“I don't know,” I said.
Still smiling, she said, “Don't pay any attention to me.”
We were nearing a roadway. For a little while I had been able to hear the occasional car go by. I was sulking a little. I didn't know what it was I was supposed to have felt or said back there, with my hand flat on the ground. It had felt cold to me.
All at once we were there. Just by the edge of the road was an old motor court, a winding crescent of small cottages tucked back in the trees. Emma took me firmly by the hand as we crossed the roadway. I remember that because it annoyed me. I was perfectly capable of crossing a road by myself, but I was too interested to see where she lived to be annoyed for long. The place gave the impression of age, but the cabins and grounds seemed well maintained. There was a gravel parking lot on the side of a big cabin that had a small hand-painted sign above the door: “Sleepy Hollow Motor Lodge.” A wide, moss-covered brick pathway led back to a dozen or so small cabins. Emma's was the last cabin on the end.
An old dog limped over to us as we came up to her door.
“Hello, Abigail,” Emma said warmly. “Ready for your treatment?”
Abigail's tail swished back and forth and up and down, the most lively part about her, it seemed. She looked to be terribly old.
“Is this your dog?” I asked.
“No, no. As much time as I spend away, I can't keep a dog,” Emma said. “Abigail lives with the woman who runs this place, a few doors down. But we're old friends.”
“What's her treatment?”
“She has an arthritic hip,” Emma said, rubbing Abigail's side, “don't you, old girl?”
Abigail wagged her tail in agreement.
I frowned. “Well, can't you just, you know, fix it?”
Emma smiled. “Let's go inside,” she said.
We entered her little cabin. There was one large room that served as living room, dining room, and kitchen. A short hallway lead back to a bedroom and bathroom. The main room was not cluttered, but it was not sparse, either. There was a small sofa, an easy chair, a bookcase full of books, a little coffee table with pictures on it. There was nothing especially modern in the room; she didn't have a television or a radio that I could see. The room looked plain, homey. It seemed odd to me, almost, how unremarkable the cabin was. I thought of Emma as being magical. I don't know if I expected a palace or a cave or what. I looked over at her and frowned. She was petting Abigail.
“I mean, can't you just make her hip better?” I said again.
“I can make it better,” Emma said, “but I can't make it well. It's part of life that a body ages and doesn't hold up as well. Abigail's sixteen. She's entitled to a little arthritis.”
“Sixteen is pretty old for dog, isn't it?” I asked.
Emma nodded, but didn't speak. She wasn't so much petting Abigail now, as running her hands slowly, lightly over Abigail's coat.
“Now listen closely, Thomas,” Emma said quietly, and I stepped a bit closer. “Each particular body is different, and so is each part of each body. Are you listening?”
“Yes ma'am,” I said. I called her ma'am sometimes now just to annoy her. A smile passed across her face for the briefest moment.
“It's important for you to understand that Abigail's hip is different from my hip, from yours, from a deer's, from another dog's hip, even one of the same size or breed. Her hip is hers. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Good,” she said. “Each part of a body, of your body, and mine, and Abigail's, has, oh, a rhythm, or frequency, a pattern ... I don't know how to say it, exactly. It has a right way for it to be, which you can sense, but, Thomas, you have to—Abigail, honey, now—” Abigail had become very still and was leaning, leaning into Emma such that she was about to topple over if Emma didn't hold her up. Emma pushed her upright and gave her a couple of little whacks on the fanny. Abigail's tail started wagging again.
“You have to be very clear, and empty,” she said, looking at me closely to see if I was understanding her.
“Empty,” I repeated, uncertain of what she meant.
“I don't know how to teach you this,” Emma said. “Come here. Put your hand here.”
I placed my hand on Abigail's back, and, with Emma's hand on top of mine, we gently stroked down the length of her coat.
“Each individual's body is unique,” Emma said quietly. “Unique, precious, the only one in the universe. You have to understand that; you have to accept it. Do you understand?”
She looked at me. We were still stroking the dog together.
“Not really,” I said. I had to be honest.
“That's all right, Thomas. Dear Thomas. I'm sorry if I was cross with you earlier.”
“That's okay,” I said. I suddenly became very intent on stroking the dog. Then Emma's free hand rested lightly on the back of my neck. What happened next was so astonishing. It was the most incredible thing that had ever happened to me, short of being born, I guess. I suddenly had, felt, saw—a new sense. It's difficult to describe that moment. It was like being given the gift of sight after having always been blind. How would that be? I don't know. But I think I do know.
I could feel, in my gut, in a confused rush of sense and nonsense, the being of Abigail, her structure, her presence. Words fail. It was like seeing her in my heart. I looked over at Emma, but she had her eyes closed, as if she were concentrating fiercely. Her hand rested on top of mine. My neck felt on fire. I sprang away from them, Emma and Abigail, and rolled backwards and bumped into her coffee table and just crouched there in an odd bundle on her living room floor. After what seemed an eternity she opened her eyes.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Do you want to try that again?” she asked.
Again I nodded, more slowly this time, and crawled back over to them. Abigail was again quite still, almost in a trance it seemed, leaning against Emma's leg. I carefully put my hand upon her back left hip—I knew now that her greatest pain was there—and Emma's hand rested lightly on mine, and then her other hand gently touched my neck.
