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“Sometimes,” Mary said. “If you’re loved back.”
At that, the woman began crying again. “I keep looking for him everywhere. I
stand at my window so I can see him tending his crops outside. I dream his face
when I go to bed and then when I wake up in the morning.”
“It’s like a sickness,” Mary said, nodding. “It is.”
“I’ve gone to meet him in the barn. He doesn’t love me, doesn’t want me, but
I’ve let him do things to me that I’ve never even let my husband do. He uses me
up and then zips up his pants and leaves me lying there, like some whore. And I
go back and back. I whisper I love you to him, but he never even looks me in the
eye.”
“Keep drinking your tea,” Mary said. “It’ll help. Cranberry root always soothes
an unrequited love. I’ll give you a handful before you leave, from my garden in
back.”
Beatrice smiled slightly and downed the rest of her tea. I watched, fascinated,
as she wiped bits of root from her lips.
“Thank you,” she said, looking at me. I looked down, blushing straight to my
toes.
“You need to boil cranberry root every day,” Mary said, “and drink it with your
meals, and whenever you are feeling like you really need it. Put a black curtain
over that window you watch him from, and hang garlic across the top. You can
also sip honey water mixed with cinnamon to make your sleep more dreamless. If
you want to dream, just not of him, boil cranberry root, too, and use that water
with the honey.”
“Yes,” Beatrice said, sitting up straight. “Yes, I’ll do that. I want to be free
from this.” Already her cheeks were becoming less flushed. Her face seemed to
soften, as if we’d sprayed it with mist.
“Wait here,” Mary said. “We’ll get you some herbs to take home.”
We went back to the kitchen. Mary reached for the second jar on the right,
lifted out some of the cranberry root, and dropped it in a small paper bag.
I breathed out in relief. “I was so scared,” I said. “I thought I’d picked the
wrong one. I couldn’t remember.” I cringed then, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
“It doesn’t really matter,” Mary said, lowering her voice. “When you’re foolish
about love, herbs can only help so much.” I looked up at her, shocked. Mary tied
up the bag and winked down at me.
When we came back, Beatrice seemed a different woman from the one who’d skulked
through the door a half hour before. She clutched her bag of herbs and radiantly
offered Mary a small stack of bills.
“Thank you,” Mary said, taking the bills and hugging Beatrice as if she’d known
her forever. When Beatrice leaned down to hug me as well, I found myself hoping
she would always be the way she was right then.
The moment the door closed, Mary turned to me and rolled her eyes, letting out a
deep breath. She handed me two of the bills in her hand, then rolled up the rest
and thrust them in her skirt pocket.
I looked toward the door, and at Beatrice’s empty cup of tea, and at the two
bills in my palm. “But is it wrong?” I asked, a pang of guilt sweeping through
me. “To take this?” I clutched the bills in my hand. “It feels weird. She was so
sad.”
“We didn’t ask Beatrice to come here,” Mary said. “If she wants to give us her
money, let her.” She shrugged. “And of course she’s sad. Who isn’t?”
“Oh,” I said. I looked at the ground, confused.
“A cup of tea can’t change someone’s heart, no matter how powerful the herbs in
it are. The herbs have a mind of their own, you know.” She laughed. “But you
make people believe in extraordinary things, and extraordinary things will
happen. The rest is up to her. It’s the same as in the circus.”
Excerpted from Rain Village by Carolyn Turgeon. Copyright © 2006 by Carolyn Turgeon. Excerpted by permission of Unbridled Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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