Miracle Woman

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  ‘He sounds like he’s in shock, ma’am.’

  ‘Do you think you could lift him in a blanket and drive him over to us? I have no-one available right now to collect him, but if you could get him to us it would be much appreciated. No, there’s no charge.’

  She scribbled down the details as more and more calls came in.

  ‘Martha, that you?’

  Smiling, Martha recognized the voice on the line immediately. It was Frank Graham. ‘Hello, Frank, how are you? How are things going?’

  Every Wednesday the old man called from the public phone at the Emmanuel Residence for the aged and infirm to enquire about his pet.

  ‘How’s Dollar?’

  ‘I took him for a long walk this morning, Frank, and he’s doing fine.’

  ‘Does he still miss me?’

  ‘You know he does, Frank, but he’s not pining. Labradors are loyal.’

  ‘Has that Mrs Rimaldi said any more about getting him a home?’

  ‘We have tried, Frank, but Dollar’s an old dog and set in his ways. He’s not suitable for a young family or anyone out at work all day.’

  She could sense the relief in his voice.

  ‘So I guess he’ll just have to stay put for the moment then.’

  ‘Yes, we expect so.’

  ‘Did he get the biscuits I sent?’

  Martha tried to suppress a smile. Every week without fail a package was delivered by Fedex to the shelter containing sweet digestive biscuits, the type the Labrador loved. ‘We got them, but you know we’re trying to cut him back a bit, Frank,’ she told him.

  ‘I know, I know. It’s just that they were always his favourites.’

  ‘You could come and see him if you’d like.’ She could picture the old man standing at the phone thinking of his best friend.

  ‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  There was silence for a minute and she wondered if she had lost the call.

  ‘That would be too upsetting for us both. It’s best to leave it as it is, Martha.’

  She told him about Dollar lying stretched out in the sun, giving Frank time to compose himself.

  ‘You have my number here?’

  ‘Yes,’ she assured him.

  ‘Should anything happen.’

  ‘We know, Frank.’

  ‘I’ll phone again next week. Thanks a lot, Martha, thanks a whole lot.’

  She had barely finished his call when a woman phoned looking for a mature tabby that had escaped from a ground-floor apartment about two blocks away. She was pleased to tell the distressed owner that a cat matching the description and wearing a pink diamanté collar had been brought in, none the worse for wear, by a concerned patrol officer the evening before.

  ‘Thank God.’

  Martha transferred to another line.

  ‘Hello, is that the Highlands Animal Shelter?’

  Martha responded to the male caller.

  ‘I want to talk to the woman, the healer that works there, the miracle lady. Is she there?’ he asked.

  Martha almost dropped the phone. Quickly she glanced around. Janet was on another line in her office, arguing with some animal feed supplier by the sound of it, and Donna was sitting with a cat in her lap trying to put eye drops in its eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, this is an animal shelter. How can I help you?’

  ‘I want to speak to her. Is she there?’

  ‘Is there a problem with an animal, sir?’

  ‘I want to speak to that woman, it’s urgent! Put me on to her!’

  Martha didn’t know what to say. The man was screaming down the line at her. She held the phone away from her. How could she pass the call on to one of the others? They were already busy enough. And how did the caller know about her volunteering at the shelter? She had no choice but to deal with him.

  ‘This is Martha,’ she said resignedly. ‘What is the matter, sir?’

  A torrent of misery followed as the man, called Pete, told her of years of addiction to alcohol and prescription drugs which had ended with him trying to take his own life only a month before. Appalled, she closed her eyes thinking of his disturbed spirit and the torment he endured. Now he was threatening to do the same again. He had failed his wife and five-year-old son and had abandoned his promise to attend an addiction clinic daily, as he felt it was doing him no good.

  ‘I have no options left, Martha, there is no cure to this, no end to it all.’

  Desperately she tried to reason with him, asking about what would happen to his son and wife if he did what he planned and trying to persuade him to attend the clinic one more time.

