Chapter 4

Chapter 4 of 10 · 20-minute read

Tuesday – Moon in Gemini, Waning Crescent

I had an appointment with Dr. Matthews one hour ago, I’m waiting impatiently but fully clothed in a slightly warm exam room with an eastern window that’s too high to see anything out of but clouds, and my normally low blood pressure is sky high.

What can I say? I’ve been stressed. Quent is up to his old tricks again, this time trying to make the girls pity him, so they’ll ask to live with him full-time. I’m realizing that he’s a master of persuasion with both family members and strangers in the community. He’s always got a story to tell, and in every story, he’s either the hero or the victim. My introversion works against me because I’m always deemed the strange one or the one who should work harder at, well, everything.

But that’s not all of my worries. My knees hurt so bad that I can barely put one foot in front of the other. Two tropical storms named Bonnie and Charley, likely to become hurricanes, are brewing in the Atlantic and heading toward Florida. And on Thursday, the day at least one storm is to make landfall, I board a plane for an Elevation ritual that might lead to my leaving the Dragon Hart Grand Coven. I don’t know yet. I just don’t know.

I can’t believe the things I read last night. I don’t even know who sent the package, but it was someone who wanted me to see a side of Lady Dragon that I didn’t know existed. And someone who was afraid enough of speaking up and being found out. The material I’ve read is confidential… and disturbing.

It’s crossed my mind that it might have come from Quent, except that he’d never have access to this kind of information. Not even a private investigator could have dug up this kind of dirt. This… this was from the inside, close to the throne, so to speak. When I told Donna about the package, she became uneasy, but she swore she had nothing to do with it. As an Elder, she’d taken an oath to do nothing against the High Priestess unless Lady Dragon proved herself incompetent, either mentally or morally. That’s what the Elders had been for the past twenty years—a check and balance in the system so that no one person had too much power or responsibility for running the organization. But clearly from the papers I’d read, the failsafe had failed. The Elders, as powerful witches as they are, are terrified of their leader.

I hear a rustle of papers and a knock at the exam room door. A petite nurse with white-blonde hair and TRICIA on her name tag sticks her head through the crack and smiles. “Dr. Matthews is running late. He’ll be with you in a few minutes. He’s doing a procedure down the hall.” Then she’s gone.

With a nervous laugh, I rub my knees in clockwise circles. I don’t know why I rub my knees now except that it feels comforting to the pain. I’ve already waited an hour, and I know it’ll be even longer before Dr. Matthews walks in. He’s never on time, but once he gets here, he’s always worth the wait. Contrary to how I feel with my dentist, Dr. Matthews has a soothing way of lowering my blood pressure during stressful visits.

I first met Dr. Matthews around four years ago, and I’ve raved about him ever since. Quent even quit his regular physician, noting that he was going to see my “hot doctor.” I’d thought that was strange. I’d never referred to Dr. Matthews as hot. Quent had, but not me. Even if the doctor is hot. I’d spoken only of his bedside manner and the way he doesn’t push patients through in two minutes without listening to a word they have to say. Apparently, even a kind mention of anything was enough to make Quent green with jealousy. Quent had surprised me, though. I had other physicians I adored and raved about—usually middle-aged men who were heavy or balding—and Quent had never considered quitting his physician to try them.

Hmmm. In hindsight, I think maybe Quent did ask what my new doctor looked like. That itself was unusual. He didn’t ask what my overweight gynecologist looked like or my aging dentist. Someone must have tipped him off about Dr. Matthews’ boyish charms. When put on the spot to give my husband my opinion, I’d intentionally not lied but I’d downplayed it and said that the doc wasn’t bad looking and sorta reminded me of my little brother, Shelby. Which, I swear, is true because they’re about the same age and talk in similar youthful jargon even though Shelby wears an Air Force uniform and haircut. It’s just that Dr. Matthews was far younger at the time than his predecessors, by at least twenty years, and it was the first time I’d dealt with a medical professional fresh out of residency who called me ma’am.

I’d been a steady believer in the previous two physicians at the clinic, both of whom had left suddenly after about five years of practicing there. I hope that isn’t a precursor of Dr. Matthews’ departure in another year. When I’d started limping after a workout at the gym at work, my boss had urged me to see my family doctor about what had turned out to be a bad case of tendonitis. Nervous, I called Dr. Jordan’s office and was told he’d just left medicine, but they had a brand-new doc coming in, fresh out of med school. Before I could protest, the receptionist explained that he was very good, very friendly, the top of his class, and oh, yes, very cute. I laughed and told her she’d had me at “top of his class.”

