The Healer

by Donna Freitas

  Faith. A kind of faith.

  I am awash in it, in the tender, bright green of its newness. But it’s not a faith in God. A faith in myself is unfurling. My doubts have browned and turned to dust, replaced by the sense that using my gift can be a choice of my own making.

  A shrill, high-pitched burring noise pierces my ears.

  Is that a drill?

  I shove my feet into my white ballet slippers, hurry out of my room and down the long hallway, past the rustic walls painted white. Now there is a banging sound, like a hammer. Did I miss the memo about a renovation? But why would I be needed downstairs for that? I stand at the top of the stairs, listening.

  Fatima emerges from the gift room, duster in hand. She won’t look at me.

  “Fatima,” I say. “Please tell me what’s happening.”

  She scurries away. Before she heads into one of the guest rooms on this floor—not that we ever have guests—she calls back, “Just go see your mother. You know how she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “All right,” I tell her, not wanting Fatima to get in trouble. I descend the staircase, step by step. Thump. Thump. Dread is a mist wafting up from the first floor. I walk straight into it.

  “Marlena!” my mother is shouting. “Get down here!”

  When I head into the living room there are workers everywhere. Some with tool belts, building some sort of freestanding wall in the corner. Two others are dressed professionally, women in sophisticated skirts and heels. There’s even a man in a suit, like the kind someone would wear on Wall Street. They barely notice me.

  “We need that to be just a little bit taller,” says a woman in cobalt blue to a man who is working on the wall.

  People navigate around me like I’m a column or a piece of furniture. Someone is fitting a long, thick roll of paper, or maybe canvas, in two hooks on either side of the wall.

  Then I notice the cameras.

  Tiny video cameras have been attached to the ceiling in every corner of the room.

  “Yes, exactly,” the woman in blue says to the man who’s straightening the backdrop.

  “Marlena!” my mother yells.

  Since Saturday I’ve enjoyed the fresh taste of independence, bright on my tongue. But this—this is my mother’s effort to regain control. To press me under her thumb.

  “Marlena!”

  I take a deep breath, and walk into the kitchen. The man in the business suit is standing next to my mother, joined by one of the women. In front of them the kitchen island is covered by stacks of paper, grouped in neat piles.

  “Good morning, Mama,” I say.

  She looks over. “Finally, you’re here. I’ve been calling for you for an hour. Você está sendo mal educado,” she adds in Portuguese.

  I ignore her comment about my being rude. “What’s going on? Why are all of these people here?”

  My mother sighs. “I tried to tell you last week but you didn’t want to hear it.” She takes a big gulp of her coffee. She always drinks it lukewarm because it’s nearly three-quarters milk. She’s wearing her favorite white suit. Mama has lots of white suits. I am the miracle healer in white, and she is the mother of the miracle healer, also in white. “You were too caught up with Helen to care what I had to say.”

  The woman and man are staring at me.

  Finally, the woman smiles tightly and moves in my direction. “Hello. I’m Dana Reisner.” She obviously thinks I should know who she is, or at least recognize her name, but I don’t. She’s reaching out her hand to shake mine when my mother barks.

  “No! Remember what I told you about my daughter!”

  The woman, Dana, yanks her arm away.

  I glare at my mother. “It’s not like I have leprosy.”

  My mother turns to the woman and speaks quietly. “My daughter doesn’t like to be touched unless she’s performing a healing.”

  “Of course. I’m so sorry,” Dana says to my mother, not to me, and the tight smile reappears. Everything about this Dana seems fitted so as to be exact, her suit along the shape of her body, the way her hair is coiffed into a kind of helmet, not a strand loose. Even the expression on her face seems to take up as little space as possible. “Marlena, it is very nice to finally meet you,” she tries again. “I’ve been hearing about you and researching you for a long time.”

  I take a step closer, and she takes a step back, like I really do have some terrible communicable disease. “Well, that’s interesting. I don’t know anything about you.”

