The town, the tourists, they all want the angel Marlena.
The Healer Marlena, virginal and pure and divine.
And I have behaved badly today.
The guilt cuts across me in the wind and I hang my head, wrap my arms around my middle. The town’s survival depends on my existence, my continued ability to heal the old lady who cannot walk, the young boy who seems trapped inside his mind. The broken heart of a man who has lost his wife and the deadened eyes of the woman who cannot see. The sick and the grief-stricken come to me and I lay my hands on them, my precious, God-touched, miracle-making hands. The contact between my skin and theirs, my flesh and theirs, somehow sets them free. People come from all over to be at one of my audiences. They fly, they drive, they hitchhike. Some even walk, the most devout making the last mile on their knees, arriving scraped and bloodied, pebbles embedded in their skin. Just for a glimpse. Just to be near me.
Hundreds of years ago, men and women claimed visions, special gifts that allowed them to heal, to have intimate knowledge of the divine, of God, to live suspended in ecstasy. They were called mystics. I’ve read everything I can get my hands on about them. Most wrote about their experiences in poetry, in prose, reaching for anything and everything to describe what they saw, how they felt, who they were. Hildegard of Bingen is my favorite. She was a real doctor, studying the way that plants and herbs could heal the sick. Her visions led her to write, like everyone else, but also to compose music. And make art. She drew and painted her visions.
I, too, am an artist.
But I am more like Julian of Norwich. She enclosed herself in the walls of a church and lived there in a tiny stone cell. Isolated, in prayer. People would pilgrimage to speak to her through a sliver in the stone, to ask for her intercession, for her help. Being near Julian was like being near God. She was an anchorite, drawing down God from the heavens to the earthen floor and pinning him there. Her life’s purpose was to hold the world steady with her body and soul.
A car turns the corner up ahead and slows as it approaches. It’s Mrs. Jacobs. A knowing smile spreads across her lips. Mrs. Jacobs is one of my doubters. She thinks I am a fake.
I raise my arm. A cascade of water drips from my sleeve as I wave. I can’t stop trying to win over Mrs. Jacobs.
She drives off without waving back.
What will she say to others? What rumors will she spread?
My mother is always reminding me how it only takes one misstep to ruin a girl with a reputation like mine. I must be above reproach, holier-than-thou in being and word. I used to agree, used to be so obedient. Happy to shut myself away from the things of this world like Julian did. Grateful to be chosen.
My shoulders curve forward as I trudge up the hill, sand chafing my calves.
When I was a child, I used to love the stature that comes with my gift, that people brought me shiny toys to thank me, that when I got up on the stage at the United Holiest Church, the audience would hush. I could do no wrong. I could scream. I could writhe and faint. I could cry out with joy and laughter. People expect this from me. Apparently, the power to heal lies in frenzy.
Now that I am older, I am more subdued.
My mother has taken to complaining about this.
“Marlena Imaculada Oliveira,” she’ll say, using my full name so I know we are talking business. “People don’t come to our church to see you standing there, like a child afraid to enter the water.” Then she’ll sigh and look at me with those familiar black eyes, eyes identical to mine. “You could at least raise your arms and call out to God now and then. You used to be so good at this. You used to love this work.”
“Yes, Mama,” I respond. “I know.”
I still do love it. The visions, I will always love. The colors and emotions that flood my body along with them. But lately my gift feels tainted. A weight I carry, an anchor chaining me to the seafloor.
This thought nearly makes me laugh.
I really am an anchor, like Julian.
I, too, draw down miracles from the heavens. But unlike Julian I also draw tourists from all around to spend their money in the shops. Through my gift and the sacrifices that go with it, I anchor the town and everyone in it. That is my job, has always been my life’s purpose. It’s all I’ve ever known.
But I want to know more. I want to know other things.
The heat of the sun bears down on me, the salt from the sea turning the cotton of my dress stiff and rough. The house where I live with my mother appears ahead, perched on a bluff above the sparkling ocean. As I pass the sea grass and the cattails that border our yard, I stretch my arms wide and high and turn my face toward the sky. Soak up the world around me. Let the world lift me up.
I am unmoored.
TWO
It is three years ago. I am fifteen and there is a boy my age in the front row of the church.
He is the first person I see when I step out onto the stage. His eyes are the pale gray color of glass worn smooth by the sea, his long legs bent at sharp angles in the chair that is too small for him. The outline of his shoulders shows through the fabric of his T-shirt. His mouth forms a small smile. A mocking one.
My skin burns hot. It prickles under the heavy dress I’m wearing. I will show him who I am and then we’ll see if he still wears a grin. I am not someone to be ridiculed. My gift is a thing of beauty. Worthy of reverence.
I lift my chin. Take a step forward. Walk until I am parked in front of him on the stage, looking down at his shiny black hair. I want him to see me. To study the girl who is about to perform miracles.
The boy tilts his head upward, watches me with a stare that is unwavering. Like he can see straight through the fabric covering my body. Like he might want to do just this if only I’d let him.
How dare he? I think.
Then, What would it be like, if I let him?
His eyes travel across me, head to toe. I feel them like fingertips on skin. I swallow. The flush rolls over my cheeks. What does he think when he looks at me? Why can’t I stop looking back at him?
But I can and I will and I do.
I turn slightly, move in a different direction, take in the crowd gathered for my Saturday audience. The church is packed. People kneel in the aisles, stand crushed together in the back like fish. All of them are here for me, to see me, to experience the healing power of my hands. My mother stands off to the right side of the room. She catches my eye and nods.
My entire body tingles with static. I am a lightning bolt readying to brighten the world. To strike at the sea. The storm of emotion in the room rises upward, pressing outward, filling every corner and hidden space.
I move through it.
Walking into the audience is like wading into the ocean. Waves roll across the room and over my body, my skin a sponge. Hope, then despair. More hope, fear, dismay, relief, joy. Hope again. Disappointment. Resolve. Bitterness. Sorrow. Love. Pain. Rage. More hope. Five minutes pass, ten, fifteen. I am soaked with emotion. I take it in without falter. Each feeling is a long strand of seaweed, swirling around my limbs, wrapping around my knees and my thighs. Clinging. Covering me.
People get up from their seats and swell toward me, some of them shouting.
“Marlena!”
“¡Aquí, aquí!”
“I need you!”
I lean forward. Raise my arms to them. “I am here!”