Ana #2
invented, only discovered, synthesized, and refined, measured, balanced.
I attach the vial to the IV line, the way I learned from Agnes, who made frequent hospital visits.
Often after her visits, which were ostensibly to offer support, prayer, comfort, patients would grow miraculously better—if even just for a short time.
Sometimes not. Sometimes they would peacefully pass after a long languishing.
But sometimes they would become well and walk away defying all odds.
I sit beside her and whisper my aunt’s prayer: May your body use the gifts of the earth to heal. May you find the strength to stay with us or the peace to let go. It is
not your will or ours, but the will of the Great Mother whose wisdom encompasses all things, even that which is unknown to
us.
I do as Agnes taught me, fill my lungs with air, draw the energy of the earth in through the soles of my feet, and let it
travel from my palms to hers. Then I add my own addendum. “Don’t go, Iggy. It’s not time.”
Brock stands in the corner, watching.
We both startle at the sudden sound of a baby crying. Not crying. Wailing, growing closer. Oh, god. Seriously?
Brock’s mother walks in looking harried, Noah wriggling in her arms. Her face darkens when she sees me.
“You,” she says.
“Hello, Marge,” I say flatly. “You really seem to have a magical way with children.”
Her nostrils flare in distaste.
I reach for Noah, and she reluctantly hands him over. In my arms, he quiets immediately. I am annoyingly happy to see him.
What is it with this kid? He’s just so warm and fat in my arms, like a little hot water bottle.
I touch his nose. “Hey, buddy. I know, your grandma is a real . . .”
“Ana,” says Brock.
“Sorry.”
“I just can’t get him to settle,” Marge says, looking uncharacteristically distraught.
Babies do have a way of unstitching our composure, don’t they?
I remember when Coraline had colic and Vera, Brad, April, and I took turns walking with her while she wailed.
God, I resented the fuck out of her then, swore I would never have children of my own. But she grew on me. More or less.
I bounce Noah a little, give him a couple of hard pats on the back, and finally he releases a big, gross baby burp.
“He’s gassy,” I say, remembering what Iggy told me. If you don’t burp him right after he eats and then again a little while later, he’s a bear. “You need to burp him after you feed him. More than once.”
“I know that, Ana. Thank you,” Marge snaps.
“Ana put a milk thistle blend into the IV line,” says Brock.
Marge casts a side-eye at me. A friend of Agnes’s, Marge knows a thing or two about The Cove. She wasn’t a member, but an
ally, someone from whom Agnes often sourced herbs she didn’t grow in her own garden.
“Where did you prepare it?” she asks.
“In the kitchen, from Agnes’s recipe.”
She nods. Everyone trusted Agnes. Her work was always flawless. I wonder what it takes to earn respect like that.
“You know what tonight is,” Marge says, glancing out the window.
Of course I know what tonight is. The Wolf Moon. I’m a little surprised that she does.
When Agnes was alive it was always a time of celebration, of gathering. I remember the bonfire and the mulled cider, the incantations.
The meeting usually lasted for days. People came to learn from each other, to swap recipes, herbs, crystals, books. It was
a time of releasing the cold, fallow months of winter, looking forward to the renewal of spring.
Since Agnes’s death, it’s as if all the energy and joy of it is gone. With Lisander at the helm, it’s as dull as a condo board
meeting. There’s bickering, grudges brought forth, reprimands handed out, and new rules voted upon, which no one follows.
I’m sure Agnes is not pleased, if she’s looking down on us.
Not as many people come. Agnes was the mother of The Cove.
People came for her love, her energy, her encouragement.
They came for her instruction and recipes, for the herbs from her garden, which were known to be special.
Now Lisander and a small council are the leaders.
The garden produces far less than when Agnes was alive, and not for lack of our trying.
It’s like it was part of her and now it’s slowly fading without her, just like The Cove.
“Lisander wants you and Vera to be there.”
“What do you know about what Lisander wants?” I ask, bouncing Noah a little on my hip. How does everyone and their mother
all of a sudden know about The Cove?
I don’t like the way she and Brock are looking at me, like I’m the kid who got called to the principal’s office. Sometimes
I wonder if Brock is as sweet as he seems. He is Marge’s son after all.
A dark thought occurs: Do either of them have a reason to kill Paul, to hurt Iggy?
I swallow the lump in my throat, back away, and can only manage a nod. I’m still traumatized from the last meeting that was
called because of something I was involved in.
Noah takes a chunk of my hair and pulls hard.
“Ouch, buddy,” I say, unclenching his little fingers. Seems to be our thing. He laughs, bounces his legs.
“He likes you,” says Marge grudgingly. Her hair is dry and frayed as a Brillo pad, her face a landscape of lines and sagging
skin. Note to self: moisturize.
“I have to go,” I say. “I’ll take the baby.”
“No,” says Marge quickly, reaching for him. Noah looks at her, mouth pressed into a comical pout. Then he starts to squall.
Marge lifts her beefy palms in surrender, looks to Brock, who shrugs wearily.
“Where’s that baby carrier thing? The one you strap on.”
“In the trunk,” says Brock, handing me the fob. “Just take the car because it has the seat in it. I’m not leaving Iggy.”
I take the baby bag from Marge, who turns to her Brock. “You need to get some rest, son,” she says. “I’ll stay with her.”
He shakes his head, sits back down as Marge looks at him helplessly.
“I’ll bring the baby back to the house after a while,” I say. “I’ll put him down there for the night and stay.”
Brock doesn’t say anything and Marge waves me out.
I leave them, taking the baby, not even sure why I offered. It just makes me feel better somehow. I have the weird feeling
that Iggy would rather he was with me than with Marge, even though I’ve never evidenced caretaking skills of any kind.
At the car, I strap him into his seat. He happily bats at the toys that hang from the handle. We haven’t even been driving
for five minutes when I look in the mirror to see that he’s sound asleep.
I know where April works when she’s not at my sister’s beck and call. I have some questions for the little mouse, so I drive
that way.
Even though it’s just early afternoon, the sky already seems to be darkening the way it does in a northern winter, the stingy
sun lost behind the persistent gray ceiling.
As the sun sinks, I have the very powerful sense that the wolf is at my door and my time is running out.