  My mother sets her coffee onto the counter and it makes a loud thunk. “Marlena, remember what I said about your attitude.”

  “And you are?” I ask the man, ignoring her.

  His arms are crossed. They don’t even twitch as he introduces himself. “I’m Joseph Hurwitz. I’m the producer for the television series you and your mother have agreed to do with us. Dana is our lead host.” His voice is upbeat, like he expects me to be thrilled.

  “You mean my mother agreed to do with you.” I start to laugh. Their faces grow confused. Maybe I should do something to scare them, cackle, or start chewing on my hair, or run and scream through the house. Maybe if they think I’m insane they’ll be less interested in doing a serious show about the crazy girl-healer.

  “Marlena.” My mother’s tone is ever more frustrated. “I told you about this! We need you to sign these documents before any of the filming can begin.” She places a hand on top of one of the stacks of paper.

  “Don’t I need to read them first?”

  “I’ve already read them for you.” She looks at the television people with apology. To me, she says, “All you need is to add your signature.”

  Lead Host Dana holds a shiny silver pen out to me.

  I let her hand hang there until she realizes I’m not taking the pen and retracts it. “I’m eighteen. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. I’m not signing my privacy away because you ask me to.”

  “This is one of the most respected producers in the country, Marlena. And Dana is one of the most important journalists on television. You will be famous, after this airs.” My mother says this like it is the most wonderful news.

  “I’m already famous,” I snap.

  My mother shakes her head, communicating to the television people once again that I’m obviously the insolent child who doesn’t know anything. The bratty, temper-tantrum-throwing, difficult miracle healer. “But you’re not a household name yet.” She swipes her hand into the air, like she’s brushing something worthless away. Dana and Joseph follow this back-and-forth like my mother and I are a riveting show in our own right. Perhaps they are salivating about the juicy conflict between mother and daughter they will get to explore on camera. “I know you feel powerful after that . . . stunt of yours on Saturday. But with this deal, we’re talking about turning you into a celebrity. You’ll be famous beyond your wildest dreams.”

  My fists clench. “You mean famous beyond your wildest dreams, Mama. This is about you, not me.”

  My mother’s face is the picture of calm, and she manages a smile. But her eyes are arctic. “Can I have a moment alone with my daughter?” My mother asks this politely, sweetly.

  Joseph nods. “Of course,” he says, though Dana seems crestfallen to be barred from the rest of this mother-daughter performance.

  Before they can leave the room I go on. “And what will my celebrity fame bring us this time, Mama? A vacation home in Turks and Caicos? A castle in France? Diamonds and emeralds to wear around your wrist and your neck? Will this special come with a national merchandising deal, too? Will I be gracing the breakfast tables of people across the nation? Will I be healing on demand soon, by television and online? Is that the master plan for ‘us’?”

  My mother’s eyes narrow to match my own. “Stop being so selfish—”

  “—selfish?”

  “—you’ve been given a miraculous gift from God. Don’t you think you owe the world access to it? Do you really want to keep it to yourself, ma
ke this all about you and not the needs of others and the grace that God has given you?”

  I lean over the counter toward my mother, who’s standing on the other side. I stretch my long arms across the marble, the neat stacks of paper shifting as I move, wrinkling as I press into them. “So, Mama, you’d rather I heal until I drop dead? Is my death included in this deal I’ll be signing?”

  My mother’s face drains of color. “Marlena,” she hisses. “This is not the time.”

  “Well, I disagree. I disagree with everything. With all of it. With all of you.” With every bit of force in me I swipe my arms across the counter, sending those reams of paper sailing into the air and cascading to the ground. Then I grab the coffee mug near my mother’s hand, still half full, and hurl it across the kitchen. It shatters against the wall, leaving behind a tiny dent in the plaster, the shape of a small scallop shell. Coffee splatters everywhere. The mug lies in jagged pieces on the floor.

  The sounds in the living room come to a stop.

