Page 52 of It's Me They Follow
“You just missed him,” her writers’ group said about ME, who’d left the funeral to take his great-aunt home. “The sweetest guy,” they all agreed.
The teenybopper, who did look almost exactly like The Good Doctor when The Shopkeeper stared at her, was dressed in all black everything from head to toe, just like The Good Doctor used to do. She stood in front of the casket to greet everyone with a smile as they approached her. “We are saying goodbye, but it doesn’t have to be sad.” She shook hands and gave hugs. Her voice carried in the wind.She’s no longer a shallow, out-of-touch teenybopper, The Shopkeeper thought. Planning her mother’s funeral had changed her and forced her to grow up.
“‘No,’” the teenybopper began reading to the group from one of Sonia Sanchez’s only essays. “‘No. Don’t never go looking for love, girl. Just wait. It’ll come. Like the rain fallin’ from the heaven, it’ll come. Just don’t never give up on love.’”
Everyone agreed that the passage encapsulated The Good Doctor’s personality perfectly. Witty and smart, mysterious and dark. The writers’ group stood separate from the other guests with dark sunglasses covering their puffed-up eyes. A few of The Good Doctor’s friends and family made heartfelt speeches about her academic, personal, and clinical pursuits. The Shopkeeper was moved. She’d had no ideawho The Good Doctor had really been, nor had she realized all the lives the woman had touched.
“She changed me...”
“She helped me...”
“She listened to me...”
“She stood by me...”
“She made me laugh...”
“She made me feel safe...”
“She made me feel seen...”
The Shopkeeper stood next to Rose, who was withering more and more with each speech. Rose wore a long black wool coat and black high-heeled leather boots that went up to her knees. Her hat was one big black rose that tilted and tossed on her head from the wind.
“She was really helping me.” Rose wept into Lil Charlie’s shoulder. But as The Shopkeeper recalled, the writers’ group had done more for Rose than The Good Doctor had ever done in the days after Charlie died. The Good Doctor hadn’t been making Rose meals and boiling her tea; that had been the group. The Good Doctor hadn’t been taking out Rose’s trash or sitting with her throughout the night, bathing her, and listening to her endless stories. That had been the group. Still, Rose feared that without The Good Doctor, she would dry up and wilt away. The Shopkeeper knew better. The Good Doctor might have given them exercises, but it was writing with the writing group that saved their lives.
Lil Charlie held Rose extra tight. Holding her was how heheld himself together; inside, he was shattered. “She helped me learn forgiveness,” he whispered, not saying anything that would tarnish her reputation.
“Haikus helped you more,” The Shopkeeper whispered. It’d been the practice of writing just a few words every day that had shaped him. The writing was where we shared life lessons; the group was where we shared the writing.
Lil Charlie knew the secrets that The Good Doctor had taken to her grave, including the breaking of her oath to do no harm. She’d done plenty of harm to Lil Charlie. He’d smiled and written through the pain. He needed a break from the guilt and sadness of looking at The Good Doctor’s casket. He was glad to be burying their story when she went into the ground. He looked over and admired The Shopkeeper, who was rooted and grounded against the wind. He decided to join her in that stance. She was right—haikus had taught him how to make big things small and small things big. “Maybe I’ll write a book of haikus.” He whispered the thought into the wind.
“Something’s different about you,” Ray whispered to The Shopkeeper, seeing a bright light in her eyes that he’d never seen before. She felt it too. It was nice that he noticed. She was lighter. Light enough to bear the weight of the moment without feeling the need to drift away. And that was a good thing, because before she could respond to Ray, she had to turn around to catch Rose, who was heavier than she looked. Rose’s legshad buckled, and she was falling to her knees. Rose hugged The Shopkeeper. Lil Charlie hugged Rose. Ray hugged Lil Charlie. “I love you guys,” The Shopkeeper said from beneath the huddle.
“And I can’t breathe,” Rose said, and they all began to laugh. They let her out of the middle. She made eye contact with The Shopkeeper. And then took a deep breath in. “Oh, what the heck, do whatever it takes,” they mouthed to each other.
“Does anyone else have something they’d like to add?” The Good Doctor’s daughter asked.
“I want to share something.” The Shopkeeper raised her hand and straightened her clothes. She held her book out in front of her. For a second too long, she was unable to speak.
“Okay,” The Shopkeeper called out, “in this group, there are no apologies, excuses, or prefaces. When it’s time to read...”
“Just read,” the members of their writers’ group said in unison, surprising the rest of The Good Doctor’s friends and family with their collective voice.
Without hesitation, The Shopkeeper began slowly and with intention reciting her own piece. “‘The path with no beginning is worth beginning.’
“‘It’s worth it to walk to stomp to drag or drip along these yellow bricks,’” she continued, picking up speed. She recited her poem:
And with no knowing of what lies ahead,
what makes this path most important are the footsteps that
follow those tip toes moving along behind me
their marching at their own uncanny pace
facing north
we’re heading towards the promised land
