Karmic Kilojoules

A young couple putters down the main street of their small town in a modest sedan, on the way home from an impromptu grocery run. The first crisp air they’ve felt in months sweeps in through the open windows of their aged sedan. The first and most welcome caress of Fall. This story, of course, isn’t theirs, but they play their role.

They’ve just returned from a weekend away and picked up some mainstays; broccoli and rice for tonight, milk and eggs for tomorrow. The brown paper bag rests in her lap with the carton of tender cargo atop it all, little ovular kings of their perishable realm. The couple feels a bit tired, perhaps even hungover, but still they’re just back from holiday and in good spirits. 

The husband drives, gently swerving around another car waiting to turn onto a side street. He ignores his blinker for this maneuver. The wife jibes at him, good naturedly, for disregarding his turn signal. It’s an old joke and an easy one. One that leads naturally into questioning the husband’s overall sanity, adjustment to polite society, and general marriageability.

The husband laughs good naturedly and threatens to call the whole marriage off, also good naturedly. To protect his wife from the dangers of his reckless driving.

Wait for it. We’re getting to the good bit. The wife laughs back, calling into question the husband’s very ability to keep himself alive (a worthy point, we’re sure). The husband retorts that of course he’d be just fine on his own, drinking with his friends and reading in peace. He doesn’t mean it; he’d wither away without her. She knows this and it makes the whole thing acceptable. 

Now. Here. We get interesting.  On a whim (or perhaps on some principle of sharp-toothed humor) the wife pops open the egg carton and pulls forth one of the little kings of the perishable kingdom. She pulls back her arm, touching the back of her hand to the passenger door, then jerks it forward. She never intends to throw an egg at her husband, that would be too far. And messy. And wasteful. She’d never actually throw the egg. Never.

And yet. 

A car slows to turn, the husband swerves without signaling, a car horn yowls behind them, spooking the wife and causing the husband to jerk the wheel. They just miss both the car in their blind spot and the turning vehicle. 

However, the husband’s jerk of the wheel whips up his wife’s spine, spirals down her arm, and spins out to her fingertips. As she pretends to throw the egg. Her grip slips. The brown orb flies forth.

It sails past the husband’s hooked nose with just a millimeter to spare. He cries out in surprise as the little king whirls past, out his open window. 

Hold that thought for a moment.

***

Felicity stood outside the… office for a long moment, hesitating one last time. A heavy wooden door with a thick pane of glass in the center bore the title, Ivie & Assoc’s Metaphysical Communications Inc. in a blocky gold script. The scraped upon ghosts of white letters behind the gold spoke of the office’s recent employ as both a delicatessen and bookstore. She couldn’t tell which order they’d come in. 

“Metaphysical communications…” she muttered, glaring at the sign and glancing either way down the street. “Tripe. A scam. This is… silliness… madness… pointless.”

Felicity turned away with a shake of the head. 

HONK.

Splat.

“OH!” Felicity grunt-yelled. “Not AGAIN!” The egg hit her chest with enough force to knock her back a step. It’s clear and yellow innards gooped the brown leather of her good coat. She looked all around for someone laughing, pointing, some sign that this act of malice had purpose to someone, somewhere. 

Of course, there was no one. Nothing. No reason. She massaged her chest for a moment.

The crispness of the air led her to put on a longer, heavier coat today. Well. The crisp air and the nagging certainty that you never know exactly what might happen. The coat had dulled the blow, Felicity thought that it might not even bruise. She was wrong, a few hours later a gorgeous blue and green welt would rise, just above her left breast. Much can change in a few hours.

Felicity gave a tiny sigh for a tiny sense of relief she felt. 

The cabbage incident the week before had been worse, much worse. 

Nevertheless, Felicity glared down at the egg dripping down her front and fought down the tears of frustration. Taking measure breaths, she pulled a thick, battered leather bound notebook from her pocketbook, slid out the pen, and found the page. Just beneath Entry 6126 Sep 8 ‘98 - Rogue Woodland Cabbage Incident, she jotted down a few new notes:

Entry 6127 Sep 17 ‘98 - Unremarkable Egging Incident on Main Street

Hit in the left breast with a large egg while standing on the 300 block of main.

