I remember the way Eleanor stared at the flickering matches clutched in the old woman’s hand, the flame dying and rising again as the woman muttered everything Eleanor already knew deep inside. The dull, relentless ache of hopelessness, the constant yearning to howl like a wolf, finally pushed her toward the socalled witch.
It seemed at the time that her whole life had collapsed in a single tragedy. Her husband had abandoned her, taking nothing but the two children, only to return four months later. For a while it looked as if things were falling back into place, but the façade cracked. Their bond split, and Eleanor and her husband drifted farther apart.
At first she wept, longing for the days when he would ask, How are you? and wish her a good night. Then a cold vengeance seeped into her soul; she wanted the other woman to suffer as badly as she had, even imagined some dreadful accident for her husbandperhaps a bus would run him over. Eventually indifference settled in. She stopped caring where her husband was, with whom, or when he might come back. She even found herself no longer interested in her children.
A heavy, grey fog of sorrow then settled over her, squeezing the breath from her lungs and clouding her thoughts. When she was at her worst, she tried to push the gloom away, managing only a brief respite before it slammed back with renewed force. Illnesses began to pile up: a painful cyst emerged beneath a tooth and had to be removed, the costly implant draining a small fortune; her sight suddenly blurred; while strolling through the park she slipped on the even pavement, shattering her arm in three places. In that moment Eleanor decided that something had to changeshe no longer wanted to drive herself toward an early grave.
Nothing has cursed you, the crone told her, eyes steady. Dont blame any witch. Its your husband whos blind, seeing only himself. All the trouble you endure is of your own making, a selfburial. He lives inside his own fantasy, a coward who will never leave. Theres no place for him now.
What am I supposed to do? Eleanor asked.
Live, the woman replied. Live your own life, as you see fit.
Eleanor rose, her head feeling as heavy as iron. Easy to say, she muttered. The crone handed her a box of candles and a tiny bottle of water. Burn the candle, drink the water. It will help.
Thank you, Eleanor whispered, stepping back onto the street. A tight knot tightened at her throat as the same refrain echoed in her mind: it wasnt the witch, it was her husbandher husband after twelve years together.
That evening she sat with a notebook, asking herself what she truly wanted. What do I want? What do I want? The pen stalled at the first question mark. She realised she had been living only for the childrens wishestrips to the seaside, water parks, a playroom, or at least the neighbourhood park. She had also chased her husbands dreams: buying a house, a car, visiting her mother in the neighbouring county, refurbishing the balcony, watching latenight films, or camping in the woods. But what of her own desires?
She stared at the notebook for over half an hour, finally jotting down a handful of goals:
– Run each morning, find the time and strength.
– Change jobs, become a manager, earn a respectable salary, grow professionally.
– Lose seven pounds.
– Buy herself a coat.
– Own a home.
– Build calm, healthy relationships with the children.
– Find a hobby that brings joy.
She exhaled deeply and closed the notebook. It wasnt simple to unearth her own wishes, but a start was necessary. From the sofa she glimpsed her husband, George, listlessly scrolling on his laptop.
Your husband, a voice echoed in her head, is just that.
She slammed the car door and headed back to the crone. More questions needed answers: how to set up her new department for efficiency, how to stop the endless stream of impossible tasks, how to finally cure her aching neckmanual therapy had done nothing. Should she send the older boy to a sports club or let him paint? And where did George truly stand in her life?
The witch asked, What brings you here today?
My back aches, my neck, work, my son, my husband, Eleanor replied.
The crone smiled. Youve brought your whole life to me. Your husbands grip will loosen little by little. Soon you wont care where he is, who hes with, whether his former lover still haunts him. One day youll forget whether youre needed by him or how to keep the family together. A new life will open, a path to go somewhere else, perhaps to someone else. But that comes later, not all at once.
She lit another match. Let the boy paint, the crone advised. And at work, set clear tasks; then youll have clear answers. They wont read your mind.
Your husband will cling tighter, the crone warned. The brighter your own life shines, the more his shadow flutters. A shadow only exists where theres light. The clearer the light, the sharper the shadow. Understand?
Eleanor nodded. Thank you.
Not quite done yet, the crone added. Take a tennis ball, place it between the wall and your spine, roll it while you squat. Itll set your back right.
Eleanor laughed to herself at the absurditya simple ball after costly therapists. Yet what else was there but to live her own life?
Seasons turned: winter, spring, summer, and back to a golden autumn. By the start of the school year Eleanor enrolled her son, Thomas, in an art class. He began to paint, and she felt a fierce shame for never noticing his talent. His pictures soon appeared in town and county exhibitions. He abandoned tablets and phones, devoting his free time to brushes and colours.
In her own office she hung a whiteboard and markers, writing tasks and deadlines each morning. They became routine, no longer open to debate. Though whispers of discontent lingered behind her back, the work moved forwardthat was what mattered.
Training sessions for staff grew from a hobby into a professional venture, bringing earnings comparable to a senior salary. One week a bouquet of red roses arrived on her desk, unsigned, no cardlikely a surprise from George, though she guessed he didnt realise she preferred chrysanthemums, their sharp, bitter scent, now in season. He never remembered that detail; in his world, every woman loved roses.
Outside, the autumn sun blazed, its light catching the fiery maple leaves that swirled down the lane beside her office. Eleanor breathed in the crisp air through the open window, discarding the thought that she could not achieve anything on her own. At last she tasted freedom.
And, as it turned out, the tennis ball did help.
