Stork by Wendy Delsol Read Free Book Online Page A

do you believe in fate?”
    A little trickier. A master plan for this spinning ball of billions? “Just for the big stuff, I guess.”
    “And would one’s birth be included in your list of big stuff?”
    “Sure.”
    “Finally, then, would you allow that there are those among us with special powers?”
    Crossing Over with John Edward
was one of my favorite shows. “Yes. I suppose. But not me!”
    “Why not you?”
    “It’s just, I’m not . . .”
    “Not what?”
    I wanted to say
special
. I wasn’t special. At least not in that way. Maybe in other ways. Right? Everyone thought they were. Or was made to believe so, anyway, by those who loved them. My
amma,
my personal cheerleader, had always made me feel exceptional about anything and everything — ironically, even my childhood fascination with birds. From a very young age, I’d sketched them, pulled books about them from the library shelf, and made up stories about their winged adventures. That much I remembered. My
amma
liked to tell stories about my childish claims to understand them, translate their chirps to language. That part I didn’t remember, but knew she had been quite amused by — even boastful of — this purported bird-whispering skill. Though I wondered what she ever made of my professed love for and intentions to marry Big Bird, the hottie of Sesame Street. Regardless, I’d outgrown such flights of fancy and delusions of grandeur a long time ago. “Not interested,” I said.
    Hulda sat back in her chair with crossed arms. “Not interested, you say. Your pupils are large, your breathing is rough, your cheeks are flushed, and your ears are ringing.”
    “How do you know my ears are ringing?”
    “Same way I know you don’t like clowns.”
    That helps
. I exhaled loudly. My ears were ringing, and it was very annoying. Plus nobody really liked clowns, right? “Fru Hulda, do I have a choice?”
    “No.” Hulda’s answer was kind, but definitive.
    I lowered my head to the table and tapped my forehead lightly against its rough hewn surface. So many questions. So confused. So totally bummed it wasn’t a serious illness. I sat up.
    “So let’s say I have a dream about some soul, or essence, or baby, what then?”
    “Then, if they haven’t already through the dream cycles, the vessels who are candidates will be made known to you.”
    “Made known how?”
    “Is different for everyone. For me, is always smell. When a woman is a prospect, she smells like crushed arnica root.”
    Right, that’s a big help,
I thought,
because when you crush
the arnica root, that makes all the difference
.
    “Fru Grimilla feels vibrations,” Hulda continued. “Fru Birta sees candidates in colors, red too hot, blue too cold. She looks for something in a very specific shade of yellow-green.”
    Which at least explained Birta’s chartreuse wimple — the color, anyway.
    I was still unsure of the timing of the whole process, though it seemed a fairly delicate question. “So, the essence gets assigned, for lack of a better word, when exactly?”
    “Two weeks after.”
    “After?” I asked.
    Hulda looked at me impatiently. “Coupling during ovulation.”
    “So assignment comes right about the same time as . . . ?” I thought I knew the answer, but it wasn’t like I had committed the whole reproductive cycle to memory.
    “A woman’s menses. No essence, she menstruates. An essence, the pregnancy continues.”
    “Does every soul require a meeting and vote? I’m not sure I have the time. I’ve got homework, a social life.” Technically I did not have a social life, but what did she know?
    “No. Only those in need of guidance.”
    “And what is the significance of second chair? Fru Grimilla made it sound important.”
    “Second chair is second-in-command and makes decisions when the first chair is not present.”
    Forget baby on board, more like baby at the wheel. “Fru Hulda, I’m not ready to be second chair.”
    “You will learn quickly. This I