Potions 101

            I thought the classroom would be less . . . ordinary. After all, this wasn’t an average cooking class; it was Potions 101 at The Collective. But no one would ever know it from the room, which smelled like hospital antiseptic and looked more suitable for junior high home ec than witchcraft education.

            I made my way to a workstation at the front table. Even with my glasses, I’d have to squint to read the board. I sent a wish to the Goddess for a potion that cures myopia, followed quickly by another: please let me pass this class. As a neophyte, I’d saved my weakest subject for last, like when I was little and ate around the green beans on my plate. And just like dessert depended on my eating those green beans, my initiation into the coven depended on my passing this class.

            I took out my notebook and pen while my classmates shuffled in. Someone—a girl with straw-like hair who smelled like cigarette smoke—took the workstation to my right. We gave each other close-lipped smiles of acknowledgement. First day of class awkwardness is the same everywhere, I guess.

            “The rules for building potions,” a voice declared from the back of the room, “are the same as the rules for baking.”

            We watched our instructor stride toward the front of the room. She looked like an old schoolmarm: hair in a tight bun, long-sleeved blouse, ankle-length skirt, horn-rimmed glasses, lace-up boots. Didn’t she know old-fashioned was out of fashion?

            “Now,” she continued, “who can tell me what those rules are?”

            My classmates called out answer after answer. “Measure everything exactly!” “Use the right pans!” “Mix carefully!” “Use the best ingredients!” I flung open my notebook and began scribbling.

            “You’re forgetting the most important rule,” Ms. Schoolmarm admonished. She stopped in front of me. “What is your name?”

            “Belva Emerson.”

            She folded her arms. “Ms. Emerson, what is the most important rule in baking?”

            I blinked. “I…I’ve only baked using a packaged mix.” And even that’s hit or miss, I didn’t add, thinking of last month’s muffin catastrophe.

            “That won’t help you here. Betty Crocker doesn’t make potions.”

            My classmates giggled. I cringed. The first day of class and my reputation was sealed: Belva Emerson, World’s Worst Witch.

            Only our teacher’s voice silenced the laughter. “I am Sister Woodrow, and the most important rule to follow is this: Before you do anything, read the recipe in its entirety.”

            I wrote her words in big capital letters. A few minutes later, she distributed our books and gave us our first assignment: read Chapter 1. That night, I read the whole book, cover-to-cover. Twice.

Mortar and pestle photo by Vassil, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The next day, we found our workstations stocked with clay bowls, mortars, and pestles. I prayed that my potions would turn out better than my baked goods.

The straw-haired girl slid in next to me again.

“I’m Belva,” I said.

She slid a pack of cigarettes into her pocket. “Lila.”

Before we could say anything more, Sister Woodrow swooped in. “Open your books to page 7. Start reading.”

            Page 7: The Foundation Potion, the potion used to build other potions, like a chef’s roux. This was supposedly the simplest of all potions—which did not bode well for me. I’d never made a roux in my life.

            I’d read the recipe last night. I read it three more times before Sister Woodrow spoke again.  

            “Ingredients are stored in the cabinets on the west wall. You have five minutes to gather everything you need.”

            Eighteen teenage girls stampeded to the cabinets. We reached over, around, and behind each other to get what we needed before rushing back to our seats.

            I sorted my ingredients in a semi-circle around my bowl, with the plandai on the left around to the distilled water on the right. I visualized each step of the recipe. I refused to compound the previous day’s embarrassment.

            Today was someone else’s turn.

            Not long after Sister Woodrow gave us the go-ahead, I heard panicked breathing in the row behind me. At the same time, the smell of sweaty feet burned my nostrils. I turned around to find the contents of a clay bowl bubbling and foaming and a brown-haired young witch on the verge of hyperventilating. The Foundation Potion was a simple mixture. No bubbling. No foaming.

            Someone hadn’t followed directions.

            “Make it stop!” the offender cried. “Oh, my Goddess, stop!”

            Sister Woodrow materialized at the cowering girl’s side.  “Clearly you used the wrong ingredients.” She scanned the girl’s workspace and grabbed a pile of flat green leaves. “You used landare leaves. The recipe called for grated landare root.” She launched into a lecture on the importance of reading every recipe carefully. Meanwhile, the clay bowl continued to foam over and the smelly-foot odor intensified. My eyes watered. My throat tightened. I cast about for the nearest wastebasket.

            My gaze stopped on a stack of textbooks. I’d read about this, I realized. Chapter 13: How to Neutralize a Potion. I darted to the supply cabinets and pawed through every shelf. How could Sister Woodrow not plan for a mistake like this? Surely other students had screwed up their potions before.

            I spun around to Lila. “Can I have a cigarette?”

            Lila pulled a blank face. “I don’t have any.”

            I raised my eyebrows and looked pointedly at her pants pocket.