Unremarkable egg, thin white shell, likely not pasture-raised

Potential sources: passing vehicle; startled sound from within, honking horns,

Wearing my good brown coat, a red scarf, my fine, flat, blue hat with flower on brow.

Felicity paused and glanced around. No other sane and rational ideas presented themselves.

No explanation, no apology. Potentially a youthful prank, but it seemed to lack… malice.

Had just decided NOT to enter Ivie & Assoc’s. . . 

Felicity trailed off in thought, dotting the ellipses with an absent mind. She looked up to find a young child staring up at her from the sidewalk.

“Are you alright, miss?” the child asked.

“Quite,” Felicity replied, shutting her notebook and slipping it back into her coat pocket.

“So that egg’s ‘sposed to be there on your boobs then?”

“Rodney!” 

A man appeared and wrapped the child in a long arm, steering the little one behind his legs. 

“So sorry about him,” the parent said, “can’t seem to get a handle on what’ll pop out of his mouth next. Is that egg?”

“Astute,” she said, accidentally curt. 

“Here,” the man thrust a small damp towel into her hands. “Keep it. I always have extra for… him.”

“Thank you,” Felicity said, forcing some patience and decorum. “Too kind.”

He made his excuses and shepherded young Rodney away.

Moist towelette for cleanup provided by a stranger, after mockery from his offspring. Hardly seems in balance with the original yolky transgression, she added to her entry. 

Felicity sighed and turned back to Ivie’s. At some point or another, one simply has to state that a problem exists, accept it, and look for a solution. She’d logged her first entry at age 9. Felicity had by then noticed the pattern of strange and unfortunate events around her, and decided to start capturing it in greater detail. That very week, her childhood toys, her cuddlies as the family referred to them, caught fire. Not all at once. Each one went to a smokey afterlife in a series of unlikely accidents (an electrical short in the nearby vacuum, a battery malfunction, a static electric spark, etc.). The house (typically a safe place) suffered not a single blemish, just her toys. When she reached entry 5,000 (the morning of exploding pens, which ruined not one but three pairs of her most sensible woolen business slacks), she considered the pattern valid and worth confronting. 

She sought out and hired a small army of witches, oracles, mediums, and soothsayers. They’d knit their brows, taken her cash, then drenched her in sage, whispered, hummed, chanted, shook, gesticulated, and cavorted. They had consulted every dead relative she could name (some of them legitimately so). All in vain. Felicity had learned much about what might exist beyond the pale of everyday existence, but not one of them seemed to have an answer worth hearing. Now, reconnecting with her dead Great Aunt Perla had been a treat, but the old woman’s cackling laugh regarding the pasta incident (in which a chandelier had dropped from a ceiling, causing a bow-tied waiter to dump a plate of scorching fettuccine down Felicity’s neck), drove her near to despair. 

And this week, after all those harrowing interactions. The cabbage in the woods. 

Sighing, Felicity approached the heavy shop door and bumped it ajar with her hip. A bell overhead tingled as she pushed her weight through to pry it open. The clattering susurration of downtown muted behind her as it swung shut.

Felicity stood in silence. The smell hit each of her nostrils with a different, violent nostalgia. On one side, the earthy, warm scent of old glue and paper that holds a good bookshop together. On the other side, the specter of preserved cold cuts, the salty brine of a deli past its prime. Finally, layered over both of these scents came the prickly caress of incense.

Felicity’s head swam as she gazed around. 

Old, haggard books lined wooden shelves far to the back of the store, except for here at the front. To her left, a large, arcing glass counter, remnant of the deli. On her right, a single wooden cafe table and two rickety wooden chairs. Against the wall behind the table lounged a large and much-loved armchair, accompanied by an ottoman.

The worn red carpet covered every inch of floor, soaking up sound to create an uncanny silence. It’d worn thin through many years; some worried or distracted souls had paced over and over the shop's thoroughfares, but in the corners you could see how it once had the rich springiness of a red velvet cake. 

Felicity's stomach growled. Two food related assaults in a week hadn’t dampened her appetite.

“Tea or pastry?” the small voice slipped straight past Felicity’s ear and down her  spine, sudden and jarring in that silence. She jumped in her skin and gave a little cry “Ah!” Glaring all around and searching the store for a source of the voice. 