“It's like there are two images,” Emma whispered. “The one that is there and the one that should be there. But you have to be very careful. The one that should be there belongs to Abigail, exclusively to Abigail, not to you. It's not what you think should be there, but what truly should be there for Abigail. Can you feel it?”
I shook my head. “I don't know,” I said. I thought of getting a television picture to come in correctly, adjusting the tuning knob. I could feel Abigail stiffen under my touch. I felt that the image I wanted was just out of reach, somehow. I pressed, or tried harder; it is so difficult to explain clearly. Suddenly Abigail whimpered, and then shuddered with pain. Her pain rolled through me in waves. I pushed myself away from her.
“You have to be gentle,” Emma whispered sharply, her eyes tightly closed. “You have to be extremely careful. There's so much power in you, Thomas. You have to treat it with a tremendous respect.”
“I don't want to hurt her,” I said.
“I know. Tell her it's okay. You tell her.”
“I'm sorry, Abigail,” I said. I was near to crying. “I'm sorry.”
Abigail pushed herself against me again, but I was reluctant to touch her.
“I don't know if I can do this,” I said.
“Let's rest a minute,” Emma said. She looked suddenly, deeply tired.
I lay back flat on the floor and stared up at the ceiling. That second time, feeling, knowing Abigail's hip, had been much clearer for me. I had hurt her, though. There was pain there to begin with, but I had made it worse. It was unsettling to be confronted with such a new, and frightening, power. It frightened me to feel responsible for Abigail's well being, to know I could help her, but not know how or why I could help. For the briefest moment I had felt that I could have, quite accidentally, crushed her hip, her body, the way one might sneeze or hiccup without meaning to.
“You
have to be clear,” Emma said, her quiet voice suddenly filling the room. “I wish I could think of a better way to explain it.”
“Clear,” I said back to her, my voice flat.
“No expectations,” Emma said. “Not even so much as the wish to help her.” She paused, reconsidered. “I mean, of course you want to help her.”
I rolled my head over with what seemed great effort to look at Emma. She was looking at me. Just then Abigail let out a great, big sigh, as if she were somewhat exasperated with us both. Emma chuckled.
“You want to help her but your intention should be, should only be, that she be more properly herself, more perfectly herself. You're not fixing Abigail's hip, but, somehow, giving her hip back to her, the way it should properly be. Do you see that at all?”
“I think so, maybe.”
“Tell me.”
I frowned. “Well, it's her hip. It's not mine to give.”
“Yes, Thomas. Yes, that's right.”
“And it's like you said, she's old, she has an old hip. But she doesn't need to have that much pain.”
I was still looking over at Emma. Her eyes were shining.
“Let me try again,” I said.
“Carefully,” she said.
This time I felt calmer. What I was trying to do, with Emma's help (she never let go of either my hand or my neck), was to lead Abigail this minuscule distance. It was as if her hip was just the slightest bit out of alignment, and I was trying to nudge it back into place, with my heart, through my hands. It's hard to describe it any better than that. It was clear to me at the time. I sensed that there was a place or a state where her hip was supposed to be, and if I could just nudge it a little part of the way it would fall into place of its own accord. And it did.
I blinked, and sat back again. I pushed Abigail away from me. Her tail started wagging again, with enthusiasm. She was glad it was over; she felt better. She nuzzled my hand with her head and I patted her a few times but then I pushed her away again. In a funny way I had suddenly had quite enough of her. My hands felt hot. I realized I was sweating: my forehead and chest were hot and moist.
“Okay,” I said, to Abigail, who was pushing against me again. “Go somewhere.”
I was tired. I was very, very tired. Emma climbed to her feet and more or less dragged Abigail out of the cabin. Then Emma came back and all but collapsed on the sofa. She patted the cushion next to her.
“Come,” she said.
I climbed up from the floor onto the cushion, and leaned heavily against her. I felt like I could sleep for hours.
“Is it always that hard?” I asked.
“You get used to it,” she said weakly, and then chuckled again. This day was the warmest, the kindest she had been with me. I loved seeing her smile, hearing her small, rough laugh. “I never showed anyone before. It's hard work.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Hmm,” was all she said. “There is more for your birthday, but let's rest a while first.”
“More? There can't be more.”
“There's more.”
I wriggled into a more relaxed position. She draped her arm across me, a bit awkwardly at first, but then more tenderly. I never thought to ask if she was comfortable. We sat that way, I don't know how long, not talking, just resting. I felt like I could have stayed there forever, just like that. I closed my eyes.
After a time, she asked: “Are you sleeping?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good,” she answered. “I need to tell you some things. None of this is quite right, but it's the best I can tell you. Now, there's a basic goodness at the heart of things, Thomas. A basic, clear, simple goodness in every stone and tree and animal—in everything. It's not something that you can see or that someone can prove to you. But it's there. And it's not a human goodness, it's not nice, or fair, or comfortable; there are terrible things in the world, more terrible even than you or I can imagine. But through it all, at the deepest core, is this simple, basic goodness. You have to believe that. You have to find it in your heart to believe that. Are you listening to me?”
