her shoulder, assumed the shape of it, and it seemed to him she had the bones of a bird, so delicate, so breakable, and his fear of breaking them caused him to take his hand away.
This time, when Brother Emmanuel’s helpmate opened the door of his house, she did not greet the man and the woman with warmth and welcome. She stood there before them, holding the door open, regarding them with a troubled, puzzled look. Oh, she finally said, after a moment. Good morning. But she made no motion to welcome them into the house.
The man could sense that his wife had expected to be welcomed with open arms and was taken aback by the lack of greeting they received. So the man stepped forward a little and put his hand on the opened door, as if he were helping the woman to hold it open, or preventing her from closing it, and said, Good morning. We have come back, as you see.
Yes, said the helpmate. I see.
My wife would like to see Brother Emmanuel again. May she?
I’m afraid not. Brother Emmanuel is in sequestration today.
But I’ve got to see him! exclaimed the woman. Why is that? asked the helpmate.
He’s changed something inside me. I think he’s cured me. Or is curing me. So I must see him again, now, before it . . . before it changes. Or stops.
The helpmate looked at the woman for a moment, calmly, as if she were trying to discern something by gazing at her. Then she stepped back and opened the door wider, causing the man to lose his balance and fall forward, but he caught himself before he fell.
Come in, the helpmate said. It’s cold outside. She stepped aside and the man and the woman crossed the threshold and stood in the large front hall. The skylight was no longer occluded with snow; someone must have gone out onto the roof and shoveled it, the man thought. Or perhaps it had blown off during the night.
They all stood there silently for a moment, as if the atmospheric pressure were different inside of the house and needed adjusting to. Then, suddenly, the woman said, Oh, please, can’t I see him? I feel it so strongly: this urge—this need—to see him! To be in his presence, if only for a moment. I won’t even speak to—
The helpmate reached out and grabbed the woman’s arm and shook it slightly. The man noticed that his wife did not recoil or even react to this ungentle touch and realized that something had changed.
Listen, the helpmate said. Listen to me! Brother Emmanuel can’t have cured you. It doesn’t work like that. He can’t have changed you in any way—he only spoke with you for a few moments. To help you he must spend more time with you. A lot of time. It’s real, what he does; it isn’t magic. What you’re experiencing is false. We call it a therapeutic delusion; you feel you’re cured because you want to be cured. It happens often. But it is good, I assure you. You cannot be cured unless you want to be cured. And you want that so badly that you have fooled yourself. So do not despair.
But nevertheless it is a kind of a cure, said the woman. It’s not delusional; it can’t be.
You may think whatever you like, said the helpmate. But I have told you the truth of your situation. That, too, is a kind of cure.
Would you tell him I was here? I think he might see me if he knew I was here.
As I told you, he is in sequestration. He talks with no one on these days. Not even me.
Perhaps you could give him a note?
That’s impossible. He does not interact with anyone in any way on these days. If you want to see him, you will have to come back another time.
Tomorrow? the woman asked.
No. His schedule for tomorrow is complete. It will probably not be until next week that he can see you.
That’s impossible! I’ve got to see him tomorrow; it’s a matter of life and death.
The man stepped forward slightly, so that he was standing in front of his wife. My wife is very ill, he said. Gravely ill. Can’t you find time for her to see Brother Emmanuel tomorrow? It would mean so much to us both. I beg you.
Do not insult me by begging, the helpmate said. This is not that kind of place.