Beloved Healer

by Bonnie Dee

Chapter Twenty

  It felt too familiar, waiting in the wings for his turn on stage and listening to the choir sing. The popular Christian song inspired the audience to join in and wave their arms. He had to admit it was kind of impressive to hear that swell of music from a couple of hundred people. A bigger crowd than last night, and Doug practically radiated glee as he bounded across the stage.

  “Brothers, Sisters, welcome!” he boomed. “If you leave here tonight with nothing more than a resolution to try harder to get close to Jesus, my mission is complete. It’s all about the trying, isn’t it? The journey toward our common goal, communion with our Lord.”

  A collective Amen met his words, and Doug rolled on.

  Mason had heard his speeches so many times he could practically recite the text. Love and redemption and forsaking bad habits. Offering one’s life to a higher power. There was nothing wrong in the message per se, but Mason could never quite buy Doug’s profession of belief. The man was too… Slimy was a strong word. Maybe slick was better. And Mason felt perpetually torn between gratitude to the man who’d taken him under his wing when he was lost and wandering, and his dislike of Doug’s shady ways. It was a weird relationship. The sooner he could sever it, the better.

  Only two more shows to complete their agreement, then he was off to Atlanta to reconnect with Gina and maybe make a different sort of life for himself.

  A life that doesn’t include Ava. What good is that? He squelched the thought.

  Last night hadn’t been so bad. He’d trotted on stage and jumped through Doug’s hoops like a performing dog. He didn’t even have to speak. Doug did all the talking, selecting the precious few who would be healed and guiding them onto the stage, while rambling on about their need for unwavering faith.

  Mason located the issue and relieved it. If it was something he couldn’t repair, he’d shake his head. Doug would regretfully inform the person that the power of their faith wasn’t sufficient and send them back to their seat. That had only happened once last night—a woman so deteriorated she already had one foot out the door. Mason sensed her drifting toward wherever spirits went after life. It was her family that had practically forced her to come that night, and she’d done it to please them, not because she’d actually wanted to step back from the edge of that dark secret.

  Three easy fixes and a couple of more complex ones, and then Mason signaled that he’d had enough. Doug wrapped up the healing portion of the evening with another inspiring speech, while a ripple of disappointed murmuring swept through the audience. They’d wanted more. They always did. More dramatic healing. More proof of something magical in the world. More proof of God, Mason supposed.

  He’d slept deeply that night and most of the next day and still woke feeling tired, ate a pile of food that hardly seemed enough to relieve his gnawing hunger, and now he was about to do it all over again.

  “Just a couple tonight,” he’d warned Doug before the preacher went on stage.

  The show man nodded. “Leave them clamoring for more and there’ll be even bigger attendance tomorrow. Your last hurrah—unless you decide to stick with us for a while.”

  Mason hadn’t bothered to reply.

  Now, Doug cued up the choir for the next song. “Faith like a mustard seed. Faith that moves mountains. Let us all raise our voices in celebration of a God who can change our lives as we welcome a man of great faith, Mr. Mason Reed.”

  Drums beat a fast pace and electric guitars wailed along with the chorus of voices singing in exuberance, “Faith. Faith. It’s all about faith. Trust in our God. He’s a good and righteous God.”

  And I’m a fucking fake. Man of faith, my ass. Don’t know why I can do what I do, if it’s really some gift from God or a fluke of evolution. The showiness of it all annoyed him, but Mason managed a small smile and strode onto the stage to loud applause. He took the empty seat set out for him and waited for Doug to bring him his first case.

  The reverend moved into the audience, pressing hands, speaking to people prescreened by the ushers as likely candidates and brought to the front of the audience. Some were in wheelchairs or on crutches. Doug would save those more dramatic cases until last. Other afflictions were less obvious, but Doug didn’t care much for cases of internal disorders where no one could witness the change. He tapped a woman with severe burn scars on her face and arms and brought her onstage.

