Seri had died, life had taken on more serious tones. Dad had been delivered into a depression that seemed to sink his feet further into the ground with each step. He was still functional - capable of chicken marsala on the girls' birthdays, tickle wars on Saturday nights and keeping up with dental appointments for growing teeth. But he was steeped in sorrow. At church on Sundays the other women, married or not, looked as though they wanted nothing in the world but to grant mercy on the Flanagan family. It was not difficult to see Dad suspended in his grief and Polly in her unknowing neediness. There Gemma was, hovered in the middle, trying to be the bridge for her father to cross back into the world of hope and lightness.

The girls, left without a mother, took to mothering each other in small and affecting ways. Gemma would take baths with Polly and help wash her hair; she'd show her things - magical things that children reveal to each other. A hole in the basement storage room where small elves could dwell, a constellation in the sky (Dad showed Gemma, who showed Polly), the way to make bubbles in a glass of milk. Polly, in turn, jumped on Gemma's bed, asked questions about their mother, listened to every word Gemma said, and patted her big sister's hair when Gemma cried at night.

What Gemma missed most about her mother was her mystery. They were church-goers, but Seri had been of the sort more enchanted by strange objects from different parts of the world. She used to take Gemma into the French Quarter in New Orleans for the day, after braiding her own and Gemma's hair, both long and cherry-brown. They wandered through voodoo and art galleries, mysterious stores of herbal tonics, strange powders, and painted masks.

For the rest of that week, Gemma stuck close to her father, giving extra attention to him. She watched Dad's face in the mirror, his concentrated mouth pulled tight, as he twisted her hair up into a bun with almost an expert quality. It had taken all summer. He used to be so clumsy with his unwieldy hands, gathering and twisting it up to fasten the leather barrette by wedging the short stick into the holes on either side of the piece. It rarely stayed in place for the duration of the day, falling in a flop to one side, or slowly sagging down with gravity in a coiled clump. The next morning her father would try again. Polly insisted on braids, which was its own battle.

Angie showed up every day sometimes, and other times disappeared before returning a week later. She came to the house on Sunday, the day before Dad was to return to work. Her hair was in her usual tattered mess, a ponytail she'd slept in, little frayed pieces loosened and pulled out, hanging in loops. Her clothes were sturdy but stained - a pair of canvas overalls with a ratty tank top underneath. She was pudgy when she should have been skinny, Gemma thought, since her mom never cooked for her.

"What'd you have for dinner last night?" Angie asked, her typical salutation.

"Meatball sandwiches," Gemma said. She didn't want to ask Angie, but knew she was waiting for the question. "What did you have?"

"Macaroni and cheese, what do you think?" Angie said. It was either that or peanut butter on crackers.

They were sitting on the big wrap-around porch that hugged the northeast corner of the large foursquare house. Dad was upstairs repairing plaster in the hallway. Polly sat at the table inside with her book and crayons.

"You could have dinner with us sometime," Gemma said. She could see Angie needed a bra, though her overalls helped hide her budding breasts that pushed out in soft pyramids under her shirt.

"I think your dad should date my mom," Angie said.

Gemma frowned. "Why?"

"Because your dad is lonely, and my mom is pretty, and she's really nice," Angie said.

"I thought you didn't like your mom," Gemma said.

Angie wouldn't look straight at Gemma, but managed to say, "I love my mom."

Polly stuck her face up to the window then, smashing her cheeky flesh into the glass. "Heeeyy, you two!" her voice sounded hollowed-out and muted.

"Your sister is weird," Angie said.

"She's just goofy is all," Gemma said. Polly came running out on the porch just then with three popsicles, giving off plumes of steam. They ate them in silence, with their full concentration on catching the drips that ran down their hands.

After they were finished, Angie said, "I've got something special in my bag to show you."

"What is it?" Gemma asked, eyeing the bag. There was definitely something in it.

"Something my mom brought home last week," Angie held out a wooden object the size of a shoebox. It was dark wood, carved with great detail, the angles smoothing out in curves and beveled with intricate lines.

"What is it?" Gemma asked.