  ‘That’s no good!’ he screamed, demanding instant answers, instant results.

  She closed her eyes. Imagining him, she tried to get a sense of placing her hands along his chest, above his ribcage, near his heart and soul.

  ‘I am going to send you healing, Pete, but I need you to sit down quietly and to be silent and still so I can think of you, try to help you,’ she pleaded.

  She could sense the heat and energy running through her already, as perspiration began to gather on her forehead and hairline.

  ‘I’m sending you healing, Pete. Can you sense it?’

  There was silence and for a minute she imagined the worst. The lines were going crazy. Ten calls were waiting. Janet looked over at her, puzzled as to why she was not dealing with them.

  ‘I can feel it,’ he said finally.

  ‘Will you promise me you will go to the clinic today?’ she begged, ‘and tell them how bad you are feeling?’

  ‘I suppose,’ was all Pete said.

  Martha imagined the worst as he suddenly hung up. She had no control over what he might or might not do and no way of warning his family or doctor.

  ‘You OK, Martha?’ Donna asked, concerned. ‘Was that some crazy on the line?’

  Martha nodded. She felt sick to her stomach thinking of him and the state he was in. Janet Rimaldi stared over at her and Martha made a show of looking busy. The next caller had found an injured squirrel in her yard and wanted directions to Highlands.

  Chapter Eleven

  MARTHA’S MIND WAS in turmoil. Nothing could have prepared her for the demands now being made on her, and the expectation of utter strangers that she could help them. More stories had appeared in the newspaper. Lara Chadwick had tracked down two people who both claimed to have been healed by her: the student with a stammer she remembered, but for the life of her she couldn’t recall the child with a broken wrist that she was supposed to have helped.

  How could anyone believe that she – Martha Anne McGill from Easton, Massachusetts – had been blessed with the gift of healing! She was just an ordinary woman, nothing special, so why had this happened to her?

  A quiet person by nature, she was uncomfortable with so much attention and the invasion of her privacy. There were people constantly outside her home or driving up and down her street; already her neighbours were complaining. It had got so bad that now even in traffic she became suspicious of cars stopping beside her. The intrusion of these strangers on her family life was unbearable and at times she even worried for her children’s safety. Mike blamed her for it all, she knew that. If he had his way she would never have volunteered to help the Lucas boy and would have simply stood on the pavement with the rest of the onlookers. A thought she could not begin to countenance! Would it have made a difference? That she would never know.

  What she did know now was that she found it impossible to turn away those that came to her for help, who were in need of healing.

  ‘You’re far too soft, Martha!’ joked Evie. ‘That’s your problem.’

  Her best friend was right. She was prepared to spend time and listen to people, and in the simple act of laying on hands experienced a power and energy for which there was no rational explanation. It was all so complicated! She stretched her fingers and hands, studying them, feeling her palms and wrists and pulse points, searching for an answer.

  She pho
ned Rianna Lindgard’s surgery. The receptionist told her there was a six-week waiting list excepting emergencies.

  ‘I’m a friend of hers,’ insisted Martha.

  Moments later the girl managed to slot her in for a cancellation appointment the following day.

  Martha left the car at the station and took the T to town. Boston was a nightmare, with roads up everywhere as the planners tried to sort out the tangled mess of city traffic by building new roads, tunnels and bridges. It had been christened ‘The Big Dig’ and seemed to be going on for ever.

  It was raining lightly as she made her way towards Huntingdon Avenue, where Rianna’s surgery was situated. Two other people were already in the waiting room but the receptionist ushered her in ahead of them.

  ‘Well, Martha, what brings you to this neck of the woods?’ asked Rianna. ‘I thought you went to Gibson Daly out near where you live.’

  ‘We do,’ she sighed, settling herself into the ultra-modern black dental chair, which even contained a TV screen. ‘It’s just that I want your opinion on something, Rianna, and I hoped you might be able to help me.’

  ‘Tooth trouble!’ smiled Rianna.

