What if I’d always been allowed to do this? Would I be a different person? What if Fatima is right, and there are ways to be both a saint and a normal girl? What would that life look like? Would it be a life where boyfriends and long days of swimming and hanging out with friends are allowed? What if my reputation did change? Would it really erode my gift?
What if my mother’s words from last night came true and just by telling people my gift was waning, it did?
What if God is really the kind of God that Fatima believes in, a God who doesn’t punish?
I halt at the shoreline, my feet sinking into the dark wet sand, erasing my bright-red shiny nails from view. I kneel down, the cold of it nice in the heat. The waves are small and gentle, a child’s hiccups. They thin to a pleasant sizzle as they near the place where I am, hands digging into the sand, disturbing a delicate white crab that buries itself again, disappearing into the mud. The sunshine against the water is almost blinding but I don’t take the sunglasses from the top of my head. I like the glare. The heat on my bare skin. The emptiness of the beach because it’s a school day and a workday and it’s September, not August. I crawl closer to the water, until the edges of the waves almost reach me as they come in. I park myself there, legs extended toward the sea. I remember the little girl on the afternoon of my forbidden, rule-breaking swim. She was sitting just like I am now. Are you an angel? she asked. She was piling wet sand onto her legs, making a dribble castle.
I dig my hand deep into the sand, then hold it high above my right thigh, letting it seep through my fingers. When it lands on my skin it is cold and smooth and it hardens as I keep going, dig, dribble, dig, dribble. Soon a spiny tower rises up from each leg, like layers of melting frosting. The sun beats down on me and my castle, drying us both. The tide gets closer. When it seems like my dribble castle is high enough that another layer will topple it, I lie back, propping myself with my elbows, and survey my work. I am covered nearly head to toe with dark, shiny sand, like so many kids I’ve seen over the years at the beach. Patches of shiny red nail polish peek out from under the mess. Not exactly a sexy look, but maybe that’s okay since I’m trying to make up for years of missed childhood. Besides, I practically have the whole beach to myself. The sun is high, the cool water a perfect relief. The sky is blue everywhere I look.
What if this is all there is? No God at all, but instead just this world in all its beauty and joy and horrors and pain? I dig up another handful of sand and watch as it drips through my fingers, shiny flecks of mica flashing as it falls. Could this be enough? Is it possible to love a life, to live a life, however imperfect and short it happens to be?
A wave bigger than all the others rushes into shore and bowls right over me, knocking my dribble castle to pieces, splashing sand up my body all the way to the side of my face. I start to laugh. I lie back on my elbows again as another rushes up behind it and covers me nearly to my chin. White foam swirls and bubbles around my body, the ties of my bikini bottom rising, then falling, heavy and wet as the wave recedes.
Yes, I think, as I get up, the remaining sand sliding down my legs. I think this could be enough for me. I wade into the water as another wave crests, so gentle and slow I can see right through it.
Why are we always looking upward and elsewhere when all of this is right here? If this is all I have, this day on this beach, skin salty and sandy, the promise of seeing Finn later on stretching ahead of me, then yes, I am satisfied with “just” this. This, right here, right now, is all I could ever ask for and more than I’ve ever dreamed.
TWENTY-NINE
“Okay, now put it in reverse.”
I look over at José, then down to my hand as I shift into gear. Ever so slowly, I inch the car backward. Then I shift the gear again so I can go forward a teensy bit. Backward, forward, backward, forward. It feels like it’s taking forever, but José seems pleased. That’s it, he keeps saying. Muy bien!
He’s teaching me to parallel park, even though we are miles from a city and the only parallel parking spots are along the seawall, and those aren’t even real ones. My hair is still damp from being in the water, my legs sandy from the beach. I’m still in my bathing suit, too, but I put on a tank top and skirt over it.
I pull out of the spot that José chalked—that he actually chalked—onto the asphalt of the big empty lot where we are practicing my driving.
“Nice job!” he says. “Now, let’s try it again.”
I look at him like he must be kidding, but he is grinning. He gulps a sip of the limonada I brought him, then a big bite of the Twix I also brought him—payment for driving lessons. I tried to offer him more but he said that was all he wanted.
He swallows his chocolate. “Once you master this,” he says, “you will be able to do anything, cariño. Trust me. Go ahead.” He nods at the wheel. “Pull back into the space and then we’ll work on getting out of it again. Just imagine there’s a very expensive Mercedes in front of the car. And how about a Ferrari behind us? You don’t want to scratch those things. A new paint job would cost a fortune.”
“Great,” I mutter under my breath.
“Hey now,” he says. “Do this well and I might let you drive the car over to that boy’s house.”
“Really?” I asked José if he would take me to Finn’s place afterward.
“He’s obviously desperate to see you since your phone keeps pinging like mad in your bag.” He chuckles. “¡Ahhh, el amor!”
I barely bring the phone anywhere, but today it’s with me. “It could be someone else.”
José’s entire face registers his skepticism. “Who else? Helen? I bet you only have two contacts on there.”
I don’t say anything because he’s right.