The moment he walked into my exam room and shook my hand four years ago, I knew I’d known him in a past life. I had that sense of…recognition…that I get with people I’ve known before, and I had it with him instantly. Probably the strongest I’ve ever had in my life, and that includes with Jan, Belinda, and my own children.

I knew there had been a healer in a particular past life in the sixth century and that the healer had helped my lover and me escape a group of warlords who wanted to kill us. He’d been very important to me. Perhaps Dr. Matthews was that healer, reborn. I sensed a connection but tamped it down. I wasn’t new to Wicca then, but I was still shy about expressing my opinions to strangers.

And then the most incredible thing happened, something I still really don’t understand, but it sent shockwaves through me. He pulled up a stool and sat at my feet like a supplicant before the Goddess as he wrote down my medical history.

I grin at the memory. The door opens and catches me trying to stifle a smile as my gaze meets with Dr. Matthews’. The man has pretty eyes, a sort of blue-gray, and if it weren’t so trite, I’d swear they twinkle. He always seems happy to see me, and today is no exception.

“Hello, hello, hello, Ms. Hartford!” He breezes into the room with his usual flourish, stethoscope draped around his neck. His legs seem to arrive ahead of him, like that old caricature of the Keep On Truckin’ guy from the 1970s. His arms are a little too long, enough so that he’s already ditched the lab coat and unbuttoned his sleeves. They hang open at his wrists, obviously too short for his physique. He flips through my chart and rearranges a couple of pages as he stands with his back to me and makes a few notes.

“I was just thinking about you yesterday,” he tells me without turning around.

“Really? Why?”

I can’t imagine why he would have me on his mind. Judging by his tan, I would guess that he spent the day on a boat in the Gulf of Mexico with his gorgeous blonde and leggy wife. As for me, I’ve let the gray show through in my pony-tailed hair, I’m a good thirty pounds heavier than my ideal weight, and I feel frumpy in my knee-length pink sweatpants and eye-watering yellow “World’s Greatest Mom” T-shirt that Rhiannon gave me. My only salvation today is that I shaved my legs this morning, which I considered only polite if I was going make anyone look that closely at my swollen, tree-trunk knees today.

His face is animated. He opens his mouth before he speaks as if hoping the right words will magically pour out. “I read a story online about this Wiccan High Priestess up in New England. She’s being persecuted for her beliefs, and I remembered that you’re Wiccan, too.”

He jots something on my chart. I have no idea what—he hasn’t looked at my legs yet. He’s still turned away from me, but not fully.

“And here you are, in the Bible Belt, which is so much more dangerous for you, and you’re open about your beliefs and who you are. I think that is sooooo cool. I mean, you live in the middle of suburbia, and you’re a witch! A practicing witch! And nobody really knows. I mean, you wear a pentagram around your neck, and people still don’t know who you are. You just do your own thing and live what you believe in. You don’t know how much I admire that.”

I feel myself blush. I’m not used to praise. I’m even less used to someone understanding me or seeing me the way I want to be seen.

He glances up, a little shy when he meets my eyes. “You amaze me, Ms. Hartford.”

If the purpose of his confession was to make me feel special, he’s done it yet again. He probably tells every patient he was thinking of them yesterday. Or maybe not, come to think of it. That would be disingenuous, and he seems too honest to play those games.

Despite his perennial cheerfulness, there’s something about Dr. Matthews that’s sad today. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I can almost feel it in him. He’s as friendly and as outgoing as he’s ever been, but there’s a bittersweetness in his voice. Maybe he’s just having a bad day. Or maybe things didn’t go so well with that last patient, the one he did a “procedure” on. He’s always seemed the sensitive type, so if he had bad news to give a patient, I’m betting he can’t detach himself from it that easily and be all smiles for the patient behind Door Number Two.

