Ruby
At my next appointment with Jamie, we agree I don’t need to come again.
Talking to him has helped a lot, not only in reaching my decision, but in working through some of the bewilderment of my grief, as well.
The fog has lifted a little, enough for me to see a way forward, and now I want to work out the next steps for myself, seeing where the path I’ve chosen takes me, giving things time to fall into place.
I know it’ll take more time, and perhaps it will always be something I’ll be working on. But, then, isn’t that really all we human beings can aspire to be: works in progress?
He’d seemed delighted the other day when Hanna and I told him of our plans for the croft, and I was surprised how happy that had made me feel.
When the clock on the wall has ticked down my allotted hour, I get to my feet, conscious that someone else who needs Jamie’s help will be arriving shortly.
I hold out my hand. “I may not need your support as a doctor anymore,” I say, as I take my leave, “but I’m glad I still have you as a friend and neighbor.”
“Me too, Ruby. I’m always here if you need me. And since I’m not your doctor any more, perhaps we could have supper one night. If you’d be okay with that, I mean?” The light in his eyes is like a candle, guiding me home.
“I’d be very okay with that. Thank you. I’ll look forward to it.”
There’s an awkward moment while we stand there, my hand still clasped in his, reluctant to say goodbye, even though we know we’ll probably be seeing each other again very soon.
The meadowsweet is just coming into flower now along the roadside as I drive back to Igdrasil, and I remember how we celebrated Sankthans last year.
What strange and vivid dreams I had on that night when the veil between this world and the next is thin, when Lucy came to me and Jamie’s was the face I saw.
The subconscious is a powerful thing. Or maybe there’s something in Hanna’s funny superstitions after all. Because now that I’m about to embark on the next steps toward my future, I suddenly know that Jamie is going to be in it with me.
*
After lunch, as I’m drying my hands on a dish towel, I look out of the farmhouse window to the treeless sweep of meadow and moorland and, for some reason, the image of Hanna’s Grouse Tree pops into my head.
I picture how she described it—an older birch, twisted and bent by the snows of many winters, supporting the newer sapling, letting it grow straight and tall.
Helping it reach for the light.