Chapter Forty-Three

FORTY-THREE

OCTOBER 1987

Augusta stared at the mortar and pestle in her hands.

The brass smelled faintly of all it had absorbed—every herb and leaf, every stick and root, every entreaty and supplication. How many powders and potions had Esther and her ancestors concocted with these instruments? How many illnesses had been squelched, how many men and women aided by the teas and tinctures these tools had wrought?

And yet, Augusta knew all too well that the tools were not a guarantee of success. That much had been proven on the night Irving abandoned her and cut her out of his life forever. It had not mattered that Augusta had followed the recipe exactly as Esther had once demonstrated, nor that she had spoken the words with all the faith and certainty she could muster. It had not mattered that she had worked her fingers to numbness, pressing the ingredients into a powder so fine and shimmering that its potency had filled the kitchen like a promise. None of it had mattered in the slightest.

“You don’t understand,” Augusta said. “Just because I have Esther’s tools, it doesn’t mean I can re-create her elixir.”

“Why not?” asked Jackie. “You have the ingredients. Don’t you at least want to try ?”

“Sweetheart, I appreciate everything you’ve done—refurbishing the case, hauling everything down here. But this isn’t some kind of geriatric fairy tale where everything gets magically fixed in the end. Trust me, it isn’t going to work.”

“How can you be so sure?” Jackie’s question was thick with disappointment; her eyes were cloudy with frustration.

“When Irving first left me, I was desperate for answers—desperate for some kind of explanation as to why the potion had failed. At first I blamed the recipe—Esther had warned me of its dangers. After that, I blamed myself. I was greedy, impatient, self-centered. Then I began to wonder whether I had broken some kind of unspoken rule. By making a potion for my own benefit, had I violated the mortar’s purpose? Of course I never learned the answer. And, like I told you before, maybe the answer simply was that Irving loved Lois more than me.”

“You weren’t greedy,” Jackie insisted. “You were confused and in love, that’s all. I know you were heartbroken when the potion didn’t work in the way you wanted it to. But that doesn’t mean you can’t try again. Not to point out the obvious, but you’re older now, and Irving is, too. You’re both different people. You both have wisdom and experience that you didn’t have before.” Jackie gestured to the mortar and pestle that her aunt was still holding. “I really think you owe it to yourself to see what happens.”

“I can’t,” said Augusta, her voice soft and trembling. She set the heirlooms down on the counter and took a careful step backward—as if standing too close to Esther’s tools was causing her physical pain.

“Aunt Augusta, is there something you haven’t told me? Why do you look so upset?”

Augusta released a heavy breath. A terrible ache settled deep in the center of her chest. She wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to get warm. Then she pointed a shaky finger at the ancient brass objects. “Because the last time I used those—the very last time—it wasn’t to make the powder for Irving. The very last time, what happened was worse—much, much worse than a lost romance. The very last time I used that mortar, it was a matter of life and death.”

“What happened?” Jackie whispered.

Augusta lowered her gaze. “I tried to make Esther well,” she said. “I was convinced that I could help her. I thought that I knew everything, Jackie. But I didn’t. And I failed.”