I expect him to ask me about Quent. Quent’s his patient, too, and Dr. Matthews always asks. Whenever Quent’s in for a visit, Dr. Matthews always asks after me, too. That’s just the way the doc is. He never has trouble remembering our names or medical history or the stories we’ve told him about our families or jobs. He seems to have a killer memory, just like I do, the kind of memory that can be more of a curse than a blessing. I bet his Mercury is in Aquarius, too, like mine and like my friend Belinda’s. He has that hot mind that jumps all over, running on four-tracks at one time. However, he doesn’t seem to have a problem paying attention while I’m in his office. His focus is solely on me.

“So, how’s Quent?” he asks, right on cue. Before I can answer or mention the divorce proceedings, he adds, “Tell him I expect to see him in here for that physical. No more canceling appointments because the two of you are off on some looooooove cruise.” He makes a joke of the word and winks at me.

Cruise? My mind’s a jumble. He must be confusing Quent with someone else. The doc seems a little out of it today. “Quent cancelled an appointment?”

Dr. Matthews jerks his head up, eyes widening with that deer-in-headlights look. Like he’s said too much. Like I was supposed to have known something. Like he thought I knew. But I didn’t. And now he knows I didn’t know. And he knows I know something I’m not supposed to know. That Quent lied to me about his last doctor’s appointment.

He’s been lying about other things, too.

“Yeah, uh, oops.” Dr. Matthews’ boyishness comes out. He sounds like a little boy who’s been caught chewing a double mouthful of bubble gum in church and doesn’t know whether to swallow the gum or hide it in his hand. “Just, uh, tell Quent I asked about him, okay? Now, uh⁠—”

His hand shakes as he sets my medical chart on a desk full of months-old magazines. I’ve never seen him so unnerved.

“Let’s look at these knees, shall we, Ms. Hartford?” He emphasizes the Ms. He knows I’m married, and that I kept my maiden name, which he’s told me before is “so freakin’ cool.”

He breezes across the room to the sink and washes his hands quickly and efficiently, rubbing at the spot where he usually wears his wedding band. He’s not wearing it today, but I assume it’s a germ risk, and it’s safer if he doesn’t. I’ve finally stopped wearing my wedding band, and I feel naked without it. Obviously, he does, too, even for a few minutes.

Gingerly, he raises the knee-length hems of my sweatpants and examines my knees. He touches my kneecaps carefully, tenderly. “Oh, yeah, that’s a lot of swelling, a lot of swelling.”

I explain to him the situation with my knees and work and how much they hurt. He asks if the pain interferes with my quality of life, and I confess, without averting my eyes, that I’m having trouble getting up and down from the toilet. I’m surprised at my candor, even with a doctor, but he doesn’t blink. It’s like whatever I say is okay.

I tell him about my old fencing injury and how long it’s been, and then we get sidetracked, talking about sabers and foils and epees and why a lightweight foil might be preferable to a broadsword in a fight to the death because you could land a killing blow more quickly with the lighter weapon.

Then somehow, we’re talking about the likelihood of female gladiators—or not—and how humanity has fared better under matriarchies and why he’s a staunch supporter of female supremacy and the idea of a Goddess and a huge fan of what he calls “female-led marriage.”

And from there we’re talking about chimpanzees and how similar they are to humans physically and socially and how female chimps dominate, and the male chimps let them and still get all the sex they could ever want.

And then he launches into how he’s always wanted to go to the jungles of Central America on a humanitarian mission with Rick and Sondra, his friends from med school.

I’m the one who reminds him of my knees. I tell him I have five weeks of vacation coming up soon, and hopefully I’ll be able to stay off my knees then and let them heal, but I can’t take time off yet because of my hectic work schedule. Before that, I have a spiritual retreat to attend—which launches more questions from him on the type of retreat, who’ll be there, how often we gather, if I have a local group yet? He has some female friends who might be interested in studying with me, he says. Then, getting back to my knee problem, he agrees that the time off will be a good idea and recommends ice, rest, elevation… and physical therapy for the next four to six weeks.

The last thing he does is squat in front of me and take off my shoes. They’re sandals that slip off without unbuckling, and his touch is very gentle but a little awkward, almost like a little boy. It’s endearing in a way. He catches his lower lip in his teeth as he presses against my arches and ankles. He explains to me that sometimes fallen arches can cause problems at the knees, which I have researched. One’s foundation, once crumbling, can affect your whole structure. He talks about pain meds, anti-inflammatory drugs, shoe heels, and the need to pamper myself. I answer his questions, but he’s a little distracted.