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” the tiny voice shouted. Felicity’s gaze snapped around, she’d pinpointed it as coming from behind the counter. “Ever so sorry, deary!” 

Now she caught a flash of motion. A wispy bun of gray hair poked up above the glass counter, just by a few centimeters. A gold hair pin pierced the silver nest, a sinuous design on one bulbous end.  The bun and pin disappeared again, Felicity heard the tinkling of plates and a gurgle of liquid, then the short older woman rounded the end of the counter. She had a kind face, soft around the eyes, and a thin, but joyous smile. A large pair of emerald earrings, a stack of necklaces, and a bundle of bracelets all glinted at Felicity from her head, neck, and wrists. Her blue-gray eyes sparkled to match the jewelry.

“So sorry,” she repeated. “That damn counter makes a ghost of me for new visitors.”

She put on an even more apologetic air and put her hands. 

“I hate to do this,” she said, “but we’re right up against closing time and I don’t think it’s an auspicious time of day to begin with a new client.” Her eyes slid for just a moment to the cozy chair in the corner. 

“I… understand…” Felicity said, letting her gaze fall to her boots. “Perhaps… tomorrow?”

“Yes, dear,” she said, stepping forward and reaching past Felicity toward the door. “Come by in the morning. That’s the best. Always best to start fresh in the morning, as my dear old mother often said.”

She pulled heavily on the door and it tingled open again. Felicity turned to go, feeling the rush of chill autumn air on her cheeks. It hissed past her ears, whispering of winter’s malice. The nascent bruise on her breast twinged as she stepped forward. The egg. Her  cuddlies. That vicious, airborne vegetable. Had it been a beet, would she have survived? She felt her pulse quicken. Her vision went a little hazy, a little distant. 

The shop, the open door, the polite woman next to her melted into the back of her mind. Felicity was back in the woods, in the middle of nowhere. Wandering alone. Miles from society. Miles from danger. 

Then. Above her. The cabbage. Bright green, top leaves flapping in Summer’s last breezes, falling from the heavens… whistling down through the sky… ripping through the canopy… pelting down, down, down… 

P2

“Ms. Ivie?” Felicity asked, her attention snapping back.

“Missus,” she replied, “Missus Ivie. And I’ll be here tomorrow, dear. Alive or otherwise. Don’t fret.” Felicity nodded, then stopped. She turned her distant gaze down to the little shopkeeper, then let it rise up to look out on the street. Cars whisked by, planes soared overhead, wind chased leaves and rubbish down the street. It all looked dark and sinister through the tinted glass.

“Mrs. Ivie,” Felicity said. “I would prefer to visit while still breathing.” She paused, not for effect, but to admit something to herself. “And I… don’t know if I can survive another day like this.”

She stared up at Felicity for a long moment. Then gave a little huff, perhaps a curse, then stepped back and let the door shut. Felicity’s pulse slowed and her breath came easier.

“Can I take your coat?” she said. Her short arms rose with the offer. Felicity realized that she hadn’t said a word about the yolk drying on her chest.

“I… yes, thank you,” Felicity shrugged out of it as she stepped forward. Handing her the hat and coat, Felicity hesitated.  “Uhm… mind the… er… egg.”

“Of course, dear, of course,” she said, sagely. “Saving it for later, I presume.”

I gave her a short glare, surprising herself, but she simply smiled back and turned away. 

“Are you Ms. Ivie?” Felicity asked.

“Missus,” she replied, hanging Felicity’s coat and hat in a neat stack on the rack behind the door. “Mrs. Ivie, conduit of the metaphysical for contact beyond this plane. And you are?”

“Felicity,” she told her. “Felicity Thompson.” 

“Well, Felicity, let me have a look at you…”

Ivie turned around and her eyes took on a more perceptive edge as they roamed from her wind-frisked mousy hair down her modest, hardy pants to her worn leather boots.

“Bit overdressed for the season,” she said, “aren’t we?”

She sounded like Felicity’s mother, which made the overdressed woman’s teeth ground.

“Perhaps,” she replied. “But I find it best to leave home prepared.”

