The Wish

Mollie Gallagher was not having a good day. She had received the latest in a long line of rejection letters from a publisher, her hours at the library had been cut down to the bone due to budget cuts, and her credit card bill was past due…again.

Her dreams of becoming a published author seemed to be drifting farther and farther away. And, she wondered, not for the first time, if her parents hadn’t been right in saying that she should seriously think about settling into reality. It just hurt whenever she thought about doing that. It was like a piece of her soul would disintegrate and there would be nothing left except a body that worked as if on automation.

As she did whenever life got to be too much, she made her way to Boston Common and her favorite bench, tucked away from the main path in the shadow of an old tree that had likely seen hundreds of stories pass by. The wind was chilly, but the sun was started to peek through. It looked like it might be a sunny day after all. She was wrapped up warmly in a thick winter coat and scarf, her hands tucked inside gloves the color of poppies.

The park was quiet today as Saint Patrick’s Day revelers flocked to South Boston and the festivities. Some said that it was a magical day when anything could happen. Mollie thought that if you were drunk enough, a distinct possibility on this particular day, you could very well believe in fairies and leprechauns and everything else that wasn’t true in the real world.

Still, she welcomed the solitude and was glad to get out of her tiny apartment with the rickety plumbing and solitary window that faced the back alley. If there were points for living the artist life in a garret before making it big, she would have surely come out on top.

Taking a seat on the bench, she placed the bulky handbag on her lap and took out the little black book that was her most precious belonging. Every year for the past 10 years, she had purchased four of these black books with their lined pages, one for each season, to record her thoughts, story ideas, plot lines and character back stories. From short stories in middle school to sweeping sagas in high school to angsty creative writing assignments in university, these black books carried the memories of her struggles to be a writer and find her voice.

She flipped through the pages until she came across an empty one with a title and a few lines that she’d started days ago. Picking up her pen, she lost herself in the world of her creation, travelling through time as her character battled evil for the good of the world. She still had to figure out his motivation and what drove him, but that was for another day. For now, she’d write the scene as she saw it, head bent down as her pen flew across the page.

When the inspiration was flowing like this, she wished that she could make people see the world the way she saw it.

“Good morning to ye.”

Mollie looked up as the gravely voice cut through her concentration. Her mind was still in 17th century France and it took her a few minutes to come back to reality.

The most odd-looking man was standing nearby, smoking a pipe. Did people even smoke pipes anymore? His face was wizened with age, a long, white beard covering the bottom half of it. His suit was ill fitting and the hat looked like the kind that had gone out of fashion two hundred years ago.

“Didn’t meant to disturb ye, only wanted to ask if I could sit down with ye?” He pointed to the other half of the bench. “Rest me legs for a few.”

Mollie nodded yes before she could think about it, unable to find a reason to deny the old man his request.

“It’s a fine morning to be out and about.” He whistled and Mollie found herself relaxing at the cheerful tune.

“Yes, it is,” she said, closing the notebook with the pen still inside to keep her place. “I wish that it was warmer, but at least the sun is coming out.”

“Oh, aye indeed. And if you look closely, you can see a rainbow in the distance. You know what they say about rainbows and wishes don’t you, young Mollie?”

“That you’ll find a pot of gold at the end?” Mollie found herself smiling at the silliness of the old folklore. Rainbows were a scientific phenomenon and there was certainly no pot of gold to be found. But what a wonderful thing it would be if it were true.

And then she was frowning as she thought back to his words. “Wait. How do you know my name? Who are you?” Her voice rose, her hand tightened on the handbag still in her lap and her body tensed, ready to make a run for it at the slightest sign of trouble.

“It’s written on your little black book, ain’t it?” His eyes twinkled as if there was a joke that only he knew.

Mollie looked down to where the gold lettering with her name was visible on the notebook’s black cover and felt foolish for overreacting. Her grip loosened and her body relaxed, but the slight suspicion remained.

“As to who I am? Well, that’s a tale for another day. Humor an old man, young Mollie, on this special of days. If ye could wish on a rainbow, what would ye wish for?”

