The Healer

by Donna Freitas

  I nod.

  “All right.” To Angie she says, “Call me and we’ll set up that time to talk. I’m going to take Marlena out for a big meal, since I think she needs one.”

  “I agree.” Angie stares at me hard. “Marlena, promise you’ll think about an MRI soon. Not for my sake, for yours. For your health.”

  “Sure,” I say as though I’m really considering it, as though it’s no big deal. But as Helen and I are walking toward the exit, a rolling shiver passes over my body. I can’t bring myself to look in the direction of that big white tunnel that has the power to reveal all the secrets of the mind.

  THIRTEEN

  Helen takes a call on her phone after we arrive in town and get out of the car.

  “Sorry,” she mouths. “I have to take this. Give me ten, fifteen minutes?”

  I nod, and wander along the sidewalk of Main Street to kill time. A weird sensation stirs. Not like a vision. More like déjà vu, or when a place you know well suddenly seems unfamiliar, like if you leave your house and come back and someone has rearranged the furniture, but only a little. It takes me a minute to pinpoint what’s different. It’s seeing Gertie that does it.

  She’s standing in the doorway of her shop, like always. The kite in the window is gone, replaced by long-sleeved T-shirts emblazoned with an image of me as a baby surrounded by a glowing halo, my tiny fist reaching, one finger outstretched. Next to it is something else I’ve never seen before. A doll, maybe a foot and a half tall, on a shelf. It’s made to look like me in one of the wedding gowns I wore at a healing. I recognize the dress from an audience last year.

  It was an unusual audience, because it went on for hours longer than normal and I’d healed forty people instead of my usual six or seven. It caused a sensation, both for the sheer number of people I cured and also because I collapsed at the end of it. It wasn’t the first time I ever fainted, but the only time this has happened during an audience. The people present for my marathon healing began to call it the Day of Many Miracles. Word spread and the anniversary is coming up in October. My mother has been preparing for triple the number of people and tourists as usual.

  Maybe that’s why this doll has appeared, with a perfect miniature replica of that dress. Gertie and the rest of the town plan to make money from the anniversary.

  Of course they do.

  A burning starts across my skin. Splotches of color dot my vision and all I can see are the rocks that pepper the garden lining the sidewalk. The urge to take one of those rocks into my palm and shatter Gertie’s window rises as the burning spreads deeper and hotter. I want to break the doll into a million pieces. I crouch down, push my head between my knees, and try to breathe slowly.

  “Honey, are you all right?” Gertie asks.

  I let out another long breath before I stand up again. When I turn to Gertie, I realize what is out of place. She doesn’t recognize me. She’s looking at me like I might be anyone, some tourist girl who wandered off from her parents. “Do you need me to call someone, sweetheart? Your mother?”

  The burning I felt before retreats like a cool cloth across my skin. “Sorry. No. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” I stare at her, unable to believe she doesn’t know that it’s me. A giddiness bubbles into my throat.

  It’s my outfit.

  The blue sundress. The sandals. The thin cardigan sweater I shrugged over my shoulders so I wouldn’t feel so bare, and that swallows me in a way Helen swore was both fashionable and practical after my fainting spell. The oversized movie-star sunglasses Helen lent me in the car, so big they practically cover the top half of my face. The fact that my long hair is pulled up into a high knot.

  I look like a regular girl. Like I could be anybody.

  Like I might be nobody. Nobody special.

  But Gertie is looking at me strangely now, and I can’t decide if it’s because I am acting strangely or if I am starting to seem familiar and she’s trying to place me.

  “I’m fine. Really.” I hurry off before it dawns on Gertie she’s talking to the real version of that stupid doll in her window.

  I continue down Main Street. People pass by like it isn’t me they are seeing. Like they can’t see me at all. Like I’m not worth noticing.

  Is this all it takes to become anonymous? To be free?

  A pair of sunglasses? A sundress? A topknot?

