Fern understood his fear and shame and anger. Harry was a sensitive man who just couldn’t deal with the disappointment of a child who was not right. His faith couldn’t handle it. To Harry, God was punishing them all, God hated them, they had somehow gone against his wishes, and had been cast out of his grace. And, of course, it was all Fern’s fault.
The first strange experience happened when Martha was thirteen. Fern was in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast. Martha was bathed and playing quietly in her room. Then she started screaming. Fern dropped a plate that shattered on the floor and flew to the bedroom. Martha was standing there, blood on her hands, blood on her thighs, screaming, hysterical, out of control. Fern wet a washcloth and slowly wiped the girl clean.
“It’s okay, Martha. It’s just a little blood, honey. It happens every month. It’s normal. It means you’re growing up to be a big girl. Let me show you now.” And she tried to cope with a new responsibility for the girl. Martha reacted in exactly the same way for six months in a row; then suddenly she began to take care of herself and the monthly hysterics stopped.
Martha grew to be a big girl, strong and healthy. Harry started to give her jobs around the farm, which Fern objected to, but it seemed to put color in her cheeks, and Fern finally gave in and helped Martha understand the tasks at hand. She was good at chopping wood and painting. Fern gave her all the chickens and made her understand the responsibility for feeding them and gathering the eggs.
By the time Martha was twenty, she could cook a stew, fry eggs and bake bread and can peaches. She worked with the chickens and did the wood chopping.
She still retreated to her room when visitors came to call, knowing somehow intuitively that she was not up to it.
Fern was afraid to leave the farm. She’d arrange for someone to stay with Martha whenever she had to go to town or out on a call to help someone. She would never leave her daughter at home alone again. It was a terrible burden, living with her retarded girl and her resentful husband, but Fern accepted it with as much grace as she could. She delighted in visiting with the townsfolk, who carefully skirted the subject of her family except in passing, and talked instead of funny things and unusual occurrences, which helped to lighten Fern’s load. The town mourned with this wonderful woman, and they were powerless to help.
At the end of each healing session, when Fern sat with a cup of tea, resting, the people invariably wanted to give her bread or cakes or a roast or a chicken, but Fern would smile at them very gently, pat the generous hand, and say, “The only way you can repay me is to take care of my little girl when we’re gone.” This brought a tear to more than one eye in Morgan and solemn oaths were made. Each time, Fern felt a little better.
Sam Smith’s heart had been going bad on him for some time, and Fern became a regular visitor. She’d sit with Sam, her hand on his chest, and slowly the pains would disappear, his breathing would come easier, and a slow smile would come to his face as the perspiration dried on his forehead. He’d given up all the farm work, hired young school kids to do most of it for him, so he just sat around and gave Addie a hard time as she went about her chores. He never could figure out how he had the bad heart while Addie was so fat. They teased each other mercilessly, but it was all in a loving way. The first time the pains came, Addie was terrified, riding at full gallop to Fern’s, and Fern had to bring Martha with them, but they reached the Smiths’ in time.
Since then, Fern had come regularly, and sometimes Addie fetched her, but Addie had resigned herself to the idea that Sam wouldn’t be around for long. She’d written to her son in North Dakota and had plans to go live there when Sam had gone. She told all this to Fern one day after one of Fern’s healings, while Sam slept. She also told Fern that she had already sold the farm, unbeknownst to Sam, but that they could live on it until he died. Half the money she’d sent to North Dakota already, and the other half was to live on, to bury Sam, and for the train ticket to Dakota. Whatever was left over, she said, belonged to Martha.
Fern cried, and so did Addie, the two of them sobbing and holding hands at the kitchen table. It hadn’t been an easy life for either of them, but they saw in each other the epitome of the strength of womanhood, and they loved and respected each other as much as any two women ever could.
It was at Sam Smith’s funeral that the next strange thing happened to Martha. Fern insisted that Martha accompany her and Harry to the funeral, and Harry complained, but he saw there was no changing her mind, so he agreed. They sat quietly all through the service, Harry noting with intense embarrassment the hundreds of curious glances their way. He reacted by staring them down with a glare.
When the preacher sprinkled dirt on the flowers and the casket, Martha started to squirm around a bit in the chair, then settled back again. Then when the service was over, and they were all standing around not knowing what to say to the widow, Martha looked at her mother, eyes focusing clearly on her face, and said, “I want to talk to Addie.” Fern was astounded. She led her daughter through the crowd, and Martha pushed forward urgently, wrapped her arms around Addie in a huge bear hug, then pulled back and said intensely, directly to her, “Sam was good. And now he’s better. And you. You . . . you . . .” Her eyes unfocused, her face went slack, the mouth listing again to one side, as she put her head down and walked slowly back to her parents, amid stares and exclamations. Addie just stood there, mouth open, with fresh tears making tracks on her heavily powdered face.
Harry grabbed both his women and hustled them toward the car. Fern looked over her shoulder at Addie, who was staring after them; then she let herself be propelled across the lawn of the cemetery, feeling the anger from Harry, the emptiness from Martha creating a tornado in her own being, swirling dizzyingly, losing sight of reality. She felt faint.
She spent the entire next day working with Martha, trying to break through the barrier again. If she could do it once, she could do it again; maybe there was hope, maybe she could be normal; oh, God, wouldn’t that be wonderful?
She worked with her all day, talking to her, trying to teach her. “Come on, honey, relax. Let it come. Don’t push it, just let it flow in.” Fern’s level of frustration reached new heights. She thought of what might have triggered the short moment of awareness. She went over every detail of the funeral she could remember. Addie had sat across the grave from them, her eyes dry, her face hard. Maybe it was the intense emotion. Maybe it was something the preacher had said—how come she couldn’t remember much of it? How did Martha know it was Sam in that casket? Whatever it was, she didn’t seem to be able to bring it back out of Martha, and she was afraid to go back into her mind, for the fear of the fierce yellow eyes still haunted her.
Fern began to wonder if Martha was indeed blessed with a gift from God. Maybe she just couldn’t see it yet. Certainly what she said to Addie was significant. Maybe she was a healer, too. Fern’s gift didn’t blossom until she was married. Maybe . . .
Fern began to speak slowly and carefully to Martha about God, and about special gifts. She explained to the slack face how it felt when she did her healing work, how she was out of control, and something else took over. She talked to her about how nice it was to have something else come inside her and work through her, and that she must encourage that feeling if it ever came to that. Not to fight it, but to go with it. Fern told her over and over that she was special, God’s chosen child, and she must work to break out of her shell and shine her light upon the world. None of it did any good. The girl didn’t seem to hear any of it, but she listened quietly.
CHAPTER 17
Leslie was on the prowl. He ground the gears in low and cruised through Morgan slowly, eyes everywhere. Looking for some action. Something. Didn’t really matter what, as long as it would take his mind off that fuckin’ jail. Jee-sus, what a hole. At a stop sign, he hefted the quart of Bud to his mouth and took several long swallows, eyes searching up and down the cross street. Nothing. Gotta get out of this place, it’s nowhere. Yeah, he thought, but go where? He had to make his court date or Ma could lose her bail money. That meant she wouldn’t get her diamond back. She hocked it every time. He swigged again, revved the engine, and laid a nice solid strip of rubber across the street. Felt fine. Sounded good. Smelled sweet. The truck jerked as he eased off the gas and continued his cruise, slowly, shifting to second and leaving it there.