Page 12 of It’s Me They Follow

“You bring us to an interesting teachable moment.” The Good Doctor went to the board and began to doodle.

“Many faiths believe that the laying on of hands allows you to transfer what is in you to another person.” She drew a cartoon of a stick figure laying hands on the forehead of another stick figure.

“There is great mystery in how this works, but many have reported miracles simply from the laying on of hands. Healing of the sick, raising of the dead, invoking or exorcising spirits.”

“Is that real?” The Shopkeeper asked, chewing her apple to its core.

“Is what real?”

“Can touch heal people and raise people from the dead? Or is that folklore, fairy tales, and magic tricks?”

“It depends who you ask.”

“I’m asking you,” The Shopkeeper insisted.

“I’ve seen things. Yes. Was it a placebo? Maybe. Was it oxytocin? Maybe. A higher power? To some. It’s really up to you to decide what you want to believe. Whatever suits you is the right answer. Everything is everything.”

The Shopkeeper sat back in her chair, confused by what had happened in church that night and her professor believing that it could have helped her sister, not harmed her.

But most of all, The Shopkeeper hated ambiguous answers.

She hated them the way she hated clichés.

She loathed them. Overused pieces of language that had no meaning and wasted space on the page.

Meaningless. Like this doctor , she thought.

“What about you all?” The Shopkeeper asked the group. “Do you believe touch can heal people and raise them from the dead?”

The group was split evenly between yes and no. More meaninglessness , she thought.

“Okay, activity time,” The Good Doctor said, clapping her hands to bring everyone to attention. “Today’s activity takes us outside.”

The Good Doctor looked over at The Shopkeeper, who, as she’d suspected, was shaking her head NO.

As she moved closer to The Shopkeeper, she looked her deep in the eyes and nodded her head YES.

The Shopkeeper wanted to trust The Good Doctor, but she also wondered if The Good Doctor was just another quack with silly exercises and corny sayings, another mother to walk in and out of her life, and perhaps she’d never be able to get over her phobia—especially not in one month—and it would be ridiculous to try.

“Thank goodness for global warming,” Ray said, putting on his coat. “Ten years ago, we could’ve never gone outside with an orange at night in the middle of January and lived to tell about it.”

“We are going to City Hall,” The Good Doctor continued, putting on her black coat and black scarf.

“How does this make folks feel on a scale from one to ten, with one being absolutely horrified and ten being absolutely overjoyed?” She went around the room to mixed responses, with most people at the table being around three or four, Ray being the only ten and The Shopkeeper being the only one.

The motley crew of adults traipsed up Broad Street in a straight line. Still unsure what their professor had in mind, they marched in silence to the rhythm of the city’s horns and sirens.

“Some say City Hall is the heart of Philadelphia,” The Good Doctor greeted her students, who semicircled around her while the bustle of hundreds of passersby continued around them.

When they reached the compass in the center of Philadelphia’s City Hall, she said, “Today this is the center of the universe.” She pointed at the ground.

The Shopkeeper admired the stone edifice—especially the thirty-seven-foot tall statue of William Penn that stood atop the building.

As can be imagined, The Shopkeeper did not enjoy the crowds, which she avoided by standing in front of Ray’s big, burly belly and beside Rose, who kept watch for anyone who came too close.

“We got your back, sugar pie,” Rose whispered. “And your sides.”

“We won’t let the monsters get you, Mamacita.” Ray winked in agreement.

“The point of this exercise is to practice overcoming fear,” The Good Doctor said, placing the orange crate upside down on the center of the compass and standing on top of it to address her group.

Of course, passersby looked over. Some stopped.

Others stared. The Good Doctor seemed to love the attention.

“Nice ass,” some faceless voice called out from the crowd.

The Good Doctor rubbed her behind, smiled, and continued.

“No one will be coerced into doing this, but everyone needs to be part of it. Cheer one another on. Be there for one another. Even if you cannot imagine yourself doing it, see if you can allow for even the remote possibility that you might do it anyway.”

The Shopkeeper knew there was no remote possibility that she might do it anyway.

The thought of standing up in front of thousands of people, telling them she was afraid to be touched, made her angry.

It was like asking for it. Someone would undoubtedly want to test her fear and reach out a grubby paw to touch her.

She yawned while her professor continued. She was bored by this whole thing.

“For this exercise, which we call street speaking, you will stand up here on top of this orange crate in the center of the world and declare with urgency why you must face your deepest fear. Your classmates will cheer you on by saying, ‘Oh, what the heck, do whatever it takes,’ as you walk from the audience to the crate. Let’s practice the chant,” she said.

The group started, “Oh, what the heck, do whatever it takes. Oh, what the heck, do whatever it takes.” The Shopkeeper thought the exercise was silly. She had a touch phobia. Not a fear of public speaking. This won’t help me , she noted to herself.

“Shut that shit up,” another faceless somebody yelled out from the crowd. The Shopkeeper agreed.

“Louder,” The Good Doctor exclaimed, with her hands raising higher and higher to the sky. The Shopkeeper thought she looked like a street preacher. The group repeated the chant two more times, and then The Good Doctor gave them the cutoff sign. Everyone froze.

“We will chant until you’re ready to speak,” The Good Doctor said.

“Then you will get up here and declare why now is your time. Make sure you own your three minutes of street speaking. But most importantly, honor that you are doing this despite how afraid you may be. Most people are not brave enough to name their fear in public. This activity gives you practice looking it right in the eye. Who’s ready to begin?