  Without another word or glance at anyone, I walk to the front door of the house, open it, and head into the heat, slamming it shut so hard behind me, the entire frame around it shudders.

  SEVENTEEN

  I walk and walk and walk. I don’t even know where I’m going. The ocean appears ahead, the seawall alongside it, and I force my breaths to mimic the slow swells of the water, calm even though the day is gray. No one is at the beach on this cloudy school day, and everything is quiet. I start up the sidewalk that leads into town and the short strip that counts as Main Street. My mind is racing. It won’t stop turning over the events of this morning, the workers, the television people. The look on my mother’s face when I threw her mug, when it smashed against the wall with that great ugly crash.

  I reach the store that sells beachy souvenirs at the beginning of Main Street, one of the few places that doesn’t trade off my image. Gertie’s shop is open but she’s not in the doorway, maybe because the tourists are sleeping late, or because the clouds are keeping them away. I pass Maxwell’s Card Shop, Almeida’s Bakery, followed by Marinelli’s Religious Icon & Candle Store, which is full of pendants and mass cards with the Catholic saints, but which specializes in ones with my photo on them. My destination is next, on the right.

  Mrs. Lewis is sitting on the stool by the register, same as the other day, a newspaper in her lap. The bell on the top of the door dings and she looks up. Her face, her eyes, are rested. Calm and relaxed.

  Is she healed?

  “Marlena?” She sounds surprised. A little wary.

  The Healer has never entered her shop as far as she knows. She doesn’t realize we had a conversation last week, that she gave me an ice cream out of kindness. She probably thinks our only encounter was at my audience. She glances at her purse.

  She thinks I’m here to collect.

  “I don’t want any money,” I blurt. It pains me to have stressed her, especially after what I know about her heart. “I’m sorry. I . . . I’m just so sorry to worry you.” I look around. My head pulses with something. I don’t know what. I wish I had a disguise. I should’ve run to my room to get one before storming off. “I can’t really go anywhere, can I? Not as me. Not without causing problems.”

  Mrs. Lewis comes around the counter. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” She plucks a napkin from a dispenser and dabs at my cheeks. “You’ve been crying.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Yes.” I stare up at her. Mrs. Lewis stops wiping my cheeks, then folds the napkin neatly into a small triangle and places it on the counter.

  Ugly, arrogant thoughts whisper through my mind.

  Will she save it? The napkin that dried the tears of the Healer?

  Will she sell it?

  I reach out to the counter to grab it, crush it in my fist. Mrs. Lewis startles at this.

  “Can I use your phone?” I ask her.

  Without a word, she hands her cell to me and I make the call I’ve thought about since stepping over the shards of china on the kitchen floor, intentionally muddying my soft white ballet slippers in spilt coffee, hoping my mother winced as she witnessed me doing it. After I hang up and hand the phone back to Mrs. Lewis, I tell her thank you and head toward the exit. I shove the napkin, still in a tight ball, into the trash can. I actually stick my arm down into it, pushing the remnants of my tears deep into the garbage.

  “Sweetheart.” The unwavering kindness in Mrs. Lewis’s voice kills me. “If you’re in trouble, or if you ever need anything, you can come to me.” I hear rustling behind me. A little square of paper appears, gripped by wrinkled, spotted fingers. Hands I held on Saturday. “That’s my cell number and my home number and the number to this shop. My email is there, too. I mean what I say.”

  I don’t look at her. But I manage to speak. “I know you do.” I take the paper. Slip it into the pocket of my sweater.

  Then I walk out and wait.

  The happy jingle of the bell on the door rings in my ears long after I’m gone.

  I’ve never seen his car before. It’s an old blue truck, beat up and scratched, with a dent over one of the back wheels.

  Finn leans over from the driver’s side and pushes the passenger door open. He’s wearing jeans and an old gray T-shirt. A tattoo of a human heart is visible on his arm. I’ve never seen him in short sleeves. “Get in,” he says.

