The Visit to the Healer
Helen gripped the test, that white plastic stick, and once again, like so many times before, there it was: a single, pitiless line. Bright red, bold, and, as always, just the one.
She raised her hand to toss it forcefully into the bin, but at the last second, her arm lost strength and dropped. What was the point? Smash it or dontit didnt change anything. Once more, she wasnt pregnant.
She and Mark were thirty. Six years together, with four of those spent desperately trying. Nothing. Both were in perfect health. Doctors just shrugged: Youre just overthinking it. Dont focus so much, relax a bit, and things will happen.
Easy for them to say. For Helen, every month was split in twothe hopeful, exhausted climb, then the drop into hopelessness. Shed invent symptoms, chart every detail, agonise over dates and temperatures, try everything. Then, at the end, came the ugly truth, painting her world in dull, dirty greys.
Helen worked as a postal clerk. It was a monotonous job, but the staffroom was always warm with laughter and chatter, smells of sandwiches and thermos teas hanging in the air.
That lunchtime, it was just Helen, young trainee Emily, and Margaret Williamsa woman in her fifties with a never-ending supply of homemade remedies for any ailment. Margaret had her female issues, which she treated with evangelical passion. One week it was an ominous root infusion, the next a trip to some renowned healer.
The real magics in KentMargaret spoke, her mouth full of cheese and pickle sandwich, turning to Helen. Old Mrs. Agatha, in Little Bramley. Must be near ninety but those eyessharp as a tack. Its like she sees right through you.
Helen stirred her tea without interest, the words slipping around her. Stories shed heard too often.
Can she, what, chant away a cold? Emily asked, more curious than skeptical.
A cold! Margaret let out an exasperated grunt. Listen, she sorted out Linda Smith from up my roadinfertile for twelve years, been everywhere. She went to Agatha, and, six months later, there she was, waddling about, huge! Cured my cousin Petes hernia without a knife, too. Sings over you, packs on herbs, and its gone. She even gets drunks off the bottle. Lifts curses, the whole works Like something out of a novel!
Helen normally brushed this off. But today, after that single red lineher heart skipped. Somewhere deep inside, a faint voice whispered: What if? When medicine offers nothing else
How how does one see her? Helen asked, surprising herself with the tremor in her voice.
Margaret brightened instantly, launching into detail: bus to the crossroads, then a walk down the lanethree, maybe four miles to the village. No phone, mindAgatha doesnt have time for gadgets. You just turn up and wait, theres always a crowd.
Helen wandered in a daze for the rest of her shift. Agatha a miracle Kent The idea began to take root.
***
Mark came home late, well after dark. Helen heard the lock, the heavy tread in the hallway. He entered the kitchenworn out, but handsome as ever. Tall, athletic, his serious face rarely breaking into a smile. As a design engineer at the ministry, Marks life revolved around blueprints, calculations, and deadlines.
Helen adored her husband. She adored him since their first meeting in the university libraryhim, the unflappable second-year, helping her, the nervous fresher, nab a dusty volume from the very top shelf. There were walks in rain, endless talks in stairwells, clumsy attempts at shared cooking. He was her rock. Theyd dreamtchildren, a boy with his eyes, a girl with her curls. It seemed happiness was just a sequence to tick off: meet, fall in love, marry, then kids.
Somewhere, the sequence failed.
Youre lateHelen said, reheating the casserole.
Projects on fire. Overtime,he replied shortly, massaging his brow.What about you?
She sat opposite, watching him eat. Her heart thumped hard.
Mark, do you believe in miracles?
He looked up, puzzled.
Miracles? You mean, like the boss giving us all a bonus? Fat chance. No, Im not a believer. Belief isnt rational.
Not exactly that Helen squirmed on her chair. You know, people with a gift people who heal, do what doctors cant.
Mark put his fork down.
Helen, whats got into you? Been reading alternative medicine websites?
No! My colleague told metheres an old woman in Little Bramley, Kent. Shes helped people, cures infertilityHelen rushed out the last bit, afraid her resolve would break.
To her shock, Mark burst out laughing.
Are you serious? You, a graduate in literature, my clever wife, believe in village witches? In this day and age? Please tell me youre joking.
But people do say she helps!