“Hey, you’re Wiccan, right?” He looks up at me from where he crouches in front of me. He already knows the answer. He’s scattered. He’s already forgotten our conversation from a few minutes ago or his mind has jumped to another track. Mentally, he bounces, and it keeps me on my toes. “I mean, I know you’re Wiccan, but I have a question.”

I touch the triskele pendant on my amethyst and ruby zoisite necklace as he examines my feet. For the last several visits to his office, my spirit guides have insisted I wear my pagan and Goddess jewelry openly, and every time, he’s commented on it positively. There’s something familiar about him, about this, the way he lifts his chin to look up at me from below. It’s… disturbingly intense. I wonder if he was a student of mine in a past life. Or are these feelings from the future?

“You know, Ms. Hartford, some people believe there’s a connection between mind, body, and spirit. You know, a metaphysical connection? Like there might be a metaphysical cause that has a physical manifestation?”

I grin and nod. “Yeah, like I’ve been down on my knees too much in the past year.”

“I know exactly how you feel.” He smiles meaningfully and says nothing else about it. Instead, he replaces my sandals and gives each arch a little pat. “You’ve got great arches, you know? No problem there. Just in your knees. I’m gonna order some X-rays as a precaution, but I don’t expect to find anything bad. Just a little knee strain and maybe a touch of arth—uh… wear and tear from all that lunging and parrying you did while winning fencing tourneys. But you’re gonna have to lay off the heels. You’re a flats girl from now on!” He grins, more to himself than to me.

While the doctor jots down a prescription for physical therapy and X-rays, a crow lights on the window ledge outside, taps on the glass with his beak, and peers in as if he can see us through the panes. A giggle tickles my throat, and I’m surprised by it. I’m still not used to the sound of my laughter. After the past few years, it sounds foreign to my ears. Any time I laugh, it stands out in my memory because it’s so unusual.

The doctor looks over his shoulder at the crow and shoos at him with one hand. By coincidence, the crow flies away. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes.

“No, it’s okay. I like crows.”

This time, he’s the one who laughs. The sound comes out rich and warm. “You’re unique, you know? I’ve never met anyone like you. Do crows mean something? You know, in Wicca?”

“Yes, they do—usually they’re a symbol of destiny, or a crow can be a messenger or an observer between the worlds—but they mean something very special to me.”

He hands me the two prescriptions. “I didn’t mean to pry. I mean, if it’s private or⁠—”

“No, no, it’s not private at all. Okay, well, yes, it sorta is, but I don’t mind sharing it with you. I’m dedicated to a particular Goddess. You’ve probably never heard of Her. The Morrigan. She’s a death Goddess, but you don’t necessarily have to look at death in a physical sense. It can also be the death of an old way of life, which implies a new beginning, too. Let’s just say She’s about transformation and change. We go through a series of changes in our lives as we get older, and each one is a rite of passage, even if we don’t realize it at the time. Life is a series of endings and new beginnings.”

The deepening frown on his face relaxes a little with that last thought. “A death Goddess?” he asks. “You’re into the dark stuff?”

“Yeah, She is a dark Goddess, and I do practice dark magick, but dark isn’t evil, you know?”

He raises one eyebrow. Skepticism is written all over his face.

“The Morrigan, to me, is more about protection, defense. A warrior. She was the One who decided who would die in battle and who would live. She’s the Dark Mother, the One who’s always there for you in the darkest of times and cradles you when you can go no lower.” I wince, and he does, too, at the same time. The Dark Mother had held me through the worst of the nights after I’d confronted Quent about his extracurricular activities. “She’s⁠—”

He smiles. “Okay, I get it.” He sinks his hands into his pockets and again poses himself as a little boy getting a lecture from his mother. “Why did you pick a Dark Goddess? You know, instead of like—I don’t know—Aphrodite or something?”

“I didn’t pick Her. She picked me. I called for help, and She answered.”

I’d been lost in the woods at night, on the run from a predator, and not even as old as Rhiannon is now. I’d prayed for anyone who was listening to save me. Of all the angels in the realms and all the forms of Deity I’d learned about in school and Sunday school, it was The Morrigan who responded readily. Together, we’d watched my predator die, and I’d promised to follow Her anywhere. We’d compromised that I should know enough of life first, and we’d settled on the age of thirty-five for me to begin my solitary studies in magick and that by midlife, I would find a coven who would usher me into my powers.