“Prepared? For what then?” Ivie glanced up and down again. “Are there a lot of surprise mountain climbing expeditions in your line of work?”

“Prepared,” Felicity said, bristling. “For anything. And everything. In my experience, anything that can happen does happen. To me.”

That earned an arched eyebrow and a quirky grin.

“Interesting. So. You’re not here to contact a dead lover, auntie, or pooch?”

“No,” I said. “I had a nice chat with my Great Aunt Perla just a few weeks ago. We’re on good terms. She looks forward to my company when I pass over.”

The eyebrow arched a bit higher and the grin widened.

“Well well well,” she clucked, “I do enjoy a savvy customer. Tell me everything.”

“Well, it’s rather a long story…”

“Well there’s only one way to handle that,” she said. “We’ll sip and nibble and discuss. Only way.” She whisked away and disappeared behind the counter. 

“Oh that’s alright,” Felicity said, polite as ever, “I’m really quite full from–”

“Nonsense,” she called. “you’re hungry.”

Felicity was, in face, quite hungry. She wondered, idly, if this particular clairvoyant could really read minds.

“I heard your stomach rumble when you came in,” Ivie continued. “And I was glad to hear it, too, a sip and nibble is the only way to work, I always say. Now where… Ah! Here. Biscuits. I hide them from myself, you see.”

She bustled back around the counter and in a matter of moments, they had settled in with the tea and biscuits. The muscles of Felicity’s back seemed to peel apart and unwind from one another as the warm brew seeped through her bones. After a few moments of silent nibbling, Ivie finished a few crumbs of biscuit, pulled out a spiral notebook and a fine pen. She gave Felicity an expectant look.

“Right,” Felicity said, steeling herself, sitting up straighter and adjusting her seat. “It’s like this.” She paused. Ivie’s look vibrated with a quiet kind of intensity which suddenly undermined Felicity’s confidence in her claims. “Uhm. Its’... well… I mean… You, uhm, saw the egg on my jacket. That happened just a few moments ago. The egg came from nowhere. No explanation. Just splat. And a bruise. And… well. Odd things, like that, happen to me… a lot. Quite often. With uhm… alarming frequency. And I just wondered if there was something I could… do? To stop them happening I mean?”

Ivie stared at Felicity, who stared back, frozen. It sounded quite inane and inconsequential. Though she’d gone over it time and again, she felt herself bumbling it.

“Perhaps… you should begin at the beginning, dear,” Ivie’s eyes flashed with forced patience. Felicity nodded and took the last sip of her tea. 

“Uhm… of course… the beginning,” she said. She opened her mouth to start, then stopped, spottingher coat hanging by the door. She stood up abruptly and Ivie’s eyes followed her to the coat and back. Felicity sat down and peeled open her notebook to the earliest pages. 

Seeing her own childish handwriting there, scrawling out the horrifying deaths of her stoic cuddlies brought a tinge of pain to Felicity’s chest. Ignoring this, she recounted, one by one the odd occurrences of violence, misfortune, and malaise that she’d encountered throughout her life. After the first three pages, she started to skip over the lesser violations (the summer of red lights, when she still had the courage to drive), and focused on the more painful or alarming incidents (the last time she’d driven, when the brakes had failed and she’d had to ram a bread truck to stop). 

Ivie didn’t interrupt, simply staring at Felicity, occasionally nodding. The memories brought a roiling discomfort to Felicity’s stomach and made her palms sweat onto her worn journal.

Felicity was only halfway through the notebook when Ivie raised a hand. She hadn’t jotted down a single note. Felicity froze, looking up at the older woman. 

“Rather… extraordinary,” Mrs. Ivie said. “I wonder… may I?” she gestured to the notebook. Felicity spun it around and slid it across the table, feeling the immense relief of validation. Extraordinary indeed. She flipped, first, to the back.

“My my… not a good week for produce…” she tsked a few times, then flipped to the beginning then back to the end. Her brows raised and lowered, wrinkles piling high and parading across her forehead. She clucked a bit as she read, her eyes whizzing back and forth across the page. 

“Certainly… well that could be… but it shouldn’t…” 

With a final hmph and a little shake of her head, she shut the book and slid it back to me, looking Felicity in the eyes. 