  I glance behind me. In the distance, Helen is still on the phone, waving her hand in the air, as though the person she’s talking to can see her. I veer a little, like I might be drunk. One after the other, the souvenir shops of the town appear and recede. I am tempted to enter, to see what else people are hawking in my name, something I don’t usually do. But I don’t want to press my luck and risk someone recognizing me, bringing this unexpected reprieve to an end. The ice cream shop appears on my right and I can’t resist. I duck inside and the cool air makes me shiver.

  I’ve always wanted to go out for ice cream, to visit this place not as me, but as a person in the mood for a treat. The bell on the door rings as I enter, but Mrs. Lewis, the owner, is engrossed in her magazine. Some of the ice cream flavors are fluorescent in color, others more muted. There are the normal ones, like strawberry and chocolate. But some of the names have a theme.

  Miracle Mash and Healing Hazelnut.

  Espresso Ecstasy and Raspberry Rapture.

  Visionary Vanilla.

  Whatever. I don’t care. It’s not as though I’m surprised the flavors are like everything else in this town. This is my hour off from being Marlena the Healer and I’m going to enjoy it.

  Mrs. Lewis must sense a customer, because she looks up. “Would you like to try anything?” She takes a pink spoon from a cup that is full of them, ready for me to direct her to a flavor I want to taste.

  “Sure,” I say slowly, surveying the possibilities. There are so many and they all look so good. “How about . . . Miracle Mash.” I have to cover my mouth to stop from giggling. I have a secret. Anonymity, I decide, is my new best friend.

  Mrs. Lewis smiles. “Miracle Mash is one of my favorites.” She leans forward to scrape some ice cream out of its tub. “Are you here on vacation with your family?”

  “Um. Yes,” I say, a little uncertain. I’m not used to lying. Or pretending. At least not with anyone other than my mother.

  Mrs. Lewis reaches over the counter to hand me the spoon, now covered in what looks like chocolate ice cream dotted with a million things. Toffee. Chips. Marshmallow. Maybe streaks of peanut butter? I take it from her.

  “Will you and your parents be going to the Healer’s audience this Saturday?” Mrs. Lewis asks as I lick the spoon clean. “Most people who visit our town attend even if it’s not their thing. They go out of curiosity. It’s not like you have to believe to go.”

  The ice cream melts on my tongue and I chew all the delicious things in it, made even more so because Mrs. Lewis doesn’t know that it’s me. Freedom is tasty. I swallow, and realize that Mrs. Lewis is waiting for me to answer. “Do you believe in the Healer?” I ask, realizing I genuinely want to know what she says.

  Mrs. Lewis glances at the candy-coated pink ceiling of her shop. “I do.”

  My heart speeds up. I drop the used plastic spoon into a container on the counter for them. “You sound so sure. Why? What makes you believe?” Why do I suddenly care so much about the opinions of the nice lady who owns the ice cream shop?

  “It’s difficult to describe, but . . . I suppose there’s a couple of reasons,” she starts. “I think miracles are possible and they happen all the time.” My eyebrows arch and she laughs. “Not necessarily big miracles like walking on water, but little, everyday ones. Someone smiles at you for seemingly no reason, out of the blue, when you are having the worst moment of your life, and somehow that smile gives you the strength to get through the afternoon. You know?”

  No one ever talks to me like this. “I think so.”

  “But I also think bigger miracles are possible. That they’re rare, but they exist, an
d sometimes lucky people who walk among us are their source. I believe something sacred resides in them, that they have the power to connect us, to remind us that life is a beautiful mystery. They can transform us into something better. Something whole.”

  My eyes are getting watery. I blink. “Do you think that . . . the Healer can do those things?”

  Mrs. Lewis’s eyes are glistening a little, too. “Yes.”

  My heart is galloping, stars are exploding and blurring my vision. “Is there anything you’ve ever wished for Marlena to heal?”

  Mrs. Lewis grows quiet. She takes a long, labored breath before speaking again. “It wouldn’t work for me.”

  “Why not?” For the first time in as long as I can remember, the desire to heal someone, to do it of my own free will and because I want to help, not because my mother is making me, rises up as powerful as any vision I’ve ever had. “You live right here. Maybe you should take your own advice and go to one of the Healer’s audiences. Just to see.”

