“Marlena?”
I hear José behind me. The way he says my name is an invitation to turn around and go, it informs me that he is willing to drive the getaway car and whisk me to safety. My eyes lower to the ground, to the sand that covers the asphalt in a thin layer, swept here from the beaches. I pick up my skirts and follow my mother inside, the door clicking shut behind us.
There are so many flowers. Their scent is everywhere.
My mother hasn’t let me go out into the church for fear that I will be seen, which will ruin everything and because I am always on the verge of ruin. Isn’t that how I got here in the first place?
She walks through the door to where I wait backstage. “Let’s go over the list of special guests.”
I nod, and listen as my mother explains where the people are sitting, how things are supposed to go. I stop myself from asking how much money each one paid in exchange for my touch.
“What sort of surprises do you have planned today, Marlena?” she wants to know. “I’d rather you clue me in ahead of time.”
The truth is, I’ve avoided thinking about what might happen when I go out there. Or what might not happen.
“Marlena?” My mother’s tone is impatient and a warning.
I shake my head. “Nothing, Mama. I don’t have any plans other than what you tell me I should be doing.”
She studies me. “Of all days, Marlena, this would be the one when you go off script. Give the crowd a little something extra. Something unexpected.”
“Okay, Mama. I’ll see what happens then.”
She eyes me suspiciously. She still doesn’t know what to make of my newfound obedience. “All right then.” My mother glances at the clock. “It’s almost showtime.”
Showtime? Is that what we’re calling it now?
With her heels clicking, my mother comes over to primp and puff my gown. “I’m going to go out and open the audience, Marlena.”
I nod.
My mother is still staring. “Marlena?”
“Yes, Mama. I’m ready.”
I barely hear her heels clicking as she heads out the door again.
So much is riding on this audience.
Everything that matters.
Finn. His life.
I pray to Hildegard, I pray to Julian. I pray to Teresa, with her little sword, and Margery, with her endless tears, and Hadewijch, with her poetry. I beg every one of the mystics and visionaries and healers I have ever read about, known about, studied, because they seem closer to me than God ever has. They seem so much realer than God. Like they might understand where I am coming from because they were human once, too. Women and girls who wanted and hoped and yearned for things like me. Maybe even who loved, once upon a time.
When I walk out onto the stage, all I feel is shame. Shame that I left and came back. Shame for the reasons I did. Shame for what happened while I was gone from this life and shame at the thought that people have heard rumors about me. Shame at the size of the crowd, so many people I abandoned without warning. Shame that they’ve come back as though I never stepped away, as though all is forgiven, just like that. Like maybe I didn’t even need to apologize in the first place.
If they can forgive me, will God?
A tiny flower of hope blooms. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, the moment when I might find out that everything is going to be okay, if I might give Finn back his life, his dreams, his future. Even if it’s a future I won’t be in.
I bite my lip hard, so hard I taste blood.
I take one step, then another, until I am standing at the center of the stage, shoulders back. Chin lifted. Watching. Waiting.
The church looks both familiar and different. My mother went all out on the flower arrangements. It could be Easter, with so many lilies and big white blooms. There is a banner to commemorate the day, and even more people than usual packed in the back. But the seating is the same, the placement of the altar is the same, the platform where I walk out into the crowd is the way it’s been ever since my mother had it installed.
So why does it feel so strange to be here? What am I not noticing or seeing?
I do my best not to focus on any one particular person in the church. I don’t want to have to look anyone I know in the eyes. Not Gertie, not Mrs. Lewis if she is here, not Mr. Almeida, and especially not Fatima or José or Helen. I know Helen is here somewhere, because my mother told me she was coming. I make my eyes go blurry, so I see only colors and movement, until it’s like I’m watching the world from under the ocean.
People start to whisper.
I close my eyes tight.
I search for that familiar feeling, for the physical tug of my gift within me. I wait and I wait and I hope.
Then I hear rustling nearby on the stage.
“Marlena,” my mother hisses. “What is taking you so long?”
I don’t look at her.
Her sigh is worried. Or maybe it’s angry.
The clock ticks by the seconds and minutes.
The whispering from the crowd gets louder.
My shoulders curl forward. My breaths strain against the cage of this dress. Sweat pours down the sides of my face and mixes with the tears streaming from my eyes. Before I even realize what I’m doing I’m shaking my head.
No, no, no, no, no.
The murmurs turn into talk. Words that I can make out clearly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Is she okay?”
“Is this normal?”
“Maybe we should leave.”
“Maybe that vacation . . .”
“Maybe the rumors . . .”
“Maybe . . .”
“Maybe . . .”
“Maybe . . .”
As the crowd speculates and fills with doubt, their doubt courses through me. They are only confirming what I’ve feared. I’ve hoped that it would happen today, that if I just showed up, my gift would show up with me. But it hasn’t. And maybe it’s not going to.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Maybe my gift is gone for good.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I am shaking, fingers curled tight, nails biting into the skin of my palms. I wish I could tear the lace at my neck. There is a rushing sound in my ears. Stars fill my vision and turn the world around me shiny.
