Chapter 2: Angela’s Herbs and Remedies
“Black cats hiding in the hedges,
Superstitious
I was first To galvanize the magic,
Dipped my eyes In the glitter of a curse
There you were, In a world of enchantment,
Unimagined…”
-Zella Day, Only a Dream
Sitting in the passenger seat of her mother’s car, Rita pulls at her seatbelt. It’s in its usual position, but somehow this morning it feels like it’s trying to slowly strangle her. She rubs at her temple, willing away the migraine she spent the entire previous day dealing with. She’d forgotten to take her sumatriptan the night before and it’s less and less effective the farther from the onset it’s taken. And, of course, the July sun only makes things worse, even through sunglasses. It’s hot, too. Rita’s shirt is already sticking to her sides. It’s a light blue blouse that buttons down the front with a short collar and small cutouts on top of the shoulders. Despite the lightweight fabric, Rita can feel her temperature rising.
“Are you excited?” Mamá asks, flashing a bright, hopeful smile over at her daughter. Excited isn’t the word, Rita thinks. Nervous, anxious, pessimistic, and nihilistic are all closer to the mark.
“Uh, pretty excited, I guess.”
“I really think this is gonna be great for you, Mija.” She turns briefly to scan Rita’s face before looking back at the road.
“There’s a stop sign,” Rita blurts involuntarily.
“I see it,” Mamá reassures. “Angela’s different. I really think you’ll get along.”
“What’s she like??”
“The herbalist is… very wise. And much more compassionate than some.” Rita nods, sinking into her thoughts for the rest of the drive. It only takes about 15 minutes. “You ready?” Not at all.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” At least that part’s true.
“You want me to walk you in?”
“Mamá, I’m an adult. I don’t need you to walk me in.”
“Lo siento,” She responds, her hands placating. “I’ll pick you up when I get off.”
“Text me when you’re on your way.”
“Of course. Good luck, Mijja.”
Taking a deep breath, Rita watches her mom’s Subaru round the corner, smoothing down her shirt. She’s taken every med she has that helps at all, but she can still feel the pain, lingering under the surface, waiting to rear its ugly head. Taking one last steadying breath, Rita pushes open the glass door, bells tinkling as she enters the small shop.
It’s smaller than Rita remembers from when she was a kid, but brightly lit by the sun coming through the front windows, and seems clean. The smell is immediate and unidentifiable. A complex, almost overwhelming blend of dozens, if not hundreds of herbs and tinctures. It’s the kind of place you can scan in 30 seconds, or spend an entire week examining in detail. Every wall is covered in small parcels and bottles, most of the labels printed in dark green ink on brown paper.
Walking up to the counter across from the door, Rita smooths down her shirt one more time, trying to hold it shut where it gaps across her chest. She undoes the bottom button, leaving it untucked to hide her muffin top. Already the nice, non-stretchy pants she never wears feel like they’re trying to cut her in half. The probably IBS cramps are already starting, high up, almost under the ribs. How many pounds has she gained at this point since her pain flared? She stopped weighing herself months ago because it always makes her feel like shit. Even more than usual.
“Margarita!” Angela the Herbalist appears through the doorway behind the counter, hobbling with a carved wooden cane, a bright smile set into deep wrinkles under snow white hair. “So nice to see you again! You’ve gotten so tall!” At nearly 5’4” Rita doesn’t hear that often, but she’s easily a head taller than the old woman, who is certainly under 5 feet.
“Thank you for hiring me,” Rita responds, hands clutched in front of her for want of something else to do.
“Please, I’m just glad it worked out,” The old woman says, reaching across the counter to take Rita’s hand in both of hers. Her skin is soft and brown as old, worn leather, and her knuckles are stiff with arthritis, but her grip is strong. “Come, come, I’ll show you around.” Beckoning with one hand, she uses the cane in the other to raise the flapped section of the counter to Rita’s right. “You look lovely dear, but please don’t feel the need to stand on ceremony here. We like to keep it casual.” That’s a relief, Rita thinks. The Herbalist herself is wearing a red-brown smock dress with a blue knitted shawl draped over her shoulders.
