It was ridiculous, embarrassing. She was forty-eight and knew she ought to know better. She turned back to her Manual, which she’d propped on the table behind her cottage cheese, and she read both to prepare herself for Brendan’s arrival and to stiffen her resolve not to let her mouth rule her mind.
Heal the Spirit and the body will heal itself, she read, from the chapter on nutrition and healing.
Drugs are a diversion and a distraction and work only by suggestion; how can that which is material, and thus unreal, influence that which is Spiritual and real? Healing occurs only through strengthening of the Spirit. However, certain foods can aid healing, through transmission of qualities of Spirit which are diminished in the Subject. These foods are curative not through any corporeal property, but because of the Spirit manifested in all things which grow from the earth.
Spiritual nutrition is an art, which we discuss in detail elsewhere; it requires the full collaboration of the Subject and a trained neuro-nutritionist for the best results. However, even an unwilling Subject (one who has not accepted the omnipotence of the Spirit, or who has lost all will to command the Spirit) may be aided by a neuro-nutritionist who designs a diet based on the following guidelines:
Roots (e.g., potatoes, onions, beets, turnips) nourish the muscles and are useful in cases of muscle wasting, paralysis, sprain, strain, or spasm.
Leaves (e.g., lettuce, spinach, cabbage, dandelions) cool inappropriate passions and heat and are useful in cases of fever, sleeplessness, mania, and consumption.
Shoots (e.g., asparagus, fiddleheads, green onions) stimulate circulation and brain activity and are useful in cases of excess fluid, depression, and coma.
Flowers (e.g., broccoli, cauliflower, nasturtiums) have an affinity for the eyes and ears and are useful in cases of blindness, infection, and in certain disorders of emotion and behavior, which are actually disorders of perception.
Fruits (e.g., apples, oranges, melons; also such vegetables as eggplants, peppers, tomatoes) soothe and regulate all disorders of the skin and upper digestive tract.
Barks (e.g., cinnamon, birch, slippery elm) purge and purify the bowels and liver and are useful in cases of constipation, diarrhea, gallstones, liver congestion, and tumors of the digestive tract below the stomach.
Seeds (e.g., grains, peas, beans, nuts, sesame, poppy) stimulate and cleanse the generative organs and are useful in cases of barrenness, impotence, disordered menses, enlarged prostate or prostatic tumor, ovarian cyst or tumor, difficult pregnancy, and both lapsed and excessive desire.
There was more, much more, but Wiloma skipped to the end of the list and read the last paragraph: Keep in mind that these are only guidelines. The neuro-nutritionist will modify them as needed, based on the dialogue of his or her Spirit with the Spirit of the Subject.
How, Wiloma wondered, was Christine, her neuro-nutritionist, going to establish a dialogue with Brendan’s Spirit, which he kept hidden and caged? Although he’d left his Order when Wiloma was still a child, although he hadn’t set foot in a church since Second Vatican, she suspected he wouldn’t relinquish his Spirit to anyone but a priest. But Christine was cunning, and if anyone could break through to Brendan it would be her.
Wiloma had known Christine since her return from the Healing Center in Boston. She hadn’t introduced Christine to Wendy and Win, but she’d seen her often, surreptitiously, for the minor ailments that continued to plague her despite her efforts to drive them out. These ailments shamed her, but Christine was very pragmatic about Wiloma’s lapses. The Spirit Scale was just that, Christine said — a scale, along which we proceed by steps. It takes time to shed our old thoughts and old habits, and even when we move along the Scale a few degrees, some backsliding is inevitable in times of weakness or inattention. And although Wiloma should not, she said, ever resort to drugs, the proper foods and herbs and minerals could aid the flow of energy along the body’s channels.
Christine had given Wiloma extracts of bryophyllum leaves for her anxiety attacks and infusions of yarrow and silver for her insomnia. For her migraines, she’d concocted a mixture of iron, sulfur, myrtle, and honey. She gave Wiloma infusions of young birch leaves when her eczema broke out, and nasal sprays of lemon juice and mucilage of quince for her allergies. All these things had been comforting and some of them had helped; certainly none of them had harmed her.
She was sure that Christine could help Brendan in similar ways. The plan she’d worked out for Brendan included blackthorn and stinging nettles and strawberry leaves, colloidal flint and lily of the valley, turmeric rhizomes and horsetail and infusions of elder blossoms. These were meant to strengthen his worn organs, but the heart of the treatment, Christine said, was mistletoe, which was known to be helpful in cancer and other catastrophes of form. And if it was too late for a cure — as, Wiloma had to admit to herself, it almost surely was — still, mistletoe given in the context of a full Healing Ceremony was guaranteed to help Brendan’s Spirit detach from his body fully, painlessly, and quickly. He’d merge into the Light like an arrow, Christine had said. Like a bird winging free from the earth.
Wiloma was pondering this, and wondering how she could pry Brendan’s Spirit free from the guilt and dogma that bound him, when the phone rang and scattered her thoughts. The administrator from St. Benedict’s announced himself and asked if Brendan was with her.
“Of course he isn’t.” Wiloma thought of Brendan’s room, clean and almost ready for him, and she reminded herself to vacuum the screens so the sun could flood the bed. “We arranged that I’d pick him up tomorrow.”
The administrator drew a deep breath. “That’s what I thought. But we were hoping — you know, your brother visited your uncle this morning.”
“It’s Saturday. That’s the day he always visits.”
“Your uncle’s gone,” the administrator said. “So’s your brother. So is one of our transport vans. We were hoping there had been some confusion and that maybe they were with you.”
“I’m sorry,” Wiloma said. “Say that again?”
The administrator repeated himself. “They were both with your uncle’s physical therapist earlier,” he added. “Someone else saw them leave the building and assumed your brother was just taking your uncle out for some air. But then your uncle wasn’t back in his room when the lunch trays were delivered, and one of the janitors discovered the missing van, and another one said your uncle was seen in the vicinity of the key case. And we’re afraid they took off together.”
Wiloma focused the full power of her detoxified intelligence through space toward him, marveling at the way a grown man could allow his thinking to be so clouded by fear and confusion. “That’s ridiculous. There must be some mistake. They’re probably on the grounds somewhere, enjoying this beautiful weather. Couldn’t one of your own people have taken the van? Maybe someone forgot to sign it out. Henry would never do something like that. And my uncle — he was all set to come here. Surely you can see that there are other explanations?”
“I hope you’re right.” The administrator’s voice sounded sour, as if his stomach were troubling him, and she wanted to encourage him to eat some fresh fruit. Something sweet, something cleansing. “But I’m afraid we may have a serious incident here. If you see either of them, if you have any news at all, would you call us?”