"It's a spirit box. I heard Mom talking to her friend about it. She got it from an old fortune teller lady that had to sell her shop downtown," Angie said.

Gemma reached out to trace her fingers over the curved shapes painted deep blue with crimson leaves and black lines, a figure holding a bird up by its wings. It was beautiful. Polly took her sister's lead and did the same, cooing, "What's a spirit box, Angie?"

Angie took the box from their reach and went to the front stoop, where she sat with it in her lap. "It's a box that lets you talk to spirits and ghosts and things. It echoes when you ask a question into it." She spoke with authority, her gaze locked on the box. Gemma and Polly sat on the steps below Angie, waiting for more. Gemma couldn't take her eyes off it, remembering her trips downtown with her mother, drifting through the perfume vapors and spooky corridors while her mother fell into long conversations with the eccentric shop-owners. Angie's spirit box looked like it came from one of those places; Gemma was almost positive she'd seen it before.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Gemma asked. She wanted that box.

"Yeah, what do you do with the spirit box, Angie? Is there a surprise inside?" Polly repeated.

Angie ignored Polly, and looked right at Gemma, her eyes fierce, tired, and worn. "I want to take it down to the woods and see if it works. "

"Oh, we can't go that far over. My dad said we have to stay on this street," Gemma said. She turned sideways to look out into the road where a car honked as it passed. It was Mrs. Ivory. Gemma and Polly waved. Angie scowled.

"Since when? Your dad won't know, Gemma," Angie paused, sneaking a glance at Polly. "You could take your friend to your friend's house tomorrow, we'll find the exact place I'm thinking of. Alright?"

"I don't know," Gemma said slowly.

"Come on. We have to see if this works. Besides, my mom is going to be looking for it soon."

"Why can't we do it here?"

"Because it's magic, that's why. I sat on the stairs and listened to my mom's friend Mel talk all about it, and how to use it. You have to do it in nature, like in the woods."

Gemma itched, wishing she didn't have to go by Angie's rules. "Is it really magic?" she asked. Polly had her mouth hanging open.

"It's totally magic, Gemma!" Angie said, jiggling the box with excitement. "It's an echo box. You ask a question and put your ear down to it, and it echoes back an answer."

Gemma paused, looking down at Polly's head and her part that ran down her scalp in a crooked line, made by their father's hands. Gemma looked up at Angie, "Do you think I could talk to my mom with that box?"

Angie paused for a second. "Yes. You can ask her anything." She held her head up solemnly, her lips pursed.

Gemma puckered her mouth, thinking. "Okay, but we would have to hurry."

"We will! But I don't think we should bring you-know-who," Angie said.

"Yes, take me! Take me!" Polly yelled. "I want to come with you, Gemma. You're going to talk to Mama?"

Gemma widened her eyes at Angie and chewed the inside of her cheek. She wondered if she was already doomed now that Polly had been in on this whole scenario. But all Polly needed was a story and a secret, two things that five-year old girls thrived on.

Something inside Gemma twitched. It seemed to come from just below her chest like an insect buzzing around, bouncing off the inside of her ribcage. All these questions she had for her mother, Can you see us? Do you know how much Papa misses you? And us? Why did you leave?

Gemma heaved a slow sigh, "Okay, Angie, we'll go."

Angie smiled. "Tomorrow then, after lunch. We'll go."

***

After Angie left that day, Gemma convinced her little sister that the box would not work if she told their father about their plans. There would be no take-backs, and no talking to their mother. Polly was easily persuaded, and in her furtive effort to be mysterious that evening, fell asleep before dessert.

Late that night, a thunderstorm rolled in. Polly came into Gemma's room and found her perched in the windowsill. The lightning flashed and illuminated Gemma, wearing Seri's old nightgown that was longer than Gemma was tall. She had her feet wrapped up in the loose and trailing hem, her knees to her chest. Polly crawled into the window seat next to Gemma and watched the storm unfold in the columns of tall clouds, lighting up the rooftops down the hill of their street. When the thunder boomed through the silence, Polly would gasp and clutch her teddy bear. Gemma could see her eyes in the flash of white light, and she could see how much Polly enjoyed the thrill of being scared. She had a fearless quality when it came to things like this—mysterious things. It made Gemma smile as she thought, we're just like Mom.

