I clasp my hands. Try to seem like I am at peace. “I will work as long as it takes.”
“Whatever has gotten into you, Marlena, it is a very good thing,” my mother says.
“I’m glad you feel like Finn dying is a very good thing, Mama,” I reply.
“That is not what I meant,” she snaps.
“Isn’t it?”
“I meant that what you are doing now, coming back to your senses, is what needed to happen regardless of that boy.”
I turn, ready to leave, because I can’t take standing here any longer. “What I am doing now, Mama, is penance.”
The rest of the day I go through the mail, letter by letter. I respond at length by hand to each one. There is so much mail. My mother was right. It will take me weeks to get through it.
It’s not like I’ll be out doing other things.
It’s not like I’ll be with Finn.
The hours pass and my hand aches from holding the pen.
Dear Amy . . .
Dear Gero . . .
Dear Lupe . . .
Please forgive me . . .
I’m so sorry . . .
Please, please, please.
I beg for understanding, for forgiveness, I apologize again and again. I do this until my fingers are callused and bleeding. I keep going. I used to think that people who crawled to my audiences were crazy, but now I understand them in a way I never could before. When someone you love is sick, when they might die, you will do anything for any little bit of hope. Nothing is beyond you. You would give your life for theirs.
Dear Mario, I apologize . . .
Dear Tamika, It is unacceptable that I took so long to respond . . .
Will all of this begging and repentance make up for what I have done? Will it transform me back to the healer-saint I was? In writing these letters, I am begging God to hear me, forgive me, to allow the gift I never asked for to flourish again inside me.
Please. Please. Please.
Letter by letter, I do my best to pay for what I have done. It is true, what I said to my mother, that this is my penance. Penance is a form of payment, like currency exchanged between humanity and God for one’s sins. How much payment might God require to make my gift work again? How much payment does God want from me to help Finn? Does helping Finn require more penance because I fell in love with him?
At four o’clock in the afternoon I hear voices downstairs.
I set down my pen and wipe the blood from my knuckles. Then I go into the hallway and listen.
“I need to see her—”
“She doesn’t want to see you!”
My knees give way and I slide down the wall. Finn has come to my house and is fighting to see me. Fighting for me.
“You ruined my daughter!”
“Mrs. Oliveira, I am in love with your daughter!”
Finn is in love with me.
I should go to him, I should . . .
They yell back and forth. There is desperation in Finn’s voice and a clear tone of satisfaction in my mother’s.
“My daughter never wants to lay eyes on you again!”
“I won’t believe that until Marlena tells it to my face!”
I can barely swallow.
Steel. I must steel myself. Harden my heart so that it is cold metal, impervious to dents and marks. Impervious to Finn. Loving him isn’t going to appease God. I made a bargain and must keep it. Still, I strain to hear each and every word between Finn and my mother. Soon they become too muffled to understand. My mother must have pushed Finn outside, hoping I don’t realize Finn is here.
There are footsteps on the stairs. I look up.
Fatima is crouching down to my level, a few steps from where I sit, curled into myself. “Marlena, querida, your boy needs you to come and see him.”
I drop my head back to my knees and pull my arms tighter around my legs.
She sits down and keeps talking. “Querida, I don’t know everything that has happened, but I know at least some from what I’ve overheard. I think I understand what you are trying to do, but querida, please, it does not have to be this way.”
“Yes it does,” I say into my knees.
Fatima sighs. “Marlena, I have worked for your mother a long time, and I am grateful to her for many things. She has been loyal, and pays me more than anyone else would ever pay for this job. But it is like I have said, I do not agree with her about the way you’ve been raised and treated because of this gift. It does not have to be all or nothing—I beg you to hear me on this, querida. I have watched you become a different person these last weeks. I’ve watched you light up and laugh and live. You do not have to give that up. This boy loves you, so you should go to him. The God I believe in celebrates love and wants love for us.”
“The God I believe in forbids it,” I say. “At least for me.”
“Marlena.” Another long sigh from Fatima. “Do not do this to yourself. Do not do this to that boy who is standing there, taking on your mother.”
The front door slams, the house shaking with the force of it.
“Marlena,” Fatima says again, her tone urgent.
Finn must be leaving. He is probably walking away right now. What if he never comes back? What if he believes the things my mother said to him?
Steel, steel. I tell myself this over and over. The tears pour from my eyes regardless. My body shakes with them.
“Oh querida.” There is a hand on my back—Fatima’s hand.
Quickly, as quickly as I can, I shift out of reach, as though Fatima’s hand is burning. “Don’t touch me,” I snap, looking up. Fatima’s lips part, this time her words lost. I stare at her. “I am not to be touched. You know this. Everyone does.”
THIRTY-FIVE
I take a deep breath.
Gertie’s shop is in front of me. The posters about the anniversary for the Day of Many Miracles are going up, but I wonder if the townspeople already know from the messages my mother has sent out. From the look of things on Main Street, maybe not. The town seems deserted, and Gertie is not in her usual spot in the doorway, gossiping with people walking by and just generally keeping an eye on things. I can see her behind the counter, though. The doll of me is gone from the window, leaving a gaping hole among the candles and T-shirts.
A handwritten letter is clutched between my fingers and a stack of other letters is folded neatly inside my bag.
A huge puff of air bursts from my chest. I keep forgetting to breathe. I tug the edges of my sleeves down to my wrists. I force myself inside Gertie’s shop.
She looks up. “Marlena?” Her gaze sweeps over me.
I make my way to the counter, past an aisle of sale items. Is it my fault so many things are reduced price? I hold out the letter. “I wanted to apologize for the other day.”
Gertie doesn’t take it. She stares at it; then her eyes slide back to me. “What is this?”
What do I say? Do I tell her the truth?
“My vacation is over.”
“Yes. I got your mother’s messages. I was surprised. You seemed to have . . . moved on.”