            She smirked, pulled out her pack, and shook a smoke into my hand.  I wiggled my fingers, and she passed over her lighter.

            I lit the cigarette and let it burn for a few seconds, which didn’t do much.

            “Here.” Lila grabbed the cigarette out of my hands and took a deep drag.

            I grabbed it back and tapped the ash into the foaming potion.

            I let Lila inhale again and then tapped more ash into the bowl.  

            “Hey, look at Betty Crocker!” I heard one of my classmates say.

            Burn and tap, burn and tap, Lila and I continued until only a stub of the cigarette was left. Slowly the potion settled down.  When it returned to a flat consistency, I put out the cigarette on the edge of the bowl.

            The rest of the class stared.

            I snuck a look at Sister Woodrow, who nodded and said, “Nicely done, ladies.” A blush burned my cheeks when she continued, “Perhaps there’s a witch in you, after all, Ms. Emerson.”

Click here to read the story behind "Potions 101."

Achilles' Heel (Revised)

I reach down and rub my heel, but the itch doesn’t ease. The movement doesn’t escape Dr. Lucas’ notice, either, even though he never looks up from the letter he’s reading.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I answer, knowing he’ll see right through the lie.

“Okay, then.” He drops the letter on the armrest of his chair and sits back. “What are you feeling?”

Damn. Right into the trap. I adjust my tie. I cross my legs. I uncross and recross them. I lean forward. I lean back. The leather sofa squeals as I move. I consider excusing myself to the john.

Dr. Lucas remains still and silent.

“Uncomfortable,” I finally answer. “I feel uncomfortable.”

“Why? What’s making you uncomfortable?”

Like he doesn’t know. I nod in the direction of his armrest. “That letter. What else?”

“What about the letter?” he asks, adjusting his glasses.

“Everything.” I tick off the reasons on my fingers. “It’s from the doctor at the psychiatric hospital. She wants me to visit my mother.  I haven’t seen my mother since I was sixteen.”

Dr. Lucas raises his eyebrow. “And?”

“And what?” I shift deeper into the sofa. More squeals.

“It seems you’re leaving out the most important part.”

“Really? I thought that went without saying.” My voice comes out much angrier than I’d intended, but I don’t apologize. Dr. Lucas has been teaching me to own my feelings, including—or maybe especially—my anger over my mother.

My goddamn mother.

Who thought she was the Greek nymph Thetis and I, her son Achilles.

Who decided the fountain at Oak Hills Mall was the River Styx.

Who spent my childhood in and out of sanity and institutions.

Who almost drowned me when I was nine months old. 

Who was now dying and wanted me to come see her.

Like that would make anything better.

“Alan?”

I blink and make eye contact.

“You drifted away for a moment,” Dr. Lucas says. “Want to tell me what you were thinking?”

I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head.

He turns his hand palm up. “Out loud, please.”

“I don’t see the point of visiting. There is nothing she can say or do that will make up for the damage—”

“Maybe she wants to apologize.”

“Apologize?” I jam my fingers into my shoe and scratch. “What could an ‘I’m sorry’ do after all this time?”

Dr. Lucas looks directly at my scratching fingers. I yank my hand back to my lap. “…calm your anger,” he’s saying. “Soothe your hurt.”

I freeze for a moment. Did I hear correctly? “I thought you said there was no such thing as magic words.”

“Magic words, no. Healing words, yes, sometimes.” He holds up his pen. “If the listener is ready and willing to hear them.”

 I open my mouth to speak but change my mind. Maybe Dr. Lucas’ statement was really a question. Am I ready? Willing? How would I know? Damn it, I didn’t start this therapy thing to become “ready” for anything. I just wanted to know I hadn’t inherited my mother’s crazy. Milestone birthdays can have that effect.

 “What was that?” Dr. Lucas asks.

God, I hate that question.

“I saw something on your face just now,” he continues. “A pretty strong reaction, from the looks of it. Tell me about it.”

I take a deep breath and then let it rip. “Don’t you have tests for this stuff, like a real doctor would? Take a little blood, pop it into a machine, and bing, bang, boom, a diagnosis. This therapy...stuff has far too many gray areas, requires far too much thinking. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have started at all. Then I coulda thrown out that damn letter without ever opening the envelope or feeling a twinge of anything.”

Dr. Lucas raises an eyebrow.

“Look.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, ignoring the creak in the sofa, and lower my tone. “I get that this is my decision. But it would help me make my decision if I knew where you stood. All I want is a straight answer. Is that too much to ask?”

The good doctor shifts in his seat and taps his upper lip with his pen. I lean back and settle into my corner of the squeaky couch. I start to cross my arms, but force myself to rest them on the armrest and back of the sofa instead. I bite my cheek, resisting the overwhelming pull of my bothersome heel.

The silence lasts forever.

When Dr. Lucas clips his pen to the folder on the side table, I know I’ve won.