People say loads. They believe in horoscopes and lucky charms and that a spilled cup of tea means a visitor. Dont tell me you believe any of it? We dont have a problem, Helen. Honestly. Its just not our time yet. We need to stop obsessingstop running around after quacks.
But what if theyre not quacks?her voice turned thin, desperate.Mark, please. Can we go? Just once, at the weekend. Im begging you.
He stared at her, disappointment flooding his face.
The weekend? Im working. Need to finish the blueprints. And honestlyI cant believe youd fall for such superstitious nonsense. Im honestly troubled by it.
He stood, took his plate to the sink.
Dont be childish, Helen. Well get there, just not this way.
He left for the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Helen sat at the table, knuckles white on the edge. Troubled. But her tears, every month, didnt trouble him, nor did her silent despair.
“Fine,” she thought grimly, icy resolve settling in. “Fine, Mark. If you wont take me, Ill go myself.”
*****
Saturday morning, Markas promisedlocked himself away with his computer in the study. Helen poked her head around the door.
Ill pop over to Mum and DadsMum called, says theyre doing a barbecue, she said as breezily as she could.
Mark didnt look away from his screen.
Pass on my regards. Get a cab back if its late, alright?
Will do,she replied, quickly turning away so he wouldnt see the way her hands shook.
At the bus station, there was the usual Saturday chaos. Helen found the desk labeled Local Routes.
To Little Bramley, please.
The gruff ticket lady gave her a sideways look.
No direct route. Theres one to the crossroads at 64 miles, tell the driver, hell let you off. From there, its a good four miles on footfields and all. You on your own?
Yes.
Helen bought her ticket. Her hands trembled. What was she doing, heading off into the wilds, chasing some old wives tale? The bus was old, reeking of petrol. She sat by the window, clutching her bag, watching the grey outskirts slip past, fields emerging bare and bleak beyond. Clouds pressed low and leaden overhead.
What am I playing at? she wondered. Heading into nowhere, chasing fairy tales Marks right. Have I lost my mind?
But the thought of a tiny hand in hers, of laughter echoing in their silent flat, overpowered everything.
At mile marker 64, the driverbearded and in a battered jacketcalled out:
Oi, Little Bramleythis is your stop!
Helen stumbled off onto the verge. The bus rumbled away, leaving her alone in a buzzing silence. Fields on all sides, a meagre copse in the distance, wind cutting straight through. The patha mere track in the mudstretched away. Helen took a breath, tightened her collar, and marched on.
Fifteen minutes in, the drizzle began. Then sleet. Then insistent, icy flakes. She plodded on, feet soaked, hands frozen in flimsy gloves, four relentless miles ahead.
Little Bramley was a clutch of little houses scattered along a single lane. Agathas cottage was easy to spot: two battered hatchbacks and even a posh Land Rover parked outside. Two women huddled on the porch, shivering in their scarves. Helen joined them. She waited for three hours as the queue shuffled forward, snow thickening, her cheeks burning with cold.
At last, a young woman with a sleeping child left, and Helen was invited inside.
It was a simple, sturdy cottage, the air scented with drying herbs, baking bread, and something distinctly medicinal. There, at the worn kitchen table, sat the healer herself. Not some storybook crone, but a frail, stooped woman in dark tweed. But her eyes
Margaret hadnt lied. Bright, pale bluefar too alive for her age. They raked over Helen, missing nothing.
Come in, dear. Frozen stiff, arent you? Sit. Ill make you some proper herbal tea.
Agatha poured her a mugthick, fragrant, slightly bitter, but sweetened with honey. Helen gulped it gratefully, letting the warmth sting her insides.
Thank you.
So whats brought you here?Agatha asked, never taking her eyes off her.
Helen swallowed.
I I cant seem to get pregnant. My husband and Iweve tried everything. Doctors say were both fine. Nothing works.
Agatha looked her over for a long moment, then shook her head.
Nothings wrong with you, love. You can bear children.
Helens heart tumbled. Dead end, again.
Then why?
God hasnt granted it yet,Agatha said plainly.Maybe, just maybe, you need to right a wrong first. A real wrong.
What wrong?Helens mind reeled. She hadnt had an abortion. She hadnt hurt anyone. Not her parents, not Mark. She loved him.
Agatha just shrugged.