“Well. I don’t think it’s a curse,” Mrs. Ivie muttered, mostly to herself. “I think it… well… really… could be that they just missed something… nothing else for it.” She sighed. “Well. Won’t they be tickled if it is.”

Felicity stared at her she quivered through this disjointed monologue. Her eyes snapped up to meet the younger woman’s. Ivie gave her a quick smile.

“Nothing else for it, dear,” she said, suddenly resolute. “We’ll have to lodge a complaint.”

“Complaint?” Felicity said, stupefied. “What with God?”

A smile split her face like a cracking ice cube. 

“Hardly, dear, hardly,” she said. “There are… accounts of our deeds and those that occur to us. ‘Our trespasses and those who trespass against us,’ I’m sure you’re familiar?”

Felicity gave her a tentative nod.

“Well… there are books and accounts. And where go accounts, so go the accountants,” she said. “The weighers and balancers. The measurers. Those who love to maintain the ‘properness’ of the ‘order’ of things, if you know what I mean?”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Felicity said. “You mean like… undead tax collectors?”

“Hmmmm,” Mrs. Ivie gave a wag of her head.  “More like ethereal bean counters. They love…” She paused, flexing her hands as if groping for the right word, “balance. They’re loyal only to their ledgers and have no love for the living. We’re… too squishy for a world of hard numbers.”

“So… are they dead? Are they… angels?” 

Ivie let out one bright, crass giggle. Felicity jumped in her chair.

“No! Oh, sorry, dear. ‘A giggle that could wake the dead,’ as my mother might have said. No. No, not angels. And not quite dead. You know, I don’t know exactly what they are…”

She trailed off, head tilting as the problem clouded her face for a moment. 

“But, one doesn’t need to know what they are to lodge a complaint. All we need are two physical bodies, one to file the complaint,” she gestured to Felicity with two open hands, “and the other to act as a conduit.” She flipped her hands, pointing to herself. 

“Oh,” Felicity said. “That sounds… dangerous?”

“For who?” she grinned. “Dangerous for me? I don’t think so. No more so than most contact across the old veil. And I’ve dabbled with much worse spooks than the eternal bean counters. Dangerous for you? Well consider this: what have you got to lose?” 

Felicity stared at her for a long moment, considering just that. Her life, her health, her mother and father, still dear to Felicity despite decades of polite skepticism toward her little project as they referred to her book of oddities and miscues.

“I suspect, dear, that we’ll encounter nothing scarier than a walk in the woods. One of my associates on the other side can connect us to the right department. I’ll handle the bureaucracy, you just state your case.”

Felicity hesitated.

“I don’t believe they even have cabbages in their part of the multiverse, if it’s a comfort”

Ivie’s eyes twinkled at her own little joke. Felicity found a smile on her lips before she could stop it. 

“And if it’s about the money…” Ivie continued. 

“Oh I can pay you,” Felicity interjected. “A fair price.” At this Mrs. Ivie reached forward and placed a hand on the table. 

“I make good money on divorcees getting in the last word with the deceased hubby or wife,” she said, giving Felicity a little wink. “Yours I’ll do for the wholesome fun of it. Not everyday we get to lodge a complaint with the universe. Are you ready?”

Felicity's heart pounded of a sudden. It had gone quite differently with Ivie than it had with any of the other mediums. Something 

“I… uhm… yes… well, thank you.”

 “That’s settled, then. Sit right there, dear, and I’ll get what I need to make the connection.” 

Mrs. Ivie planted her hands on the table with a jingle of bracelets. She stood and whisked away, disappearing into the bookshelves, her light footsteps swallowed up by the carpet.

Felicity sat. And thought. And grew giddy. She could have a life. A real life, one where she could greet the day with hope, or even cheerful anticipation. A life where calciferous vegetables didn’t assault her from on high. A life she didn’t dread. One worth living. It seemed too much to dream.

Ivie plopped back into her seat with a huff and slid two incense trays out on the table. 

She lit both, slipping one across to me. The smoke rose in a thin tendril, but struck Felicity with its pungence. Felicity glanced down at it then, up to Ivie, who shrugged.

“Helps to block out distractions,” she said. “And helps covers the deli smell. Alright, dearie, are you ready?”