The crowd is in an uproar. Some people are standing. Others are shouting for them to sit. A line of people begins to file out. I should just run backstage and end this.
But then, my eyes focus and I see an island of calm at the center of the crowd. Helen. Fatima. José. Mrs. Lewis. They watch me with hope, with steadiness, without doubt. They hold hands, lifting their wrists in a chain. Then I notice the others. Children with their families, people I don’t know, who are watching me, waiting and hoping. Some of them are kneeling in the aisle. Their patience in the face of this angry crowd helps to slow my breathing. I wipe the tears from my face. Lift my chin like before.
I should at least try, shouldn’t I?
I take one step forward. Then another. The crowd quiets. People settle into their seats again.
“Marlena!”
“Marlena!”
“Over here, Marlena!”
I start down from the platform and into the crowd. I lay hands on those who gather around me, the special guests my mother told me about. I kneel, I offer my blessings, I press my forehead to the backs of people’s hands. I walk among the people, allowing some of them to touch my arms, even the side of my face. I go through the motions of healing, which I know by heart. I know exactly how to hold myself, the right tilt of my head, the stretch of my fingers, when to close my eyes, when to murmur, when to reach my hands to heaven.
It’s just like before.
But also not like it at all. There are no visions to accompany my laying on of hands, no bursts of color, no physical tug in the parts of my body that correspond with those I am meant to heal. I am an actress acting a part, doing my best to get it right.
“Marlena, please!”<
br />
“Take my hand!”
People believe I am still Marlena the Healer. They walk away happy, relieved. Seemingly cured. Convinced that whatever I have done has helped them.
How is this possible?
Did my mother pay them to do this? Did all of us agree to participate in theater today? Or . . . is it possible that my gift is back and I just don’t feel it? That it has changed so drastically I don’t recognize it? That I am healing people in a new way?
“Marlena?”
A small child kneels before me. She might be four, or maybe five. Her hair is black and wiry and long. Her mother looks at me, eyes brimming with tears. So I do what I know she wants me to do. I place my hand on the little girl’s head, firm and sure, and close my eyes. I wait for something, anything to happen. The shine of pink or blue or green to color my vision, the scene of some future moment. But there is nothing.
I open my eyes again.
“Gracias,” the mother says, crying. “¡Gracias!”
I nod like I have actually done something, when I am just a girl laying hands on a child. It’s almost worse that everyone around me believes. But belief is powerful, isn’t it? Pain and grief make us desperate.
“Marlena! Over here!”
“Marlena!”
People everywhere clamor for my touch, but my eyes search the crowd for someone I’m not used to seeking out. I find my mother, and give her a look. I need her to close this down. She heads to the microphone and as she speaks, people recede and I am able to make my retreat. As I head across the platform and onto the stage, disappearing into the back room, a feeling of gratitude toward my mother spreads through me for her readiness to take control. It is not a feeling I’m used to.
“You did well,” my mother says when she sees me backstage.
I lift my head from the table. The metal boning of the gown digs into my ribs. “I did?”
The smile on her face is pleased. “Yes.” Her hands smooth out her expensive white skirt. “You don’t agree?”
“I don’t know.” I shift in the chair, trying to get comfortable. This wedding dress was not made for sitting. “Were the people . . . the special guests . . . happy?”
My mother goes to the mirror and fixes her hair. A hair pin that was escaping her bun gets put in its place again. “Oh yes. Very.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” She tames another errant hair pin. “Why would I lie?”
I go about the business of standing up. “I can think of a number of reasons why you would, Mama.”
She turns away from the mirror. “Marlena!”
“Appearances are everything. Isn’t it you who tells me this all the time?”
A flicker of guilt crosses her face. “What is this really about?”
“I just . . . I just didn’t feel anything. But people acted like I healed them.”
“And you don’t think you did.”
I hesitate. Then I shake my head.
She walks toward me, stops, inches away. She peers into my face. “Sometimes all people need for healing is hope.” Her voice is gentle, surprising me. “You provide that hope. That is enough.”
“But if I don’t really heal them, why do they act the way they do?”
“But you do heal them, Marlena.”
“I don’t. I didn’t. Not today. I know that I didn’t. Before, healing felt real. Today, my gift . . . it just wasn’t there.”
My mother does something unexpected. She reaches out a finger to lift my chin. “Some things are best left a mystery. Some knowledge is best left to God. That’s what faith is. It doesn’t matter if you know for sure. You just have to believe despite this.”
“But it does matter,” I whisper, looking into her eyes. “It matters a lot.”
“You’re thinking of that boy who came to the house.”
I don’t answer.
“Oh, Marlenita.” She says my name so softly. For a moment I think she might pull me into a hug. “I’m sorry about that. I really am.” Her hand drops from my chin, and she straightens. “It’s time to do the receiving line. People are waiting.”