” Everyone except The Shopkeeper raised their hands.

“I will not call on you. For this activity, you have to choose yourself.”

The Good Doctor stepped down, and Ray ran up. He jumped onto the crate as the group began to chant, “Oh, what the heck, do whatever it takes.”

The crate bent under his weight but did not break.

“Okay, so I’m Ray,” he began. The group grew quiet, but the hustle and bustle of city life continued to whiz by.

“We can’t hear you,” The Good Doctor said, cupping her ears.

“Okay,” he asserted over the noise. “I am Ray. And my biggest fear is stand-up comedy. I am facing my fear now because I’m bored. My life is like watching paint dry.”

The class laughed, and stray watchers gathered around.

“My life is funny.” Ray laughed a nervous laugh. “It’s just, no one gets the joke.” He got a few giggles from the crowd. “For instance, I’m single. My neighbor—she’s single too. She’s shapely and beautiful, and she lives right across the street...

“I watched her as she got home from work yesterday. I was surprised when she walked across the street, up my driveway, and knocked on my door.

“I opened the door. She looked at me and said, ‘I just got home, and I have this strong urge to have a good time, get drunk, and have fun tonight. Are you doing anything?’

“I quickly replied, ‘Nope, I’m free!’

“‘Great!’ she said. ‘Can you watch my dog?’”

More people laughed. The Shopkeeper wrung her hands in fear for Ray, but he seemed to be having the time of his life. He was actually funny.

“Another one,” a faceless voice yelled out from the crowd at Ray.

“Another one?” Ray kept on. “Well, my friend said to me, ‘Ray, aren’t you sad to see your friends getting married and you being single at your age?’

“I replied, ‘Yes, it’s quite sad, but I don’t know how to help them.’”

The group laughed some more. The more jokes he cracked, the larger the crowd grew, and when he was done, his smile beamed brighter, his back was straighter, and he held his head higher.

He stepped down off the crate and opened his arms wide to The Shopkeeper, knowing she’d never give him a hug back.

He laughed. She laughed. This is like one of those walking-on-coal, laying-on-of-hands activities , she thought.

“How was it?” she asked Ray.

“It was the best,” and then he unexpectedly started to jump up and down. “I can’t believe I just did that.” He cried tears of joy while the group chanted, “Oh, what the heck, do whatever it takes,” waiting for the next speaker to emerge.

The entire class took turns hopping on and off the orange crate, declaring victory over a range of fears from heights to flying, from dentists to bugs, while the crowd of onlookers swelled in disbelief.

The more the crowd grew, the angrier The Shopkeeper grew.

This changes nothing , she thought. The Good Doctor should be wearing crocodile-skin boots.

“Oh, what the heck, do whatever it takes.” A crowd of fifty or so strangers joined her classmates in the chanting.

The Shopkeeper knew she was supposed to be next; Ray had gone twice, and some people who weren’t even in her class had been inspired and decided to hop onto the orange crate.

Most people were visibly overjoyed when they were through.

The Good Doctor gave The Shopkeeper a glance, trying to reconnect through eye contact.

In all sincerity she mouthed to her student, “You can do this.” The Shopkeeper pictured herself up on the orange crate for a brief second but then rolled her eyes at The Good Doctor for almost making her believe this could help her in any way.

Instead, she decided she would make The Good Doctor keep the promise that no one would be coerced into participating.

But others in the class began pointing at The Shopkeeper while they chanted, “Oh, what the heck, do whatever it takes,” to egg her on.

She could smell the funk of the crowd—it reminded her of used stockings and cheap sweat.

She imagined their filthy hands creeping closer and closer to her arms and legs like tentacles.

She could feel their breaths and spittle on her neck.

Peer pressure will not help , she thought.

Sweat dripped down her back. The apple pulp curdled in her stomach.

She wrung her hands and popped her knuckles.

She figured she’d run down the clock, and eventually The Good Doctor would have to end class.

The group continued to chant more and more wildly with fist pumps and stomps—“Oh, what the heck, do whatever it takes”—until Ray turned to her and said, “It’s now or never, my friend. ”

Another cliché. She grimaced. Not you too, Ray , she thought.

And then, she considered just doing it to get everyone off her back.

But instead, she shook her head NO once again and gave The Good Doctor the cutoff gesture, which she thought meant “stop” but Rose said looked too much like “I’ll cut your head off. ”

The Shopkeeper eased toward the back of the orange crate very slowly, even though in that moment, she decided not even a world-renowned neuroscientist who specialized in touch could save her if this was the best she could do. No one could save her.

But to be a good sport, she had every intention of finally trying the activity when The Good Doctor ascended the empty crate instead.

She thanked the crowd for their participation, bowing and clapping like she’d won an award.

Show-off , The Shopkeeper thought, disgusted.

“If anyone else would like to go, NOW is the time. Even if you don’t say a word.

Just taking a stand is a major step.” She was giving The Shopkeeper an out.

Run up. Stand up. Hop off. Easy. But no one moved.

Especially not The Shopkeeper, who felt she’d never come back to class again. That would be her stand.

The other writers in her group figured it would be a lot for her, but they thought she’d at least try.

The Good Doctor picked up the orange crate and said to the crowd in feigned disappointment, “Okay, everyone. Class dismissed.”

That night, The Shopkeeper reflected on the session and whether she’d ever go back. She decided to do what worked best for her. She wrote a letter to her sister and waited patiently for a response.