Felicity nodded.

“Good.” 

She reached up and plucked the pin from her bun. Her hair unwound and sloughed down her back as she shook it out. 

“Right,” she said, “best to close the eyes and stay still while I make contact. You’ll know when we need your input. There’s a good bit of gesticulation and flailing limbs; wouldn’t want to upset you.”

Felicity nodded again, feeling her first twinge of doubt. She didn’t see a better course than to see it through, so she shut her eyes. 

Ivie began to hum, soft at first then louder. Long, pronounced notes, one low and the next high. She alternated through them, each hum the same exact length. They grew closer and closer in tone, until Felicity could hardly tell a difference. Then there was no difference. She hummed the same note over and over as the incense smoke curled up into her nostrils. She found their breaths began to match, so that Felicity exhaled as Ivie hummed, harmonizing with her, ever so softly. Then Ivie’s humming stuttered and modulated. The base note sounded the same, and the length, but a staccato of little interruptions seemed to rip through each note. Felicity flickered open her eyes, just a hair, enough to peek through her eyelashes. As promised, the medium’s arms flailed wild and free over her head as she hummed. Her torso waved to a fro, at odds with the flailing limbs. Felicity marveled at the stout woman’s flexibility. She made to shut her eyes again, but then caught a new hint of motion. Ivie’s hair rose. From the ends. It lifted up, away from the floor, stretching out around her skull, wavering as if she sank to the bottom of a deep well. Soon her head and arms had a silver nimbus of hair fanning out behind them. 

Felicity nearly fell from her chair at the sight. Instead she clamped her eyes shut and concentrated on the humming, clinging to the hope of her new life.

SLAM

The incense trays clattered on the table and Felicity jumped in her chair, then toppled out of it with a squeak. As she clambered back up, she saw Ivie, face down on table, palms pressed to the table top, fingers curling, back arched. 

“Mrs. Ivie?”

She snapped upright and stared at me. Her hair had fallen to wave down her back, but now her blue-gray irises glowed with cool light, so bright the little incense sticks cast long shadows across the table. Felicity almost swallowed her tongue. 

“Mrs. Ivie, are you alr–”

“NAME?” the voice wasn’t Ivie’s. It was large and full and impossibly boring.

“I… Uhm… I’m sorry?”

“WHAT IS YOUR NAME COMPLAINANT?”

“Oh!” Felicity shouted, then slapped a hand over her mouth. She pulled it down and continued. “So sorry! You startled me. But it’s you! Are you the… uhm… adjuster? The…” 

“NAME?” Ivie repeated, deep and sonorous. 

“Oh, yes,” she stammered. “Felicity T-Thompson.”

The eyes snapped shut, seeming to dim the table. Ivie’s hand shot out to her right and then drew back toward her. Felicity would not have believed it, had she not watched it happen, but the thing in possession of Ivie used her mortal hand to pull a book from the thin air beside her. Leather bound, with thick vellum pages, but still rather a thin book. No larger than a Bible. Felicity caught just one word on the cover, her own first name, Felicity.

Ivie slammed the book down and flipped it open. Felicity stared at the woman with her mouth wide open, terrified and in awe. Her luminous gaze fell down to the pages, which obligingly flipped themselves through in a blur, passing in quiet efficiency. 

“PERFECTLY BALANCED,” Ivie the Accountant intoned. The book slammed shut. “WHAT COMPLAINT DO YOU WISH TO REGISTER?”

“Oh,” Felicity said, her heart sinking. How could it be? How could this life be… normal? Balanced? She glared down at the little book and read the cover.

Brazen gothic lettering read: FELICITY MARIE THOMPSON. Her eyes trailed down to the sub-text beneath.

“COMPLAINT? YOU HAVE 30 EARTH SECONDS TO REGISTER A COMPLAINT.” 

“Hold on a moment, I’m not 29… is this out of date?”

The sub-text read AGED 29 EARTH YEARS, RESIDING ON SUMMERSNET LANE.

“And I live on Somerset Lane!” Felicity's heart soared. “Not… whatever that is, Summersnet? What a ridiculous name for a street! That’s not me! That’s not my book!”

