The Love Elixir of Augusta Stern

by Lynda Cohen Loigman

But now Irving had somehow reframed the discussion. His question was not about her grief, but about the lingering joys.

But there was something about Irving—his easy manner, his open expression, his willingness to listen—that made her feel as if he wanted to understand. In that moment, she felt as if she could tell him anything.

“You can’t give up something that brings you joy just because it is difficult. Or because there may be a risk.

“I wanted to study medicine and healing. If I had been born a man, they would have called me an apothecary. Perhaps even a doctor, if I’d had the training. But because I was born a woman, they called me a witch instead. To ignorant men, every gifted woman is a witch.”

“Words can do anything,” she said. “A kind word can fix a person’s spirit. A cruel one can break a person’s heart. Wicked words have caused wars, and honest words have made peace. Why shouldn’t they be able to heal?”

Her beauty was like the ocean in winter—cold and splendid in its austerity.

“Then what is the point? Why do this at all?” “Because there is still good that we can do. Because sometimes our remedies can cure. Because we can bear witness to a woman who suffers when her doctors refuse to see her pain. Because even when we cannot heal, a bowl of chicken soup can offer comfort.”

Oh, how she wanted to be that woman again—a woman who, yes, had suffered losses, but whose heart had not yet been broken beyond repair. A woman who was curious and hopeful and who still believed in the glimmers of magic that made their way quietly into the world.

Augusta laughed. “You think my brain is beautiful?” Irving refused to be embarrassed. “I think you’re happiest when you’re using it—when you’re doing your homework or studying your formulas or learning whatever is in your books. That’s when you’re the most yourself. And that’s when you’re the most beautiful to me.”