That, I cant tell you. Youll need to find it yourself. If you doitll happen. If not, well
Helen felt hot frustrated tears threatening. Pointless. Useless. Empty phrases meant to string people along. Without looking, she dropped some pounds into the old tin by the kettle.
Thank you, she muttered, standing.
Only then did she realise it was pitch dark outside, snow piling up at the window.
Ohhow will Ibus?
Last ones at six, love,Agatha replied, surprised.You havent got a car?
A surge of panic squeezed her chest.
I I didnt think.
Well, youll have to stay the night. Plenty of room. In the morning, you can walk out to the main road.
The idea of spending the night here, of facing Agathas stare after all this, was suffocating. But phoning Mark, admitting her lie and begging him to drive a hundred miles to rescue hernever.
All right,she said quietly.Thank you.
Agatha led her to a tiny spare bedrooman old iron bed with a faded patchwork quilt, high, pillowed, everything too still and silent. Helen sat on the edge, feeling as if shed hit rock bottom.
She couldnt stay. She pulled on her coat and slid out the door into the night.
Snow was falling thick now, hiding everything. The village slept. She stood there, lost.
At the far end of the lane, lights cut through the darknessa big, dark 4×4 rumbling closer. In desperation, Helen darted into the road, waving frantically.
The car stopped, window sliding down.
Whats happened?a mans voice called.
Helen, breathless, ran over.
Im sorryits late, I missed the bus. Any chance youre heading towards the city? Please, could I get a lift?
The driver, a man about her age in a dark parka, eyed her carefully.
Hop in. Im heading in that direction anyway.
Helen climbed in, warmth and the smell of leather and aftershave enveloping her. She shrank into herself, conscious of the dangera strange man, night, a silent village. Mark would never understand if he knew.
You visiting family in Bramley?the driver asked, trying to fill the tense silence.
No, just just some business,Helen replied.And you?
Visiting my mother. Names David.
Helen.
Pleasure, Helen, under the circumstanceshe offered a kind smile, and it put her at ease.
He looked respectable, strong-featured, his brown eyes kind.
You were a life-saver. I really had no idea what I was doing.
It was obviousyou looked lost and frozen. I had to stop.
They drove through the snow in an easy, companionable quiet, tyres crunching along empty lanes.
You come down often?Helen asked.
Every weekend, if I can. Dads passed now. Mums stubbornwont leave the cottage, not for all the tea in China.
Thats fair,Helen nodded.
What about you? Husband? Kids?David asked gently.
The question sliced painfully.
No kidsshe said quietly.Im married.
Got it, David paused, then said Me? Neither, these days. Divorced six months now.
Sorry to hear that.
Dont be. She and I wanted different things. Parties, travel, careerthat was her dream. The idea of a family scared her witless. I waited, hoped shed change. She didnt. I always wanted kids.
Helen gazed out the frosty window. How strangeone aching for a child, another running from the very thought.
Shame,she said softly.A child isnt the end of freedom. Sometimes its a new beginning.
I think so too,David murmured.
For the rest of the journey, they talked of nothing and everything: the weather, new book releases, city life. It was easy. For a few precious minutes, Helen almost forgot the sting of her failed trip, the burden inside her. She felt warm, safe, calm.
He dropped her at her modest red-brick block in the city centre.
Thank you,Helen said, slipping out of the car.You truly rescued me.
Take care, Helen.
She closed the door, watched the car slowly disappear. Nearly midnight.
Now came the hardest partwhat to tell Mark. She rehearsed hastily: said shed been restless at her parents, decided to cab home. Just sound confident, she told herself.
On the fourth floor, she slipped her key into the door. The hallway light was on. She stepped inand froze.
At the door, an unfamiliar pair of stylish womens boots. Next to Marks familiar jacket hung a glossy, short mink coat.
Her heart hammered. She moved on numb legs, one shaky foot after the other, to their bedroom doorslightly ajar. From inside came muffled laughter and whispers.
She pushed it open.
It was like something out of a cheap drama. Mark, tousled and half-clothed, sat on the edge of the bed. Curled next to him, the bedsheet pulled high, was a young, stunning woman with dark tangled hair. On the floor lay a black blouse.
Three pairs of eyes gaped at one another in icy, shattering silence. Then chaosshuffling, scrambling.