“Wishes aren’t real.”

“Aren’t they? Well, that’s a sad thing, for sure. But what’s the harm then of making one, eh?”

His blue eyes bore into hers and she found herself saying the words that had been locked inside her for so long.

“I wish that people could see what a good writer I am, that my stories are worth something.”

“Now that’s a mighty fine wish, young Mollie.” He gathered himself, his knees creaking as he stood up and tipped his hat to her. “A mighty fine wish indeed. Ye just have to believe it.”

Mollie watched him walk away, fading into the distance. For a moment it looked like he had vanished into thin air.

But that’s impossible, thought Mollie. People didn’t just disappear. It must have been the sun hitting at a particular spot that made it harder to see him.

It had a been a strange conversation. Not that she believed in rainbow wishes or any other kind. But, for a single moment, as she had said the words, she had felt something shift in the air before it was gone.

She shook her head as if to clear it and flipped open her notebook to get back to work. But the words wouldn’t come. After several minutes of writing and scratching out lines, she packed up her things and decided she might as well go home. Her thoughts were too scattered to enjoy the peacefulness of the park and the wind was picking up again, the sound reminding her of the tune the old man had been whistling.

Mollie was still thinking about the strange encounter after getting off the “T”. The train had been packed with people heading out to enjoy the festivities and she felt like she’d been drowning in green.

As she walked the two blocks to her apartment building, she enjoyed the refreshing, albeit cold, air and wondered what she should do with the rest of her day. She wasn’t in the mood to join her friends for a pub crawl; not that she was ever in the mood for that but doing so on today of all days was a definite no. And yet, she wasn’t feeling as dispirited as she had earlier. She was more restless than anything else…waiting.

Waiting for what? She wasn’t sure.

She let herself into the relatively warm foyer of her apartment building, glancing at the ancient elevator before deciding that it was probably safer to take the stairs. The plumbing wasn’t the only thing that didn’t work in this rattrap.

The door next to the stairs swung open and Mr. Wilson, the super, stood there with a perpetual frown on his face, a large envelope in his hand.

“There you are, 403.”

Mollie had lived in this building for five years and she had never heard him address anyone by their name, just their apartment number.

“Yes, Mr. Wilson?”

“This letter came for you a few days ago,” he handed her the envelope. “Got mixed up in the other mail.”

He shut the door before she could say anything. Mollie stood there for a few seconds surprised, and yet not, at his curt manner. She was used to it, but after the cheerful demeanor of the strange man she’d met this morning, the abruptness was jarring, to stay the least.

She took the stairs one at the time, staring at the postmark on the corner of the envelope. It was one of the publishers that she’d sent her manuscript to. Another rejection, she thought, her shoulders hunching as she dug through her handbag for the keys.

I’m not sure I can take more bad news.

Once inside her apartment, she put away her coat and boots, tucking everything in its place the way she’d been taught. She placed the envelope on the small coffee table and went into the kitchenette to make herself some tea.

Somehow bad news always went better with a pot of tea.

Apprehensive but determined to get it over with, Mollie finished her tea and used her thumb to slit open the envelope. A check fell in her lap as she unfolded the single page letter inside. Seconds later, she was pacing the tiny space as she re-read the words she’d longed to hear for so long.

Dear Ms. Gallagher,

We’re pleased to offer you a contract to publish your novel, A Quiet Night. Our editors thought your way with words was refreshing and the characters you painted were relatable. We’re confident our readers will enjoy your story as much as we did.

Please see enclosed an advance for $20,000 to secure the rights for this book. Contact us as soon as possible to settle other details….

Mollie picked up the check that had fallen to the floor and just stared, hardly believing it was real. But the check didn’t disappear and the amount ─ $20,000 ─ was clear as day.

Wishes are real, she thought, thinking back to the conversation she’d had in the park earlier.

“And they do come true,” she said out loud, hugging the letter to her chest. “You just have to believe it.”