Healer (The Healer Series) (2 page)

I drained the tub and refused to th
ink of Thomas anymore. I knew one way for me to discover more about him. I had another gift, in addition to healing.

My secret weapon.

My dreams.

After eating dinner with my family, I couldn’t wait to go to sleep. Exhaustion from sharing my energy with the young girl made my bones ache. When I finally lay down, I wondered what information about Thomas I would discover in my dreams.

.

two

Present

It’s been over six years
since I met Thomas in the parking lot of that Dollar General. I could never have imagined how our meeting would change my life so dramatically. The last few days have been harder than usual, and I can’t stop thinking about Thomas or my family. I try to find comfort by bringing them into my dreams, but not even that seems to be working.

I lean back in my chair, enjoying having the dressing room all to myself for a moment.
I find an odd kind of peace here sometimes. It’s a small room with mirrors lining the walls, bulbous light bulbs above them, and feather boas of every color hanging everywhere, making the atmosphere seem a little brighter. I close my eyes and try to envision my brother’s faces. In my dreams, they look exactly like they did the day I left them almost six years ago.

I
open my eyes, and stare at myself in my bureau mirror, reminding myself that I work here because I have to. I push away the thoughts of how upset my family would be if they knew I was stripping.
I can only imagine
. I’d be scolded for wasting my gift and for using my body this way.

I roll my eyes at my own reflection in the mirror at the thought, adjusting my blonde wig.

Lucy used to remind me constantly my gift of controlling my subconscious wasn’t meant for self-entertainment. Using my dreams to comfort myself would surely have earned me a lecture of great length.

At one
time, I believed controlling my subconscious was more of a curse than a gift. I didn’t know I could absorb information from those I touched until I was fourteen, right around the time Lucy started trying to help me master my gift of healing. Discovery of my new gift was not something I welcomed initially because that was when I learned my gift of healing was limited.

Heidi Martin was thirty years old, a mother of three, dying of stage
four breast cancer. Desperate to halt her impending death, she requested an appointment with Aunt Lucy as a last resort. When Lucy told me she was taking me, I thought it was a lesson on actually healing, not one about the limitations to our gift.

Even
as a healer in training, my youth and lack of experience rendering me so, I knew Heidi couldn’t be saved. I did as Lucy told me and shared energy with Heidi, knowing it would be of no help. I was so angry with Lucy for taking me. I said good-bye to Heidi that day, a smile plastered on my face, but inside I was drowning in a river of guilt. I didn’t speak to Lucy all the way home, and I skipped dinner, going straight to bed.

That night
, I dreamed about Heidi Martin. I saw her memories, her face, her children, and her fears. I woke up crying, but dismissed it as guilt over not being able to save her. The dreams continued for several nights and I would wake up covered in sweat, face soaked with tears.

Heidi died two weeks later. We went to her funeral where I saw her children. I had never seen photos of them, but somehow I knew their faces. That is when Lucy and I figured out I had
the gift to absorb information. I often wonder if Lucy knew how hard I would take Heidi’s death. It still haunts me to this day.

“Aldo.
You’re up.” Esther’s beady eyes peer through the curtains that separate the dressing room from the hall that leads to the stage.

“Coming
,” I sigh, trying to shake the thoughts of my family that have haunted me all day.

I glance at myself one last time in the mirror and notice a picture of
Alina’s daughter, Ella, on her bureau. I pick it up and my heart aches as I run my finger over Ella’s sweet and tiny face. I place the photo back where I found it, and wish I could heal Ella’s leukemia so Alina wouldn’t have to work here anymore. Alina has never invited me to her house, so I haven’t been able to meet Ella in person. Guess I can’t blame her; I’m not sure I’d bring home my stripping co-workers either.

“You
coming?” Esther pats my shoulder with her plump, sweaty hand. “Knock em dead.” She nods with encouragement as she begins to bellow out phlegm-filled coughs. She must smoke like three packs a day. I’m expecting her to hack up a lung any day now.

 
As I make my way to the stairs that lead up to the stage, Alina picks up her bra and scurries towards me. She carefully makes her way down the stairs in her three inch heels and winks at me with her fake lashes. “It’s all yours.” She beams her magnificent smile.

I smile back as I
climb up the stairs to the stage. My song, “Mony Mony” by Billy Idol starts playing. “Here she is. The one. The only, Blakely!” Our D.J. Mike announces. Okay, my stripper name, not the hottest ever, I know. I threw it out to Rick, the owner, as a joke, but to my dismay he let me keep it. I guess I could’ve gone with something like
Destiny,
but I dare to be different.

I prance my way on stage to the rhythm of the song
, reminding myself to smile as I go. For the most part, I am severely uncoordinated and have no rhythm. My brother Whit once described me as the whitest person ever. When I started stripping, I tried to imitate women from movies like
Flash Dance
and
Striptease
, but I’m afraid I did them a grave injustice. Fortunately for me, men who come to strip clubs, for the most part, seriously only care about two things and it’s not your brains or charming personality. I’m not extremely well endowed, but I’m adequate. I really don’t work out, which I can get away with because I’m only twenty-four, so my body looks pretty good. I used to be very shy when it came to my body, but now I’m okay in my own skin. It’s a mind over matter type thing. 

I focus
hard on my balance because I’ve tripped twice since I’ve been here, and it was no less than mortifying. The second time, I sprain my ankle and had to be carried off of the stage. Of course being topless at that moment, only added to my embarrassment.

When the song en
ds, I collect my money and quickly leave the stage, relishing the fact I only have one more dance to go before I’m off. 