Ivie froze, her brilliant eyes staring head on at Felicity.

In slow and deliberate motions, she picked the book up and pushed it back into the thin air by her head. It disappeared, along with her hand. Then she pulled back and in her hand she held and impossibly large book. It slammed down on the table, making it creak at the weight. 

“I HAVE REGISTERED A PERSONAL DEMERIT FOR THIS MISTAKE,” Ivie intoned. “AND WILL ACCEPT MY COMPENSE DIRECTLY AFTER THIS MEETING.”

“I… uhm…” Felicity didn’t know what might be expected of her. “Thank you?”

“FELICITY MARIE THOMPSON,” Ivie intoned, to the stammering woman’s relief. “36 EARTH YEARS OF AGE, CURRENTLY RESIDING ON SOMERSET LANE.”

“Correct,” Felicity said, forgivably hesitant. What if there were two of them? 

The book folded open and pages sped by again. Felicity felt her heart rising again. Looking at the size of it, especially compared to other Felicity’s life… It had to mean something. This was it. 

The last page folded over, and the book closed itself behind. Felicity’s breath caught in her chest.

“PERFECTLY BALANCED.” 

“W-w-what?!” Felicity spluttered. “Surely not, surely you’ve… miscalculated something!”

“I HAVE NOT. THIS BOOK IS PERFECTLY BALANCED”

“But- but… what about my cuddlies?!” Felicity demanded. “And the cabbage! The god-forsaken cabbage the fell out of a clear blue sky and nearly killed me! I’ve still got egg yolk on my best coat from an egg that splattered there this very morning! WHY?! Why do these things happen?! What does it mean?!” 

“I CANNOT SHARE THE MEANING OF LIFE.” 

“I – what?! I don’t want to know the meaning of life! I want to stop being assaulted by produce!”

“IS THAT YOUR COMPLAINT? PRODUCE?”

“At least explain the bloody cabbage?!” Felicity realized that she’d shouted this last, but the woman didn’t flinch. The book turned itself to a page near the end, but Ivie recited the words without looking down.

“A LOCAL FARMER FILMING A SOCIAL MEDIA AD USED THE CABBAGE AS A PROP.”

Felicity stared, rather nonplussed. Ivie sat, eyes aglow, impassive.

“I’m sorry,” Felicity said. “What’s that about a farmer?”

“WHILE SKYDIVING. THE FARMER DROPPED THE CABBAGE AND FAILED TO RECOVER IT. IT FELL 832.2 METERS, SLOWING IN FOLIAGE, BEFORE LANDING ON YOUR HEAD. THE INCIDENT HAD A BALANCE OF NEGATIVE POINT ZERO ZERO TWO KARMIC KILOJOULES FOR HIM AND POSITIVE POINT ZERO ZERO TWO KARMIC KILOJOULES FOR YOU.”

Felicity stared at her for a moment. Then felt her head sink toward the table. She caught her face in her hands. As she sank in, her palms felt the wetness of her cheeks. A little sob leapt up into her hands.

“W… wh… why do these things happen?” Felicity mumbled into her damp palms. A moment of silence passed. Felicity heard a rustle and looked up. 

The figure shook in its skin, then Ivie’s voice punched out of her mouth.

“She’s right to ask and we demand an answer! AWK!” Ivie cut off with a strangled little noise.

“TO BALANCE THE INITIAL IMBALANCE,” Ivie intoned.

Felicity's gaze snapped up. 

Ivie stared back, eyes aglow, expressionless.

“What imbalance?” Felicity asked in a whisper. Ivie sat, impassive. She leaned forward. “Please… please, explain.” 

“I WILL EXPLAIN,” Ivie the Accountant intoned. “DEATH CAME FOR YOU EARLY. A HOUSE FIRE. AN IMBALANCE OCCURRED, LIGHTING YOUR ‘CUDDLIES,’ SO CALLED, AFLAME, INSTEAD OF YOUR DRYER.”

She paused, but Felicity couldn’t bring herself to speak for several moments.

“So… my whole life… all these random…”

“THESE INCONVENIENCES,” Ivie said. Felicity huffed at that, thinking of the cabbage. “ARE ATONEMENT. YOU BEAR THE FULL WEIGHT OF THIS RESPONSIBILITY.”