Again, I act my part and the crowd acts theirs. I am tempted to question each one of them, to interview them like Angie might, about what they saw me do, what they believe happened today, if anything happened, but I refrain.
Suddenly, Angie is in front of me. Just like the first time we met, which seems like a hundred years ago. “Hi,” I say.
She hesitates. “Marlena, I came because . . . I didn’t know how else to talk to you. I haven’t been able to get in touch with you. Why won’t you see me or answer my calls?”
I force myself to hold her gaze. “I’m sorry, but I just . . . can’t. I made a promise not to.” I don’t mention that the promise is to God.
“Okay,” she says. It doesn’t sound like she believes me. “But . . . how can you refuse to see Finn? If I’d known, I never would have involved myself. Marlena, he’s—”
I put up my hand. “Angie, don’t. Please.” I glance at the man behind her in the line, waiting less and less patiently. “It’s more than I can explain right now.”
“Come by the center and explain it to me there,” Angie says, a little defiant.
I shake my head. “No.”
“This is not you, Marlena.” She sounds angry. No, worse. She sounds disappointed. “The you I’ve gotten to know would not act like this. She would not refuse her friends and the people she loves. And who love her,” she adds quietly.
I grip the skirt of the gown and hold on tight. “But it is me. This is how things have always been. You just knew me in a strange time.” My voice catches. “And that time is over.”
Angie stands there, words brimming on her lips. I wait for more admonishment. But just before she walks away, she says, “I am here for you, no matter what. If there is anything you need, or even anything you still want to know about yourself. I haven’t given up on you, Marlena.” She hesitates. “And neither has Finn.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
The days turn into weeks that turn into months.
Every morning I get up out of bed, empty and tired. I look around my room, searching, as though God may have left me a note during the night. But nothing is ever different. No lightning strikes in the remaining hours of the morning. It’s always just me, alone, in my uncertainty. In my regret.
The air gets cold with the onset of winter. On the first day of December snowflakes hover in the air.
Every Saturday I perform for my audience. Every Saturday I go through the motions. The offerings come into the house and are stored in the gift room. At the end of the month they are donated to Goodwill. Gertie was true to her word about changing her wares, though the shift downtown is gradual. Tourists come looking for souvenirs and snatch up whatever remains at the stores that still sell them.
People act as though my touch still heals. Has it come back, even if I don’t feel it? Why would people behave this way if nothing really happened? Or is my mother right, that it doesn’t matter whether I feel proof of healing like I used to? Maybe God needs me to take a leap of faith, to trust that though my gift remains invisible to me, it is still there.
But that sort of test just seems cruel.
Until I can feel my gift, until I know it’s there, I can’t go to Finn. I can’t do that to him. It wouldn’t be fair.
“Thank you for coming to get me, José,” I say, when I walk out of the house and see him standing there by the car.
“Ten a.m. sharp, just like always, Marlenita.”
I slip into the back seat. Alone. My mother has stopped accompanying me everywhere. I try not to notice José glancing at me in the rearview mirror as he drives me where we are going and parks in front.
He hands me an umbrella when I get out of the car. “I’ll be here, waiting.”
I can feel his eyes on my back, watching as I head inside the visitors’ entrance of the hospital. The antiseptic smell of the air is familiar to me now, the fl
uorescent lighting, the shiny tiled floors and long hallways.
The Healer has started doing house calls.
It started because of a letter I received from a mother whose six-year-old son, Jacob, was in the hospital with leukemia. The hospital was close, only a twenty-minute drive. One day I just got in the car and went. Found his room and his mother, sitting there next to him. She was so happy I came, I talked to her, to Jacob, held their hands. I don’t know if my touch healed or not, but I know it mattered to them that I showed up. So I kept going.
Keep going.
First was Jacob, then there were Aurora, Sarena, Dante, Ethan, Diego, Gabby, and Laurel. The list goes on. In the beginning it was penance, it was practice for Finn, it was the hope of the feeling of healing returning. But now, I’m not so sure what compels me. I see the people who’ve written me, and I see their doctors. I watch the medics and nurses come and go, study the things they do, the pills offered, the machines and bags of fluid adjusted. The kind words, the brusque manners, the hope they bring, the way they are needed by the sick and the suffering.
Are we somehow the same? Is there any connection between what the nurses and doctors do and what I do? These questions grow louder with each visit. Hildegard was a visionary and a doctor, a medicine woman in her day. Could I be another kind of healer, too?
“Can you tell me how to find room 302?” I ask the nurse at the reception desk.
She stands and points. “Down the hall to the left, take the bank of elevators to the third floor, turn right, and go all the way to the end.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, and try to remember the directions.
When I get to the room, I’m nervous.
Today’s visit is special.
I knock.
“Come in,” calls a voice.
I go inside.
A short woman who is all soft edges gets up to greet me. “Marlena! I’m Valeria.” Valeria’s face is round and friendly. Her voice is reverent. “I can’t believe you’re here. After all this waiting. Thank you.”
“I’m glad I could come, but you need to know, I can’t make any promises.”
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