I was very still, lying against her. I breathed when she breathed.
“No,” I said.
“Good, that's good.” She kissed me lightly on the top of the head. “Here's the tricky part, maybe. Everything has its own simple goodness. It's not just the same, everywhere, one big bland good thing. Each thing, each creature has its own particular good heart, which is unique, different from all the rest. You have to believe and respect and cherish each one. It's hard, sometimes. I mean, sometimes it's basically impossible. But you have to try. Nothing I've taught you means anything if you don't try. And the first heart, the most important heart to cherish, is your own. That's what I meant about being clear. You have to clear everything out until there is just this good, simple Thomas left.”
As she finished talking I found that I had begun to cry. I was thinking of my father, and my birthday, and everything that was supposed to happen on that day. I knew, resting there with Emma, that I could never hunt, could never shoot an animal, but how could I tell my father that? I felt dread, and shame. I felt dishonest for not telling Emma what was going on. I felt anything but clear, anything but simple or good.
For all that I was tired. Abigail had drained me somehow. I felt sad, and very unsure of myself. Emma was there, supporting me, warm. I fell asleep.
I don't know if I slept for five minutes or an hour and half. I woke to the sound of voices, to a quiet but definite argument. I was curled up, alone on the sofa. I didn't move or open my eyes.
“He's too young,” I heard a man's voice say. The voice was old but its timbre was rich and strong.
“He's young,” Emma said.
“Too young.”
“What is too young? How do you know? He's sweet and gentle and he has the quiet. You've seen him in the woods. He's gifted in our way.”
“That's as may be. But he hasn't lived. You can't put this on him so early, before he's had some stretch of life. You and I were well along before we started in earnest. Those years are a great help.”
“I know,” Emma said. She was silent a few moments. “I care for him. I want to give him this.”
“Wait a while. A long while.”
“I don't know how long I've got. I'm not a young woman, you know.” There was a light humor in her voice.
“You have time, I'm sure of it. Lots of time. And so does he. You can't pull a sapling up by the roots to help it grow.”
“I know that,” Emma said, a little sharply. “I know that.”
“Work with him, but patiently. Think years. Let him grow away from you and come back.”
“Oh, Mr. Nash, I don't want him to grow away.”
Mr. Nash. I sat up from the couch, quickly, and my head swam a moment, and there was Emma, alone, staring out the front window of her cabin. She looked down at me.
“Oh, hello,” she said.
“I heard ...” I looked around; there was no one in the cabin but us. “I heard you talking.”
“I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn't mean to wake you.”
I just sat there, my head cloudy, looking at her, and she looked back at me, her face blank, flat, and then she smiled a little sadly. I felt, at that moment, that I had lost something, that she was pulling away from me.
“I'm not too young,” I said.
“Come on,” Emma said, as if I had not spoken. “It's getting late and we have another little walk ahead of us.”
All of the sudden everything was normal between us, or was supposed to be. Emma walked over to the little kitchenette and started putting together sandwiches for us. She poured me a glass of milk and gave me a couple of chocolate chip cookies.
“I guess I should have baked you a cake,” she said.
“Naw,” I said. “Anyway, my birthday's not for a while yet.”
“I know,” she said quietly. She packed a bag with some small apples that looked a little mushy to me
. I wasn't so sure I was going to want any of those. But my sandwich was good, and I gobbled down my cookies and drank my milk. I was hungry, sleepy, sad. There were too many things going on for my young head and heart to sort out. Emma was a little distant from me, and I just had to let that be. I didn't have anything like the power or energy to bridge the gap between us.
Outside the cabin, I gave Abigail a farewell pat. It was odd, petting her. I could feel nothing, now. She was just a cheerful old dog. It was hard for me to remember what that feeling, so intense at the time, had been like. I felt like I had lost something, lost it before I had ever really had it.
I was feeling quiet and subdued, then, as we plunged back into the old forest that bordered the highway, I realized, vaguely, that we were headed back toward my home, but not directly. Anyway, we were still miles away.
“Where are we?” I asked Emma.
“Up near Harrow Point. That was Highway 12, you know, where I live. We don't have far to go, just a mile or so.”
We walked on in silence. It felt good to be out in the woods again. This was something I was used to. I started to feel a little more like myself, to feel less the wonder and strangeness of what had happened in Emma's cabin.
“Okay,” she said. “We're almost there. A little more quietly, now.”
We were at the edge of a large natural pasture, ringed with trees, covered with tall grass and low shrubs and bushes. We crept forward. An orange and black monarch butterfly batted along in the bright sunshine.
“Hello-o-o!” Emma called softly.
I could see nothing. We waited. It seemed impossible to me that the air could be so still. Then, from behind a clump of bushes some twenty yards away, walked a large, beautiful, reddish-brown doe, her head held high, sniffing the air. As I smiled with delight, Emma's hand came up and rather snugly squeezed the back of my neck.
“So you can hear,” she whispered.
“What?” I asked, and then I did hear, or felt, or saw, smelt a soft, thick, mumbly voice.
The Healer of Harrow Point Page 5
