Her voice calls out from the doorway. “You couldn’t have waited for winter?”
I stop midstride, the clacking of my platform shoes stopping with me. I consider ignoring her, but then I take the bait. “What do you mean?”
Gertie steps onto the sidewalk, her loose gray dress rustling. “This so-called vacation. You couldn’t wait until January? Until after the Day of Many Miracles in October?”
“I . . . I . . .” I trail off. The truth is, I’m caught off guard by the clear sense of betrayal in her voice. It doesn’t matter that my sentence goes unfinished, because Gertie is ready to keep talking.
“It’s September, Marlena! This is still high tourist season for us! And you”—she points a finger—“are the main attraction in this town! Without your audiences, our sales plummet. People don’t come. Tourists don’t bother.” Gertie throws her right arm up and out. “We’ll go broke because of you!”
Some of the other shop owners have joined her on the sidewalk. Old Mrs. Marinelli, stooped and shaky, has left her store that sells icons and other religious memorabilia. Mr. Maxwell is next to her, giving her his elbow. Mr. Almeida is here with his wife. I search the crowd for Mrs. Lewis, for a single ally, but don’t find anyone.
“Gertie’s right,” Mr. Almeida says. “You’ll ruin us with this . . . this selfishness.”
People are nodding.
The word selfish is like a punch to my stomach.
I think about the party with Helen, with Finn, the changed way Fatima and José are treating me. Is it really wrong of me to enjoy life for a bit? For even a few days? Then I think of the unanswered bag of mail, all those seekers disappointed, despairing, maybe even dying. All because I wanted time off. All because I got tired of people needing me. Maybe Gertie and Mr. Almeida are right and I am being selfish.
Gertie takes a step closer. “We depend on you, Marlena. We all do.”
For a split second I think something ridiculous, that I should have worn the sunglasses, put up my hair, worn a disguise like before. Stupid me. I thought I could just waltz into town as Marlena, the girl they’ve known for years as a healer, but with jeans on instead of a long white dress, and people would respect the change. Even be kind. But not everyone is José or Fatima.
I guess in the effort to live a normal life, I lose the respect of the townspeople, too.
What else do I lose? Who else?
I try and silence these thoughts, but they linger anyway. My face tilts toward the sky, causing the townspeople to murmur as they wait for me to say something.
When my eyes return to the crowd, a rage to match theirs fills me like plumes of smoke. I can make all the decisions in the world to change my life, but if the community around me refuses to accept them, then I am always and only Marlena the Saint. As long as I am here, in this town, I will never escape.
“Well?” Mr. Almeida’s face is red with anger. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
I press my lips into a thin line, not trusting myself to speak. I don’t want to lose my temper. I remind myself that Mrs. Lewis is one of the townspeople who trade off my reputation, and she has only been kind. In a way, we are all caught in the same situation—me as a healer, them as people who need me to heal for their financial survival. I start toward home, wanting to end this confrontation before it gets uglier, but Gertie shouts at my back.
“You are rich and we are not! You and your mother live in that gigantic house as though you are too good for us! You act as if you are better than all of us!”
“It’s not our fault we’re beholden to you!” This is from Mr. Almeida. “This place used to be different, before your mother went and built that damn church and turned this town into a circus, and now the tourists only come for the freak show on Saturdays!”
I stop walking. Their words are like darts. I can hear a few murmurs of dissent that he’s gone too far, but I no longer have it in me to hold back. I turn around to shout the response that has been brewing inside me.
“It is not my responsibility to take care of this entire town! You are the ones who should be ashamed of yourselves! You should be ashamed! You’ve been making your living off a child! Don’t you think it’s time that you stop?” I walk closer to the crowd, left foot, right foot, as I keep speaking. “You still want to live off me? Well”—I take the fat envelope of cash I’ve grown used to carrying in my pocket and hold it out to them—“here!” I shake it once, then again. “Take my money! Take all of it! Apparently it’s yours anyway!” Tears begin to stream down my face as I yell. No one moves to take the money, so I walk up and shove the envelope at Gertie.
She flinches. Her eyes are frightened. “I can’t take this!”
I shove it at her again, and she steps back. “Why not? It’s what you want!”
“I just can’t!”
“Yes you can.” Now I hold it out to Mr. Almeida, but his hands go up in the air, a gesture of refusal. People keep wincing each time I come near, and this makes me even angrier. “Fine! Be that way!” I take the money out of the envelope and throw it at the crowd. Bills fly into the air, then flutter to the ground. No one dares speak. I look into each of their shocked faces, and as I do, they avert their eyes. “What? This wasn’t about the money?” I am screaming now, even louder than before, growing hoarse, but I don’t care. “Would it be easier for you to take it if I bought something? If I bought the objects you sell to make a profit off my lonely life as the freakish saint girl?”
Before anyone can say anything, I storm into Gertie’s shop, grab one of the metal baskets inside the door, and begin shoving things into it. Candles, tiny plastic statues, T-shirts, little dolls, even that stupid kite, which is on sale. When I come out, people are still frozen. They watch me silently. The money lies there, untouched, scattered all over the sidewalk and the road. I go into each shop and take things to add to the basket. Charms. Photos. Cards. Even the few remaining sweet breads in the glass case at Almeida’s. After I come out of the last store on Main Street, the basket is overflowing, and things are falling out of it as I walk. When I reach the crowd again, I hold the basket out to them.
“There! Now do you feel better about taking my money?”
No one moves.
“Did you think I wasn’t human?” I shout. It’s as if an entire decade of rage is spilling out of me. I should be ashamed to admit how good it feels, but it feels so good I’m not ashamed at all. “Did you really think I was an angel like these stupid statues you sell of me with wings?” I grab a plaster souvenir from the basket and raise it high. Then my arm comes down in a flash and I smash it all over the blacktop of the street. The shards go everywhere and the crowd jumps. “Did you think I was too good for all of you? That I was perfect? That it was okay to exchange my life and my happiness for the money you take home at night?” One by one I start taking things from the basket and smashing them to the ground. Mugs. Key chains. Framed photographs. Candles. Those that are breakable shatter and the rest just land with a loud thump. “Well, now you know what I’m really like! That I can be just as human as you, or worse!” I tip the basket over so the rest tumbles to the ground, and then I hurl the basket as hard as I can. It lands with a great crash a few feet away.
“Marlena . . .” A soft voice, a kind voice, speaks my name.
Mrs. Lewis. To my left. Hers was the one shop I avoided. She must have heard all the shouting and come to see what was happening.