An original short story: Three Wishes

I wrote this story in 2017 about a crotchety older woman and her flighty sister. It was fun writing it and it's still fun to read it. Hope you enjoy!

“Whatever we do,” Marge said breathlessly, “we must not fritter away this opportunity!”

I looked at her over my glasses and sighed. “No, Marge. We definitely won’t fritter it away.” I looked away and muttered, “whatever that means,” under my breath.

“I heard that!” she exclaimed. “You always think I don’t hear, but I do. I hear more than you think.”

Marge is my older sister. She is, like most women in our family, endowed with…plump features, shall we say. She fought against it in her youth but now, well on the north side of 70, she has long since given into the genes and settled into a “comfortable” body. And me? I’m Sue, the baby of the family, although at age 69, it has been a long time since that particular term has been ascribed to me. I am the aberration in our family line of curves and softness. I am, and always have been, a beanpole, to put it bluntly. And, in case you haven’t noticed, bluntly is how I put practically everything. Nope, no softness here.

Marge and I live together these days. After her husband passed, she wasn’t happy alone, so she moved back into my home. Well, technically it is our family home. Having never been married, this is where I have always lived. People say, “What’s it like, living in one house your entire life?” and my response is always, “What’s it like bouncing from house to house like a pinball?”

At present, Marge and I are standing in a small antique store she loves. Actually, “antique” is a rather generous term. It’s more like a junk store. A dusty, cluttered, dim junk store that smells like mothballs and mold. Marge drags me here as often as I’ll allow it, which is not often, I can tell you that much. She has found yet another silly trinket that will sit on a shelf and collect dust like that’s its full-time job. Of course, there’s nothing I can say to dissuade her once she has honed in on a treasure (her word, not mine), so I know it is coming home with us.

“Just imagine,” Marge said reverently, “What if there was a real Genie in this bottle!” She held the old murky glass piece in both hands like she was cradling the Hope Diamond.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I huffed, “That’s just an old wine decanter. Honestly, the things that come out of your mouth. I think you were dropped on your head as a child.”

Ignoring me completely, Marge headed for the cash register. Thank God. Ten more minutes in this place and I would need a ventilator. I cannot abide dust.

In short order, we were in the car and headed home. I could tell Marge was dreamily contemplating how to summon the imaginary genie from its bottle. I, on the other hand, was rather enjoying her rare silence. Honestly, my sister talks like she gets a paycheck for it. Anything and everything are acceptable topics to her.

When we got home, Marge headed posthaste to her room, murmuring something about “restoring you to your former greatness.” Humph.

I settled into the wingback chair in our den with my well-worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. I do enjoy a good dramatic story, and Dumas never disappoints. Just as the action was picking up, Marge, in typical fashion, burst into the room. “Sue! Oh, Sue, you’ll never guess in a million years what just happened!”

I looked at her over my glasses and sighed. “No, I’m quite sure I would never guess. If you want me to know, tell me.  If not…” I waggled my book in her face.

“It works,” Marge squeaked, her voice at least an octave higher than normal, “There’s an actual Genie in that bottle! I just made a wish!”

I stood up. This was getting out of hand. “Have you taken complete leave of your senses?” She shook her head and took a breath as if to say more. I held up my hand and said, “Honestly, Marge, I think we need to get your carotid artery checked. Your brain might not be getting the proper blood flow.”

She followed me into the hall. “Sister, listen to me. If you’ll just come into my room, I can…”

“Marge!” I interrupted, “This has gone far enough. Now, I’m going to my room to rest, and hopefully, you’ll do the same thing.” I closed the door in her face and went to my chair, dropping into it like a rag doll. Marge had always been a fanciful one, but this … this was starting to worry me. Perhaps I should call Doc Baker. He’s been our doctor for years. He is a fine doctor, despite his annoying habit of telling me I’m “no spring chicken anymore” every time I bring up an ailment. Perhaps he could run some tests on Marge. I dearly hope she’s not getting addled. Dementia, that’s the word. I shudder to even think of it.

Eventually, I grew tired of worrying and decided to lie down, pulling my green chenille bedspread up to my chin. In no time flat, I was asleep. But unfortunately, not for long.

Startled awake by very loud knocking, I got up, smoothing my hair and settling my glasses on my nose. “What is it?” I asked rather sharply as I opened the door. Marge was standing in the hallway, a triumphant see-I-told-you-so look on her round face. “What in the world is all the commotion…did the roof cave in?”

“No, Silly,” Marge said, “it’s the Genie! He granted my first wish!”

I looked at her over my glasses and sighed. “The Genie.”

“He told me I had two more wishes,” she exclaimed. “Can you imagine? Three wishes for anything in the entire world!”

This had gone far enough. I strode down the hall toward the kitchen. Where was the telephone directory? I needed Doc Baker, and fast.

“Sue,” Marge said plaintively behind me, “Sue, please look at me.” I turned slowly and looked at her over my glasses. She extended her cupped hand toward me, holding something. I stepped closer to see what it could possibly be.

“Remember?” Marge said softly. “Oh, Sue, tell me you remember.”

I looked at the tiny egg sitting in her palm. It was robin’s egg blue…in fact, it looked very much to be an actual robin’s egg. As I stood there, wondering if Mental Health Professionals were listed under the M’s, H’s, or P’s, a vague scene flitted on the edge of my recollection. We were quite young, Sue and I.  She had found a nest on the ground under a tree in our backyard, with tiny blue eggs nestled inside, and brought it to me. I strained to recall the details of that incident, so long unearthed in my memory.

“I … I climbed the tree to put the nest back,” I said.

“That’s right.” Marge sounded as though she were talking to a three year old. Humph.

“I still don’t see what this could possibly—“

“Sue. You saved those baby birds. They hatched later that spring, remember? We saw their tiny little heads with wide-open beaks just above the top of the nest when the mama robin would bring them worms.”

“Yes…you’re right, I do remember that,” I said. I hadn’t thought of that in decades. “What on earth made you think of that after all these years?”

“It was my first wish,” Sue said softly. “My first wish was to return to a time when you were happy…when we were happy. I walked outside to check the mail, and there was this little blue egg, sitting in our mailbox, like a gift someone left for us. No…not just someone…the Genie!”

I looked at my sister. My daydreaming, flighty, head-in-the-clouds sister, who has a heart of gold. “Well, that was a very nice first wish, Marge,” I said, “And it worked…I am happy. Happy you're here with me and happy to share that memory with you.”

Marge beamed. “I’m going to put this egg in the living room where it can always remind us of that day, and that feeling.”

Yet another thing to collect dust. I opened my mouth to tell her she was to do no such thing, but stopped. I guess one little egg wouldn’t attract too much dust, after all.

“Let’s go make something together for dinner,” I said instead, and linked my arm through hers to head into the kitchen. “But tell me, I asked, “What is your next wish going to be?”

“Oh, I already know what wishes two and three are going to be, Sue,” she said with a mysterious smile. “But, that’s a secret.”

I looked at Marge over my glasses.  “Well, I certainly couldn’t ask you to divulge a secret, now could I? I’m famished. What about a nice chicken pot pie?”