Miracle Woman (6 page)

‘Mike's fine, the kids are fine and Alice is sure glad to have Becky back in class with her again this year.'

Evie laughed. ‘Did we ever think that we'd end up old married ladies with kids going to the same school?'

‘Never!'

‘Anyways, Mar, what's going on with you? What's this I hear about you being a healer and saving some kid's life?'

‘I helped Timmy Lucas, that's all. And it's so kind of weird because one or two people have come up to me and asked me to lay my hands on their kids, as if I could do something to heal them.'

She could feel Evie's hazel eyes watching her, reading her as she'd always been able to.

‘And can you?'

‘Can I?'

‘Yeah, can you heal them?'

‘I don't know, Evie, honest to God I just don't know. I definitely felt something that day when I touched Timmy. It was like an energy or strength going through me. I don't know where it came from. I only know that I really wanted to try and help him, to stop his pain and suffering, I just wanted it to end.'

‘And what did you do?'

‘I didn't think, I just touched him, that's all! I put my hands on him and maybe prayed a bit.'

Evie sighed.

‘You were always a great one for the prayer and believing in things.'

‘So were you.'

‘Yeah, but the nuns loved you better!'

‘Ah, shut up, Evie!'

‘I was too ordinary, they thought you were a far better prospect for joining the order.'

‘Go away out of that!'

‘It's the truth, Martha, you were far more spiritual than the rest of us. Still are.'

Martha laughed, thinking of herself in a nun's habit and Mike and the kids' reaction.

The other woman patted her arm. ‘Go on, and what about the others?' she asked.

‘I just put my hands on them too.'

‘Did you feel anything?'

Martha considered.

‘I wasn't sure but I got that same feeling as I did the time before. Not as strong, but well, something. I don't know if the children sensed it too.'

Evie was engrossed in what she was telling her, excited almost.

‘And what happened to those kids?'

‘I don't know! Honest I don't. One had asthma, real bad. I told his mom she should bring him to the paediatrician. One had warts, you know the icky kind kids get all over their fingers, can't get rid of them so his mother says.'

‘And you touched
him
?'

‘What was I supposed to do – refuse to touch him or hold his hand like the other kids do?'

‘And anyone else?'

‘A girl with tonsil problems – and you know Jeanie Sheldon, she works up at that beauty parlour? She made me put my hand on her throat as she wants to give up smoking.'

‘Whew!' Evie exhaled. ‘That is a lot.'

‘How do you think I feel, Evie? How the hell do you think I feel?'

‘Obviously they must think that you're some kind of medicine woman or healer.'

‘I know,' she sighed. ‘I know.'

‘And are you?'

Martha sat quite still, concentrating on the glass drawers filled with the wondrous coloured tints of embroidery thread spread out beside her.

‘I am not . . . I don't know!'

‘What happened to the rest of them?'

‘Mark's mother said he's doing fine, and Jeanie Sheldon phoned to tell me she hasn't even as much as lit a match in the past three days.'

‘And the warts?'

‘Who knows about warts!'

Evie laughed, tossing her short brown hair. ‘Martha, maybe you really can heal!' she said.

‘Don't be joking. It's not funny, honest to God it's not!'

‘I'm not. Maybe you have a genuine gift for healing.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Why not? Look at all those crazy people you see on the TV who set themselves up as healers. Do you believe they can heal people?'

‘I don't know, Evie.'

‘Well then, why shouldn't someone genuinely good and caring like you be chosen? You are such a good person and, well, good people can do good things.'

Martha couldn't understand what her friend was trying to say.

‘I do believe that. Maybe the powers that be have decided that this is for you, that you in your own way can now help people,' Evie explained.

‘Don't be so stupid.'

‘No, listen! You are a good person, probably the best I know. You listen to people, talk to them. You've been helping other people for years, but not so much that you yourself might have noticed it . . . Maybe this touching and healing is just, well, another step up from that, another dimension.'

To say Martha was surprised that her old friend would even consider the remote possibility that she could alter anyone's physical state by touching them was just ludicrous. Evie usually had more sense. The coffee was cold and Martha didn't want to intrude on any more of Evie's work time.

‘What you doing next Tuesday?' enquired Evie.

‘I'm meant to be working in the Highlands sanctuary, why?'

‘There's a house auction over Newton direction and I thought the two of us might drive over and have a look. The old lady who lived there is meant to have a fine collection of early American craft work, quilting, samplers, who knows.'

‘Sounds interesting. Maybe I can change days with one of the other volunteers?'

‘Yeah, I thought we could go over way ahead of the auction and have a look at the items and then grab a bite of lunch.'

‘That sounds good.'

‘All going well, we'll be home in time for the kids.'

Martha liked the sound of it, the two of them having a few hours together. So much had been going on in the past few days, she knew that Evie was the only one likely to understand the quandary she was in. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before and she hadn't a clue what to do – whether to go along and try to help people or just ignore it and hope that they would get fed up and leave her alone. She needed to talk to someone. The sanctuary would understand and she'd swap days with one of the other volunteers. A day out with Evie would be great.

The shop bell clanged and a large-breasted woman in a crochet waistcoat and pale blue denim skirt entered. Evie greeted her warmly, and introduced her.

‘Martha, this is one of my favourite customers, Connie Jackson. She teaches a craft class over at the women's centre in Concord.'

Martha shook hands politely, noticing the long list being produced from the woman's purse and the scraps of fabric she was stretching out onto the counter.

Evie and the customer would be bound to spend the next half-hour at least considering various
loops of embroidery thread and an age discussing colours and going through which size needle was the best.

‘Listen, I'll leave the two of you,' she said.

Evie nodded.

‘I'll see you next Tuesday then.'

There was a large black car parked on the street outside her driveway. Martha recognized the driver immediately as soon as she stepped out.