“We?” She asks, coming around the counter and peering tentatively towards the doorway behind it. It doesn’t seem like a single back room. More likely there’s an apartment connected to the shop.
“Myself and my nephew, Paolo. He’s doing a few chores around the house, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.” Rita vaguely remembers someone tall but not in any detail. “Do you still get the bronchitis, dear?” Rita hasn’t really thought about it in years. When she was a kid she’d come down with a horrible cough for 2 weeks every January that made her miss school, but through high school it’s been not much more than a slight tickle in her throat.
“Not really, I think I grew out of it.” If only I could grow out of everything else.
“That’s good, dear. If it ever comes back, I still stock the tea I used to sell your mother. The teas are all over there, next to the cold and flu remedies.” She gestures at the wall to the right.
“Teas over there, got it.” She proceeds to show Rita where each section is and how to operate the card reader and cash register. Unlike every other cashier job Rita’s applied to, this one actually has a chair behind the counter. It looks a little like the high chair Rita had used as a toddler at the kitchen table. Or maybe it was closer to the bar style stools the bougie coffee shops put along their front walls so their patrons can people-watch. Presumably it has to be tall to provide the diminutive proprietor a good view of her wares, but either way Rita is grateful for it.
“I can move it if you prefer to stand.” The herbalist offers.
“No, no this is perfectly fine,” Rita says quickly, trying not to let the true extent of her relief show on her face. Trying to be professional. Maybe I’ll be able to do this after all, she thinks for the first time.
Rita’s first 4 hour shift passes smoothly, though by the time she relaxes into a bit of a groove, her flank pain is flaring, making it hard to concentrate. About a dozen customers come in, mostly students from the college who are looking for summer cold remedies. There must be something going around on campus. Thankfully Rita doesn’t know any of them, but they still make her feel self-conscious. Despite the pain in her head and sides, Rita is absurdly proud when she looks up to see it’s half an hour to the end of her shift, and she hasn’t cried, or fallen, or called her brother to pick her up early.
A customer walks in, dressed in a suit jacket and sweater vest and polishing wire-rimmed glasses on the hem of the shirt underneath, Rita quickly guesses he’s a professor from the college and points him to the display to her right she’s been pointing at all afternoon.
“Actually, I’m here for, you know, something else.”
“What are you looking for?” Rita says in a voice she hopes sounds chipper. “I’ll try to help you find anything you need.”
“I just need, you know, the stuff you keep in the back.” Rita looks around behind the counter, trying to understand what the professor is hinting at, but the only things Angela keeps behind the counter are the large jars of herbs she sells in bulk on request. “If you want something specific, just let me know what and I’ll try to find it.” . Just then Paolo appears in the doorway behind her.
“Prof!” he says, confirming Rita’s assumption. “I’ve got your herb, I’ll be right back. Not for the first time, Rita wonders what they do ‘in the back’ when they disappear. Angela’s been working on something back there since she handed off the counter earlier in the afternoon. The Professor clears his throat, polishing his glasses again in what must be a nervous habit, and avoiding eye contact. “Here we are,” the Herbalist’s massive nephew carefully holds out a small, unmarked parcel about the size of a packet of tea, and the Professor takes it gratefully, handing over several larger bills. If it is tea, it must be made with edible gold leaf to cost that much.
As the door swings shut, bells tinkling, the shift in air pressure sends the smell clinging to Paolo right to Rita’s nose. It takes a second, but eventually she places it. It’s the smell of the wooded area in the park, the dirt patch under the bleachers where the burnouts go to smoke. It’s the smell of her brother’s friends that wafts out from under his door when they’re hanging out in his room. Rita rears back as Angela shuffles out from the doorway, rubbing her hands on an apron around her waist and reeking the same as her nephew. What the hell has Rita gotten herself into?