  The music phased out as the evangelist began to talk again. He asked the woman, whose name was Sylvia White, a few questions about her injuries and she explained she’d been in a serious house fire. In addition to the burns, she’d suffered nerve damage that left her in almost constant pain. And this was supposed to be his “light” case for the night? Mason ignored the watching eyes and sent out feelers to explore the depth and breadth of the woman’s issues. The scarring was the easy part. It was the nerve damage that would suck a lot of juice. But he could do it.

  Rev. Croyden finished praying with Ms. White at last—did the man never get tired of the sound of his own voice?—and brought her over to Mason. With a hand on her shoulder, the preacher urged her to kneel. She groaned as she dropped stiffly to her knees.

  Really, Doug? Is the dramatic pose necessary? Mason flicked away his irritation and focused on Sylvia. Her tear-filled eyes were full of such hope. Her folded hands beseeched him. Angry red ridges covered half her head and down her neck, disappearing into the V of her blouse. They wrapped around one arm and hand as well.

  Mason reached out, not just mentally now but physically to touch her cheek. He felt her pain, engulfed it, neutralized it. Meanwhile, his power, like some great beast waking after a winter’s hibernation, rolled over, yawned, and stirred. It stretched and flexed its long claws, and, fully awake at last, it charged through him, through his hands, and into Sylvia White. He rocked at the strength of it passing through him, and he tried to guide it to the points where he wished it to go. Mason closed his eyes and shut down the floodgates, conserving the rest of his strength for the next case.

  When he opened them again, Sylvia’s shocked blue eyes were round as quarters as she gasped. “My God!”

  Doug was immediately there, thrusting a mic near her mouth.

  “My face…doesn’t hurt. And my fingers.” She held them in front of her and flexed them, gazing wonderingly at her newfound agility. Then she touched her fingertips to her cheek. She was still bald on one side of her scalp, but the skin from head to chest and all the way down her arm was as smooth and unblemished as if it had never been damaged.

  An audible gasp and exclamations of praise Jesus came from the audience. At Doug’s prompting, Sylvia rose, much less stiffly this time, to face the audience so they might witness the repairs to her flesh.

  Mason leaned against the back of the chair and closed his eyes again. Just a little rest, a chance to regroup and gather his strength, and then only one more healing, no matter how desperate the cases Doug pushed at him.

  *

  Ava struggled to get Bryan out of the car, up on crutches, and across the Dairy Swirl parking lot. On the other side of the road stretched the driveway and congested parking area of the Evangelical Brotherhood Church. This was like trekking through some never-ending desert, only cold. The only thing worse would be if it was raining. Ava gave a startled laugh as a fat drop of rain hit her cheek. God was nothing if not a hilarious prankster.

  As the single drop turned to a light sprinkle, Ava and Bryan joined the other late arriving pilgrims marching toward the brightly lit tent beside the church. Bryan plodded along beside Ava, digging in his crutches with grim determination and maneuvering around the close-parked cars. His face was skeletal in the harsh LED lights that illuminated the lot. She wished she could put an arm around him to offer support, but his crutches kept her at a distance. All she could do was say, “Not too far now.”

  Once they’d made it across the paved lot, they reached rougher terrain, crossing the lawn at one side of the church building to where the revival tent was pitched. Bryan
tripped over a hummock of grass and nearly fell before Ava caught him. He was a skinny kid, but almost taller then her now, and she staggered beneath his weight. A man walking past helped her prop him up until he got his balance.

  “I feel dizzy, and my head really aches,” Bryan muttered hoarsely. Since he rarely complained about anything, Ava started to panic. Whatever this was—a severe case of flu or something worse—she needed help soon.

  “Can you please help me get him inside?” Ava asked the big man, who hovered nearby. “I don’t think he can make it otherwise.”

  “Sure.” The man tugged his black T-shirt with a Day-Glo white cross and the words “He Saves!” on it down over his large belly and moved close to Bryan. “Put your arm around my neck, boy. I got ya.”

  Bryan, who hated being babied, didn’t argue as the giant lifted him off his feet. He stared at the brightly lit tent through the mist of rain. “Some kids at school said they were going to the preaching just to see if the miracles are true. Said it was the dishwasher from Cozy’s. It’s Mason, isn’t it?”

