Miracle Woman (4 page)

‘I don't think it was her fault,' argued Martha. ‘Timmy just came out of nowhere.'

‘Still, she should have been more careful!' insisted Kim forcefully.

The school yard began to empty, and Martha and Evie walked companionably to the roadside. It was an unspoken agreement to stay home the first morning of school and not to go gallivanting, in case the school principal phoned. Mindful of this, Martha arranged to meet Evie later in the week for coffee.

Dishes and laundry and mess were all there waiting to greet her as she stepped through the door of 552 Mill Street. Putting on an old Paul Simon CD to cheer herself up, she set to her household chores, trying not to notice the silence of a house absent of children. An image of each of them sitting at a desk and learning comforted her. She made a long phone call to her mother and read four chapters of a novel that had been languishing behind the range of cookery books in the kitchen. A dark and depressing story of family secrets that she was really in no mood for, so she put it aside yet again. She resisted the urge to click on the remote control, knowing that if she did she would waste an hour or two watching some stupid soap or mindless TV game show. The day dragged on as she counted the time until she was to collect Alice and hear all her news.

Sunlight splattered the pavement as Alice Kathleen McGill skipped through the school gates, smiling gap-toothed, triumph written across her face. Martha was pleased at such happiness as she rushed to greet her.

‘Becky and Gary and Lisa are all in my class!'

The very air was electric with currents of expectancy, seconds later balancing out and calming as parents and children were reunited.

As she bent down to hug Alice, Martha was aware of heads turned in her direction, of being the subject of whispers and gossip and nudges.

‘You heard, Martha healed the Lucas boy!'

‘Fifty people saw it! She just laid her hand on him and got him breathing again.'

‘Martha McGill, you know the woman that drives the silver Volvo, is some kind of healer, saved the Lucas boy's life.'

Embarrassed and not wanting to get into conversation with anyone, Martha grabbed Alice's new dolphin schoolbag and began to walk quickly toward her car.

‘Mrs McGill, Mrs McGill! Please wait up!'

Martha turned. A woman with a son of about eight and a small boy sitting in a stroller was coming towards her.

‘I'm sorry to disturb you. My name's Ellen Glass. My son Karl is in the third grade with Susan Lucas's boy and this here is Mark. I heard what you did for Timmy the other day. Susan says it's a miracle he survived, and that likely he would have died excepting for you.'

Martha felt awkward and unsure of what to say.

‘Well, I don't mean to interrupt, I know you must be busy, but I wonder if you could look at my son, help him?'

Martha hadn't a clue what the skinny woman with her hair tied up in a streeling ponytail was talking about, or what she was expecting.

‘Listen, Mrs Glass, there's been some kind of a mistake. I don't know what you heard about the other day but whatever you heard, it's wrong. It's
a mistake. I'm not able to cure or heal people, really I'm not!'

‘My boy needs help, Mrs McGill, honest he does. He's got asthma real bad and I'd try anything, anybody, if I thought it would help him.'

Martha let out an exasperated breath. What did this woman want from her?

‘I'm not a doctor or nurse,' she told her.

‘I know that. He's been to them all! Paediatricians! The hospital and all sorts of doctors. They keep on trying him with different medicines and sprays and inhalers, but he just keeps wheezing. Sometimes he wheezes so bad I get scared. I have to get up in the middle of the night and use a nebulizer just so that he can get enough breath to sleep.'

‘I'm sorry I can't help you,' Martha insisted. ‘I truly can't.'

‘I get scared! Please, Mrs McGill, Martha, please try it, just lay your hands on him.'

Martha laughed, hysterical almost, hoping that no-one could overhear this crazy lady who'd pushed the stroller almost across her. Alice's eyes were huge, questioning, confused. How could anyone possibly think that she might be able to heal their child? The mother must be unbalanced to believe such a rumour – or plain desperate! The small boy in the buggy looked up at her. His face was pale, with a sheen of grey blue under his eyes. He should have been running around
roughhousing at home instead of sitting there, looking tired and resigned.

