Page 35 of It’s Me They Follow

T he Shopkeeper drove back to Philly in silence without stopping or taking any breaks. She should have made it back in time for The Good Doctor’s funeral, but somehow she missed it as she whirled about in her apartment unpacking, watering her plants, and trying to find the right thing to wear.

She hadn’t been the best student in The Good Doctor’s class; she might have been the worst. She still wondered if they’d learned anything that they couldn’t have taught themselves.

She caught herself staring into outer space and laughed at memory after memory of herself sitting with her arms folded and her mouth scrunched up in disbelief at the things The Good Doctor had to say.

Finally, The Shopkeeper admitted to herself that she didn’t really want to go anywhere—especially not to another funeral.

So she got undressed and was settling back onto the couch to read ME’s journal when a huge blackbird flew from out of nowhere and smacked right against her window.

She put her book down and looked around to see if that had been real or in her imagination.

She stood up, and— smack —another blackbird slammed against the glass even harder than the first had.

Then another and another. “What in the Alfred Hitchcock?” She went to check on them, worried they had broken their wings.

But as she opened the window, the first bird got back up and flew away—the others followed behind it.

As she was about to close the window, she swore she heard the faint chanting of The Good Doctor saying, “Oh, what the heck, do whatever it takes,” riding on the wind.

The Shopkeeper had learned something in class after all, even if it wasn’t the lesson she’d been seeking.

She didn’t need The Good Doctor, and she never had.

And although The Shopkeeper knew this, she also knew the loss was hard for her writers’ group.

Today would be the last day she’d see them, so she tucked her book back into the couch, put on her scarf and hat, and decided it best to go to the burial to be there for her friends.

It was an abnormally windy day, with leaves and debris and birds flying every which way as The Shopkeeper walked toward the cemetery.

But she didn’t let any of that stop her.

She arrived at Laurel Hill just as the others from her writers’ group were pulling up.

They gathered around one another, holding their clothes to themselves as though they were trying to keep parts of themselves from blowing away.

Four young men—The Good Doctor’s former students, The Shopkeeper thought—tried to harmonize Boyz II Men songs a cappella off to the side of her casket.

They didn’t sound great, but at least they tried. ... To yesterday, ehhhh.

“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 idea who 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 he held 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 legs had 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

we are completely capable

completely capable

our minds are focused

we’re ready, creative, unyielding, mature

you hear the whispers?

those are the ancient voices

speaking prophesy in my left ear

spirituals singing songs in my subconscious mind

we’re building bridges with our tongues

we’re opening doors with our third eye

it’s me they follow

it’s me they follow

it’s me they follow.

The group propped one another up as The Shopkeeper finished.

“‘It’s me they follow,’” they repeated as four large blackbirds circled over them. Her words had taken on a life of their own. The Shopkeeper came back over and joined her friends.

The ceremony was finished, and the birds flew away.

“This is for you.” The Shopkeeper handed the teenybopper a blank leather-bound journal from her collection. “In case you want to join the next session of our writers’ group at my new bookshop, Harriett’s.”

The teenybopper’s eyes got wide, and her mouth got big. “I knew it was you,” she whispered.

“You knew before I did,” The Shopkeeper agreed, and promised to stay in touch.

“Wait, wait,” Lil Charlie declared as they were about to walk back to their cars. “I have something important to say.”

“Then say it,” The Shopkeeper said.

“Stop walking.” Lil Charlie held his hands up and stopped the group from moving.

“I want to be up-front about the fact that I am in love with Rose.” No one was surprised; they had seen it in his eyes.

“I love her, and not like a friend.” Rose blushed.

“And one more thing: Just call me Charlie from now on. I’m not Lil Charlie; I’m not Big Charlie. I am just Charlie.”

Rose was red. She put her hand out to his.

“We got you, Charlie.” Ray nodded, and The Shopkeeper agreed.