The Wish-Granter

The wish-granter has a thankless job.

It wouldn't seem so, not at first; people wish for things they truly want, or things they at least think they truly want. It would make sense, then, that someone who gets something they want badly enough to wish for it—to beg a nameless, faceless entity in the sky for this one thing—that they'd be falling over themselves to give thanks when they suddenly found themselves with that thing.

There are problems with wishing, though. The first is that people can be greedy; the wish-granter has a folder set up in their email that filters out repeat customers automatically, and the folder only gets checked very occasionally. It's less work that way, and they don't regret switching to a more modern system, even though Santa had sworn that sticking to pen and paper was the way to go. Not everyone has elves, the wish-granter thinks every time Santa brings it up.

The second problem is that people so rarely know what they actually want, so getting what they wished for isn't always (or even often) the blessing they thought it would be. If a child wishes for a bike, that generally goes over well; if an adult wishes not to have to work with a certain co-worker anymore, if generally… doesn't. People need to learn to wish more specifically, the wish-granter would say if they were ever asked. They aren't asked, of course, but they like to keep the answer in mind, just in case a relevant question should ever pop up.

The wish-granter's problem today isn't a child with a bike, or a repeat wisher, or even an adult with an annoying guy in the next office over. No, today's problem is the kind the wish-granter likes the least.

And the most.

Please, the email reads. Please.

The wish-granter looks at it for a moment, even though they're aware by this point that it won't make any more details appear. Wishes like these are frustrating, the wish-granter knows, because sometimes it's someone at a dying parent's bedside wishing for a miracle, and sometimes it's a person watching a sporting event on television wishing for a turnaround, and sometimes it's a child looking through a pet store window wishing for a puppy they've been told they can't have. There's no telling what a wish like this is asking for, so it requires more investigation before a decision can be made. It's more difficult than someone wishing for a winning lottery ticket—almost always a no—but it does give the wish-granter the opportunity to get out of the office, so it's not all bad.

The wish-granter gathers the information available to them and studies it. The wisher is a guy in his late twenties; there's a record of him in Santa's files from when he was a child, a few notes of his name in the Tooth Fairy's record of lost teeth, and a list of every single place the Easter Bunny ever hid an egg for him, but that's really nothing of consequence. A Google search pulls up a Facebook profile and some mentions in a local newspaper, his birth and his high school graduation and his engagement photo, a mention of him as a surviving relative in an obituary and a photo of him holding a newborn.

The wish-granter looks at the email again. Please. Please.

Well, the wish-granter thinks. This one is going to take a little more digging.

&&&

The first thing the wish-granter notices about Cooper Albion is that he doesn't seem to be the kind of person who would wish for something so desperately that it required a personal visit. He owns a home in a nice area; he drives a nice car. He doesn't have any physical limitations that he could be trying to wish away, nor are there any mental demons trying to break him down. He's got a good job that he enjoys, a wonderful relationship with his wife, a baby he loves dearly, friends that he meets up with regularly. He has the kind of life that the wish-granter has people begging them for every minute of every day.

The wish-granter's phone chimes softly from their pocket, and when they take it out, it's an email alert for another message from Cooper. Please.

Now, the wish-granter has the ability to grant any and every wish, but there's a balance to granting wishes, a push and pull to it that takes a while to understand. Take the lottery example, for instance; if the wish-granter said yes to every wish for a winning ticket, then there would be conflicts when four million people won a share of the same jackpot, an investigation into how such a thing could be possible, a general upheaval around the whole lottery business. It's not for the wish-granter to disrupt things like that. It's better to just say no to the entire lottery subfolder of the inbox, and to pick one to grant at random every once in a while. A lottery of the wish-granter's own, more or less.

It's the push and pull that keeps them from simply granting or denying Cooper's wish without understanding what it is first. And, yes, there's a certain amount of curiosity to a wish like this; Cooper wants something, and the wish-granter can't figure out what it is, so they're sitting in a Starbucks idly sipping at a latte as Cooper listens to a friend talk about his job, nodding sympathetically in all the right places and slowly eating a muffin. He says something when the other man's shoulders slump and the man laughs, shaking his head. They talk for a little while longer and then the other man gets up to leave, and the wish-granter's phone chimes again as they hug goodbye and leave.

Please, just—please.

There's nothing for it, the wish-granter decides. As much as they like to stay hands-off, as much as they'd prefer not to let someone know that there's actually a being who decides whether or not they get what they're asking for, they're going to have to just flat-out ask.

&&&

"Cooper Albion," the wish-granter says as they appear in Cooper's home office. Cooper spins around, hands raising up towards his chest, an instinct to protect himself from danger that the wish-granter is certain he'd never actually want to use.

The wish-granter tilts their head. Nothing they've observed would give them that impression, yet it's one they're certain they're right about.