“Well… when does it end?” 

“I CANNOT SHARE YOUR DAY OF DEMISE,” Ivie said. 

Her brows scrunched together, Felicity considered her next question carefully.

“Is there… no other way forward than to live this way?”

“THERE ARE ALTERNATIVES TO BALANCE THE BOOK IMMEDIATELY,” said Ivie.

“Yes!” Felicity shouted, leaning forward. “Yes! What are they? Go on!”

“ONE OF YOU MUST DIE IMMEDIATELY,” said Ivie.

Felicity stared at her.

“One of us… one of my parents… or myself?”

“YES,” Ivie said. “OR YOU MAY CONTINUE.”

Felicity deflated.

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO ACHIEVE BALANCE IN AN ALTERNATIVE FASHION? YES OR NO.”

Felicity, for her part, hesitated briefly. She’d grown distant. Not just from her family, but the world at large. Distance had presented itself as the sanest, safest option. What if… what if she lost one parent… just the one… to get back in touch with the world?

She groaned and sank back into her hands. 

“YOU HAVE 15 SECONDS TO RESPOND,” Ivie intoned.

“For how long?” “How long will it take? How many more of these inconveniences?”

“THIS CANNOT BE SHARED.”

“Cannot or will not?” Felicity demanded. 

“TOO MANY VARIABLES EXIST TO DETERMINE A PRECISE ANSWER,” Ivie said. “UNCERTAINTIES CANNOT BE DISCUSSED.”

Felicity glared at the woman. The soft rage of helplessness welled up in her again. After a short period of silence, she spoke again.

“YOU HAVE 30 SECONDS REMAINING TO MAKE A COMPLAINT OR ACCEPT AN ALTERNATIVE. IF NO COMPLAINT IS MADE THE LINE WILL DISCONNECT AUTOMATICALLY.”

“Oh bullocks!” Felicity slammed the table with a fist. The incense jumped, Ivie the Accountant did not.

“15 SECONDS REMAIN.”

“Oh go! Just go! You’re dismissed,” Felicity replied. Nothing happened. “I do NOT wish to register a complaint or accept an alternative penance at this time. Thank you!”

“HAVE A NICE DAY.” 

The light went out of Ivie’s eyes and the old woman slumped forward. Just before her forehead bumped the thick book, it disappeared. Her forehead thudded down to the table instead. She lay there, quite still, hair fanning out and trickling down the sides. Felicity stared at her in silence for a few seconds. It grew uncomfortable. Then creepy. She studied the hair near Ivie’s face, looking for a flicker of breath in it. Nothing moved. 

“Ivie?” Felicity whispered.  “Ivie!” She reached out to touch the woman’s shoulder. 

“ARGH!” she gasped in air and reared back, slapping Felicity’s hand out of the way. Felicity fell sideways out of her chair with another squeak. “ARRRGGHHH! WOW!” 

She climbed back into her seat. Ivie’s eyes had opened wide and she stared through Felicity for a moment, heaving in air. 

“What a rush!” Ivie blurted, shaking her head and grinning. Then she gathered her hair back into a bun, producing her gold hairpin and securing it neatly. She rose and went to the deli counter, then returned with a small bottle of brandy and two glasses. She flexed her hand, the one that had pulled the books out, then poured brandy in both glassed and pushed one across to Felicity.

“So,” she said, after they’d both had a few sips. “Quite a ride. How do you feel?”

Felicity raised her gaze from the table and saw the pity in her eyes. 

“I’m…” She didn’t know, couldn’t answer. She subsided. Ivie reached out and patted Felicity’s hand where it held the brandy glass on the table. 

“I’m sorry, dear.”

It shook Felicity out of her reflection.

“No, no,” she said. “Thank you. For everything. And that little intervention.”

Ivie nodded.

“The explanation itself is… a comfort, I suppose,” Felicity said. “A small one. But… still. I think…. it’s better to know.”

Felicity looked at her and Ivie grinned. 

“I’ve always thought so,” Ivie said. “To life.” She gave Felicity a wink and raised her glass.

“To life,” Felicity said with a small grimace.

They clinked glasses and drained them together.