The Healer

by Donna Freitas

  Maybe my mother was right: it is all or nothing. Either a life as a healer or a life as a normal girl. How could I be satisfied with being a healer after this? I need more, I am more, want more, maybe even if it destroys the person I was. I will only be satisfied with Finn.

  This truth blooms like the most beautiful vision I’ve ever had.

  But I don’t tell Finn this. I’ll tell him soon. We have plenty of time for the secrets hidden inside us to emerge when they are ready, one by one, like bright-red cherries picked from a summer tree.

  TWENTY-SIX

  My new life as a normal person isn’t all candy and fashion magazines and parties. All Finn and freedom. A big bag of mail has been sitting outside my door for days. At first I ignored it. But it grows bigger and fuller every time I see it. The bigger it gets, the greater the wave of guilt that consumes me, like an ocean swell that could topple a massive fishing boat. It is a constant reminder that a healer might decide to take a break, but the pains and sicknesses of others never subside.

  One morning I can’t resist any longer. I drag the bag inside my room. Then I sit down in my chair by the windows and open it, pulling up the letters and cards one by one.

  Dear Marlena, you are my last hope in this world. . . .

  Dear Marlena, without you, I may not see the end of this year. . . .

  Dear Marlena, I’ve lost the will to go on, please help me. . . .

  Most of the letters are pleading, but some are angry and full of accusations.

  You should be ashamed of yourself! God has chosen you and yet you turn away from HIM!

  God will surely punish you for having spit in His face!

  There’s no such thing as a healer! And now you’ve proven this!

  I hope YOU find out what it’s like to face down death and have no other choice but to go forward into it! You or SOMEONE YOU LOVE!

  This last one I read over and over. It’s from a man my mother had promised a private audience, who was later told not to come.

  Will there be a punishment for my freedom? Revenge on the part of God?

  I’ve always wondered if I’d be punished for healing. For using my gift, and acting the part of God when I’m only a girl. Maybe there’s punishment in this life no matter which path I take. Maybe loss and sorrow and grief are simply a part of what it means to live as humans on this earth, and it is our duty to accept this. We can try to outsmart such things, yet they will eventually catch up, no matter what we do. Even if we are living girl-saints.

  Then a letter from a girl named Alma goes straight to my heart in a way that none of the others have. Dear Marlena, it begins, like the others do. This is where the similarities end.

  My name is Alma. My mother has spoken of your miracles since I was little. Sometimes I’ve thought you must be a witch like in stories. I’ve always wanted to see if you can really do the things my mother says. I have muscular dystrophy. I don’t know if you know what that is, but I’m in a wheelchair. My mother keeps telling me you are going to heal me soon, because the doctors say I don’t have long to live. Most people like me don’t live past eighteen.

  The other day my mother heard that you’ve stopped healing. She doesn’t know why. “What God gives us, He sometimes takes away,” she said. She cried a lot. My mother really believed you’d save me in a way that none of the doctors can.

  I’m writing because I wanted to tell you that I think it’s okay. With so many people needing you, it must be difficult. And I’m not sure if it’s right to wish for miracles, or to want to be different than I am. I might not be like other kids my age, but I’m living the life that I have and this is enough, even if other people don’t think it should be. The life I have is beautiful in its own way. People who aren’t like me will never understand, I guess.

  I wish you the best. Maybe we’ll meet, if you ever start healing again. Even if you don’t, maybe we’ll meet anyway. I don’t need anything from you. But I would love to see you, so I know you are real and not just a character from one of the novels I’m always reading.

  Sincerely, Alma

  I set her letter in my lap and stare out the window.

  Alma’s words remind me of a girl who came to one of my audiences. Though it’s truer to say she was dragged by her parents. Her name was Heather, she was fourteen at the time, and she was deaf. When I touched her that day I was—I don’t know how to describe it—repelled? I could tell right away she didn’t want to be there. That she didn’t think of being deaf as a disability, as something that needed curing. I could feel the rage inside her that her mother wished her different. I dropped her hands and stepped away. The mother looked at me with dismay, but the daughter had this expression of tremendous relief.

