Helen searches my face. “What happened between now and twenty minutes ago? I was worried about you. You looked so out of it and now you look so much better.”
I shrug.
“I thought you’d be disappointed about missing your chance to see Finn,” she says.
“I guess I just needed to take a walk.”
“Marlena?” Helen’s voice is singsong. She draws out each syllable of my name playfully. “Did you see Finn or something?”
“No. But I did eat some delicious ice cream.”
Helen flips her sunglasses up onto her head. “Well, that’s it, then. I bet your body needed the sugar.” She pushes her hair behind her ears. “Now let’s eat something healthy so you don’t faint on me again.”
“Let’s,” I agree, and slip the sweater from my shoulders, hanging it over my arm as we walk. We pass groups of tourists window-shopping on Main Street. Not one of them turns in my direction. Maybe it’s because Helen and I are unremarkable in the way we’re chatting, two girls who want nothing more than to tell each other their secrets on a beautiful day by the sea.
FOURTEEN
“I don’t want this lipstick.” I pluck the tube from my mother’s hand and pick up a different one from the box of makeup. I am staring into the long mirror hanging in my mother’s bedroom, the two of us engaging in the weekly ritual of dressing me for my audience. “I’ll wear this one.”
My mother is looking at me like she doesn’t know who I am. “You never care which lipstick you wear. You never care which dress either. You let me do everything.”
Earlier, I rejected one gown after the other until I found the one I liked best. “Well, today, I’m not letting you.”
“That dark shade will be lovely with your coloring,” my mother says. She doesn’t seem to notice I’m being cold. Or she’s choosing not to. Ever since that talk with Mrs. Lewis, I can’t look at her without getting angry. “A bit of smoky shadow would be lovely, too. It will help make your features stand out against those bright stage lights.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. “It’s good to see you taking your audiences seriously again. Whatever has gotten into you, I hope it keeps up.”
Finn. The hope of seeing Finn at my audience has gotten into me.
All I respond is “Yes, Mama.”
My mother turns to the tiny buttons of the sleeves on my dress.
The gown I chose is simpler than the typical princess dress that bells at the waist that my mother always picks. She thinks they make me look regal. This one drops straight to the floor. The lace makes it beautiful. Hand sewn and so intricate it’s difficult to believe someone was born with the talent for such masterful work. My hands might be able to heal, but there is plenty of other amazing artistry that human hands can produce.
My mother takes out a small brush and begins painting my lips. I try to imagine the moment when Finn sees me. I wonder if he will think I am beautiful, if he doesn’t mind when a girl wears makeup, if he might like the cascade of my long dark hair against so much lace.
I smile at myself in the mirror and imagine that I am smiling at him.
“It’s good to see you happy, Marlena.” My mother starts to hum a song she used to sing when I was small.
I wish I could enjoy it. But it’s difficult not to snap at her.
“Mama, do you charge money for my healings? Up front?” I ask. My mother is still humming, like she hasn’t heard my question. “I thought people made offerings after healings. You’ve always told me they were donations. Not payments. That you couldn’t put a price on a healing.”
She sings to herself, softly, in Portuguese.
Cheia de penas, cheia de penas me deito.
It’s “Lágrima,” one of the beautiful, sad ballads from the fado tradition, sung by a single voice, often with only a guitar or even without any accompaniment.
“Mama,” I press through the lyrics of her singing. “Answer me.”
“Yes,” she says simply. She doesn’t raise her head. Returns to her song.
My heart beats hard against the pristine lace of my gown. “Mama, are you serious? Is there a specified fee? Do you turn people away who can’t pay? Do you tell them I won’t heal them?”
Desespero, Tenho por meu desespero . . .
“Yes,” she drops, nearly imperceptibly, between lyrics.
“Mama!” She is down by my feet, fixing the hem of my gown. “I can’t believe you’ve been lying to me all this time! If my ‘gift’ is really that, a gift, then shouldn’t it be given freely? If there’s money involved, shouldn’t it be offered afterward? In gratitude but not in payment? Mama, you turn people away!”
She doesn’t speak now, or sing. The room goes quiet, as she works on the bustle of the dress.
“If the healing doesn’t work, do you give the money back?” I whisper.
My mother rises up from behind me in the mirror. “Sometimes it surprises me, how naïve you are, Marlena.”
Everything in me hardens against her. “But isn’t that how you like me, Mama? A child, naïve and stupid and sweet?”
Bright hot lights flood the stage.
One of the staff at the United Holiest Church has thrown the light switch, signaling that another audience is about to begin. Other staff scurry around, sweeping, moving pots of plants from here to there, placing great cascading flower arrangements at the entrance of the church and at the end of each aisle. Two women heave a small tree toward the stage. I am ashamed to admit that I don’t know their names. Shouldn’t I?
“Marlena?”
José is at my elbow, beckoning me into the back room.
“Marlena?” José prompts.
“Sorry. I was just thinking.”
He chuckles. “Don’t do too much of that, cariño. Too much thinking is never good for anyone.”
I follow him, nodding at Fatima, who is waiting for me. “Hello, Marlena,” she says. “You look especially pretty today.”
I want to reach out to her, but I settle for words. “Thank you, Fatima.”
She picks up the veil that is draped across the chair.
“I’m not wearing that today,” I tell her.
“But your mother—”
“—my mother has no say in the matter.”
Fatima’s mouth closes.
I turn around, look out across the stage through the open door. This place was once just a garage, with folding chairs that my mother, Fatima, and José would set up, forming rows theater style. There was no stage, no other staff, no floodlights. If there were flowers, they were daisies or black-eyed Susans, handpicked from a nearby field. Occasionally there was a cactus, because they’re easy to maintain. A rickety table served as an altar. There was no platform. Audiences were simple affairs.
I wonder if my mother was demanding money back then, too. Or if it was something that started gradually. Every now and then we’ve gotten an enormous donation from a wealthy benefactor. That’s how we built this church, in fact, and how my mother bought our beautiful house. Maybe those experiences gave my mother a taste of something she decided she wanted all the time.
“Marlena?” José asks from behind me.
I don’t answer. My eyes seek out my mother. She is in the middle aisle talking to one of the staff, gesturing at the seats she wants reserved for the people on her list. I wonder how much they paid her, how much she demanded, how much she promised. I wonder how many people she turned away who didn’t have the money, people like Mrs. Lewis. My mother looks every bit the queen, beautiful and thin and tall, confident and self-assured as she talks to the man who is roping off those seats. A plan forms in my head.