Callahan: A Gothic Tale

You've Got Mail

19 You've Got Mail

"My breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: 'You've got mail'. I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beat of my own heart. I have mail. From you." –"You've Got Mail" movie (1998)

Next Morning, March, Early 2000s, Attic, Vera Manor

Mini thermos of peppermint tea beside her, Marisol booted up her laptop, her fingers absentmindedly tapping the identical square keys before her. The world wide web had been a godsend, her only true real-time connection to Dexter since she had left (not including their letters, which took several days' journey to each other's respective abodes). She logged into her encrypted email account and began to compose a carefully-worded message.

Hi, she typed. Remember that time a couple months ago, you dropped by and we did the deed in the marital bed of my absentee partner...who isn't you? While my daughter from said partner was fast asleep two rooms away? I have something to tell you—

Ugh. She sighed as she highlighted the text, deleting it in its entirely. It sounded far too tawdry, even for Dexter's taste. Not to mention the whole "scarlet letter" nature of it all. What were her expectations for Dexter, as a father to a child he would most likely never see? What was best for her own gestating child? She had a sudden urge to google "child support," "necromancer curse," and "one-night-stand" but didn't want to leave a questionable search history behind in her tracks, in case Mel had to borrow the laptop for a book report.

Before she could type any further, she heard a ping, indicating Dexter had messaged her via instant messenger. You've got mail. This was a surprise. She hadn't known him for a technocrat.

Hi Soley. Just checking in. -Dex

Steadying her hands, she typed back. Hi Dex, is that progress I see? -M

Macy taught me. You ok? -Dex

The screen blurred as she saw her firstborn's name. Marcella Yesenia, Macy for short.

I'm—Marisol began to type. Pregnant? Carrying your questionably (il)legitimate child? Fulfilling the Charmed Ones' prophecy? This was the stuff of erotic epistolary novels, not instant messages. Hands poised above the keyboard, she completed her sentence.

I'm fine.

7 pm, Six Weeks In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Yoga Nook, Ambient Lounge

Macy and Harry found themselves curled up together on the down blanket, their backs cushioned by a sumptuous pillow each, the crescent moon lantern illuminating the wall, the layered sheet overhead dotted with a myriad of sparkling tea lights to complete the beauteous arrangement. "How about a movie night?" Harry suggested, after several minutes' silence.

"That sounds awesome," Macy replied, exhausted from having spent the day analyzing the gelling properties of agar. It was like watching paint dry. Sometimes she wondered if the sheer tedium of studying gelatin would kill her faster than Scythe itself. Isinglass, she had learned, was too fragile to hold up against magical threats; mulberry-hued carrageen was obscenely tangly, and she and Harry had spent days trying to comb it out of her curly hair. Agar was far thicker, which meant it had possibilities in the way of mortal combat. "Which one?"

"Well..." Harry orbed to his duffel bag, rifling through. "We have Judd Apatow's "Knocked Up," Meg Ryan's "You've Got Mail,"—"

"You've Got Mail!"

"Alrighty then."

7:30 pm, March, Early 2000s, Living Room, Vera Manor

Marisol thumbed through her selection of DVDs. She wanted something lighthearted, uplifting, not overly dark. Closing her eyes, she placed her index finger on a random movie title. Surprise me, she thought of her little one. She opened her eyes.