"Oh my god," Cooper says, dropping his hands. "Oh my god, I can't believe it worked."

"You…" the wish-granter starts, but they're not sure what else to say. This is normally the part where they give a little speech about wishing for things and about needing more information, but Cooper's smiling hesitantly and stepping forward.

"It worked," Cooper repeats. "You're actually here."

"I am," the wish-granter says cautiously. "I'm the wish-granter, Cooper, and you've wished—"

"Please," Cooper says, smiling wider. "I've just been thinking 'please' as hard as I can for a month now, hoping it would get the wish-granter's attention. I figured either it would be you, or I'd be able to get an answer."

The wish-granter spreads their hands. "I'm here, although I'm still not sure why."

Cooper looks at them for a moment. "I wish… I wish that you'd remember."

"Remember what, exactly?" the wish-granter asks, frowning.

Cooper laughs. "Grant my wish and you'll see."

The wish-granter wants to say that it doesn't work that way, but the crux of it is that it does. They can grant wishes, and if they grant this one, maybe they'll be able to go back to their cozy office and not leave again for a while. Getting out is nice, but the wish-granter is beginning to long for a familiar space.

"Okay," the wish-granter says, shrugging, and when they clap their hands together—

"Dad," a much younger Cooper yells, flinging himself forward—

"Goodnight, buddy," the wish-granter hears their own voice say as they look down at Cooper, sprawled out in a bed—

"What do you mean, Mom's sick?" a slightly older Cooper asks, voice trembling—

"I'm gonna change this," the wish-granter says to another Cooper, and they can feel hands grabbing at their shirt—

"You want change," another voice says, and the wish-granter knows this voice, remembers it well. The old wish-granter had had a tired, washed-out voice. "What kind of change do you want, Jonah Albion?"

"Oh," the wish-granter says, staring at Cooper now. "Oh."

"Dad?" Cooper asks hesitantly. "Do you remember?"

"Cooper," the wish-granter says, blinking their eyes at their son—their son. "I… how did I forget?"

Cooper's smile lights his face. "You weren't careful about what you wished for, I guess," he says. "I kind of thought that might be the case."

"I wanted things to change," the wish-granter says. The memories are there, but it's a jumbled mass of them; there are bright spots right next to grief, teaching Cooper how to ride a bike fading into holding Lisa's hand as she passed. "Your mom..."

"Yeah," Cooper says, glancing away. "For a long time, I thought you wished yourself out of existence."

"I didn't," the wish-granter says. "But I asked for a change, and when the wish-granter tried to clarify, I refused." He remembers it clearly, her tone getting more and more frustrated until she'd said fine, if it's change you want then you can have my job. You'll be able to change as many things as you want; and then, softer, and I'll take the pain from you, Jonah. I can give you that gift.

Cooper laughs. "I'm not surprised."

The wish-granted looks around. "How long have I been…"

"Twelve years," Cooper says. "You've missed a lot, Dad, but I've got photos and video. Phones are like supercomputers now; you're not gonna believe it."

The wish-granted pulls their phone out. "I've been keeping up with the times. Santa refuses to switch to email, though, and it's starting to get on my nerves."

"Of course you've met Santa," Cooper says, amused. "Megan—that's my wife; you'll love her—she insists that the Santa at the Woodbridge M all is the real one. You'll have to tell her whether or not she's right."

The wish-granter smiles, but they feel it fade from their face. "Cooper," they say, and it comes back to them so easily, the gentle parenting tone that happens when there's bad news to break. "I'm… I have this job, this responsibility. I can't just go back to being Jonah Albion."

"Well, of course you can't," Cooper says. "But you can be my dad and the wish-granter at the same time, can't you? Is there some rule against that? Can I wish it away?"

The wish-granter frowns. "There's no rule," they say slowly. "I have an office, though."

Cooper spreads his hands in front of him. "So we'll find you a two-bedroom. You can work from home."

"I don't think the higher-ups will be happy about it," the wish-granter says.

"I think that's pretty common with bosses," Cooper replies. He glances towards the door again before going on, softer this time. "I just want my dad back."

"I never meant to leave," the wish-granter says. They're not used to this helpless sort of feeling in their chest.

Cooper nods. "Can I show you something?" he asks, heading for the door. "Just down the hall."

The wish-granter nods and follows Cooper to the end of the hallway, where he pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "Her name is Lisa," he says quietly, and he turns the knob and the door swings open, revealing a nursery with a baby asleep in a crib.

"You named her after your mother," the wish-granter whispers. They can't look away.

"Megan suggested it," Cooper says. "You're a grandpa, and you have a daughter-in-law, and I'd like you to have the chance to get to know your family again, if you can."

The wish-granter feels a smile stretch slowly across their face as they turn to look at Cooper. "Well," they say, nodding and softly clapping their hands. "Your wish is my command."