  Ava carried Bryan’s crutches and hurried alongside her brother and their savior. “Yes. But I don’t know if he can help you.”

  Bryan wiped moisture off his face. “He joined this revival, and he’s leaving town. You must be pissed. I don’t know if I want his help.”

  “Don’t be dumb. If Mason can heal you, we’ll take his help and be grateful.”

  “Good luck getting to see him,” the man carrying Bryan panted. “I was here last night with my grandma, and we didn’t even get close. He only does a few people a night. Although it sounds like you know the guy, so that might get you to the front of the line.”

  Now they were at the open doors of the tent, and the music broadcast across the parking lot became louder. A single voice spoke above the singers, a resonant voice with the dramatic cadence of a preacher. Ava glanced around, taking in the rows of filled seats, people murmuring to their neighbors, the sense of anticipation and the energy that swelled through the tent. On the brightly lit stage, a choir stood at one side, Croyden strode around preaching, and Mason sat in a straight-backed chair.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off his still figure. He was tired. She could tell by the slump of his body, the bow of his head. Exhausted, and yet he was doing this. Why had he risked his health for a bunch of strangers, but he hadn’t even tried to heal her brother? Oh, he claimed he’d taken a look inside Bryan, but had he really tried to do anything?

  “Looks like there’s a coupla empty chairs over there,” the big man leaned to tell her. “Want me to head that way?”

  At the same moment, Bryan had a coughing fit, then sucked in a deep breath of air.

  “No!” Ava snapped, sudden anger racing through her. “We need help now! Please, can you carry my brother up to the stage?”

  “Um, I don’t think that’ll help. Like I said, they only…” the stranger began.

  “It’s an emergency. He has to help us. He will help us right now!”

  Ava marched up the aisle. The man who’d agreed to help them had little choice but to follow. As she drew closer to Mason, Ava reached out with every particle of herself, seeking that current that sometimes passed between them even at a distance. But she felt nothing, no snap, crackle, pop sizzling in the air, no sign he was aware of her presence.

  That was fine. She didn’t need to connect with him, have him acknowledge her, or expect anything of him. All she needed from Mason Reed tonight was to heal her brother.

  Ava reached the edge of the stage. Close alongside was a row of people in wheelchairs, either crippled or the very elderly. Hopeful faces turned up toward Doug Croyden, begging to be chosen.

  Ava didn’t hesitate or take her place in line. She started to march up the steps to the stage itself. One of the ushers/bouncers hurried forward and grabbed at her arm, but she slipped past, storming the stage, rushing toward Mason.

  “Mason, you have to help me. Bryan’s sick. Really sick. I need you,” she shouted, then glanced back to see her burly friend arguing with the usher who blocked his way. She returned her gaze to Mason just as he lifted his head and met her gaze.

  Please, she mouthed, her gaze meeting his dark eyes with the smudges under them that told her how exhausted he was.

  Meanwhile, Rev. Croyden intervened, speaking into his mic. “Appears as if we have a serious emergency and a young lady whose faith is so strong she won’t be denied.” He waved a hand, and the usher allowed Bryan and the man who carried him to come on stage.

  The cherubic-faced evangelist talked to Bryan briefly, then addressed the audience again. “This young man, afflicted with muscular dystrophy, is suffering tonight from severe, life-threatening complications.” Croyden placed a hand on Bryan’s shoulder. “Do you believe in the healing power of God, son?”

  “Uh, sure.” Bryan spoke into the hand mic the preacher put in front of him.

  “You have faith you can be healed tonight? Not only of your illness but of the terrible disease you’ve struggled with for years?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  The usher who’d tried to bar their way from the stage came with a portable wheelchair for Bryan to sit in and escorted the man who’d helped Bryan off the stage.

  “Pray with me, everyone,” Croyden boomed. “Pray that this boy’s faith is strong enough for him to open and up and receive the healing he seeks.” The congregation joined him in an Our Father.