She must have taken the detour before coming to Gemma's room. She had cookie crumbs in the corners of her mouth. Polly looked at her then and whispered, "I didn't tell the secret, Gemma. Are we still going to talk to the spirit box tomorrow with Angie?"

Gemma looked out the window and didn't speak for a few minutes. Mixed in with the doubt that the box wasn't real, was the fear that this would hurt Polly. But, it was too late to try to go without her, and Gemma wanted her there anyway. She sighed, "Polly we're not supposed to go that far, and we're really not supposed to go into the woods. Dad would be so mad if he knew."

"Yeah, he will be really mad," Polly said. "Gemma? Will you tell me a story about Mom? And a new story, not the ones you said already."

Gemma smiled, "Yeah, I'll tell you a story. You've got cookie crumbs on your face, Polly."

***

The next morning, Gemma sat at the table in her creaky chair. Her father's place at the large oak table had been abandoned half an hour ago, the crust of his toast remaining, his coffee cup. At the other end of the table, the place setting was bare, the surface glossy, the high-backed chair pushed all the way in. Gemma stared hard into the emptiness of the chair, willing her mother's image to appear. Nothing. She squinted her eyes tight and tried again. Her mother's soft cheeks, her long neck and slight shoulders. But, there was only the fluttering of her eyelids distorting her vision.

Gemma shifted her seat, arching her pelvis slowly while chopping her spoon into the crowded bowl of cereal and milk. Her father came in the kitchen, tucking in his blue button-down shirt. He smiled wanly at Gemma, looked up to the ceiling, and shouted, "Hey Polly, your cereal's waiting for you." They listened to Polly scamper across the maple floors upstairs. There was a strange series of thumps and a muted crash at the end of the hallway above the stairs. Dad and Gemma waited in silence, staring at each other. Seconds later, Polly resumed her skitter down the stairs and into the kitchen, her head barely visible over the island counter. She was out of breath as she plopped into her chair, opposite the table from Gemma.

"Well, you're quite the eager beaver this morning, aren't you?" Dad said as he poured milk in her special ceramic bowl she'd made with Gemma at latchkey.

"I'm so excited, Daddy. Hi, Gemma." Polly paused, blowing her breath upwards to fly her bangs into the air, "And I don't know why." Polly looked at Gemma with exaggerated eyes.

"Maybe you and Gemma are going to do something special today?" Dad said.

"Yes, yes! I hope so!" Polly squealed into her bowl, tipping her large spoon with her small, soft hand.

Dad walked over to the window just then and saw Angie Newell walking up the street toward their house, the last one at the dead end of upwardly sloping street.

"You girls have fun today. Gemma, you remember what we discussed," Dad said. "I need to know this is the right thing to do."

***

After making sure the coast was clear, Gemma and Polly escaped their street unseen. They met Angie on the next block, and she led the way, taking on her home-territory persona as they entered the last block before the woods. Gemma was quiet, following closely behind Angie. She didn't like going into Angie's street. The stark decline in the condition of the houses, the leaning chain-link fences completely rusted, the mean, ugly dogs that came tearing up to the edge of these fences, these were all uninviting. Most days they usually played on Gemma and Polly's street. Angie seemed to grow an inch in this neighborhood, growling back at the dogs, jumping up on the old cinder blocks piled next to a mailbox. Gemma stayed on an imaginary straight line, trying not to doubt her decision. She held Polly's hand tightly.

"How far away is the spot?" Gemma asked, uncertain. She was wary of the woods, the creaking boughs of the oaks and the skinny pines, tucked in the copse of green shrubs and plants, possibly poisonous oak. She could feel she was far beyond her boundaries, and that her father could sense it.

"It's not that far. You just go down the hill and past the big fallen tree, and a little farther to the creek, where it gets a little wider. There's a sandy area, kinda like a little beach before it gets way out into the marshes."

