Mrs. Lewis smiles. “Miracle Mash is one of my favorites.” She leans forward to scrape some ice cream out of its tub. “Are you here on vacation with your family?”
“Um. Yes,” I say, a little uncertain. I’m not used to lying. Or pretending. At least not with anyone other than my mother.
Mrs. Lewis reaches over the counter to hand me the spoon, now covered in what looks like chocolate ice cream dotted with a million things. Toffee. Chips. Marshmallow. Maybe streaks of peanut butter? I take it from her.
“Will you and your parents be going to the Healer’s audience this Saturday?” Mrs. Lewis asks as I lick the spoon clean. “Most people who visit our town attend even if it’s not their thing. They go out of curiosity. It’s not like you have to believe to go.”
The ice cream melts on my tongue and I chew all the delicious things in it, made even more so because Mrs. Lewis doesn’t know that it’s me. Freedom is tasty. I swallow, and realize that Mrs. Lewis is waiting for me to answer. “Do you believe in the Healer?” I ask, realizing I genuinely want to know what she says.
Mrs. Lewis glances at the candy-coated pink ceiling of her shop. “I do.”
My heart speeds up. I drop the used plastic spoon into a container on the counter for them. “You sound so sure. Why? What makes you believe?” Why do I suddenly care so much about the opinions of the nice lady who owns the ice cream shop?
“It’s difficult to describe, but . . . I suppose there’s a couple of reasons,” she starts. “I think miracles are possible and they happen all the time.” My eyebrows arch and she laughs. “Not necessarily big miracles like walking on water, but little, everyday ones. Someone smiles at you for seemingly no reason, out of the blue, when you are having the worst moment of your life, and somehow that smile gives you the strength to get through the afternoon. You know?”
No one ever talks to me like this. “I think so.”
“But I also think bigger miracles are possible. That they’re rare, but they exist, and sometimes lucky people who walk among us are their source. I believe something sacred resides in them, that they have the power to connect us, to remind us that life is a beautiful mystery. They can transform us into something better. Something whole.”
My eyes are getting watery. I blink. “Do you think that . . . the Healer can do those things?”
Mrs. Lewis’s eyes are glistening a little, too. “Yes.”
My heart is galloping, stars are exploding and blurring my vision. “Is there anything you’ve ever wished for Marlena to heal?”
Mrs. Lewis grows quiet. She takes a long, labored breath before speaking again. “It wouldn’t work for me.”
“Why not?” For the first time in as long as I can remember, the desire to heal someone, to do it of my own free will and because I want to help, not because my mother is making me, rises up as powerful as any vision I’ve ever had. “You live right here. Maybe you should take your own advice and go to one of the Healer’s audiences. Just to see.”
Mrs. Lewis goes completely still. The statue of a late middle aged lady, humble and sad. “It costs money,” she informs me. “To get a healing. Like everything else in this life. If you can’t pay, the Healer won’t attend you at an audience.”
I shake my head back and forth. “That’s not right. It’s just not.”
“I agree,” Mrs. Lewis says, misunderstanding my meaning.
“No, that’s literally not right. I mean, I read up on the Healer and how the audiences work before my family came here.” My cheeks flush a little with the lie. “And that’s not how it works. You have to ask to get on the list for an audience. But you don’t have to pay to be on the list! And afterward, people send their gratitude in donations and offerings, which is why the Healer’s family lives so well.”
Mrs. Lewis is studying me. I bet she’s wondering why a tourist would know so much. “I don’t want to upset your idealism, sweetheart, but I promise you, the money gets paid up front. No money, no healings. And they are expensive. That is why the Healer and her family live so well. I tried myself once, and the mother turned me away because I didn’t have the funds.”
My lips part.
Could she be right?
It would make so much sense. How we could afford all that we have. That the money is so consistent. Shame pours through me that my mother would turn away this nice lady, that she is charging for healings up front, like they are a mattress or a new car, making me into the car salesman. This shame covers every inch of skin. I can smell it, taste it, hear it. “If this Marlena girl is worth anything at all, she’ll heal you for free.”
Mrs. Lewis smiles weakly. She thinks I’m being idealistic again. She sniffles and a tear rolls down her cheek.
“Go to the audience,” I say. “Really.”
“Maybe I will.” She wipes a hand across her face and starts to laugh. Shakes her head. “Look at me, getting all emotional with a customer who just came in to get some ice cream! You poor thing!” She sniffles again and this makes her laugh more. “Did you like Miracle Mash or do you want to try another flavor? I want people to be sure when they choose their ice cream. I like them to enjoy it.”
I laugh a little, too, the sound of it releasing us from some of the intensity of our conversation. Mrs. Lewis seems serious about the business of picking flavors. Like choosing the right ice cream is as important as anything else. As important, even, as a miracle.
It occurs to me I don’t have any money. I never do.
“Um, I, um, my parents have all my money. I’m so sorry.” The last word comes out a squeak.
“No worries, honey. Really.” Mrs. Lewis plucks a baby-sized cup from a teetering stack and reaches into the tub of Miracle Mash. She comes up with a scoop that she plops into the cup. She plants another pink spoon into the ice cream and hands it over the counter. “This one is on me.”
I stare at it.
“Take it,” she says. “Really. It was nice talking to you, sweetheart. I’m glad you stopped in. You made a slow day more interesting. Besides, it’s nice to see a girl your age with an interest in big things like faith and miracles and doing the right thing.”
I reach out and she hands me the cup. As she does, I make it a point to touch her hand, to press my fingers against her own, hoping that some relief for Mrs. Lewis, even a little bit, might be transferred to her in this brief instant. “Thank you so much,” I tell her, holding on a beat longer, as long as I can. “This is so nice of you.”
“Sweetheart, it’s nothing. You have a good rest of your day.”
I nod, my throat tight. “You should go to one of those audiences. If anyone deserves to be healed, it’s you,” I say, then head out the door. It chimes with my exit.
I make my way back toward Helen, taking one bite after the other, wondering if ice cream always tastes this good or if the way I received it, like a gift, a tiny, miraculous offering given freely and joyfully and without the need for anything in return, makes all the difference.
“Are you ready to eat?” Helen asks when I reach her.
I nod. “I’m starving.” The word starving comes out with emphasis on star. I adjust the sunglasses higher on the bridge of my nose.
Sunglasses are my new favorite thing. But not only because they give me precious anonymity. I guess because that anonymity turned out to mean more than freedom from recognition. It gave me that conversation with Mrs. Lewis, allowed me to realize that I could find it inside myself to want to be Marlena the Healer. Not out of obligation. Just because. That it is more important than ever that I stop allowing my mother to control my gift and all that comes with it. To put a price on it.