  Her gaze and her faith pinned on Mason, Ava prayed silently too.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Following the burn victim, Mason had healed someone with advanced diabetes and another with a degenerative spinal disease and was ready to melt right off the chair and onto the floor in a puddle. Doug ignored his signal he’d had all he could take, and Mason stopped paying attention to whatever Croyden was spouting. How many ways could someone use the word “faith” in a sentence? He considered simply walking out and putting an end to the evening. Not much of a show without Mr. Magic Hands.

  Then he heard a familiar voice call his name and dragged his weary head up to see Ava rushing across the stage toward him. She stopped a yard or two away and stared at him, begging him to help Bryan with words and with her eyes. “Bryan’s sick. Really sick. I need you.”

  That was when Mason knew he was screwed, because of course he couldn’t refuse this woman he’d come to love. No matter that he’d been going to walk away; he knew now how he felt about her.

  A few moments later, one of the roadies pushed a wheelchair in front of Mason. Bryan sat in it looking pale, sick, and embarrassed to be the center of attention. He frowned, and Mason smiled at him and gave a little nod.

  For the fourth time that night, he reached out mentally as if rummaging through a desk drawer in the dark. Bryan had layers of pain to explore, not just physical stuff but the loss of his father and the anguish of being abandoned by his mother, though she lived in the same house. Not to mention the normal teenage angst of feeling like a misunderstood outsider. Such issues weren’t anything Mason could help with, but the respiratory infection that had begun to settle into Bryan’s lungs was another matter.

  Mason wore no mic, so he could talk freely to the boy. “Not doing so well, huh?”

  “I feel like crap. My head aches, and my chest is starting to hurt. I took some pain reliever but…”

  Mason nodded. A few aspirin weren’t going to cut it. The infection, which might have been mild in most people, had hit Bryan hard. Mason reached further, dug deeper, and felt how weak Bryan’s immune system and heart were. He continued to poke around in that drawer of unfamiliar objects and uncovered the neurological and muscle damage the MD caused. Because the disease was so complex, he might be able to tackle some of the effects but doubted his power could completely alter Bryan’s genetic code.

  “Sorry you’re feeling bad. I’ll do what I can to help you.” He stretched out his hands.

  “Why’d you leave Ava? I thought you really liked her. I
t seemed like you did.”

  Mason swallowed. “I do. It’s not about that. It’s about…” What the hell was it about? He’d claimed to fear the people in Waller demanding too much from him, and he’d made an excuse about needing to reconnect with his sister. He’d even told himself his leaving would free up Ava to find someone better for her. But were any of those reasons the truth?

  “I don’t know why,” he admitted to Bryan. He looked past the boy to his sister, who stood a short distance away, giving them privacy but watching with worried eyes. Every feature—the shape of her face, the color of her hair, the curves of her body—not only attracted Mason but filled him with a sense of rightness; a click, like fitting the final piece of a puzzle into place. Something he hadn’t even known he was missing was completed when he saw her.

  “Ava’s amazing, but maybe how strongly I feel about her scares me a little.”

  “Well, that’s stupid,” Bryan stated flatly. “If some pretty girl liked me back, I’d be jazzed. You couldn’t pry me off her with a crowbar.”

  Mason started to laugh and couldn’t stop laughing, because the kid was so blunt and so absolutely right.

  Bryan chuckled too, but it turned into a cough he covered with his hand.

  Croyden came over and frowned at Mason. “What’s up?” he asked off mic.

  Mason shook his head, still smiling. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  He brushed the annoying gnat of Doug Croyden aside, stopped sneaking looks at Ava, and concentrated completely on Bryan. The energy began to roil in him like massive clouds on the horizon. When this one broke, it was going to be a big storm.

  Mason controlled his breath and pictured Bryan’s lungs, the infection stewing there, thick, nasty black stuff like an oil spill. It was located mostly in his chest, causing the headaches, the fever, the chills, but given Bryan’s weakened system, it could easily grow much worse. An antibiotic might accomplish the same healing as Mason, but Bryan wasn’t at a doctor’s office. He sat right here, asking for help.