Uh-oh.
Fatima didn’t even wait for me to reply.
Intentionally slowly, I get ready. I step across the art supplies on the floor, careful not to kick anything over. I spend a nice long time under the hot water in the bathroom, then dry my hair until there isn’t a bit of moisture. I pull one of the white sheaths over my head and a long pale sweater over it. The weather has changed, the temperature finally dropping. Something in me has changed, too. I search inside my soul for what it is until I find it.
Faith. A kind of faith.
I am awash in it, in the tender, bright green of its newness. But it’s not a faith in God. A faith in myself is unfurling. My doubts have browned and turned to dust, replaced by the sense that using my gift can be a choice of my own making.
A shrill, high-pitched burring noise pierces my ears.
Is that a drill?
I shove my feet into my white ballet slippers, hurry out of my room and down the long hallway, past the rustic walls painted white. Now there is a banging sound, like a hammer. Did I miss the memo about a renovation? But why would I be needed downstairs for that? I stand at the top of the stairs, listening.
Fatima emerges from the gift room, duster in hand. She won’t look at me.
“Fatima,” I say. “Please tell me what’s happening.”
She scurries away. Before she heads into one of the guest rooms on this floor—not that we ever have guests—she calls back, “Just go see your mother. You know how she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“All right,” I tell her, not wanting Fatima to get in trouble. I descend the staircase, step by step. Thump. Thump. Dread is a mist wafting up from the first floor. I walk straight into it.
“Marlena!” my mother is shouting. “Get down here!”
When I head into the living room there are workers everywhere. Some with tool belts, building some sort of freestanding wall in the corner. Two others are dressed professionally, women in sophisticated skirts and heels. There’s even a man in a suit, like the kind someone would wear on Wall Street. They barely notice me.
“We need that to be just a little bit taller,” says a woman in cobalt blue to a man who is working on the wall.
People navigate around me like I’m a column or a piece of furniture. Someone is fitting a long, thick roll of paper, or maybe canvas, in two hooks on either side of the wall.
Then I notice the cameras.
Tiny video cameras have been attached to the ceiling in every corner of the room.
“Yes, exactly,” the woman in blue says to the man who’s straightening the backdrop.
“Marlena!” my mother yells.
Since Saturday I’ve enjoyed the fresh taste of independence, bright on my tongue. But this—this is my mother’s effort to regain control. To press me under her thumb.
“Marlena!”
I take a deep breath, and walk into the kitchen. The man in the business suit is standing next to my mother, joined by one of the women. In front of them the kitchen island is covered by stacks of paper, grouped in neat piles.
“Good morning, Mama,” I say.
She looks over. “Finally, you’re here. I’ve been calling for you for an hour. Você está sendo mal educado,” she adds in Portuguese.
I ignore her comment about my being rude. “What’s going on? Why are all of these people here?”
My mother sighs. “I tried to tell you last week but you didn’t want to hear it.” She takes a big gulp of her coffee. She always drinks it lukewarm because it’s nearly three-quarters milk. She’s wearing her favorite white suit. Mama has lots of white suits. I am the miracle healer in white, and she is the mother of the miracle healer, also in white. “You were too caught up with Helen to care what I had to say.”
The woman and man are staring at me.
Finally, the woman smiles tightly and moves in my direction. “Hello. I’m Dana Reisner.” She obviously thinks I should know who she is, or at least recognize her name, but I don’t. She’s reaching out her hand to shake mine when my mother barks.
“No! Remember what I told you about my daughter!”
The woman, Dana, yanks her arm away.
I glare at my mother. “It’s not like I have leprosy.”
My mother turns to the woman and speaks quietly. “My daughter doesn’t like to be touched unless she’s performing a healing.”
“Of course. I’m so sorry,” Dana says to my mother, not to me, and the tight smile reappears. Everything about this Dana seems fitted so as to be exact, her suit along the shape of her body, the way her hair is coiffed into a kind of helmet, not a strand loose. Even the expression on her face seems to take up as little space as possible. “Marlena, it is very nice to finally meet you,” she tries again. “I’ve been hearing about you and researching you for a long time.”
I take a step closer, and she takes a step back, like I really do have some terrible communicable disease. “Well, that’s interesting. I don’t know anything about you.”
My mother sets her coffee onto the counter and it makes a loud thunk. “Marlena, remember what I said about your attitude.”
“And you are?” I ask the man, ignoring her.
His arms are crossed. They don’t even twitch as he introduces himself. “I’m Joseph Hurwitz. I’m the producer for the television series you and your mother have agreed to do with us. Dana is our lead host.” His voice is upbeat, like he expects me to be thrilled.
“You mean my mother agreed to do with you.” I start to laugh. Their faces grow confused. Maybe I should do something to scare them, cackle, or start chewing on my hair, or run and scream through the house. Maybe if they think I’m insane they’ll be less interested in doing a serious show about the crazy girl-healer.
“Marlena.” My mother’s tone is ever more frustrated. “I told you about this! We need you to sign these documents before any of the filming can begin.” She places a hand on top of one of the stacks of paper.
“Don’t I need to read them first?”
“I’ve already read them for you.” She looks at the television people with apology. To me, she says, “All you need is to add your signature.”
Lead Host Dana holds a shiny silver pen out to me.
I let her hand hang there until she realizes I’m not taking the pen and retracts it. “I’m eighteen. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. I’m not signing my privacy away because you ask me to.”
“This is one of the most respected producers in the country, Marlena. And Dana is one of the most important journalists on television. You will be famous, after this airs.” My mother says this like it is the most wonderful news.
“I’m already famous,” I snap.
My mother shakes her head, communicating to the television people once again that I’m obviously the insolent child who doesn’t know anything. The bratty, temper-tantrum-throwing, difficult miracle healer. “But you’re not a household name yet.” She swipes her hand into the air, like she’s brushing something worthless away. Dana and Joseph follow this back-and-forth like my mother and I are a riveting show in our own right. Perhaps they are salivating about the juicy conflict between mother and daughter they will get to explore on camera. “I know you feel powerful after that . . . stunt of yours on Saturday. But with this deal, we’re talking about turning you into a celebrity. You’ll be famous beyond your wildest dreams.”
My fists clench. “You mean famous beyond your wildest dreams, Mama. This is about you, not me.”
My mother’s face is the picture of calm, and she manages a smile. But her eyes are arctic. “Can I have a moment alone with my daughter?” My mother asks this politely, sweetly.