  Mrs. Lewis goes completely still. The statue of a late middle aged lady, humble and sad. “It costs money,” she informs me. “To get a healing. Like everything else in this life. If you can’t pay, the Healer won’t attend you at an audience.”

  I shake my head back and forth. “That’s not right. It’s just not.”

  “I agree,” Mrs. Lewis says, misunderstanding my meaning.

  “No, that’s literally not right. I mean, I read up on the Healer and how the audiences work before my family came here.” My cheeks flush a little with the lie. “And that’s not how it works. You have to ask to get on the list for an audience. But you don’t have to pay to be on the list! And afterward, people send their gratitude in donations and offerings, which is why the Healer’s family lives so well.”

  Mrs. Lewis is studying me. I bet she’s wondering why a tourist would know so much. “I don’t want to upset your idealism, sweetheart, but I promise you, the money gets paid up front. No money, no healings. And they are expensive. That is why the Healer and her family live so well. I tried myself once, and the mother turned me away because I didn’t have the funds.”

  My lips part.

  Could she be right?

  It would make so much sense. How we could afford all that we have. That the money is so consistent. Shame pours through me that my mother would turn away this nice lady, that she is charging for healings up front, like they are a mattress or a new car, making me into the car salesman. This shame covers every inch of skin. I can smell it, taste it, hear it. “If this Marlena girl is worth anything at all, she’ll heal you for free.”

  Mrs. Lewis smiles weakly. She thinks I’m being idealistic again. She sniffles and a tear rolls down her cheek.

  “Go to the audience,” I say. “Really.”

  “Maybe I will.” She wipes a hand across her face and starts to laugh. Shakes her head. “Look at me, getting all emotional with a customer who just came in to get some ice cream! You poor thing!” She sniffles again and this makes her laugh more. “Did you like Miracle Mash or do you want to try another flavor? I want people to be sure when they choose their ice cream. I like them to enjoy it.”

  I laugh a little, too, the sound of it releasing us from some of the intensity of our conversation. Mrs. Lewis seems serious about the business of picking flavors. Like choosing the right ice cream is as important as anything else. As important, even, as a miracle.

  It occurs to me I don’t have any money. I never do.

  “Um, I, um, my parents have all my money. I’m so sorry.” The last word comes out a squeak.

  “No worries, honey. Really.” Mrs. Lewis plucks a baby-sized cup from a teetering stack and reaches into the tub of Miracle Mash. She comes up with a scoop that she plops into the cup. She plants another pink spoon into the ice cream and hands it over the counter. “This one is on me.”

  I stare at it.

  “Take it,” she says. “Really. It was nice talking to you, sweetheart. I’m glad you stopped in. You made a slow day more interesting. Besides, it’s nice to see a girl your age with an interest in big things like faith and miracles and doing the right thing.”

  I reach out and she hands me the cup. As she does, I make it a point to touch her hand, to press my fingers against her own, hoping that some relief for Mrs. Lewis, even a little bit, might be transferred to her in this brief instant. “Thank you so much,” I tell her, holding on a beat longer, as long as I can. “This is so nice of you.”

  “Sweetheart, it’s nothing. You have a good rest of your day.”

  I nod, my throat tight. “You should go to one of those audiences. If anyone deserves to be healed, it’s you,” I say, then head out the door. It chimes with my exit.

  I make my way back toward Helen, taking one bite after the other, wondering if ice cream always tastes this good or if the way I received it, like a gift, a tiny, miraculous offering given freely and joyfully and without the need for anything in return, makes all the difference.

  “Are you ready to eat?” Helen asks when I reach her.

  I nod. “I’m starving.” The word starving comes out with emphasis on star. I adjust the sunglasses higher on the bridge of my nose.

  Sunglasses are my new favorite thing. But not only because they give me precious anonymity. I guess because that anonymity turned out to mean more than freedom from recognition. It gave me that conversation with Mrs. Lewis, allowed me to realize that I could find it inside myself to want to be Marlena the Healer. Not out of obligation. Just because. That it is more important than ever that I stop allowing my mother to control my gift and all that comes with it. To put a price on it.

