Epilogue

EPILOGUE

OCTOBER 1988

Augusta Stern eased out of bed a few minutes after midnight.

Irving opened a single eye. “Are you working tonight?”

“Yes,” said Augusta. “Dora Shapiro is coming over in the morning. You should go back to sleep.”

“Happy eighty-first birthday, Goldie,” he murmured before blowing her a kiss and rolling over.

From the hook on her bedroom door, Augusta removed a short silk robe and slipped it over her nightgown. Although it was blue, it was different from Esther’s—lighter, less structured, unembellished.

On her way to the kitchen, Augusta passed a credenza where Esther’s brass mortar and pestle were displayed along with her father’s U.S. Pharmacopeia and a framed photograph of her and Irving on the porch of Nathaniel’s house in Maine. Augusta lit a few candles and placed the brass mortar in the center of her kitchen table. Although it was late, she wasn’t tired.

A few months after her eightieth birthday, Harold Glantz had pulled her aside after Book Club. Gail, his wife, suffered from arthritis, and was in the middle of a painful flare-up. She’d seen her rheumatologist twice, but the medicine was no longer working. When Harold mentioned it to Irving, Irving had said that Augusta might be able to help.

“What did you tell Harold about me?” she’d asked Irving later that evening.

“I said that you were the best pharmacist in New York City. And I may have mentioned that you have a special talent for unconventional treatments.”

“That’s what you said? Unconventional treatments?”

Irving shrugged. “I thought you might want to take the old mortar and pestle out for a spin. Was I wrong?”

“It’s too late to start all that up again.”

But Irving had pulled her into his arms and kissed her with the fervor of a man half his age. “How many times do I have to tell you? It isn’t too late for anything, Goldie.”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea?”

He’d winked at her then, those roguish blue eyes twinkling. “Remember how I loved watching you do your homework? You don’t want to deprive an old man of that pleasure, do you?”

After Augusta’s success with Gail, Rose Hoffman called about her psoriasis and Brenda Martin cornered Augusta at the pool to ask about her palpitations. “I’ve seen three cardiologists,” said Brenda, “but every single one of them says that it’s nothing.”

There were so many women who wanted her help, so many women who felt overlooked by their doctors. They see an old woman with gray hair, said Brenda, and they assume we’re all exaggerating. Meanwhile, when my husband goes for his appointment, they treat his cold like it’s the bubonic plague!

Augusta couldn’t disagree. And so, when the requests grew too numerous to ignore, she found herself in business once again. Most often, she compounded her mixtures during the day, but sometimes, like the evening of her eighty-first birthday, she chose to work in the hours after midnight, just as her great-aunt had once done. On those nights, Augusta immersed herself in her memories until she felt like a young girl in Brooklyn again.

Now, outside the windows of Augusta’s apartment, a sprinkling of stars shone in the southern sky. She made a pile of dried valerian, chamomile, dogwood, lavender, and peppermint. Dora Shapiro had acute insomnia, and Augusta was hopeful that she could offer some relief. After checking her ingredients, Augusta placed them in the mortar, ground them carefully with Esther’s pestle, and chanted the familiar words.

To ease the pain of those who suffer

To repair the bodies of those who are ill

To restore the minds of those in need

How good it felt to hold the mortar; how reassuring it was to feel the weight of that familiar object in her hands. As Augusta pressed the pestle into the sides of the bowl, she thought about the women who had come before her and all the good they had done.

The melody came to her easily then, and she sang the words in a soft, clear voice. She sang for the second chance she’d been given and for the confidence she had regained. She sang for the work she had always loved and for the man who appreciated her as she truly was. She sang for the present and the future, for all the bright days that lay ahead.

When she was done, Augusta could feel the potency of the powder lingering in the evening air. She emptied it into a muslin square, tied the pouch with cotton string, and left it near the toaster oven. In the morning, she would give it to Dora and tell her to drink it in a cup of warm water. Later, she and Irving would telephone Jackie, and after that, they’d have dinner with Shirley and Nathaniel. They would celebrate not only Augusta’s birthday, but her anniversary with Irving.

After eighty-one years and two failed love elixirs, Augusta Stern knew exactly who she was—a woman of science like her father, an old-world healer like her aunt. She believed in medicine and in miracles. She believed in family and in love. She believed in the power of moonlight in kitchens, in the power of women, in the power of words. She believed that even on life’s darkest days, a bowl of chicken soup could offer comfort.

She believed that the world still held a bit of magic for those who were patient and wise enough to wait.