Helen?!Mark stammered, white as the bedsheet.You were with your parents
The woman squealed and desperately clung to her dress.
Yes,Helen croaked.Yes, I was. So convenient, isnt it, Mark?
Helen, wait, let me explain its not what it looksMark sprang towards her.
Not what it looks like?!her own scream surprised her. All the hurt and self-doubt, the months of silent agony, exploded outwards.Am I blind?! Who is she? Is this a regular thing, or just when Im in pieces?
Shes shes a colleague,Mark mumbled, defeated.It just happened, once
Once?!Helen snatched Marks aftershave off the chest and hurled it into the wall. Glass shattered, sharp scent flooding the room. The woman wriggled into her dress and darted past. Helen wanted nothing more than to get away from Mark, from his betrayal.
She ranout the flat, down the stairs, out into the biting snow. She ran on, blinded by tears, the image burning behind her eyelids: his stunned face, the strangers coat, their bed
Suddenly, she stumbledand almost fell. A gentle horn sounded beside her. She glanced up, shielding her eyes from headlights.
Pulling along next to the kerb was the same black 4×4.
The window rolled down.
Helen? Whats happened?
She couldnt speak, tears shaking her. David quickly stepped out, approaching with her blue knitted gloves.
You left these,he said softly.I came to return them, but youd already gone. I was debating what to do, then I saw you run out. Are you all right?
She shook her head, lips unable to form words. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, sobbing violently. David didnt ask a thing. He just opened the passenger door.
Come on. You shouldnt be alone now.
She got in, numb, and he drove her away from the ruins of a life that had collapsed in a single evening.
*****
Everything unraveled quickly, without any more drama. Helen packed her bags and moved in with her parents. Mark appeared every day: pleading, then angry, then surrendering.
Helen, it was a mistake, one mistake! Youre so caught up in the whole baby thingyou never notice me! She threw herself at me! But I love you!
She looked at him, this beautiful, unhappy man whod become a stranger, and felt nothing but disgust.
Enough, Mark. If you could betray me and our marriage so casually, then that was the real mistake. Ill file for divorce.
He didnt believe her at first, sure it was punishment. But Helen was resolute.
While the papers were processed, David would call. Not pushyjust: How are you? All okay? Then hed invite her for coffee or a film. She went. With David, it was simple, no pressurehe just stood by her, listened, coaxed a real smile. The emptiness inside her gradually filled with something warm and hopeful.
They didnt rush. Both wounded, both cautious. But being together was simply easy. With Mark thered been passion, intensity, then routine. With David, it felt like breathing out at last. No need to pretend, no walking on eggshells.
The divorce was hard, but Helen held firm. The day she picked up her decree absolute at the registry office, David was waiting outside.
So, a free woman now?he grinned.
Free,Helen laughed, for the first time in ages, pure and unforced.
He took her to a cosy little bistro. Dinner, wine, laughterno declarations, no promises, just glad to be together, in that moment.
Months later, Helen realised. At first, she blamed stress, a missed period. Then, on a whim, she took a test. It was almost routine by now. But there they weretwo clear blue lines.
She perched on the edge of the bath, barely believing it. Then the tears cametears of joy. She rang David on the spot. He was at her door in twenty minutes.
Im pregnant,she said, simple as that, opening the door.
He stood, stunned, then his face broke into pure, brilliant joy and relief. Helen cried again as he pulled her into a fierce hug, holding her for ages.
See?he whispered into her hair.It just happened. No healers, no stress, just life itself, as its meant to be.
Yes,Helen nodded, burrowing into his shoulder.
So, youll marry me now?David laughed softly.Our baby needs his dad.
She laughed through her tears and nodded.
That evening, laying beside him, her hand resting on the barely-there swell beneath her jumper, Helen remembered. The old woman in Bramley, her hoarse voiceYou need to right a wrong first. A big wrong.
Now she understood. The real mistake was not desperation, not seeking help; the mistake was her marriagetwo people clinging to habit, not love, chasing a goal that wasnt theirs anymore.
Only after breaking free from that could something new be born. Something real.
She turned to Davidalready drifting to sleepand whispered, softly so as not to wake him:
Thank you.
He didnt hear. But she was surehe smiled in his sleep.
