Miracle Woman

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

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.

  Chapter Six

  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 Ba
rbie 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 . . .’

  ‘Chadwick. Lara Chadwick.’

  ‘How can I help you?’ Martha was very unsure about talking to a journalist and worried about what sort of questions she might be asked. ‘Is it about the driver?’ Martha was reluctant to discuss Sarah and the accident.

  ‘No, not particularly,’ Lara admitted. ‘But please, could you just tell me in your own words about the accident?’

  Martha sat for a minute trying to recollect the details. It had all happened so fast and she had been distracted trying to get organized for her mother’s party. Taking a breath, she slowly recounted what she had seen and what she had done. She was slightly put off by the small tape recorder that the journalist placed on the coffee table and though she tried not to dwell on it was over-aware of her words and thought she probably came across as being slightly nervous and jumpy.

  ‘I interviewed the store security guard and Mrs Lucas. Both of them mentioned to me about your laying of hands on the boy and how somehow your action seemed to have saved him,’ offered Lara.

  ‘No, no!’ Martha protested. ‘It was just that I was there, that’s all.’

  ‘A Good Samaritan.’

  ‘I was hardly going to walk on by and let a small child die,’ Martha replied edgily. ‘Maybe Timmy heard my voice or felt my hands touching him. He just needed to hang on till help came and I just happened to be there. All the while I had my hands on him it felt almost like there was a narrow connection between us, but that was enough to keep him here on this good earth.’

  ‘Are you a religious person?’

  ‘I was born and raised Catholic and go to church every Sunday, if that’s what you mean.’

  Lara didn’t reply.

  Martha could feel a stirring sense of annoyance. What exactly did this journalist want from her? What angle was she trying to exploit or use for her purpose? She just couldn’t figure it out.

  ‘You are a good person, by all accounts.’

  Martha felt embarrassed. The street was full of good people – the world was, for that matter – what in heaven’s name was this journalist woman trying to get at?

  ‘The people I spoke to all said that you had healed Timmy Lucas, that you had saved his life when you laid your hands on him.’

  Martha sat stock still.

  ‘Are you a trained healer of some sort?’ Lara persisted, pushing for some sort of a response.

  Martha just shook her head. She didn’t understand it herself so how could she possibly rationalize what was happening?

  ‘There are many witnesses who say the same thing,’ murmured Lara, staring intently at her. ‘That you healed the boy.’

  These accusations: Martha did not know what to do to refute them. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she admitted honestly. ‘I just happened to be there when Timmy needed me.’

  ‘Thankfully,’ said Lara softly. ‘And Martha, have you ever helped or healed anyone else?’

  ‘Just one or two kids down at the school, I . . .’ Martha replied without thinking, suddenly remembering the tape recorder and immediately regretting her own stupid honesty.

  The journalist wrote something on her pad. The two women’s eyes met, the information hanging between them.

  ‘Look, I’m really glad that Timmy’s improving and recovering but there’s no story here,’ insisted Martha. ‘I simply did what any other parent coming along would try to do. I helped an injured child – nothing more.’

  ‘People said it was a miracle!’ interjected Lara. ‘That’s what they actually called it.’

  ‘Listen, Miss Chadwick, I’m just a stay-home mom with three kids, who helps at the school, helps at the animal shelter and gets to do all the things moms get to do. It’s no big deal! I’m ordinary. Just plain old ordinary!’

  Lara stood up and switched off the recorder. She didn’t intend antagonizing Martha McGill, not at all, but she knew in her heart that she had stumbled onto something and that even if the woman across from her was unaware of it, the gift she had was one she would not be able to keep secret much longer.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Miss Chadwick, I have to go pick up my mother.’ Martha didn’t have to leave for another half-hour but she wanted this young woman out of her home.

  Lara, sensing her change in attitude, regretted the way she had approached things. Picking up her keys, she tried to make amends.

  ‘Martha, thank you for speaking to me, and letting me into your beautiful home. I’m sorry for disturbing you and holding you up.’

  She stretched her hand out to shake the other woman’s hand. The farewell handshake was brief but even in that few seconds Lara could feel it, the heat and energy that radiated from Martha.

  Relieved, Martha stood watching her go, inwardly cringing at her own sheer stupidity.

  ‘Martha!’ Lara called back as she went down the front path. ‘Ordinary? I don’t think you’re ordinary at all!’

  Furious with herself afterwards, Martha replayed the interview in her head, admonishing herself for being foolish enough to have let the journalist across the threshold of her home. God knows what that girl would write! She picked up the phone and punched in Mike’s number: her husband would be angry but at least she could talk to him about it.

  ‘Mom,’ interrupted Alice. ‘Can Katie and Rachel and I have a drink? We’re real thirsty.’

  The three of them looked hot all right, they’d been playing some makeup pony and jumps game in the back yard and needed some time out in the shade.

  Disappointed to find that Mike was away from his desk, Martha left a message on his voicemail.

  ‘Alice honey, I’ve
got a jug of almost ice cold orange in the fridge, how’s that sound?’

  The girls did a joyous canter, Rachel O’Malley tossing her long red hair over her shoulder and almost neighing. Martha laughed aloud. She was just being foolish worrying about something that might not even happen.

  Chapter Seven

  THE BOSTON HERALD carried the story about three days later. Martha hid her head in her hands, disbelieving the words on the page. How could any respectable, responsible newspaper print such things!

  Mike read it over and over, as if by looking at it long enough somehow or other he could manage to change the content of Lara Chadwick’s article. ‘Those bastards!’ he complained, smashing his hand against the kitchen counter.

  Mary Rose gave Martha a scared, embarrassed look and she only thanked heaven that Alice was in the other room engrossed in Songs from the Little Mermaid on the TV.

  ‘New England Miracles’. That’s what she’d called it.

  ‘At least it’s not on the front page,’ argued her husband, clenching his jaw and mouth with tension.

  ‘Mike!’

  A threatened airline strike at Logan, a profit warning from one of the huge over-hyped new technology companies and the fining of a local actress for drink driving had mercifully saved her from that.

  Martha sat on the kitchen chair feeling numb and miserable, her family around her. Patrick bent down and wrapped his arms around her.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Mom, no-one really reads the newspapers and if they do no-one believes them!’

  ‘D’ya think?’

  ‘Yeah, Mom, definite!’

  ‘For sure,’ Mike added, coming and sitting beside her.

  ‘The only thing is, Mom,’ added Mary Rose, ‘is that you did do it! I saw you heal him. Everyone else saw you too, so it’s not like that journalist woman made it up or anything.’

  Martha gazed at her daughter’s serious face, the slightly lopsided full lips, the pale fair skin, the intelligent, brown-green eyes that were scrupulously honest and fair. Mary Rose had never been able to lie and had a forthrightness about her that some considered difficult and that often got her into trouble both at school and with her friends.