A Child's Mid-Pandemic Guide To Belief

Joey would wake up any minute, and Sarah had done everything outside of pawning her mother’s pearl necklace in an attempt to raise the funds required to restore their power and reclaim a bit of the dignity lost during this year of desperation.

The pearl necklace was all Sarah owned from the mother who would know just what to say in times like these. Now her mother was hopefully “up there”, perhaps pleading with the Almighty to send an able-bodied angel to their rescue.

When the men from Edison Gas & Electric came by earlier, Sarah stood outside her door determined to make one final plea for mercy. The men were sympathetic, but cut her power all the same. She didn’t blame them, knowing the duty of their jobs kept their own heat on through the cold winter mornings.

In the aftermath, Sarah retired to the edge of their shared double bed. Joey was still asleep, and she was careful not to wake him. She ran the necklace through her fingers, wondering if the pearls could restore a bit of joy to their lives, if only for a measurable stretch of time.

They would lose the apartment soon, a fact her landlord volunteered each time he called to nag about their escalating back rent. The moratorium afforded by The Pandemic was a finger in the dyke that welcomed an ironic fate for a woman who had never learned to swim.

Joey was still young enough to someday forget these hellish times. Yesterday had been his tenth birthday, and Sarah would not let it go by without a modest celebration. She knew the gift she hoped to get him. Months earlier she’d spied it in the second-hand store after he started writing.

The little black book was still there when Sarah returned to the shop earlier that week. It was displayed behind a glass case that held odds and ends that might have once belonged to the trendiest of nomads.

The old man behind the counter quietly read her, noting her timid stature and tired eyes above her mask, inspecting the handsome volume.

“Do you believe in magic?” he asked Sarah, his voice muffled by his own disposable mask. He unlocked the case and extracted the book, placing it in front of her.

“Awhile back I might have believed in anything,” she said, pausing to consider the risk of treading onto vulnerable ground with an eccentric stranger. “Is it tragic for a mother to have forgotten the use for words that once held so much meaning?”

Sarah took up the journal and opened it. A sea of pages awaited the stroke of a pen.

“I have a son. We’ll pray he never loses his belief,” she continued, growing comfortable in conversation. “He’s had a tooth loose for weeks. The pain has been intolerable,” she continued. “Intolerable for me, I should say.”

Sarah set down the little black book and the old man promptly reclaimed it, cradling it close as one might an intimate friend.

“I see your suffering,” he said, glancing up at her with a look of honest empathy. “And you must believe in magic, especially in times like these.”

“I believe in magic,” she said. “I’ve just never been on the receiving end of anything enchanting.”

“The stories inked between the bindings of this book are promptly manifested in reality,” the old man confided, eyeing the magical book with a combination of gratitude and humble, albeit fearful respect. “The day this book found me, I was five years into clearing timber in Central Oregon. I had just turned twenty-six, and had no money saved nor any lodging reserved. I spent my money as quickly as I earned it. I lacked education, family, self-confidence and any semblance of respect for anything but the sturdy craftsmanship of a barstool.”

Sarah stood absorbing every relatable word.

“Then I took ownership of this book,” he said as his face brightened for a moment before reclaiming what had been a shameful gaze. “I stole it,” he confessed. “I stole this book from a man I deemed underserving because he had shared with me its power.”

The old man paused to wipe his brow of the beads of sweat that had begun to form.

“Within a week of my daily devotion to the written word in the book, I took full ownership of the logging company that had employed me. I was a millionaire ten times over, and this was 1943. Yet still my ambitions were miniscule when compared to the countless others to come.”

Sarah tried to do the math. Her calculations placed him in range of 100 years old.

“I believe what you say,” she proclaimed before realizing the naked faith of such a conviction. His story had nonetheless inspired. “I mean…I believe that you believe it, and that is proof enough for most.”

“Know that everything is magic, or nothing at all.”

“Your words remind me of riddles my mother used to conjure up to keep us lost in silent thought,” she continued. “ If you claim to have wished your dreams into reality through the stories you’ve written in this book, why does it appear like new?”

I have filled this journal many times,” he exclaimed with nostalgic sensitivity. “With the granting of every wish, the book restores itself like new.”

The man opened the book to the first page and placed it atop the counter. He grabbed a pen from his pocket and handed it to Sarah.

“Remember,” said the man. “All magic is reflected through the lens of our own belief.”

The old man’s sanity was deeply in question, still she indulged him.

Dear Joey,

I wish for you to grow up healthy, strong, confident and proud. Live in service to others, and remember at all times that you are deeply loved.

