Money Jar

Jada pushed back her dark curls as she walked home through the infamous humidity of the south, only stuttering her steps when her mobile buzzed. “Miss you. Hope this week at the new school is better. Wish we could call but phone plans! Dad.” She stroked the screen before returning the phone to her pocket. They were out of minutes. For the first time in her life Jada had to adhere to a budget.

Transferring to a new high school in the middle of her junior year had been the decision of her newly divorced parents. Jada’s mother used her settlement to pack her up and flee the family home. The spacious home where she had happily grown up was sold off to bankroll their fresh start. Only they took a loss and wound up in a small two-bedroom, one bathroom house in her mother’s small hometown.

Despite their closeness, she hadn’t seen her father in months. He traveled for work, citing that he needed the money. The divorce depleted his funds but he assured her that he was saving up to visit as soon as possible.

Already mourning the move, Jada found it particularly cruel that she now had to share a bathroom. “When you start footing the bill, you can have a say,” her mother clucked at her after hearing her lament regarding bathroom storage. Jada ground her teeth together, remembering the chastisement. She continued her walk home from school, focusing on the heat that made her feel oddly energized after each long walk home, albeit sweaty.

Meandering through a new side street, Jada saw a brown paper bag propped against one of the stop signs of a four way stop. Her footsteps were the only noise she heard, striking against the sidewalk as each step took her closer to the crossroads.

Curious, she gingerly peeked into the oily looking bag. She picked up a fallen stick and pried it open. The bag gently tore, revealing its contents. What fell out was seemingly innocuous; a few coins, some dried herbs, a folded paper, and a small black notebook. Her mother was a writer and spending her childhood at her hem, she would have been able to spot a Moleskine by age four.

Jada slowly reached her hand out to stroke the small black book. It was cool to the touch. She picked it up and brushed off the debris from whatever was in the bag off the notebook.

A caw cracked through the silence. Jerking up, she spotted one large crow perched on the stop sign opposite from where she was now standing. “One for sorrow,” Jada remembered from the childhood poem. “Don’t be silly,” she scolded herself. Yet, it’s solemn gaze was enough to make her stuff the book in her bag and run home. It was only when she shut her front door that she allowed herself to sheepishly check if the grave bird had followed her back.

After dinner, Jada opted out of her normal nightly argument of what television show she and her mother should watch and dashed into her room. With greedy fingers she pulled out her new book. She opened it only to discover writing already in it.

Shrugging off her disappointment, she fingered through the pages. At first glance it looked like a cookbook. There were ingredients and instructions listed on the pages made by a strong steady hand. As Jada read, she realized it was a spell book. “Freezer Spell,” one page boasted. “Hot Foot,” the next page said. “Sour Jar” a tattered sheet read.

As she flipped through the pages and stopped at “Money Jar.” If Jada could get some money she could see her dad more. If this worked, it could change her life. Jada tiptoed into the kitchen with the book and collected the listed ingredients: a jar, sugar, cinnamon, an orange, basil, and a bay leaf. She grabbed some candles and matches from the hall cupboard before shutting her bedroom door with a heavy turn of the lock.

After the last match was struck, she switched her lights off and began chanting, “I attract money with every breath I take.” “Money flows easily to me at every moment.” Each affirmation brought her closer to the close. By the time all the items were in the jar, Jada didn’t even realize what she was saying. Squinting down at the book it dawned on her that she didn’t draw the crude illustration depicted at the bottom of the page.

“I accept the price that comes with abundance.” She said as she began to draw. Her hand steadied, “I give you permission to enter my home, my mind, my spirit, my body.” Jada took care to space the arrows and lines just right on her school lined paper. She paused when she heard a soft tapping, “Yeah?” She said, looking at her door. “Mom?” She said louder. When she was met with silence, she took a deep breath, gripped the book, and continued.

She maneuvered the jar onto the paper and set the candle on top. She turned her palm over the candlelight only to realize that blood trickled down her arm. Bewildered as to what cut her, she fingered the Moleskine but it was smooth as satin. She scrutinized the blood splattered jar then jolted upright. Something brushed the nape of her neck.

She snapped her head to the left and peered into the darkness behind her. “You’re almost done,” she murmured in a voice that she didn’t quite recognize. She squared her shoulders and continued.

The flame burned higher, “I invite you in. We share the abundance of wealth life has to offer. Come to me wealth, come into me spirit.” Her throat was dry. She had no idea how long she had been speaking but when the candle burned out, she collapsed exhausted into bed. That night Jada had her first nightmare in as long as she can remember.

