Joseph nods. “Of course,” he says, though Dana seems crestfallen to be barred from the rest of this mother-daughter performance.
Before they can leave the room I go on. “And what will my celebrity fame bring us this time, Mama? A vacation home in Turks and Caicos? A castle in France? Diamonds and emeralds to wear around your wrist and your neck? Will this special come with a national merchandising deal, too? Will I be gracing the breakfast tables of people across the nation? Will I be healing on demand soon, by television and online? Is that the master plan for ‘us’?”
My mother’s eyes narrow to match my own. “Stop being so selfish—”
“—selfish?”
“—you’ve been given a miraculous gift from God. Don’t you think you owe the world access to it? Do you really want to keep it to yourself, make this all about you and not the needs of others and the grace that God has given you?”
I lean over the counter toward my mother, who’s standing on the other side. I stretch my long arms across the marble, the neat stacks of paper shifting as I move, wrinkling as I press into them. “So, Mama, you’d rather I heal until I drop dead? Is my death included in this deal I’ll be signing?”
My mother’s face drains of color. “Marlena,” she hisses. “This is not the time.”
“Well, I disagree. I disagree with everything. With all of it. With all of you.” With every bit of force in me I swipe my arms across the counter, sending those reams of paper sailing into the air and cascading to the ground. Then I grab the coffee mug near my mother’s hand, still half full, and hurl it across the kitchen. It shatters against the wall, leaving behind a tiny dent in the plaster, the shape of a small scallop shell. Coffee splatters everywhere. The mug lies in jagged pieces on the floor.
The sounds in the living room come to a stop.
Without another word or glance at anyone, I walk to the front door of the house, open it, and head into the heat, slamming it shut so hard behind me, the entire frame around it shudders.
SEVENTEEN
I walk and walk and walk. I don’t even know where I’m going. The ocean appears ahead, the seawall alongside it, and I force my breaths to mimic the slow swells of the water, calm even though the day is gray. No one is at the beach on this cloudy school day, and everything is quiet. I start up the sidewalk that leads into town and the short strip that counts as Main Street. My mind is racing. It won’t stop turning over the events of this morning, the workers, the television people. The look on my mother’s face when I threw her mug, when it smashed against the wall with that great ugly crash.
I reach the store that sells beachy souvenirs at the beginning of Main Street, one of the few places that doesn’t trade off my image. Gertie’s shop is open but she’s not in the doorway, maybe because the tourists are sleeping late, or because the clouds are keeping them away. I pass Maxwell’s Card Shop, Almeida’s Bakery, followed by Marinelli’s Religious Icon & Candle Store, which is full of pendants and mass cards with the Catholic saints, but which specializes in ones with my photo on them. My destination is next, on the right.
Mrs. Lewis is sitting on the stool by the register, same as the other day, a newspaper in her lap. The bell on the top of the door dings and she looks up. Her face, her eyes, are rested. Calm and relaxed.
Is she healed?
“Marlena?” She sounds surprised. A little wary.
The Healer has never entered her shop as far as she knows. She doesn’t realize we had a conversation last week, that she gave me an ice cream out of kindness. She probably thinks our only encounter was at my audience. She glances at her purse.
She thinks I’m here to collect.
“I don’t want any money,” I blurt. It pains me to have stressed her, especially after what I know about her heart. “I’m sorry. I . . . I’m just so sorry to worry you.” I look around. My head pulses with something. I don’t know what. I wish I had a disguise. I should’ve run to my room to get one before storming off. “I can’t really go anywhere, can I? Not as me. Not without causing problems.”
Mrs. Lewis comes around the counter. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” She plucks a napkin from a dispenser and dabs at my cheeks. “You’ve been crying.”
“Oh,” I say. “Yes.” I stare up at her. Mrs. Lewis stops wiping my cheeks, then folds the napkin neatly into a small triangle and places it on the counter.
Ugly, arrogant thoughts whisper through my mind.
Will she save it? The napkin that dried the tears of the Healer?
Will she sell it?
I reach out to the counter to grab it, crush it in my fist. Mrs. Lewis startles at this.
“Can I use your phone?” I ask her.
Without a word, she hands her cell to me and I make the call I’ve thought about since stepping over the shards of china on the kitchen floor, intentionally muddying my soft white ballet slippers in spilt coffee, hoping my mother winced as she witnessed me doing it. After I hang up and hand the phone back to Mrs. Lewis, I tell her thank you and head toward the exit. I shove the napkin, still in a tight ball, into the trash can. I actually stick my arm down into it, pushing the remnants of my tears deep into the garbage.
“Sweetheart.” The unwavering kindness in Mrs. Lewis’s voice kills me. “If you’re in trouble, or if you ever need anything, you can come to me.” I hear rustling behind me. A little square of paper appears, gripped by wrinkled, spotted fingers. Hands I held on Saturday. “That’s my cell number and my home number and the number to this shop. My email is there, too. I mean what I say.”
I don’t look at her. But I manage to speak. “I know you do.” I take the paper. Slip it into the pocket of my sweater.
Then I walk out and wait.
The happy jingle of the bell on the door rings in my ears long after I’m gone.
I’ve never seen his car before. It’s an old blue truck, beat up and scratched, with a dent over one of the back wheels.
Finn leans over from the driver’s side and pushes the passenger door open. He’s wearing jeans and an old gray T-shirt. A tattoo of a human heart is visible on his arm. I’ve never seen him in short sleeves. “Get in,” he says.
I climb into the seat and slam the door. The space between us is small. Intimate. I am shaking. I can’t stop staring at Finn’s tattoo. It’s not something I’d expect him to have.
His eyes are curious as always. I love how his curiosity never leaves him.
I am curious too. I reach out and lift the edge of Finn’s sleeve to better view the tattoo.
My hands are not my own today.
I lean closer, careful not to touch his skin, studying the beautiful red color of the heart, the skill of the artist, the detail. It is at once real and otherworldly. The kind of thing I might see in a vision and do my best to capture on canvas.
Finn’s chest is still.
I force myself to let go of his shirt, to sit back and stare out of the windshield, focusing on the great maple tree growing up in the sidewalk garden next to the car, its roots raising the bricks around it into a jagged hill.
“Where do you want to go?” Finn asks.
“I don’t care. Just drive.”
He maneuvers to the end of Main Street and out onto the road beyond it. Finn reaches into the narrow back seat of the truck and comes up with a long, gray scarf. He hands it to me. “Wrap this around you. You’re shivering.”