  Funny, she looked different in her white coat with her dark hair pinned up off her face, a little older.

  ‘No, that’s not it.’

  ‘Oh, gums bad?’

  ‘No, Rianna. I should have probably phoned you, but I want to ask you a favour. Will you have a look at my hand?’

  ‘Your hand! Are you mad? What do you want me to look at that for, have you hurt it?’

  ‘No, Rianna, but I want to get it X-rayed. Both of them.’

  ‘You should be going to a doctor, Martha, that’s certainly not my field.’

  ‘Please, Rianna. The doctor’s going to think I’m crazy if I go ask him and I’d have to get an appointment for the hospital.’

  Rianna considered for a minute, then leaning forward she took Martha’s right hand in hers.

  ‘The magic hand,’ she murmured, turning it back and forwards, feeling the fingers and knuckles and wrist and palm. ‘Seems totally normal to me, Martha, but I’m not really set up for anatomy. Still, I’m sure we can get a photo of these beauties if we try.’

  ‘I just feel such a freak, Rianna, and I need to know is there some strange kind of reason why I have this power.’

  ‘You’re not going to go blowing all my expensive fancy equipment on me now, are you!’

  ‘I hope not.’

  Rianna and herself had met in the hospital after giving birth to their firstborn sons more than fifteen years ago. Patrick and Alex had been born within hours of each other, which seemed to create some kind of bond between them. The kids and moms always sent cards and presents to each other and kept in touch over the years. Even when she and Mike had moved to California, Rianna would make incredible long-distance calls to tell her the most trivial things. After they had moved back East Martha was only glad that she was there to offer her love and support when Andrew Lingard was involved in a tragic skiing accident in the Blue Hills and broke his neck. Three months later Rianna and young Alex lost the most important person in their life. She was filled with admiration for Rianna, who had gone back to dental school to continue her studies and ended up taking over her husband’s practice.

  Rianna asked her to spread her fingers against the solid base of the instrument table as she manoeuvred the X-ray camera into position.

  ‘OK, keep still a sec.’

  She repeated the procedure with her left hand.

  ‘Right, we have to wait a few minutes. Do you want me to give you a nice polish while we wait?’

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘Why not!’

  Martha’s teeth were white and sparkling when Rianna told her that her hands were perfectly normal. ‘There is slight evidence of a break years ago on your middle finger, that’s all.’

  ‘Basketball when I was about sixteen.’

  ‘Well, there you go then, but otherwise horribly normal and no need to call out the X Files brigade.’

  She felt relieved as she thanked Rianna and arranged to invite her and Alex over for Sunday lunch in about a fortnight’s time.

  ‘Tell Mike and the kids I said hi,’ added Rianna, as she left her office.

  Somewhat reassured Martha went out into the street. She had some time to kill before she went home and the evening rush hour started, and decided to do a bit of shopping in the stores up around Copley Square.

  Rianna Lindgard stretched her aching legs and feet. She had just finished an exhausting root canal job on a very tetchy businessman who was booked to fly to Tokyo first thing in the morning. She was as polite and kind as could be but longed to be home with Alex, eating spaghetti carbonara and drinking a chilled Martini. Lucy her assistant had gone already as there was no point in her missing her train to Braintree.

  She checked everything was unplugged and turned off, and that her equipment was sterilized for tomorrow. Noticing Martha’s X-rays over on her desk, she thought she’d leave them for Lucy to file in the morning. Lifting them up, her eye was drawn to a whitish circle of light that seemed to have developed around the edge of the hands and finger bones. Was it a fault in her machine? It hadn’t been there earlier on, she was sure of that. Curious, she placed them safely away in her own drawer. Maybe Martha really had the power she believed in.

  Chapter Twelve

  MIKE MCGILL PULLED on the freshly ironed white shirt, tucking it into his fine silk black trousers. At forty-two he reckoned himself to be still in good shape, playing golf whenever he got a chance and using the company gym at least thrice a week to keep fit. The Institute had a firm belief that those who maintained a healthy body had a higher energy and concentration level during the long working day and testing had proved it boosted intelligence and performance.

