I didn’t weep. My throat was parched, my eyes dry as a wind-bruised land. I couldn’t speak after my parting words to her. I couldn’t look at Dr. Peters either. I think I was afraid he’d say something like “She’s with God now” or “She lived a good life.” Such platitudes would have felt like acid. But, thankfully, he remained silent, his head bowed, his hands in a prayer position, although I don’t think he wasn’t appealing to Heaven for her safe passage. Obviously, he knew she’d never dwell with the villagers’ version of a male god. Perhaps he knew Old Mother was a witch, although he never said.
After a bit, Dr. Peters cleared his throat a couple of times, and urged me to accompany him into the kitchen. When I ignored him, and continued sitting there, not speaking or moving, he finally lifted me out of my chair and walked me into the kitchen. I suppose I was inanimate, a walking corpse that still breathed. I hardly remember.
I recalled that the doctor lit a fire and settled the kettle onto its iron pedestal. I saw that, yet I was in some kind of spell of yearning. I stood where he’d placed me, wishing with all my might that I could join Old Mother. Why couldn’t I accompany her to Gaia’s side? We could continue our existence then, helping the goddess to serve Nature, doing whatever those who served her did.
“Sit down,” the doctor said suddenly, breaking my trance.
Obedient, as I’d been trained to be, I slid into the chair, still not meeting his eyes, bereft of purpose. I’d realized in that moment, when he’d addressed me, that Gaia had rejected me. Perhaps I wasn’t worthy. Perhaps I had more years of suffering to live, but, for whatever reason, she demanded that I stay stuck on this plane of existence.
I accepted that, yet I still couldn’t get my mind to function. It was frozen on Old Mother’s departure and what her loss would mean. I could not accept the thought of living without her. How could I go on? How did anyone ever continue when a loved one died? She would be missed with every breath I took.
As I sat there at the table with Dr. Peters, wishing I was still at Old Mother’s side, holding her hand, hearing her soft voice, I realized that I was alone again. Old Mother had saved me from what the village children called the Mean Queen, grouchiest woman in the entire village. Mrs. Fedner was to have taken me on years ago, but Old Mother refused to let me go, telling the villagers I could stay with her from then on. She’d told the Council that she planned to adopt me, too, just as soon as she earned the legal fees.
But months and years had passed . There’d been no flow of money. My adoption never happened. I might have gotten a last name if it had. But, I never even found out what Old Mother’s last name was. Dreams are always crushed in the daylight when reality takes hold again.
Dr. Peters had dug in the cookie jar for the money Old Mother had told him was there, but I doubted there’d been enough for his night’s services. Still, he tried to give the coins to me, saying that I’d need them to make my way to my next house.
Those words brought me to life more than the hot mug of tea he’d poured for each of us.
“I won’t be going to Mrs. Fedner. They can’t make me.”
“Shama, where else could you go?”
He was a kindly man, a bachelor, so he couldn’t invite me to live with him. I understood such things, even though I thought that customs and traditions were often impediments to what might have been the perfect solution. Dr. Peters could have trained me, and I could have assisted him in his work. That made perfect sense to me, but it couldn’t be. We both knew that the Council would never approve.
“I won’t go there,” I said, still not taking a sip of my tea, although he had drunk most of his.
“Stay for a week. I’ll tell the Council that it’s necessary for your heartbreak. They won’t like it, Shama, but it’s all the time I can buy you.”