Sarah Millen looked wretched and Martha could see she was still distressed about the accident, and unsure how she would react towards her. The woman was on her own and must have organized someone to mind the kids for her.

‘I hope you don't think I'm intruding, but I had to come by and see you and thank you for what you did helping with that poor boy I knocked down. If he had died I don't think I could have lived with myself!' she admitted, her voice breaking.

Martha could see how upset she still was.

‘Listen, would you like to come inside, Mrs . . .'

‘It's Sarah, please call me Sarah.'

‘Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?' Marth offered.

‘Water would be just fine, thanks.'

She left the woman sitting in her living room and a minute later watched her gulp down the iced water as if her life depended on it.

‘Are you OK?'

Sarah Millen just shook her blond head silently.

Martha was filled with pity for her but unsure what to do.

‘I could have killed him! I can't sleep or eat with thinking of him, of his mother and father. I try to work and I keep seeing that Saturday, that Godawful day! I can't get it out of my mind.'

Martha blinked, hesitating, wondering what this stranger expected of her. The younger woman sounded frantic, hopeless, and her eyes were welling with tears.

‘My husband says it's all my own fault. I know that – I'm not trying to blame anyone, I should have been concentrating more. I told that to the police sergeant, that I totally admit it's my fault. That I hit that little boy!'

She was becoming even more distraught and upset.

‘I already made a statement,' Martha admitted.

‘I'm not here about that. God, I'm not! I need you to help me. I saw what you did for the boy, the way you touched him. I think I'm going crazy, I have these bad dreams and I can't eat, and trying to take care of the kids is . . .'

‘Do you want me to help you?' Martha offered softly.

Sarah nodded, a shuddering breath gripping her.

Martha closed her eyes and as she reached forward and laid her hands on the woman's shoulders she felt the tension and stress and fear
within her so strong that she could almost imagine it running up her own veins.

‘Sarah, I need you to take slow soft breaths and feel the warmth and energy flow from my fingers into your muscles, I need to lift some of that awful heaviness from you, let it sift and run away like sand,' she began, the healing energy flowing through her as she began to work.

LARA'S ENQUIRIES BORE
fruit: she managed to locate the Lucas and McGill households, which were situated close to each other in Easton's quiet suburban neighbourhood. Well-maintained one-and two-storey homes clustered together under the shade of broad-leafed sycamore trees. The lawns were parched, summer blooms struggling to raise their heads in the intense heat; even the few kids still outdoors were wilting. Generations of middle-class Irish Catholic families had been raised in this neighbourhood and attended the large parish church and school only minutes away. Two small boys lazily cycled on the quiet streets and she guessed that on summer evenings the air was filled with the scent of charcoal and hickory smoke. Sensible family cars were parked outside decent homes.

Her few lines on the accident had already appeared in the paper but something had attracted her back to investigate the story further,
her sense of intuition telling her that she might stumble onto something far more interesting.

An older boy had answered the Lucas door. Defensively he'd told her that both his parents were at the hospital as his brother was having a big operation.

Minutes later she turned into Mill Street and parked outside the McGills' home. Sitting for a few minutes, she tried to construct a reasonable introduction to this stranger she was so interested in meeting. It was swelteringly hot and already she could feel her cotton T-shirt sticking to her underarms. She wished that she had put her ice stick of cologne in her purse.

Steeling herself and armed with her notepad and mini recorder she walked up the driveway, unsure of the welcome she'd receive. Huge overblown roses tumbled from a lattice fence and creepers twisted and turned through the thorny stems, the scent of jasmine fragrant in the humid air. A pair of child's sneakers lay abandoned on the front step, and she stepped over a half-dressed Barbie doll which looked rather dishevelled and in need of a bath. She ran her fingers through her short dark hair as she rang the doorbell and waited.

‘Mom! Mom! There's somebody at the door for you. She wants to talk to you,' announced Alice, who had scarpered to answer it before Martha even got a chance.

How many times had she warned the kids not to answer the front door unless they knew who it was? Alice especially. Maybe their youngest would listen to Mike, and follow some of his guidelines. She'd get him to have a little chat with their eight-year-old when he came home from work. Looking through the glass panel, Martha immediately realized that she didn't recognize the beautiful dark-haired young woman with her flashing eyes and wide smile. She noticed the sporty red car outside. Single girl with a bit of money, she surmised, no mother of three would fit into that piece of machinery with her brood. Curious, she pulled the door open.

‘Yes?'

‘Hello, Mrs McGill, my name is Lara Chadwick, I'm a reporter on the
Boston Herald
.'

Martha didn't know what to say.

‘I'm writing a piece for the paper on the accident you witnessed down at the market on Saturday.'

‘Oh yes. Is Timmy OK?' she asked, suddenly alarmed.

‘As far as I know he is. I spoke to his mother the other day and I believe he's undergoing surgery today.'

‘Oh thank God! He's such a nice kid, I couldn't bear it if anything happened to him.'

‘Would it be OK if I stepped inside?'

‘Sorry, what am I thinking of? It's far too hot to be standing in the sun, come on in and cool down.'

Martha – wearing a pair of pale denim shorts, a sea blue T-shirt and her old strappy brown leather sandals, her hair frizzing and piled up with a hairgrip of her daughter's – led the immaculately groomed visitor inside.

The living room with its cream walls was pleasantly cool, large and filled with wide comfy navy couches. A state of the art sound system and TV and video sat on the low shelves along one wall. A huge glass jug with an array of tall delphiniums had been placed on the fire hearth. They reminded Lara of her parents' garden. Side tables and shelves were cluttered with an array of family photos in a mixture of frames, Waterford glass, polished silver and dark pine. The journalist's gaze briefly scanned the photos of the woman's husband and children.

‘Sit down, Miss . . .'