  Helen searches my face. “What happened between now and twenty minutes ago? I was worried about you. You looked so out of it and now you look so much better.”

  I shrug.

  “I thought you’d be disappointed about missing your chance to see Finn,” she says.

  “I guess I just needed to take a walk.”

  “Marlena?” Helen’s voice is singsong. She draws out each syllable of my name playfully. “Did you see Finn or something?”

  “No. But I did eat some delicious ice cream.”

  Helen flips her sunglasses up onto her head. “Well, that’s it, then. I bet your body needed the sugar.” She pushes her hair behind her ears. “Now let’s eat something healthy so you don’t faint on me again.”

  “Let’s,” I agree, and slip the sweater from my shoulders, hanging it over my arm as we walk. We pass groups of tourists window-shopping on Main Street. Not one of them turns in my direction. Maybe it’s because Helen and I are unremarkable in the way we’re chatting, two girls who want nothing more than to tell each other their secrets on a beautiful day by the sea.

  FOURTEEN

  “I don’t want this lipstick.” I pluck the tube from my mother’s hand and pick up a different one from the box of makeup. I am staring into the long mirror hanging in my mother’s bedroom, the two of us engaging in the weekly ritual of dressing me for my audience. “I’ll wear this one.”

  My mother is looking at me like she doesn’t know who I am. “You never care which lipstick you wear. You never care which dress either. You let me do everything.”

  Earlier, I rejected one gown after the other until I found the one I liked best. “Well, today, I’m not letting you.”

  “That dark shade will be lovely with your coloring,” my mother says. She doesn’t seem to notice I’m being cold. Or she’s choosing not to. Ever since that talk with Mrs. Lewis, I can’t look at her without getting angry. “A bit of smoky shadow would be lovely, too. It will help make your features stand out against those bright stage lights.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. “It’s good to see you taking your audiences seriously again. Whatever has gotten into you, I hope it keeps up.”

  Finn. The hope of seeing Finn at my audience has gotten into me.

  All I respond is “Yes, Mama.”

  My mother turns to the tiny buttons of the sleeves on my dress. />
  The gown I chose is simpler than the typical princess dress that bells at the waist that my mother always picks. She thinks they make me look regal. This one drops straight to the floor. The lace makes it beautiful. Hand sewn and so intricate it’s difficult to believe someone was born with the talent for such masterful work. My hands might be able to heal, but there is plenty of other amazing artistry that human hands can produce.

  My mother takes out a small brush and begins painting my lips. I try to imagine the moment when Finn sees me. I wonder if he will think I am beautiful, if he doesn’t mind when a girl wears makeup, if he might like the cascade of my long dark hair against so much lace.

  I smile at myself in the mirror and imagine that I am smiling at him.

  “It’s good to see you happy, Marlena.” My mother starts to hum a song she used to sing when I was small.

  I wish I could enjoy it. But it’s difficult not to snap at her.

  “Mama, do you charge money for my healings? Up front?” I ask. My mother is still humming, like she hasn’t heard my question. “I thought people made offerings after healings. You’ve always told me they were donations. Not payments. That you couldn’t put a price on a healing.”

  She sings to herself, softly, in Portuguese.

  Cheia de penas, cheia de penas me deito.

  It’s “Lágrima,” one of the beautiful, sad ballads from the fado tradition, sung by a single voice, often with only a guitar or even without any accompaniment.

  “Mama,” I press through the lyrics of her singing. “Answer me.”

  “Yes,” she says simply. She doesn’t raise her head. Returns to her song.

  My heart beats hard against the pristine lace of my gown. “Mama, are you serious? Is there a specified fee? Do you turn people away who can’t pay? Do you tell them I won’t heal them?”

  Desespero, Tenho por meu desespero . . .

  “Yes,” she drops, nearly imperceptibly, between lyrics.

  “Mama!” She is down by my feet, fixing the hem of my gown. “I can’t believe you’ve been lying to me all this time! If my ‘gift’ is really that, a gift, then shouldn’t it be given freely? If there’s money involved, shouldn’t it be offered afterward? In gratitude but not in payment? Mama, you turn people away!”