As I make my way back to the dressing room, Rick steps in front of me.
This is a fun little thing he does to get close up so he can stare at my mostly exposed breasts—I wear pasties. Beads of sweat cling to his enormous forehead, and his comb-over is plastered to his scalp. I would tell you what a pervert he is, but as you know he owns a strip club, so it’s kinda implied. When he first started doing this, I would hold my chest in my arms to cover myself. Now I let it all hang out because I know I can handle him. Besides, being in the boss’s good graces keeps me in the best shifts, so I do what I have to do.

I touch Rick briefly
, and drain energy from him.

His
body lurches slightly and he slouches as his shoulders drop.

I smile to myself, enjoying the rush of his energy as it surges through me, and quickly maneuver around
his tall, thin body to make my way to the dressing room. Rick has never touched me or said anything inappropriate, but I know what he thinks, and he is certainly no gentleman.

“Ricky bab
y! Are you alright?” Esther asks as she approaches him. Rick’s mother helps run the club. Rumor has it she danced once herself, but it’s hard to imagine given that she’s about sixty pounds overweight and stands just under five feet tall.

“I’m okay,” Rick responds like a small child.

I return to the dressing room and find Alina putting on her next costume which is basically another color bra and panties. “How did you do?” She smiles.

“Eh, eighty bucks.” I shrug.

“Slim pickins tonight.” She shakes her head, frustrated.

“Tell me about it.
After I pay Rick for my stage time I’ll be lucky to leave with a hundred bucks tonight.” I plop down in my chair and gaze in the mirror. “I still can’t believe I’m doing this,” I sigh.

“Hey, you have a job.” She
reminds me.  Alina, the diehard optimist. She sits down beside me and our eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror.

“What’s wrong?” I touch
her arm gently, noting her expression of defeat.

“Same ole.”
She sighs.

“How is she?” I
guessed that Ella is no doubt weighing heavy on her mind.

“We go for an MRI tomorrow.”

“I’m sure it will be fine.” I smile reassuringly.

“I hope so.”

“I’d love to meet her, Alina.” I stand and face her.
If I could just meet her, I could heal her.

“Yeah, that would be nice.
Maybe sometime next week, huh?” She smiles looking up at me.

“Yeah, just let me know. I’ll wear clothes.”

When I finally leave the club, I meander slowly down the sidewalk, allowing my mind to go numb. I have a healing appointment in the morning and really need to get home, but I can’t seem to force myself to move any faster.

Healing for money is one of the few perks to our gift. My aunt paid our bills
by healing. She called herself a holistic healer. The world is thick with frauds claiming they possess the gift to heal, but she was the real deal. Our gift doesn’t require any special song and dance, but people these days expect some kind of show, so she obliged. She would light candles, play music, and even bring a rain stick. Lucy always joked it was,
Healing and a Show.

We are in the business of stealing energy. We take from the strong and give to the weak.
Healer Robin Hoods. Energy radiates through every human being and we healers can hear it. Its vibrations and pitches indicate a person’s level of energy. When the vibrations and pitch are consistent, they are a good source of energy to pull from. In regards to healing someone, if a person’s pitch is consistent with the vibrations, even if they are low, he or she can be saved. But sometimes the pitch alone will take on what sounds like screeching which tells us we cannot interfere. Lucy said it’s death warning us not to interfere.

Lucy taught us how to listen and showed us how to pull energy
from one person and push it into another. It’s much like sucking air through a straw. The energy vibrates within us while we hold it. To share it with another, we must touch them and release it, similar to exhaling, but through our bodies. Like most things unique and special in life, there is a catch. We can’t save everyone.

I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, relishing how comfortable my jeans and
tennis shoes feel after I’ve danced in three inch heels all night. Most people would run through this neighborhood at two-thirty in the morning, but I can take care of myself.

I turn to see if
Keiffer, one of the young bouncers at the club, is following me home as he has before, but I don’t see him. I never told him I knew he followed me sometimes, because I think it is truly chivalrous of him to do it and not expect any credit for it. Chivalry is not something you see much these days, especially where I work.

As I enter t
he Quickie Mart, the young Asian man who works the cash register most nights nods to me, but continues his conversation on his cell phone.

I nod back with a smile and head towards the back of the store to grab a Coke, my one true addicti
on. I drink one every morning. After I grab my beverage from the cooler in the back, I snatch a bag of Doritos, and notice a very pale, thin lady flipping through a copy of Vogue near the paper section. Reading a magazine at two-thirty in the morning at a gas station in the hood is odd enough, but her black suit is what makes her seem most out of place. Her suit is cut well, accentuating her small frame. Her blonde hair is pulled back tight in a ponytail. She reminds me of the characters in the movie the
Matrix
.

I make my way towards the front of the store
, watching her in my peripheral vision, when a young, black man stumbles through the entrance, wearing a puffy black coat and beanie. He staggers like he’s drunk, but no one else seems to notice.

The young Asian man
, still yacking away on his cell phone in his native tongue, doesn’t notice the man when he approaches the counter.

I can’t say wh
y exactly, but I watch the man as he stands at the counter, my eyes glued to him. Every hair on my body stands up on end. Alarms ring in my head, screaming danger, but I remain frozen.

The
mocha-skinned man who may be thirty, digs inside of his over-sized puffy coat and pulls out a handgun.

My amygdala kicks into high gear and
slows time to a snail’s pace. In my mind I yell, “
Look out!”,
but I’m pretty sure it sounds of nothing, but grunts.

The cashier i
s completely blind-sided when the man shoots him in the leg. He drops his cell phone and yells out
“fuck”
in his native tongue; at least I think that’s what he says. I don’t know what language he speaks, nor do I know anything other than a little French that I learned in high school, but I think the word
fuck
might be a standard word shouted in all languages when one gets shot. It would certainly be my first choice word.