  He had finished work an hour early and had driven home, giving himself time to shower and relax before he and Martha had to dress for dinner at Bob and Gina Forrester’s. To be invited to a sit-down dinner at the home of the Institute’s president was a major step up the career ladder as far as he was concerned. Until now, Martha and he had attended the crowded cocktail party thrown every summer by his boss in a marquee erected on the lawn of the large colonial-style home to cater for the Institute’s large number of staff. Tonight was different.

  Bob had told him they were having a few close friends over and that Daniel Kendrick from Powerhouse, the giant technology company in San Jose, would also be attending. Mike, adjusting the fastener on his bow tie, could scarcely believe that in an hour or so he would actually be sitting across the table from what the Wall Street Journal had called one of America’s most intelligent and richest men.

  Martha had gone to the beauty shop and had her hair and nails done. Her light brown hair was highlighted and worn simple and straight as she was wearing a classic pale blue dress which Mike could tell had cost a fortune; the colour accentuated her pale skin and blue-green eyes.

  ‘You look great, honey!’ he declared, pulling her into his arms.

  ‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ she teased, admiring him as he pulled on the black dinner jacket. ‘James Bond, eat your heart out!’

  Martha touched his face gently. Mike responded by bending down and touching his lips to hers, her mouth opening to his, her arms pulling him closer. They were still like a pair of horny kids, Mike thought, as he gently disentangled himself from his wife’s embrace. Bob Forrester was a stickler for punctuality at their weekly progress meetings and he certainly had no intention of arriving late to their dinner party.

  The kids had all been fed earlier and had promised to be on their best behaviour. Martha dabbed perfume on her wrists and neck before grabbing her midnight-blue wrap off the bed. Mike checked he had his cell phone and wallet. Patrick whistled his approval as they stood at the bottom of the stairs. The girls told Martha how beautiful she looked.

  ‘Mom, you look neat. That dress is just perfect,’ complimented Mary Rose.

/>   ‘And you smell like the garden at night time,’ added Alice.

  ‘That is such a sweet thing to say, Alice. Thank you.’

  ‘Dad, you are real handsome too,’ laughed their youngest daughter.

  Mike glanced outside, seeing the cab that he had ordered draw up in front of the house. ‘Come on, Martha! Time to go. You lot be good and don’t stay up too late.’

  Martha picked up the gift-wrapped, small embroidered cushion that Evie had helped her to select as a token for the hostess who probably had everything. The intricate rose had been picked out in the palest shades of damask and pearly pink by a seamstress in the last century.

  Mike was nervous during the drive to the Forresters’ home off Maple Street. The landmark house stood on about ten acres and was ringed by high shrubs and trees, which managed to hide all but a glimpse of the white gabled windows that overlooked the garden and tennis court. When Martha squeezed his hand he could sense his wife’s reassurance that it would be a fine night, spent in good company. The driveway was lit up and Mike let out a whoop of disbelief at the brand new English Rolls-Royce parked out front.

  ‘That must be Kendrick’s. He collects cars.’

  Paying the driver, Mike helped Martha from the cab. The front door was opening before he had time to ring the bell.

  ‘Welcome, Mike! Welcome,’ offered Bob Forrester, his dapper figure rushing out to greet them.

  Mike introduced him to Martha, knowing full well that even though they had been guests at Rockhall before, Bob would not be likely to remember his wife’s name. Martha, smiling graciously, let herself be kissed on both cheeks by his boss as if they were old friends, his brown eyes flicking over her evening attire.

  ‘Come in, come in, the both of you!’

  They were ushered into an Italian tiled marble hallway and a young woman appeared to take Martha’s wrap. Gina Forrester came over to welcome them, fussing over them and telling them how divine they both looked. Martha politely admired the figure-hugging black sheath dress that their hostess was wearing, which showed off her perfectly toned and tanned body.