  “I thought you were a healer,” the mother said to me. “I was promised you could help!”

  I shook my head. “Your daughter isn’t sick.”

  The mother turned and stomped away.

  But the daughter lingered. I was younger than she was and she was at least six inches taller. She leaned toward me and pointed to her lips. I watched them intently.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed slowly, “for not doing to me whatever it is you do to others.”

  Is healing something I do to others? This made healings sound like something I might afflict on someone. A disease or virus in its own right. Something that I do to people, sometimes against their will.

  I pick up Alma’s letter again. Like with the angry words from the man who wants me punished, I read hers over and over, until my eyes blur. Then I pick up a pen and a piece of paper. Shouldn’t I say something to her? Shouldn’t I write back? But then I put the pen and paper away. If I answer Alma, shouldn’t I answer all the others? Why should one child matter more than everyone else?

  The thought that I could find a way to be both healer and girl pushes its way to the surface of my mind. That there might be another version of being a healer I’ve yet to discover. But then it sinks to the bottom again when the echo of my mother’s favorite refrain rings even louder. You are a saint and a healer, Marlena. Or you are no one at all.

  Ever since the announcement about my break from healing, I’ve avoided going to Main Street. But like with the bag of mail, today I can’t seem to resist. Soon I find myself walking up the hill toward the shops. I look through the windows of Almeida’s Bakery. There is barely a loaf of bread in the glass case. The streets are empty of tourists. It’s like the town has gone dormant before a storm. As I walk down Main Street, I almost expect to see a single dark rain cloud following me, since I am the beneficiary of dirty looks from more than one of the shopkeepers.

  Gertie is the first one to accost me. Of course, Gertie.

  Her voice calls out from the doorway. “You couldn’t have waited for winter?”

  I stop midstride, the clacking of my platform shoes stopping with me. I consider ignoring her, but then I take the bait. “What do you mean?”

  Gertie steps onto the sidewalk, her loose gray dress rustling. “This so-called vacation. You couldn’t wait until January? Until after the Day of Many Miracles in October?”

  “I . . . I . . .” I trail off. The truth is, I’m caught off guard by the clear sense of betrayal in her voice. It doesn’t matter that my sentence goes unfinished, because Gertie is ready to keep talking.

  “It’s September, Marlena! This is still high tourist season for us! And you”—she points a finger—“are the main attraction in this town! Without your audiences, our sales plummet. People don’t come. Tourists don’t bother.” Gertie throws her right arm up and out. “We’ll go broke because of you!”

  Some of the other shop owners have joined her on the sidewalk. Old Mrs. Marinelli, stooped and shaky, has left her store that sells icons and other religious memorabilia. Mr. Maxwell is next to her, giving her his elbow. Mr. Almeida is here with his wife. I search the crowd for Mrs. Lewis, for a single ally, but don’t find anyone.

  “Gertie’s right,” Mr. Almeida says. “You’ll ruin us with this
. . . this selfishness.”

  People are nodding.

  The word selfish is like a punch to my stomach.

  I think about the party with Helen, with Finn, the changed way Fatima and José are treating me. Is it really wrong of me to enjoy life for a bit? For even a few days? Then I think of the unanswered bag of mail, all those seekers disappointed, despairing, maybe even dying. All because I wanted time off. All because I got tired of people needing me. Maybe Gertie and Mr. Almeida are right and I am being selfish.

  Gertie takes a step closer. “We depend on you, Marlena. We all do.”

  For a split second I think something ridiculous, that I should have worn the sunglasses, put up my hair, worn a disguise like before. Stupid me. I thought I could just waltz into town as Marlena, the girl they’ve known for years as a healer, but with jeans on instead of a long white dress, and people would respect the change. Even be kind. But not everyone is José or Fatima.

  I guess in the effort to live a normal life, I lose the respect of the townspeople, too.

  What else do I lose? Who else?