José chuckles again. “It’s okay, Marlenita. It doesn’t matter how many contacts you have, only that they are people who matter to you. Someday you’ll have dozens of friends. You’ll see.”
“You think so?”
“I do.” The phone pings again.
“Shouldn’t I see what he wants?”
“Not while you’re driving, cariño. You know that. After, you can ping him all you want.” He taps the steering wheel. “Now let’s do this one more time.”
I sit up in my seat, eyes straining through the windshield in search of those chalk lines. Slow and steady, my hands placed carefully at ten o’clock and two o’clock just like José showed me, I begin the process of parking. It takes me nearly five minutes but I manage to do it. Then I breathe a sigh of relief, put the car in park, turn to José, and say, “Can I text Finn to tell him I’m on my way?”
José digs in my bag and comes up with the phone. “Now that the car is no longer in gear, sí.”
I take it and read Finn’s messages.
When are you coming over?
OMG, it’s a nice day. Hurry.
What if I tempt you with culinary delights? Will that make you get here faster?
Um, if you have a phone you need to remember to USE it! Sometimes certain people in your life want to be in touch!
If you come over now, I promise I’ll let you eat all the dessert.
I’m laughing as I tap out I’m plus the emoji of a car plus the emoji of a house. I smile, proud of myself for this message in code that I know will make Finn laugh, too, when he receives it.
“Is he professing his undying love for you?” José asks.
“Maybe,” I say with a grin.
José grins back. “Well, he should if he isn’t.” He waves his hand absently toward the windshield. “Marlenita, vamos a la casa de Finn. I’ll be right here, evaluating your every move.”
“¡Sí, señor!” I pull forward across the parking lot, trying not to be nervous. Finn’s house isn’t far. I’ve never been to it, but I know where it is. There is a neighborhood of cottages right along the ocean, just past the seawall. Finn has been living so close all this time.
I turn left out of the lot and after I am safely on the road, I speak. “Thank you, José,” I
say. “For teaching me. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, simply. “Just doing my job.”
His words hit me like a slap. I force myself to concentrate on driving. “Your job? What do you mean?”
“It’s my job to do what you ask, Marlena. You asked me to teach you to drive, so I’m teaching you to drive.”
Luckily, it seems there are no other cars on the road. “But I thought you were doing this as a favor. Because I asked you to and you wanted to.”
“And I do want to, and I’m happy to, but this is not a favor,” José says, in his usual cheerful tone. “This is my job. Doing what you say. I’m on the clock right now. Did you think I wasn’t?”
I swallow, the gulp of it audible in the quiet car, my eyes still fixed on the road. “This isn’t in your job description. And I’m not in charge of you.”
“But you are, Marlena. You’re the boss,” he insists.
“I am not,” I protest with a shaky laugh. “My mother is.”
“You and your mother are both my bosses. The money you make pays for my job. I have to do what you ask.”
“But . . . but I thought . . . I . . . wait a minute.” I put on my turn signal and glide to a stop along the seawall, where in theory I should be practicing my parallel parking but the only other car is about a quarter of a mile away.
“Nicely done,” José is saying. Then, “Mirame.”
I don’t want to look at José right now. But I turn the ignition off and make myself do it.
“You thought that we were friends.” José shakes his head. “Cariño, I am not your friend. I am your employee. I always have been.”
I am speechless. My lips feel glued shut.
“But just because I work for you doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, niñita. I do. I always have. I don’t know exactly what is going on, but I can see you changing and it’s for the good. And because of that”—he gestures between us, the half-eaten Twix in his hand—“here we are, and I am teaching you to drive.”
I try to nod, but instead I just drop my head and stare into my lap, at my knobby knees, the pedals on the floor, the mat, which is spotless as always. José must vacuum it every night. That just makes me sigh. José is right. I hate that he is, but he is.
“Hey,” he says. “Did you hear the part about how I care about you, or did you tune out when I said that?”
I lift my eyes. “I heard it.”
“Marlena, I know you are experiencing a lot all at once. But relationships take time. Changing a relationship after it’s been one way for many years takes time. We’ll figure it out together, eh?”
I manage to nod.
“Don’t lose hope. All is not lost.”
“I’m not,” I say, but another great big sigh escapes me. “Fatima keeps telling me that things don’t have to be all one way or all the other. But mixing everything up is so complicated. And unclear. I’m used to all the lines being very clear. And I’m also used to being painfully aware about what happens if I cross those lines, and what I lose if I do.”
“I know,” he says. “And Fatima is a smart woman.”
“She is,” I agree.
“But letting things be complicated doesn’t have to mean loss. Do you also know that?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe? Maybe I’m getting there?”
He takes a long gulp of his limonada and swallows. “Marlena,” he says, “sometimes when you start crossing lines, this is what you get.” He gestures between us again, still with the Twix, which is melting between his fingers. “You get driving lessons. And I get my favorite chocolate, some soda, and a nice afternoon with my little Marlenita, who isn’t so little anymore. Okay?”
“Okay,” I agree.
“Patience.”
“I hate patience.”
José laughs. “Don’t we all.”
