Going to See the Godmother

I needed to see the Godmother. The Godmother would fix everything. She would make it all stop hurting. She would make him love me.

The Godmother grants wishes to those with worthy causes. And what could be a more worthy cause than a broken heart?

I’d heard about her through one of my friends whose cousin’s boyfriend’s sister had gone to see her. I didn’t know what the cost would be. I didn’t particularly care. All I knew was that I wanted results. I needed results. Desperately. And the Godmother promised guaranteed results.

* * *

I met him on the third anniversary of my mother’s death. I was holding a private memorial service at her tombstone, sweeping it clean of debris and putting out fresh flowers. He’d been there for his great-uncle’s funeral. He’d ditched the service and was drinking from a flask under a tree. When he saw my tears he offered me a drink. I sputtered at the unexpected burn of the spiced rum. I’d always been more partial to wines and beers than hard liquor.

An hour later, we were in the backseat of his car.

* * *

I never expected to see him again, but then six months later he sat next to me in my speech class—the last gen ed I had to take for my undergraduate degree. By the end of the semester we were regularly hooking up in between his steady stream of girlfriends.

At some point between the first time in the back of his car in the graveyard parking lot and the quickie in the custodial closet right before our speech final, I’d fallen in love with him.

Desperately, hopelessly, madly in love.

And I never stood a chance.

As I lay next to him in bed, our limbs tangled in the sweaty sheets, I resolved to end things with him. I couldn’t keep doing this. I couldn’t keep letting him use me, never knowing how much it hurt. And I couldn’t let him know the extent of my feelings. I didn’t want him to feel obligated to stay out of pity. So I deleted his number from my phone, changed my number, and moved across town. I went to new grocery stores. I started hanging out at the bars he hated. Weeks passed. Then months.

Out of the blue I received a call from an unknown number. I answered it, only to hear his voice. And just like that, I was sucked back in. He missed me. He realized how much he liked me after I was gone. Everything I’d ever wanted to hear, he said. Everything except him asking me to be his girlfriend.

We went on dates. We had sex.

And then he met Anne and it was like I didn’t exist anymore.

* * *

I knocked on the Godmother’s door. She answered the door with a gap-toothed smile, ushering me into the room. I sat on a ratty floral print sofa with a rip in one of the cushions. Over a cup of weak tea, I told her why I’d come.

I held my breath while I waited for her to decide if my cause was worthy. Every second seemed to last an eon. The creak of her rocking chair echoed in the otherwise silent room.

At last she beckoned for me to come closer.

She promised to make it all better.

Gratefully I thanked her.

She just smiled her toothy grin and laid her hand on my heart.

* * *

She promised to make it all better.

She promised to make it stop hurting.

If the Godmother believes your cause is worthy, she will offer her aid. But when dealing with the Godmother, you don’t always get the results you expect.

She never promised to make him love me.

She never promised that I would ever love again.

She only ever promised that the results would last a lifetime.

* * *

He and Anne called it quits three months later. He wasn’t what she was looking for. He came knocking on my door, only this time? This time when I let him in to my bed, my heart remained still.

This time, when he kissed me, my lips didn’t tingle.

This time, when he slipped out in the middle of the night, I didn’t shed a single tear.

* * *

If I could go back in time and change things, would I?


I would turn down his flask. I wouldn’t get into his car. I wouldn’t have sex with him in the custodial closet. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with him.

But if I had failed? If I had done all of that? Then no. I wouldn’t have changed anything. I would still go to the Godmother even knowing what I know now. I would rather live my life without feelings rather than have my heart shatter every time the door shut behind him.

* * *

If you have any problems that you can’t solve on your own, go see the Godmother. She’s worth every sacrifice.

At the age of six, Eliza was certain of two things. The first was that she had stories to tell. The second was that she had no talent for illustrating them herself. Talent or no, she still wrote and illustrated her first book, one that should be located and locked away if only to prevent her parents from embarrassing her terribly by showing it off alongside baby pictures. Now she spends her days writing stories that she isn't embarrassed to show off after a little bit of polishing.

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