  I try and silence these thoughts, but they linger anyway. My face tilts toward the sky, causing the townspeople to murmur as they wait for me to say something.

  When my eyes return to the crowd, a rage to match theirs fills me like plumes of smoke. I can make all the decisions in the world to change my life, but if the community around me refuses to accept them, then I am always and only Marlena the Saint. As long as I am here, in this town, I will never escape.

  “Well?” Mr. Almeida’s face is red with anger. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  I press my lips into a thin line, not trusting myself to speak. I don’t want to lose my temper. I remind myself that Mrs. Lewis is one of the townspeople who trade off my reputation, and she has only been kind. In a way, we are all caught in the same situation—me as a healer, them as people who need me to heal for their financial survival. I start toward home, wanting to end this confrontation before it gets uglier, but Gertie shouts at my back.

  “You are rich and we are not! You and your mother live in that gigantic house as though you are too good for us! You act as if you are better than all of us!”

  “It’s not our fault we’re beholden to you!” This is from Mr. Almeida. “This place used to be different, before your mother went and built that damn church and turned this town into a circus, and now the tourists only come for the freak show on Saturdays!”

  I stop walking. Their words are like darts. I can hear a few murmurs of dissent that he’s gone too far, but I no longer have it in me to hold back. I turn around to shout the response that has been brewing inside me.

  “It is not my responsibility to take care of this entire town! You are the ones who should be ashamed of yourselves! You should be ashamed! You’ve been making your living off a child! Don’t you think it’s time that you stop?” I walk closer to the crowd, left foot, right foot, as I keep speaking. “You still want to live off me? Well”—I take the fat envelope of cash I’ve grown used to carrying in my pocket and hold it out to them—“here!” I shake it once, then again. “Take my money! Take all of it! Apparently it’s yours anyway!” Tears begin to stream down my face as I yell. No one moves to take the money, so I walk up and shove the envelope at Gertie.

  She flinches. Her eyes are frightened. “I can’t take this!”

  I shove it at her again, and she steps back. “Why not? It’s what you want!”

  “I just can’t!”

  “Yes you can.” Now I hold it out to Mr. Almeida, but his hands go up in the air, a gesture of refusal. People keep wincing each time I come near, and this makes me even angrier. “Fine! Be that way!” I take the money out of the envelope and throw it at the crowd. Bills fly into the air, then flutter to the ground. No one dares speak. I look into each of their shocked faces, and as I do, they avert their eyes. “What? This wasn’t about the money?” I am screaming now, even louder than before, growing hoarse, but I don’t care. “Would it be easier for you to take it if I bought something? If I bought the objects you sell to make a profit off my lonely life as the freakish saint girl?”

  Before anyone can say anything, I storm into Gertie’s shop, grab one of the metal baskets inside the door, and begin shoving things into it. Candles, tiny plastic statues, T-shirts, little dolls, even that stupid kite, which is on sale. When I come out, people are still frozen. They watch me silently. The money lies there, untouched, scattered all over the sidewalk and the road. I go into each shop and take things to add to the basket. Charms. Photos. Cards. Even the few remaining sweet breads in the glass case at Almeida’s. After I come out of the last store on Main Street, the basket is overflowing, and things are falling out of it as I walk. When I reach the crowd again, I hold the basket out to them.

  “There! Now do you feel better about taking my money?”

  No one moves.

  “Did you think I wasn’t human?” I shout. It’s as if an entire decade of rage is spilling out of me. I should be ashamed to admit how good it feels, but it feels so good I’m not ashamed at all. “Did you really think I was an angel like these stupid statues you sell of me with wings?” I grab a plaster souvenir from the basket and raise it high. Then my arm comes down in a flash and I smash it all over the blacktop of the street. The shards go everywhere and the crowd jumps. “Did you think I was too good for all of you? That I was perfect? That it was okay to exchange my life and my happiness for the money you take home at night?” One by one I start taking things from the basket and smashing them to the ground. Mugs. Key chains. Framed photographs. Candles. Those that are breakable shatter and the rest just land with a loud thump. “Well, now you know what I’m really like! That I can be just as human as you, or worse!” I tip the basket over so the rest tumbles to the ground, and then I hurl the basket as hard as I can. It lands with a great crash a few feet away.