“No, it’s not,” he says in his let-me-talk-you-off-that-ledge voice. Is he being honest or humoring me?

I’ve got a good three inches and fifty pounds on him. I would never take advantage of that, but maybe he’s not so sure, given my uncharacteristic outburst. I want him to know he’s safe so I say, “Thank you, doc.”

He nods and tents his fingers. In his normal therapy voice he says, “You want to know if I think you should see your mother.”

I nod back. The man has a gift for stating the obvious.

“Short answer? Yes, I do.”

Crap.

“I take it that wasn’t the answer you were hoping for?”

“That obvious, huh?” I hold up a hand. “No, don’t answer that. I know—my face is an open book.”

Dr. Lucas gives me a small smile. “Something like that.” The smile disappears when he says, “Are you ready for the long answer?”

“I’m not sure.” I stare at the painting of a sailboat on the wall behind him. I take a couple of measured breaths. “Tell me anyway.”

“Seeing your mother won’t be easy, but I think it’s necessary. You’ve demonized her. You need to see that she’s human and most importantly, that she no longer has power over you. Or rather, she only has whatever power you give her. I think seeing her will help you let her go.”

I sigh. “But what do I say to her?”

“You don’t have to say anything, but I would suggest at least offering hello and goodbye to be polite.”

Did he just make a joke?

“Mostly you should listen. Do what we’ve talked about before—observe and describe.”

Observe and describe. So much easier said than done. “And if I can’t? If I get upset? Can I storm out?”

“Of course you can leave, but I would hope that would be a last resort.”

In my rational mind, I know he’s right, but every cell in my body feels tense. When it comes to my mother, my fight-or-flight reflex has always been flight. Then a switch flips and I’m nine years old again. “Will you come with me?” I hear myself ask.

He shakes his head. “No, you need to do this on your own.” He leans forward. “You can do this on your own.” He grabs the phone off his side table. Handing it to me with the letter, he says, “Let’s start now. Call the hospital and make an appointment for your visit.”

I press the numbers and listen. When an efficient-sounding voice answers, I feel my shoulders sag. I speed through the rigmarole of introducing myself and explaining my situation, just to get it over with.

“One moment, sir,” the officious voice says. “I’ll transfer you to the ward.”

It’s only when I exhale that I realize I’d been holding my breath. I look at Dr. Lucas, who nods. The gesture is as close as I’m going to get to the hand-holding my inner nine-year-old craves.

“Mr. Summers?” This woman sounds as efficient as the first one but friendlier. “I’m so glad you called. Your mother has taken a turn for the worse and doesn’t have much time left. I suggest you get here as soon as you can.”

I know it’s a cliché, but I swear my jaw drops. I’m still getting used to the idea of seeing my mother. I’m not ready to actually do it. “Uh…one moment,” I stammer. I can’t find a MUTE button on the doc’s phone so I cover it with my hand while I relay the situation. I interpret his shrug as “Do whatever you want.”

Before my brain can order my thoughts, I hear myself say into the phone, “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Could I speak with her now?”

“Of course,” the woman assures me. “Let me transfer you to her room.”

My heart races. Do I call her Mom? Mother? As a teen, I’d repudiated her maternal connection and called her by her given name, Joanne. Do I that now, too?  I claw at my heel. What do I say after that? What if she can’t speak and I have to do all of the talking? What if—

“Mr. Summers? I’m putting the phone next to your mother.”

Dr. Lucas said to at least offer hello and goodbye. I look directly at him as I speak into the phone. “Hello?” He gives me that nod again.

“Who…is this?” The voice is weak, but familiar, and it unexpectedly draws a lump to my throat.

 “It’s Alan.” I swallow. “Your son.”

 “Alan.” I can tell by her voice she’s struggling to breathe. “So glad…to hear…your…voice.”

I answer in slow measured tones. “Yours, too. How are you?”

“Medicated. Very well medicated.”

I smile at her joke, though I suspect it contains more truth than humor. “I’m glad.” I pause before asking, “Your doctor said you wanted to see me. Why?”

She wheezes. I imagine her trying to take a deep breath. “I had to know,” she says, “that I didn’t… that my…that you’re okay.”

Are those Dr. Lucas’ “healing words”? If they are, why don’t I feel healed? But I know what words she needs to hear, so I give them. “I am. I’m okay. I’m fine.”

Her sigh tells me they worked. I hear the murmur of the friendly nurse in the background. Then my mother says, wheezingly, “Rose says I have to go, but I’m so glad you called. Thank you, Alan. Thank you so much.”  

“Goodbye.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Mom.” I wait to hear the disconnecting click before pushing END CALL.

 Dr. Lucas offers a tissue from the box on his side table, and I take it. Dammit, crying is the last thing I want to do. It’s not until later, when I’m halfway home, that I realize my heel doesn’t itch anymore.

Click here to read the story behind this revised version of "Achilles' Heel."