I’m walking home from a friends’ place on Saturday afternoon. This is the first sunny day after a long, cold and cloudy week. I’m enjoying the weather so I haven’t been paying attention to much beyond the blue sky. To my right, across a deep, front yard, I notice this woman focused on opening her front storm door. I keep walking and see she is hailing vaguely in my direction but I can’t tell if it’s me she wants or someone else.
Nope, it’s me, I pause. I’ve already turned the corner around her yard so she says she’ll meet me at the back. I start to wonder if she is mistaking me for someone else, I certainly hadn’t done anything to indicate I was coming to her house. As I come to pass her gate, the back door opens and she’s standing with the screen door ajar. I stop at the gate, about fifteen feet from the step of her small, open-air porch.
She motions me forward and asks if I can come in. The way she says it feels funny to me. Almost as if she wonders if I am capable of crossing the gulf of yard between sidewalk and porch. She appears Latina, so I wave off the inflection for accent. As I approach I see her face is distressed. She’s talking to me, asking if I am a healer. Oh geez. My stomach tenses and I say I don’t think so. Her expression saddens so ask about the problem.
She is standing on the threshold in bare feet. Wearing fitted, fleecy yoga sweats, a ribbed t-shirt and a light red hoodie. Her eyes are tired and red. She beckons me to follow through the shallow mudroom and into the kitchen. I am willing to help, at least to listen.
I have this difficulty not helping people in pain, I can’t bring myself to just walk away. So, my heart bargains with my intuition, ‘I’m going in, you hold the rope.’ Intuition responds, ‘okay but only if you leave on the first tug.’ Deal.
Before I proceed into the kitchen I set my bag of groceries in the mudroom. Like an anchor to the outside world, it feels better to leave it right there. The glass storm door is closed but the wooden door is open. I leave it that way and I do not close the kitchen door either. Her statements are quick but there is nothing frantic about her. She is telling me there is no mistake, I am a healer, she is sure of it. She looks tired, worn.
She sits in a wooden kitchen chair and leans on the table. I’m standing, watching her as she’s speaking about angels and spirits and how she needs my help. The archangel Michael had directed her to look out the window as I was walking by. That’s how she knew, she says. She had asked for his help and he’d told her to hide from the mailman but that I was okay. She’s rubbing her belly. She begins crying as she’s telling me this and also that she is alone and frightened. Big, gobbing tears.
Her kitchen is warm and smells like buttery rolls. Her hands are moving from her belly to prayer mode and back. She continues to tell me her story. She’s pregnant and feels that today is the day she will deliver. I’m seeing that she doesn’t look pregnant, then she’s telling me that it’s a spirit baby. And, again, that she needs help. And that her angels have sent me to help her.