  “Marlena . . .” A soft voice, a kind voice, speaks my name.

  Mrs. Lewis. To my left. Hers was the one shop I avoided. She must have heard all the shouting and come to see what was happening.

  “Marlena,” she says again, and I can’t bear it.

  I can’t bear that Mrs. Lewis has seen me act this way. I can’t even look at her. I burst into tears.

  When I hear her steps approaching, I put my hands over my face and run away. I run from the worried-sounding Mrs. Lewis and past the crowd of shopkeepers until I’ve reached the end of Main Street. As I descend the hill, all I can think is that while I might have quit healing, I am still the same bratty saint girl I was a few weeks ago. Prone to temper tantrums. The kind of girl who grows enraged and throws her mother’s mug across the kitchen so it splatters coffee everywhere and breaks into a million jagged pieces. That I might be a healer, but apparently I’m also a destroyer.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Hands shake me awake. “Marlena.”

  “Mama?” I sit up. The room is dark. No light seeps from underneath the shades. My head is groggy with sleep. It must be the middle of the night. As my eyes adjust, I can make out the shape of my mother sitting on the edge of my bed. She is fully dressed, as though it’s daytime. I can’t remember the last time she came to my room. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Now?” All this time I’ve wondered if my mother and I would have a conversation, and instead we’ve barely seen each other aside from passing in the living room and kitchen, unspeaking, like ghosts.

  “Yes, now. Come downstairs. I’ll expect you in five minutes.” She gets up without looking at me and leaves. Her steps are heavy and tired.

  I crawl out of bed and throw on a robe. I want to know what has my mother awake in the middle of the night. Throughout all of these recent changes, I’ve wanted my mother to somehow change with me.

  The house is dark, except for the lamps in the living room. My mother is sitting in the center of one of the couches, making it impossible for us to both sit there,
or at least, highly awkward. This will obviously not be the heart-to-heart I’ve been waiting for. I sit across from her on the other couch, a large white coffee table between us. Tastefully decorated with a short candle and a big round silver plate.

  “What, Mama?” A breeze presses against the back of my head from the open windows. It’s strong enough that it feels like a hand. “What’s so urgent?”

  Her eyes narrow. “As if you don’t know.”

  I swallow. Someone told her that Marlena the Saint is now Marlena the Destroyer. But I shake my head. She’s not making this easy for me, so I’m not going to make it easy for her.

  “Mrs. Lewis came to speak to me tonight, after you’d gone to bed.”

  I sink lower on the couch to avoid the breeze. This I wasn’t expecting. I thought it would be Gertie or Mr. Almeida. Anyone but Mrs. Lewis.

  “She told me about your little performance.”

  I’m absolutely sure Mrs. Lewis did not use the word performance to describe what I did. That is my mother’s interpretation. Mrs. Lewis is too kind to speak that way.

  My mother crosses her legs, getting comfortable. Now I see that these last couple of weeks my mother was just regrouping, like a shrewd soldier facing a setback but who would never consider a retreat. My mother was gathering her strength and recalibrating her methods. She shakes her head. “Poor Mrs. Lewis was worried about you. And you know she has a bad heart.”

  Did I not heal her?

  “Has or had?” I am unable to stop myself from asking this.

  My mother knows she’s gotten to me and I can see she likes it. “Marlena, I’m not sure. That’s not what she wanted to discuss.”

  I force myself to breathe, in, out. This conversation isn’t going anywhere good.

  “Well?” she presses.

  “Well, what?”

  My mother seems buoyed by the couch cushions, rather than sinking into them. “I’ve given you all you’ve asked for in this little experiment. This ‘vacation.’ And you repay my generosity by making a fool of both of us in front of the entire town?”