Then he taps the wheel. “Now, ten o’clock, two o’clock, cariño. Or that Finn is going to think you changed your mind about him.”
THIRTY
“You got sun today,” Finn says when he opens the door of his house.
“Show me around,” I say in response. “I want the grand tour. Oh, and you promised me culinary delights!” I push past him and start looking around. Poke my head into every room, every closet. Everything is simple and everything is mismatched. Couch, two comfy chairs, lots of shelves piled with books. Books stacked one on top of the other, some horizontal, with more books wedged on those, all the way to the next shelf. The wood actually sags in the middle from the weight of them. When I poke my head in the bedroom, it is small and things are neat. The bed is made, and instead of a closet there is a metal rack where Finn has hung his clothes. On the bedside stand are more books.
“You don’t need a tour, apparently.” Finn is laughing as he comes up behind me. He puts his arms around my waist, but I keep walking, Finn in tow, backing up from his bedroom and heading into the little kitchen, where there is a small metal-topped table and two old wooden chairs. Several paper bags sit on the counter, one of them greasy.
I turn to him. “Are those our culinary delights?”
He lets go of my waist. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
I open one of the bags and breathe deeply. “Oooh, what is it? It smells delicious.”
“I went to Annie’s. The shack at the end of the seawall?”
I know it, but I’ve never been. My mother would never eat there.
Finn grabs the bag with the grease stains. “We have clam cakes.” He places it under my nose and I see fat blobs of fried dough. He returns the bag to the counter and points to the others. “We have chowder to go with the clam cakes. Also, lobster rolls, cole slaw, and corn on the cob. Maybe I overdid it?”
“It’s perfect! I’m starving. Let’s eat all of it. I’ve never had any of it.”
“Well, that’s a crime against humanity. And your Portuguese heritage, if I might add.” Finn pulls things out and sets them onto paper plates. Then we sit and dig in.
I take a bite of clam cake and swallow it down. “Wow.”
“I know, right?” Finn pops one of the smaller ones into his mouth whole. “You’re supposed to dip them in the chowder,” he says, in between chewing, “but there isn’t a right way to do this. It tastes good no matter how you approach it.”
I take Finn’s advice and dip the rest of my clam cake into the broth. “Also a good idea,” I concur, after I try it. We keep eating. Corn. Lobster rolls. The seemingly endless supply of clam cakes to go with the chowder. I pause in the activity of stuffing my face to ask Finn a question. “Are you ever going to tell me about your family?”
Finn picks up another clam cake like he hasn’t heard me. I wait while he eats it. Finally, he says, “I’m a little afraid to.”
“Why?”
“You might not like what you hear.”
“I want to know everything. Whether it’s good or bad.”
He turns his attention to his lobster roll, then picks a kernel of corn from the cob and eats it. “Okay. Well, it’s just my mother, and she and I are estranged.” He picks at another kernel. “She lives in the-middle-of-nowhere Oregon, and we haven’t spoken in years. I . . . I did something, and she can’t forgive me.”
“Oh, Finn! I’m so sorry.”
“Marlena.” Finn sounds strangled. “Please don’t ask me what I did. I don’t want to . . . I’m not ready . . .”
“Okay, okay.” I say this, because what else can I say? But it doesn’t change that I want to know whatever it is. “Why would you be so afraid to tell me that?”
He looks up from his plate. “Because I’ve worried what you will think of me, abandoning my mother.”
“It sounds more like the other way around, like she abandoned you.”
“That’s not how she sees it.”
“We really are more alike than not,” I say. “It isn’t as though my mother and I are the portrait of a happy family either.”
This elicits a bit of a smile. “I told you
.”
“How old were you when you left home?”
“Sixteen.”
“Wow, that’s young.”
He nods.
I slurp a little of my chowder. “How were you able to afford living on your own?”
“I got a special scholarship, because of my aptitude for science. School and housing paid for.”
“Ah,” I say. “A genius scholarship.”
Finn rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to comment on that.”
I down another spoonful. “Does what you just told me have anything to do with why you and Angie are so close? I’ve often thought that she, I don’t know, treats you like you might be her son.”
Finn looks away. “For the most part, yeah.”
This question has him setting his lobster roll back on his plate like he can’t stomach it. “Finn, what?”
He wipes his hands on one of the napkins. There are already six, crumpled and used, strewn across the table, and the pile only keeps growing. “Angie is . . . not particularly happy with me at the moment.”
Something about the way he says this makes me feel implicated.
“Why?”
Finn stares at his plate. “I talked to her about us,” he says. “Well, she talked to me about us. She figured it out. All things considered, I guess it wasn’t that difficult.”
I think back to Angie watching us leave through her office window. “No. I thought she might suspect. Where does that leave you?”
“I’m not sure. Angie said I was too close to you to keep working on the study—”
“But that’s not fair!”
“It’s totally fair, actually,” he says. “I am too close. Though it is also possible that when Angie told me this, I shot back something along the lines of look who’s talking, since Angie hasn’t exactly stayed distant from you, either.”
I put down my spoon. “Oh.”
“Yeah. It’s also the truth, though. And Angie knows it.”
The Healer Page 20