“Marlena,” she says again, and I can’t bear it.
I can’t bear that Mrs. Lewis has seen me act this way. I can’t even look at her. I burst into tears.
When I hear her steps approaching, I put my hands over my face and run away. I run from the worried-sounding Mrs. Lewis and past the crowd of shopkeepers until I’ve reached the end of Main Street. As I descend the hill, all I can think is that while I might have quit healing, I am still the same bratty saint girl I was a few weeks ago. Prone to temper tantrums. The kind of girl who grows enraged and throws her mother’s mug across the kitchen so it splatters coffee everywhere and breaks into a million jagged pieces. That I might be a healer, but apparently I’m also a destroyer.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Hands shake me awake. “Marlena.”
“Mama?” I sit up. The room is dark. No light seeps from underneath the shades. My head is groggy with sleep. It must be the middle of the night. As my eyes adjust, I can make out the shape of my mother sitting on the edge of my bed. She is fully dressed, as though it’s daytime. I can’t remember the last time she came to my room. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”
“We need to talk.”
“Now?” All this time I’ve wondered if my mother and I would have a conversation, and instead we’ve barely seen each other aside from passing in the living room and kitchen, unspeaking, like ghosts.
“Yes, now. Come downstairs. I’ll expect you in five minutes.” She gets up without looking at me and leaves. Her steps are heavy and tired.
I crawl out of bed and throw on a robe. I want to know what has my mother awake in the middle of the night. Throughout all of these recent changes, I’ve wanted my mother to somehow change with me.
The house is dark, except for the lamps in the living room. My mother is sitting in the center of one of the couches, making it impossible for us to both sit there, or at least, highly awkward. This will obviously not be the heart-to-heart I’ve been waiting for. I sit across from her on the other couch, a large white coffee table between us. Tastefully decorated with a short candle and a big round silver plate.
“What, Mama?” A breeze presses against the back of my head from the open windows. It’s strong enough that it feels like a hand. “What’s so urgent?”
Her eyes narrow. “As if you don’t know.”
I swallow. Someone told her that Marlena the Saint is now Marlena the Destroyer. But I shake my head. She’s not making this easy for me, so I’m not going to make it easy for her.
“Mrs. Lewis came to speak to me tonight, after you’d gone to bed.”
I sink lower on the couch to avoid the breeze. This I wasn’t expecting. I thought it would be Gertie or Mr. Almeida. Anyone but Mrs. Lewis.
“She told me about your little performance.”
I’m absolutely sure Mrs. Lewis did not use the word performance to describe what I did. That is my mother’s interpretation. Mrs. Lewis is too kind to speak that way.
My mother crosses her legs, getting comfortable. Now I see that these last couple of weeks my mother was just regrouping, like a shrewd soldier facing a setback but who would never consider a retreat. My mother was gathering her strength and recalibrating her methods. She shakes her head. “Poor Mrs. Lewis was worried about you. And you know she has a bad heart.”
Did I not heal her?
“Has or had?” I am unable to stop myself from asking this.
My mother knows she’s gotten to me and I can see she likes it. “Marlena, I’m not sure. That’s not what she wanted to discuss.”
I force myself to breathe, in, out. This conversation isn’t going anywhere good.
“Well?” she presses.
“Well, what?”
My mother seems buoyed by the couch cushions, rather than sinking into them. “I’ve given you all you’ve asked for in this little experiment. This ‘vacation.’ And you repay my generosity by making a fool of both of us in front of the entire town?”
I stare at her. “Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding.”
I don’t want my mother to get the best of me, but I can’t resist. “You’ve given me what I’ve asked for, for a couple of weeks! When set against, I don’t know, the rest of my eighteen years, I’m not sure that counts as generous, Mother.”
Mother.
I never call her that.
Her body goes rigid. She doesn’t like it. Good. “Eighteen years spent building your reputation, which you squander in a few minutes of losing your temper in public.” She is seething, but manages to control her voice, unlike me. “Not to mention all the other damage you’re doing on this vacation. Going out with that boy.”
A little yelp of surprise escapes me.
“I’m not stupid, Marlena,” my mother says. “We may not talk, you may go off on your own as though the rules no longer apply, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s going on. How you’re willing to jeopardize everything because you’re mooning over some idiot.”
“He’s not an idiot.”
My mother smirks.
“He’s not,” I repeat. “Most mothers would be happy if their daughters brought him home. Proud even.”
Her I knew it face appears. “Don’t play with your reputation, Marlena.”
She makes me want to scream. “You mean your reputation? Isn’t that what we’re really talking about? And by the way, I’m not a thirteenth-century nun. So stop treating me like one!”
My mother gets up from the couch and leaves the room. When she returns she’s dragging the mailbag. She must’ve taken it from my room. “Do you see this?”
“I’m not blind.”
“Well. Lucky you. Some of the people who’ve written to you are blind. And they would like your help.”
I look away. How could I ever have thought my mother might change?
My mother huffs. “You don’t even have the decency to face the people who need you.”
My fist closes around the edge of a blanket draped over the couch, squeezing it until my fingernails press through it into my palm. I force myself to turn back to her. I don’t speak.
My mother gets a satisfied expression. “I knew it.”
“You knew what?” I snap.
She points at the bag. “You do feel guilty about abandoning these people.”
“I haven’t abandoned anyone.”
“Oh? Then how would you put it? That you’ve sent them in another direction, seeking their last desperate hope elsewhere? Did you refer them to a different healer, Marlena? One I didn’t know about?”
“Mother.” A warning loud and clear.
“Don’t worry. They’ve all received a reply.”
Breathe, breathe, breathe. “What are you talking about?”
“They’ve been notified that your healing powers have waned as you get older.”
I jump up from the couch and stare at her. “Why would you do that? Why would you lie to them?” But is that even a lie? Could it be the truth? The back of my neck is hot and prickly. The blood in my veins sears through my body.
My mother is calm and poised. As though it isn’t the middle of the night. “You’d rather I just tell them that you don’t feel like healing? That you’ve stopped caring about their lives and their futures? That you’ve turned your back on God? On your gift?” She hesitates. “On me? And after everything . . .”