They were at the end of Angie's street where the asphalt stops abruptly, and the land slopes down into the woods. There was no trail, and Angie led them in an angled pattern, following the small openings in the foliage. Gemma kept Polly in front of her, urging her on in whispers, turning her shoulders to redirect her amble when she wasn't watching where Angie went. All three of them walked with their arms in constant motion, swatting the bugs that attacked their open skin. Small, wispy strands of hair clung damply to each girl's neck.

Gemma reached into her overalls, and pulled out an old coin she had found earlier that day. She held it in her palm, rubbing her thumb over the face. She thought back to when her mother was alive. Her heart jumped in her chest, and she was flooded with a wave of longing that was like a burst of heat from her belly. Homesickness emerged out of her. She remembered a supper one night, two years ago. Her mother had been standing by the sink drying dishes while Gemma griped about her new teacher at school, how she thought Mrs. Gilroy hated her. Her mother had come up behind Gemma and gathered her hair up off her back to lean over and nuzzle her face into Gemma's neck. Her hands had been cool and wet from the water, her lips had tickled Gemma's skin as she kissed and whispered how no teacher could ever see anything but goodness and light in Gemma. She came out of her reminiscence in time to see Angie taking off in a run toward what appeared to be the little beach she had spoken of.

They reached the clearing by the creek as distant thunder was beginning its low rumble. Gemma could not estimate how long it had taken them to get there, though it must have been around thirty minutes. The thick air wrapped in layers around them, their skin slick and shiny. Gemma felt nervous, and far from home.

Angie had immediately begun to sweep away rocks, branches and leaves by dragging the side of her foot. She unloaded her backpack and pulled out the box, setting it in the center of the dirt. "So the way this has to work, I think, is we draw a big circle in the dirt around the box and stand inside it," Angie instructed, her face crinkled in concentration. "Then, we hold hands, and say something all together, and-"

"What do we say?" Gemma asked.

"I don't know, something we make up, like a chant." The thunder was becoming more frequent, which worried Gemma, but it still seemed far enough away to give them time. Polly stood still next to Gemma, watching everything in fascination.

Angie tossed her bag aside and proceeded to walk backwards, pulling her heel to etch a wobbly circle around the box. She finished, then took off her filthy tennis shoes and threw them over to her backpack where they landed with a thud.

"Take your shoes off and enter the circle," Angie announced boldly. She positioned herself in a wide-legged stance, hands on her hips.

Gemma and Polly slipped off their shoes gingerly and stepped over the circle's edge. The ground was warm and moist, and felt good on her toes. A breeze blew through the woods just then, and all three of them looked up, distracted. It could not be missed that the breeze had a hint of coolness to it, which was unusual this deep in the woods, especially in the humidity. A slight shiver moved quickly through Gemma's spine, almost imperceptibly.

The girls joined hands, and Angie lifted hers high in the air, bringing one of Gemma's and Polly's arms up with hers, and arched her head back. Gemma wondered if her mother could see this part. She raised her other arm, taking Polly's with it, and mimicked Angie's position. Looking up, her eyes roamed the canopy of leaves and branches with small openings where pieces of the sky snuck in. She noticed the change in the blue, how it differed from when they had set off into the woods. The storm would be here sooner than she had first thought. She felt another small twinge in her chest. The birds were quiet. Another breeze crept through.

"Circle, circle on the ground. Three of us now stand around," Angie began.

"Circle, circle on the ground. Three of us now stand around." Gemma joined in with Angie, soon followed by Polly, who got the words more right with each round. They recited the chant until they fell into a rhythmic pattern, and then Angie began pushing the other two to walk in a circle. Polly was almost singing, and needed two steps to every one of Gemma's and Angie's.

"Okay, stop!" Angie halted in place, the chanting ceased. "It's time to open the box and ask a question." She leaned over and lifted the lid off, which made a quivering sound as the wood rubbed against its own edges. Setting herself on the ground and crossing her legs, Angie put the box's lid in her lap. Gemma pulled Polly down with her as they peered into the box. It was plain inside and smelled musty like an attic. A spider crawled out the short-ended lip of the box.