‘Honest, you should bring him to a clinic or the hospital, Mrs Glass.'

‘What harm will it do? Please, just touch him.'

Martha could see the anxiety in the other woman's face, and the small boy looking up at her, worried.

She bend down towards him; his eyes were clinging to hers, watching her. He had a Disney T-shirt on and a pair of elastic-waisted denim shorts. Martha touched him without thinking, stroking his cheek with the side of her finger and cupping his face. ‘You are such a cute boy, Mark. Such a good boy,' she said.

His brother Karl and Alice watched as the child listened to her.

Even now she could feel it, the sense of fear, of worry, far too much for a small boy. Running her hands along the base of his neck and across his chest-bone she felt it: the slightness of breath, the irritation of his lungs that made him cough and wake and wheeze. The palms of her hands and fingertips were warm already as she spread them against his skin, conscious of the heat that seemed to be flushing through her own flesh and bones. What was happening? Perhaps it was some weird kinetic connection. Was it the same as the last time? She wasn't sure. The mother was watching her, her face filled with hope.

Martha was touching Mark, feeling his every
breath, but it didn't seem to be working. His perplexed child's eyes stared up at her. Martha was unsure what to do next. The children, curious as to what was meant to be going on, stood transfixed beside them. Martha was about to give up. She felt like some kind of sideshow fraud pretending to do something she couldn't.

‘Please! He's been so sick for so long.'

Martha studied him. No little boy deserved to have such poor health, not to be able to run about and take a proper breath of good air. Silently she prayed to that greater power, to God above, to help this child and make him stronger. She felt the heat travel through her and move inside him to soothe and coat and protect those raspy lungs from infection, and irritation and allergy. She knew that Mark could sense it too. A few minutes later she stopped.

‘Is that it?' demanded his mother.

‘I guess so.' Martha shrugged; this hadn't been her idea, for sure. ‘I touched him like you asked, Mrs Glass, but I don't expect it will make any difference to Mark and what's wrong with him. What he needs is the care of a good paediatrician or allergy specialist – not someone like me.'

She could see the other woman's disappointment and managed to detach herself and Alice from her, with the excuse that she was already running late and had to collect her other children from school.

That night, curled up in bed against Mike's back, a position she much enjoyed, Martha ran her hands along the familiar map of her husband's ribcage and stomach.

‘Mmmm,' he sighed.

‘Mike – listen, how do my hands feel?'

‘They feel good . . . real good.'

‘No, Mike, honest, tell me, do they feel different?'

‘Is this some kind of a trick question, Martha?'

‘Do they feel warm, I mean hot when I touch you?'

Mike McGill laughed aloud.

‘Of course you're warm, you've been snuggling up to me for the last quarter-hour.'

‘Mike, be serious! I was just wondering if there
is
anything different . . . different about me?'

Mike rolled around to face her, his arm pulling her closer; and he reassured her that despite sixteen years of marriage little had changed and she was still the woman he wanted. Trying to push away the crazy thoughts that plagued her, Martha relaxed and concentrated on Mike and their lovemaking.

LARA CHADWICK SCROLLED
down through the article she had written on the opening of Boston's newest art gallery overlooking the Charles river, all steel and glass and urban chic. She had double-checked the names of the artists exhibiting and also the patrons, Boston's finest, the socialites whose names and faces constantly graced their newspaper's columns. Some of them had made a point of getting to know her and one had actually approached her the minute she stepped into a room, expecting her to produce her notepad and take down some copy about the latest happening in their crowded lives.

Last week she had gone to see her nephew in his college play and had been waylaid by that same stupid socialite who assumed she was writing it up for the paper, almost as if she was not entitled to a night out on her own.

