The whispering from the crowd gets louder.
My shoulders curl forward. My breaths strain against the cage of this dress. Sweat pours down the sides of my face and mixes with the tears streaming from my eyes. Before I even realize what I’m doing I’m shaking my head.
No, no, no, no, no.
The murmurs turn into talk. Words that I can make out clearly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Is she okay?”
“Is this normal?”
“Maybe we should leave.”
“Maybe that vacation . . .”
“Maybe the rumors . . .”
“Maybe . . .”
“Maybe . . .”
“Maybe . . .”
As the crowd speculates and fills with doubt, their doubt courses through me. They are only confirming what I’ve feared. I’ve hoped that it would happen today, that if I just showed up, my gift would show up with me. But it hasn’t. And maybe it’s not going to.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Maybe my gift is gone for good.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I am shaking, fingers curled tight, nails biting into the skin of my palms. I wish I could tear the lace at my neck. There is a rushing sound in my ears. Stars fill my vision and turn the world around me shiny.
The crowd is in an uproar. Some people are standing. Others are shouting for them to sit. A line of people begins to file out. I should just run backstage and end this.
But then, my eyes focus and I see an island of calm at the center of the crowd. Helen. Fatima. José. Mrs. Lewis. They watch me with hope, with steadiness, without doubt. They hold hands, lifting their wrists in a chain. Then I notice the others. Children with their families, people I don’t know, who are watching me, waiting and hoping. Some of them are kneeling in the aisle. Their patience in the face of this angry crowd helps to slow my breathing. I wipe the tears from my face. Lift my chin like before.
I should at least try, shouldn’t I?
I take one step forward. Then another. The crowd quiets. People settle into their seats again.
“Marlena!”
“Marlena!”
“Over here, Marlena!”
I start down from the platform and into the crowd. I lay hands on those who gather around me, the special guests my mother told me about. I kneel, I offer my blessings, I press my forehead to the backs of people’s hands. I walk among the people, allowing some of them to touch my arms, even the side of my face. I go through the motions of healing, which I know by heart. I know exactly how to hold myself, the right tilt of my head, the stretch of my fingers, when to close my eyes, when to murmur, when to reach my hands to heaven.
It’s just like before.
But also not like it at all. There are no visions to accompany my laying on of hands, no bursts of color, no physical tug in the parts of my body that correspond with those I am meant to heal. I am an actress acting a part, doing my best to get it right.
“Marlena, please!”
“Take my hand!”
People believe I am still Marlena the Healer. They walk away happy, relieved. Seemingly cured. Convinced that whatever I have done has helped them.
How is this possible?
Did my mother pay them to do this? Did all of us agree to participate in theater today? Or . . . is it possible that my gift is back and I just don’t feel it? That it has changed so drastically I don’t recognize it? That I am healing people in a new way?
“Marlena?”
A small child kneels before me. She might be four, or maybe five. Her hair is black and wiry and long. Her mother looks at me, eyes brimming with tears. So I do what I know she wants me to do. I place my hand on the little girl’s head, firm and sure, and close my eyes. I wait for something, anything to happen. The shine of pink or blue or green to color my vision, the scene of some future moment. But there is nothing.
I open my eyes again.
“Gracias,” the mother says, crying. “¡Gracias!”
I nod like I have actually done something, when I am just a girl laying hands on a child. It’s almost worse that everyone around me believes. But belief is powerful, isn’t it? Pain and grief make us desperate.
“Marlena! Over here!”
“Marlena!”
People everywhere clamor for my touch, but my eyes search the crowd for someone I’m not used to seeking out. I find my mother, and give her a look. I need her to close this down. She heads to the microphone and as she speaks, people recede and I am able to make my retreat. As I head across the platform and onto the stage, disappearing into the back room, a feeling of gratitude toward my mother spreads through me for her readiness to take control. It is not a feeling I’m used to.
“You did well,” my mother says when she sees me backstage.
I lift my head from the table. The metal boning of the gown digs into my ribs. “I did?”
The smile on her face is pleased. “Yes.” Her hands smooth out her expensive white skirt. “You don’t agree?”
“I don’t know.” I shift in the chair, trying to get comfortable. This wedding dress was not made for sitting. “Were the people . . . the special guests . . . happy?”
My mother goes to the mirror and fixes her hair. A hair pin that was escaping her bun gets put in its place again. “Oh yes. Very.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” She tames another errant hair pin. “Why would I lie?”
I go about the business of standing up. “I can think of a number of reasons why you would, Mama.”
She turns away from the mirror. “Marlena!”
“Appearances are everything. Isn’t it you who tells me this all the time?”
A flicker of guilt crosses her face. “What is this really about?”
“I just . . . I just didn’t feel anything. But people acted like I healed them.”
“And you don’t think you did.”
I hesitate. Then I shake my head.
She walks toward me, stops, inches away. She peers into my face. “Sometimes all people need for healing is hope.” Her voice is gentle, surprising me. “You provide that hope. That is enough.”
“But if I don’t really heal them, why do they act the way they do?”
“But you do heal them, Marlena.”
“I don’t. I didn’t. Not today. I know that I didn’t. Before, healing felt real. Today, my gift . . . it just wasn’t there.”
My mother does something unexpected. She reaches out a finger to lift my chin. “Some things are best left a mystery. Some knowledge is best left to God. That’s what faith is. It doesn’t matter if you know for sure. You just have to believe despite this.”
“But it does matter,” I whisper, looking into her eyes. “It matters a lot.”
“You’re thinking of that boy who came to the house.”
I don’t answer.
“Oh, Marlenita.” She says my name so softly. For a moment I think she might pull me into a hug. “I’m sorry about that. I really am.” Her hand drops from my chin, and she straightens. “It’s time to do the receiving line. People are waiting.”
Again, I act my part and the crowd acts theirs. I am tempted to question each one of them, to interview them like Angie might, about what they saw me do, what they believe happened today, if anything happened, but I refrain.
Suddenly, Angie is in front of me. Just like the first time we met, which seems like a hundred years ago. “Hi,” I say.