The next morning Jada woke to a cacophony of squawks. She dragged herself out of bed to grimace at the offending birds and felt a tiredness that ran deep into her bones. She counted six suddenly silent crows standing sentinel on her fence, glaring at her like gargoyles.

Closing her blinds she went into the bathroom to wash up. The dark circles under her eyes starkly stood out. Her usual luminous oak skin looked ashen. Grabbing her curly hair cream, she frantically raked through her dry hair. “How bizarre,” she thought. The one benefit of the humidity was that it agreed with her curls. This was her first bad hair day since she arrived. As she stared at herself in the mirror, she caught her own eye. As she looked she noticed something different about her reflection. Leaning close she saw her reflection wink. “No,” she stammered. Her tired mind was playing tricks on her. As she turned away, she caught the pull of a smile at the corner of her lip.

The days to come started and ended in a similar fashion. The dreams consistently worsened to the point where it felt like she didn’t sleep at all. She was so exhausted that even when she was awake she began to see shadows dart around the corner of her eyes.

Worse yet, she must have been scratching herself in her sleep. After each fitful night, she woke with a new gash, thin as a pin. Yet, neither those marks nor the initial cut on her palm seemed to be healing.

Walking home from school became a herculean effort, even opting for the fastest routes. Each day she not only felt the sensation of being watched, but the thrill of being chased. Her skin prickled to the point of pain but when she turned around no one was in sight. What was there were crumpled bills and discarded coins. In fact, anytime Jada walked out of the house she found money on the ground.

Whenever it felt too much bear and the thought of stopping crossed her mind, it only took the weight of her bursting pockets to renew her resolve. She nearly had enough for a plane ticket to see her father. Each night before bed, Jada would place the money next to the jar and repeat the ritual. Stumbling across a greater sum the next day.

Jada had long stopped looking into mirrors; any glimpses startled her. Even though she blamed the nightmares for her ghoulish reflection, she couldn't quell the fear she felt. One Monday before school, she ran her fingers through her hair and a quarter sized knot parted with her scalp. She stared at it, mouth agape before tossing it into the trash. Hands clutching the sink, she forced herself to look. The eyes in the mirror glinted behind her sunken cheeks. She stared transfixed, held by the eyes in the mirror like a mouse caught in the gaze of a snake. She backed out of the bathroom and her reflection leered back.

On her way to the kitchen, Jada caught a glimpse of someone rounding the corner. “Mom?” she squeaked. Her mother’s voice answered from the bedroom behind where Jada stood. Eyes wide, she watched ahead as a hand wrapped around the kitchen doorframe while the edges of a face slowly emerged. She must have stopped breathing because she gulped a mouthful of air when she felt her mother turn her around. Her eyes darted back to the now empty kitchen.

“Honey, are you sick?” Her mother pulled her close to examine her only to abruptly stiffen and push up Jada’s sleeves. Her sharp intake of breath could have cut glass.

“Jada what have you been doing to yourself!” Jada looked down in confusion. Her arms looked like the inside of a peeled orange. She gasped when she realized they were scratches.

“It must have happened in my sleep.” She said, jerking her arm back.

“Bull. I know the move has been hard but I don’t even recognize you anymore. I’ve spoken to a doctor. I’m taking you to a place where you can get help.”

“No!” Jada said, retreating to her room. She wasn't going to let her mom put her in some crazy house. She needed to get out. She needed more money to get emancipated. She could leave and be with her dad. Jada clenched her fists and felt her hands burn as her cuts unsealed. She focused on the pain, the money, and her father. Channelling her frustration into the abundance chant like a litany across her lips. Steadfastly ignoring the knocks of her mother until they faded to a stop.

After sunset, the house was quiet until she heard her mother’s phone ring followed by a shout. Jada opened her door to find her mother standing in the kitchen clutching her chest. The tears on her face were illuminated by a street lamp pouring in through the window.

“Jada,” Her mother croaked. “Your father,” she paused. “Your father was flying in a small charter. Something was wrong with the plane. He didn’t make it.”

Jada froze. When the words her mother said snapped into place, she felt herself fall backwards into blackness. The maddeningly elusive figure she had been seeing glimpses of, hiding behind corners and in the edges of her reflection was there waiting for her in the dark. When Jada finally saw it, it grinned.

That smile was what Jada saw every night and each time she closed her eyes. Even months after her father was buried, she was still at the institution. Paid in full thanks to the $20,000 share she received from his wrongful death settlement. Despite no longer saying the mantras, the nightmares continued and money still appeared wherever she walked. No one believed that the new cuts that appeared on her arms each morning were not made by Jada. Now she sat stone faced in the window of her room, staring at her reflection. A reflection, that smiled back.