  I climb into the seat and slam the door. The space between us is small. Intimate. I am shaking. I can’t stop staring at Finn’s tattoo. It’s not something I’d expect him to have.

  His eyes are curious as always. I love how his curiosity never leaves him.

  I am curious too. I reach out and lift the edge of Finn’s sleeve to better view the tattoo.

  My hands are not my own today.

  I lean closer, careful not to touch his skin, studying the beautiful red color of the heart, the skill of the artist, the detail. It is at once real and otherworldly. The kind of thing I might see in a vision and do my best to capture on canvas.

  Finn’s chest is still.

  I force myself to let go of his shirt, to sit back and stare out of the windshield, focusing on the great maple tree growing up in the sidewalk garden next to the car, its roots raising the bricks around it into a jagged hill.

  “Where do you want to go?” Finn asks.

  “I don’t care. Just drive.”

  He maneuvers to the end of Main Street and out onto the road beyond it. Finn reaches into the narrow back seat of the truck and comes up with a long, gray scarf. He hands it to me. “Wrap this around you. You’re shivering.”

  I take it and wind it around my neck and shoulders. It’s soft, maybe cashmere, and smells of trees and wood, mixed with something sweet. I imagine myself wearing it to school, if I was a girl who went to school, proudly displaying it to my friends, the treasure of having the scarf of the boy I like.

  “The other day, did you mean what you said?” I ask him.

  Finn turns right, heading toward the ocean. “What did I say?”

  “After my audience. About maybe believing in me.”

  “Yes.”

  My heart lifts.

  “At the time,” he adds.

  It crashes. “But not anymore?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not the type to believe in miracles. But I also can’t get the spectacle of it out of my head.”

  I don’t speak. I can’t move. I don’t want to be a spectacle to Finn.

  His breaths are clipped. “Do you want me to? Believe in you?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes. Yes, I think.”

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? What prompted this urgent outing?”

  “Later,” I say. Then, “Can we just be quiet for a while?”

  “Okay,” he says.

  We fall silent. Listen to the rumble of the engine. The town recedes in the side mirror and eventually disappears. I slip out of my coffee-spattered shoes and pull my knees to my chest, wrap the hem of my white dress under my bare feet. Turn
my head toward Finn and watch as he drives. There is stubble on his cheek, unlike when I see him at Angie’s center. His hair is a bit messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it. His eyelashes are long, his lips a pale red. Something unidentifiable swells quickly and instantly and I am dizzy with it. I want to touch Finn. I want to possess him. I want to—

  “—pull over,” I say.

  “Marlena, what? Are you okay—”

  “—please?”

  He shifts the truck into the breakdown lane along the seawall, where people in the town like to park and drink coffee or eat lunch while they look out at the ocean. We come to a stop in a deserted stretch of it. Seagulls circle over a spot in the water where there must be lots of fish. I uncurl my legs. Look at Finn. Stare at him. Grip the ends of his scarf like my life depends on it. My hands can’t be trusted. He turns to me.

  “Kiss me,” I say.

  His eyes widen. “What?”

  I lean closer. “Kiss me.”

  Finn blinks.

  “I want you to kiss me,” I say a third time, like he didn’t understand the first or the second, like this one might magically get through to him. I edge closer, nearly climbing over the gear shift, desperate with wanting, wanting him to be mine, wanting to know what it’s like to love and be loved. The want is a wave and it’s lifting me up, threatening to tumble me straight into the rocky shore. “Finn . . . just . . . just do it. I’ve never . . . just . . . please . . .”

  “Marlena.” My name is a statement, soft and gentle.

  It’s also a no.

  I pull back, ashamed. My cheeks burn. Tears sting my eyes. What is happening to me? What is wrong with me? “I’m sorry. That was so stupid.” My voice is a tiny round pebble. “I’m so stupid and I’ve ruined everything.” I shift my body toward the window, pressing my forehead against the glass. My breaths create a fog across it, a pale round disk of crystals. I fumble for the latch on the door. Before I can open it, I feel a hand on my arm.