Mom

Sarah handed the old man back his pen as he inspected her words with silent approval.

“What do I owe you?” she asked as she glanced down at her purse. When she looked up, the old man had vanished. She moved around the store, inspecting every row with uneasy fascination. “Hello?” Her voice was greeted by the silence of an otherwise lifeless room.

After twenty minutes of searching, Sarah returned to the counter and collected the book, stuffing it inside her purse before pulling out a twenty-dollar bill that Sarah could ill afford to leave. Still, she felt it insufficient for the rarity of such an item, regardless of its proven power. After exiting the vacant shop, she walked home in silent disbelief.

That was a week ago, and Sarah had given Joey the little black journal last night. That same evening, Joey’s tooth came out with a gentle tug as he listened to his mother relate the story of the curious transaction of words that secured the book from its previous owner. She was sure to endorse the old man’s account of the book’s magical powers.

Upon hearing the story, Joey eyed the book with newfound fascination, his mind nurturing a grand scale of possibilities.

That evening, after placing the tooth beneath his pillow, Joey wrote in the little black book with an unrelenting passion that carried him well past midnight. Sarah woke several times and insisted he go to sleep. She peeked at the pages, but could not make out his words.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Sarah later on the following morning. The tooth! Sarah had fallen asleep and forgotten Joey’s tooth.

By this time Sarah had safely put away her mother’s pearl necklace, so she freely wrung her hands with anxious disposition.

She refocused herself, grateful her son was still fast asleep. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a salvaged dollar before creeping to his bedside.

As she neared him, she spied the little black book on the nightstand. She could not help but take a peek.

She opened the book and flipped past the inscription to find Joey’s words, a work entitled “The Magic Tooth.”

There once was a young boy who lost his tooth…

Joey let out a loud yawn and Sarah looked up. He had no intentions of waking. She glanced back down and kept reading; suddenly the words upon the page began to dissolve in front of her. Within an instant, every trace of ink had gone and Sarah was left eyeing a blank page.

Shaken, she set the book down on the nightstand and reached beneath her son’s pillow for the tooth. She was surprised to find the tooth had already been replaced by something foreign whose surface felt oddly familiar.

Sarah’s heart raced. She could feel her blood pulsing.

She knew this familiar texture, confidently grabbing hold of its full bulk and carefully pulling it into view.

Stacks of hundred-dollar bills!!! Too many to count!!!

Sarah’s face went pale. She instinctively peered over towards the door before inspecting beneath their bed.

After deeming it safe, Sarah ran her fingers across each stack.

Really, she thought. How much is it? She counted $20,000 in hundred-dollar bills.

Joey slowly opened his eyes and was startled. He looked at Sarah, then peered down at the contents of her hands.

“We did it!” he exclaimed, happy tears racing down both cheeks.

Sarah quickly came to her senses.

“Whose money is this?” she asked.

“The Toothfairy’s!” he said convincingly. “I’m sure of it,” he added, second guessing his assertion if only for an instant.

“Be serious with me, Joey McCallister,” she said. “We could be in danger!”

“You said it yourself,” he affirmed. “The book is magical!”

“What did you do?”

“Mom!” he said, with a look of disbelief. The stack of money on the bed began to softly lose focus. “Mom!”

Sarah watched as the stacks of money started to disappear before her eyes.

In a panic, Sarah closed her eyes. She dug deep for whatever answer had yet to reveal themselves.

The magic lies in my belief.

“I believe!” she yelled.

Her words had minimal effect. The stack continued to shrink.

“I believe!” Joey joined in with his own loud proclamation.

Slowly, the missing bills began to materialize as if placed by an invisible hand. They continued shouting their new mantra as they both watched the stack of bills grow larger until it was made whole again.

Breathless, the two crashed down on the bed.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sarah spoke.

“I only saw your first sentence,” she said, snapping her fingers and offering a look of disappointment. “I really wish I’d gotten to read your very first story.”

“Toothfairies do exist, mom,” dispelled Joey with certainty. “And some even pay considerable cash for original fiction.”

“I’ll admit it’s a creative story,” she concluded. “A modern ending,” she added. “Nothing I would think of, but then again I’m not much of a writer.”

Her son pulled his shiny new N-95 mask from his shirt pocket. “It’s a brave new world, mom,” he explained.

“I love you, son,” she proclaimed for the 19,003rd time in Joey’s short life. “Maybe I say it too much,” she added.

“Everyone should say it as often as you do.”

“Now there’s the premise for your next story!” she said with enthusiasm. “Imagine that ending!”