Page 144 of Under Story

“I’m so sorry,” she said, the third time she had to pull a nail.

“You’ll get there,” said an experienced teen named Elise, though the look she cast another carpenter implied that Laurel might not.

That evening, Laurel sat alone in the Longhall, wondering whether she’d made a mistake. She felt superfluous at the Center, and her mind kept drifting to Eli. She wandered toward the door with a cup of nettle tea. Tucked into an alcove was a table that she hadn’t yet investigated. Tins, jars, and bottles sat on top, each neatly labeled: Goldenrod extract, Yarrow spray, Calendula balm, Arnica oil. A handwritten sign read Self-Serve.

“Try the lemon balm,” someone said. “One dropper. When I first got here, it was the only thing to settle my stomach.”

Laurel turned. Beside her stood a woman with freckles and dark, curly hair, shaved on one side. She wore a pair of denim shorts, Velcro sandals, and a T-shirt that read Introverts Unite: Separately, in Your Own Homes.

The woman extended a hand.

“Olive,” she said.

After Laurel introduced herself, she considered Olive’s shirt. “Is it possible to be an introvert at a commune?”

“I keep trying,” said Olive.

Laurel had her doubts about the lemon balm. Her sadness was Eli, and no herb could treat that. Even so, she put a dropper in her nettle tea.

The next day, at breakfast, she found Olive.

“It helped,” Laurel said.

Olive looked amused. “You sound surprised.”

Laurel said, “I didn’t think anything could.”

“Why don’t you come to my workshop tomorrow?” asked Olive.

And that was how it began. Olive’s workshop looked like an apothecary: there were jars of dried specimens; dehydrators and stockpots; herb grinders and cheesecloth; alcohol, for extraction; and amber-colored tincture bottles, plugged by rubber stoppers. Olive had learned from her predecessor, a former Center member named Ana, just as Ana was taught by a member named Mei. Part of Laurel’s work was to learn about herbalist cultures; whether and how to practice plant medicine with respect is an ongoing conversation. The plants are cultivated in a garden, rather than wild harvested, to reduce the strain on the ecosystem. Their products—tinctures and salves, sprays and balms—comprise part of the Center’s income.

Olive’s daughter had become ill from the lead in drinking water. Environmental justice work led Olive herself to the Center. Her voice was never the loudest in a group, and she rarely attended parties—but she had grit, and when she laughed, it shot out as if from a cannon.

Today, the door to the workshop stands open. Fran, the new apprentice, waves. The latest batch of reishi tinctures are steeping on a shelf. By the time they do the extraction, Laurel will have left.

Olive sits on the back steps, a cup of tea in one hand. She smiles at Laurel, but her eyes are pained. Unconsciously, Laurel mimics Olive’s position: elbows on knees, back hunched.

“I hate goodbyes,” Olive says.

“I know,” says Laurel. “Me, too.”

“How are you feeling?”

Olive is one of the few people who knows what happened with Eli. Laurel rubs her arms.

“I’m starting to get nervous. Maybe I should take some lemon balm.”

Olive laughs. For a moment, they sit quietly, as they have many times before. Then Olive passes Laurel the cup of tea.

Laurel sips. “This is good. Basil…and rose?”

“And chamomile.”

“Of course.”

The chamomile grows like a weed. Laurel gives the cup back to Olive.

“I keep thinking that this is the oldest I’ll ever be,” she says. “The most independent.” From the Center, Laurel will go to Clare’s house, where her life as a minor will begin. “That scares me. But then…”