She had sat fuming for the first few minutes of the show but then had gotten over it and relaxed
and laughed at the college humour which thankfully never changed as she watched her nephew Ben, looking most unappealing in a parody of transvestism in her sister Nell's turquoise satin suit which she hadn't seen for years. She had to wipe the tears from her eyes as she hooted and hollered with Nell and the rest of the audience. Ben was one of those tall athletic types who would not in a million years pass as a female no matter how much slap was layered onto his chiselled features. He was in his final year of chemical engineering and by all acounts was an honours student.

He had a bright and brilliant career ahead of him, judging by her sister and brother-in-law's genuine pride and pleasure in their only son.

Lara herself had studied English and politics, taking a Master's in English literature about three years after she qualified. Then the world had seemed full of hope and opportunity and she had dreamt of a job in publishing or of writing herself.

Her publishing job had entailed posting on multiple fan letters to one of the queen bitches of American literature and booking hotel rooms for her and her partner on endless book tours. Her own simple manuscript never seemed to get beyond the great total of thirty pages. In the end she had binned it, reckoning that if she the author couldn't entice herself to write it the likelihood of a reader enjoying it was zero. A friend of a friend
had called someone who had eventually offered her the job as a junior with Boston's top newspaper, and filled with high hopes she had joined the fledgeling ranks of journalism.

Any hope of working on the political pages had been quickly dashed and she had been assigned to the wedding and funeral section for a start-off. Checking the daily obituaries was hardly the stuff the Pulitzer was made of, but she had swallowed her pride and done her best to prevent howlers making it into the paper. Dealing with top names in Boston society meant she had got picked to help out on the social column, which appeared once a week. In between, she had taken to hanging out around the news desk midweek hoping that with any luck she would be thrown a story or two to check out or follow up.

She did a final word count on her article before she sent it up and left a message for the photographer to have the photos ready for that evening's editorial. She was just slipping on her linen jacket when her boss, Ritchie Allen, called her over.

‘You going home, Lara?'

‘Yeah, just for a short while. My cat got neutered two days ago and I want to check she's OK. I should be back in an hour or so.'

‘You live out Easton direction, don't you?'

‘Yeah, why?'

‘Picked up a call about some kid getting badly injured at the local grocery store. Witness was
talking something about a Good Samaritan coming to help. Listen, would you check it out before you come back. It might just do for the local section or one of those human interest spots.'

Lara sighed. She'd hoped to spend about an hour mollycoddling Pom her cat, and now had to waste time ambulance-chasing. It wasn't fair! Nothing ever happened in Easton. Ritchie knew it and she knew it but the good people expected their name to appear in the local news for some reason or other.

‘All right,' she agreed. ‘But it might take a while to track down.'

Ritchie had already lost interest and was busy emailing a colleague as Lara grabbed her keys and headed out the office door.

Pom was feeling very sorry for herself. Lara had to admit she felt guilty about putting her pet through such a procedure, but the thought of her apartment being overrun with kittens, and a recent near-escape with the tomcat down the hall, had strengthened her resolve about the need for the operation.

‘You poor old baby,' she crooned, lifting the sad-looking ginger cat up onto her lap and talking to her. Pom was not only her companion and room-mate, but made living in this bachelor girl apartment just about bearable. The cat glared reproachfully up at her as Lara petted the silky fur
gently, not wanting to hurt the animal. She refilled her milk bowl and opened a foil pack of the most expensive cat food on offer in her local store, forking it out onto the cat's dish.

‘Here you go, Pom. Just eat a little bit for Mommy, that's a good girl.'

The cat had dozed off again when Lara crept out of her apartment.

She often shopped in Easton and ate regularly in the Bistro restaurant and Flanagan's, the well-known oyster and fish restaurant on the outskirts of town.

The main grocery store was Gerald's and she assumed it was the one Ritchie had mentioned as she turned her Toyota sports car into the parking lot. Parking was at a premium in Easton and she was glad to have found a spot. Grabbing her purse, she decided to have a look around. She noticed a lanky boy with greasy hair collecting the shopping carts. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about and Lara wondered if she'd deliberately been sent on a wild-goose chase.