"A spider!" Polly shrieked.

"Shhh," Angie replied and flicked the spider away with her finger. "Okay, I'll go first." She leaned over the box, her hands flat in the dirt on either side, and opened her mouth as if to throw up. She inhaled dramatically, then shouted, "I'm calling to the spirit world! I'm calling to the spirit world!"

Gemma and Polly were statues. Gemma dared not move. She hadn't expected such a crude exclamation.

"Spirit box, open up! I'm looking for my Nana! Can you find her?" Angie yelled, and then quickly put her ear close to the box and closed her eyes. After what seemed like a long time, perhaps a few minutes, she opened her eyes and sat back.

"What happened?" Polly whispered, her eyes huge.

"I'm not telling until we've all done it," Angie replied. "Gemma, you go now." Her eyes shifted to the side, her mouth partly open.

Gemma had seen this look before. It took her a few seconds to process, and then she knew. Angie was making it up. Angie hadn't heard anything. She just wanted Gemma to get in trouble by disobeying her father. It was a mean trick. She thought of grabbing Polly and taking off for home. There was still time to protect their alibi.

Then she looked over at Polly, who was sitting primly, hands on her knees, waiting politely for Gemma to summon their mother. She had perfect faith. Gemma breathed deeply, her chest sharp on the intake. She leaned over the box, put her hands on each side just like Angie had, and stared into the box. Something moved and flew up in her face, but when she put her hand up to feel for it, nothing was there. Her heart began to beat wildly, her thoughts were dense and confusing, and everything was slowing down. She saw in her peripheral vision the branches and leaves of the woods moving in waves of green and brown.

She opened her mouth, and squeaked, "Mom?" Polly moved to the opposite side of the box and leaned into it, her head adjacent to Gemma's.

"Mama!" Polly yelled.

"Mom! Mom! Mom! Can you hear me? It's Gemma and Polly!" Gemma cried. Something gripped her. Her eyes were blurry as she stared through the bottom of the box. She started shaking it as she cried repeatedly, "Mom! Mom! Mama!" Down inside her chest, at the source of all her twinges and spasms, she felt herself opening her entire being to that one tiny possibility. She thought back to every time she had willed her mother's voice or image before, every time she had spoken her name in the night with the sheets twisted in her legs. She had opened that spot in her chest ever so slightly then. And now, it rushed forth like a flood, like a hurricane barging into a house, lifting the heavy furniture, the nailed-down carpet, her own bed. Her heart was one loud beat followed by two tiny beats. It sounded red and hot, like burning candy. Hotter than the tears running down her face, she felt a fever flying through every part of her body, pushing out of the way any other wish she could have held inside. She howled.

She dropped her arms and slumped forward into herself, into where her heart lay pumping like a racing animal. Then it was quiet. No thunder. She could hear Polly whimpering next to her. She had changed her plea. "Gemma?" she said quietly. Her eyes were deep and watery, like the eyes of a calf. Beneath her pink and shiny nose, her mouth trembled.

Gemma was exhausted. She sniffled and her heart began to ease its open run. There was one thing left to do. She leaned her ear down to the box, and listened. Polly leaned in next to her. Silence. Then, a wind came up through the woods again, a little breeze that caught and whipped in through the box, they could almost see it, cupping the sound in on itself, like a palm holding a sigh.

Gemma shifted her eyes slightly to the right. She caught Polly's eyes, the color of wet earth, inches from her own. Polly smiled. Something brief, a flicker of a thought, passed between them, a notion of something beyond this world that had returned for a moment. And then it stayed for awhile, tossing lightly on the wind, waiting for rain.

Angie said nothing. She put the box back into her backpack. They gathered their shoes and carried them out of the woods, listening to the thunder and the cicadas.

Joy Mills is a musician and writer living in Seattle. She performs with partner (and husband) Tom Parker in an acoustic folk duo. She also is enrolled in the UW Extension Certificate program in Literary Fiction. You can visit her at www.joymills.com.