But I don’t tell Dr. Matthews any of this. This is a part of my childhood that I keep buried. He nods and says nothing but takes it all in.

“The crows,” I continue, rubbing my achy knees, “are to me like surrogate ravens, since they’re cousins of the raven, you know? We don’t have ravens around here.”

“No, but we have plenty of crows! Especially in the past few days. They’ve been everywhere. Hardly seen any around here before. Are they migrating?”

“They seem to be staying put.” Right over his building and the adjacent shopping center. As aware as I am of birds, I’ve noticed more red-tailed hawks and bluebirds in the past two seasons, but crows? Not here. Not until last week.

Something’s going on. The Goddess is trying to tell me something.

“When I went through my Initiation,” I explain, “I was blindfolded.” His brow knits again, and I quickly add, “No big deal.”

Though it is a big deal. There are things I’m oath-bound not to reveal outside Dragon Hart. Donna’s told me I have the freedom to say certain things, more than most covens allow, but as my High Priestess, she’s granted permission for me to talk. I’ve just never talked about these things before or had anyone I wanted to tell.

“The blindfold,” I continue, “is really more symbolic than anything else. Having been in the dark all my life, et cetera, et cetera. Mystery. Trust.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, I was blindfolded, and during my Initiation, this yellow butterfly came down and lit on my head. All the Elders and Third Degrees who were there took it as a good omen. Butterflies represent metamorphosis, transformation. And then before we could go on with the ritual, this bird started cawing, interrupting the ritual and demanding to be heard, like he was approving it or something. My friend Leo’s partner—Tyler—was part of the ceremony, and he said later that it was a raven. Everyone had been amazed. They thought it meant something extra special. No one had ever seen that happen before.”

Dr. Matthews leans against a worktable in the exam room and nods expectantly, waiting for more.

“I don’t know if it was a raven or not. That was in Maryland, and I don’t know the birds up there. I was blindfolded and didn’t see him. And I was a little busy with the ritual. But the raven is associated with The Morrigan. With my Goddess.”

The doctor keeps nodding. “And the crows are like diminutive ravens, right? Because technically, they’re from the same family.”

“I saw the same thing at my Second Degree Elevation⁠—”

“Second…?” He looks confused. I seem to have a knack for frustrating him today.

“Yes. An Elevation is like a promotion or leveling up. I’m in a formal training program. I went through a Dedication ceremony, and a year later, I was Initiated. That was my First Degree in the Dragon Hart Grand Coven, the year I learned more about my gifts and the Goddess. Then for the next year—though it’s often longer than a year—I was in my Second Degree phase, the one where I became a High Priestess in my tradition or, um, like a denomination. During my Second Degree, I worked mainly with God energy, and that’s when my life turned upside down. It’s been a phase of clearing out the problems in my life that I’ve failed to address in the past.”

Like the abuse in my marriage. Like my codependency. Like letting my dreams die.

“This week, I go to my Third Degree Elevation, which is when I mesh the energies of God and Goddess, and, according to the High Priestess who trained me, I begin to receive the gifts that are to come so that I can better serve the Old Gods.”

“Really.” He rocks back on his heels. “So, this is about over for you, right?”

“No. Actually, I think it’s just beginning. That’s what I’m told, anyway. I’ve heard that after this next Elevation, life will be a series of Second and Third Degree moments, all kinds of little trials still to get through to further me on my life’s path.”

“Wow,” he says. “That’s cool. The crows outside the clinic. All these crows are sent by your Goddess?”

“Something like that.”

“Wh-why my clinic?”

I shrug. “I think it has something to do with my knees. I’m ready to be transformed into someone who can stand on her own two feet without being in pain.”

He and I both laugh. He seems to enjoy it as much as I do. Gods, it feels good to laugh. I can’t remember the last time I laughed with a⁠—

“About Quent,” I say, suddenly serious. “That cruise you mentioned he went on….”

Dr. Matthews glances at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “Oh! I’m running an hour late! I’ve got several more patients today, but it was… it was groovy seeing you again. You have a great day!”

He touches my shoulder in his usual friendly departure style, and the energy tingles deep into my flesh. Long after he’s gone, I still feel it all the way to the bone.

I wonder⁠—

I can’t help the feeling that this man is either going to be my next student, or he’s going to be my next teacher.

Maybe both.

Maybe much more.

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