Rosewater and Soda Bread (28 page)

IT HAD STARTED AFTER DINNER on Monday night, said Estelle. Though if they were to get technical, it really began the
night they brought the girl back from Mayo General, when Es-telle had dropped the spoonful of plum stew from pain. The widow had not known what to expect when the girl reached over and grabbed her long-suffering hands, but the last thing was a cessation of her arthritis.

The young woman had held her gnarled knuckles for only a few seconds, but it had been enough: a heat, simultaneously silvery and as intense as hot mercury, had rushed up her arms and shoulders, instantly soothing her. It was as though a dam had broken, releasing something from the young woman's palms, sending medicine through her fanlike hands. And then, just as quickly as she'd taken them, the girl let go of Estelle's hands, falling back to her pillow with exhaustion. Before Estelle could question what had occurred, the girl had closed her eyes and surrendered to sleep.

That night, Estelle had also slept—without interruption, without one single needle of joint pain anywhere in her body. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so free.

Whatever the girl had done to clear Estelle's hands had also drained her of all energy, for the girl slept all night and the following day. Feeling guilty for causing her any weakness, Estelle had not dared wake her for dinner. Nor had she brought up the subject once her new ward had woken in her hospital bed. Although her arthritic pain had come back over the weekend, it had been more manageable than she remembered in a long time. Estelle considered the moment of healing as a gift sent from above, something best left unexplored, especially considering that the girl was still not talking. But the mystery had deepened without her inducement, becoming even stranger on Monday evening.

Having polished off Marjan's cherry rice, Estelle was clearing away the last of the dishes and getting ready to wet a fresh pot of tea. Although she was sleeping on the linen couch in the living
room to make space for her new guest, Estelle still ate her dinner on the mattress. She was accustomed to eating in bed, insisted upon it, actually.

Not only was the four-poster—a lofty structure that would have put princesses and peas to shame—a place of rest and relaxation but it was, and had been for quite some time now, a portal for her magic carpet escapades. It was there that Estelle first began to practice what Marjan had called “eating at the edge of a ready
sofreh
.”

Estelle always followed the same routine when assembling her dinner
sofreh
on her bed. First, she would spread the paisley blanket Marjan had given her, tucking the fringed ends in tight around the sides of her mattress. Then, having already wetted a pot of jasmine tea, she would dig a trivet into the blanket's left corner and place the piping pot on top of it.

Following the Persian etiquette of placing the main dishes at the center of the
sofreh
, Estelle would position the plate of saffron
chelow
(with crunchy
tadig
), the bowl of stew or soup that was the day's special, and the
lavash
or
barbari
bread accordingly. She would frame the main dishes with a small plate of
torshi
, pickled carrots and cucumbers, as well as a yogurt dip and some feta cheese with her favorite herb: balmy lemon mint.

Taking off her pink pom-pom house slippers, Estelle would then hoist herself onto her high bed and begin her ecstatic epicurean adventure. She savored every morsel of her nightly meal, breathing in the tingle of sumac powder and nutmeg while speaking to a framed photograph of Luigi she propped up on its own trivet next to the tea.

Dinner was usually Persian, but her dessert was always Italian: a peppermint cannoli or marzipan cherry, after which she would turn on the radio, always set to the
Mid-West Ceili Hour
, and dream of the time when a young Luigi made her do things impossible,
like when he convinced her to enter the Maharaja sideshow and stand on the tallest elephant's trunk during carnival season in her seaside Neapolitan town.

Estelle had recalled the carnival as she picked up the last platter. “Time for dessert, yes?” She turned to the girl sitting in the wheelchair. Although the widow had insisted she try to sit up in bed, the young woman had preferred to stay in her borrowed seat for her meals. “Some orange tea and black-and-white biscuits. Lovely!”

Estelle's smile was returned with a solemn look. The young woman shook her head, a sign that she wanted Estelle to wait. Wheeling her chair closer to the bed, where the remnants of their supper still stood, the mermaid girl placed a hand on the patchwork duvet.

At once, Estelle understood what the motion meant.

Without another sound, she took off her aforementioned razzmatazz slippers and climbed up on the mattress. Her veiny, swollen feet looked funny to her from this distance; they flopped open like trunks themselves, withered and white with age. Her palms were also open, resting on either side of her round hips, just as the girl was showing her.

“Like this?” Estelle asked, holding her arms out.

The girl turned sideways in her wheelchair and nodded slowly. In the lamplight, her spread fingers looked more than ever like organza pastry, the veils of skin between them taking on an apricot tinge. Although Estelle had seen those fingers up close a dozen times, she was still amazed at their magical appearance.

The girl reached over slowly, but instead of grabbing the widow's fingers, she clasped her own hands, raising them over Estelle as though in prayer. Estelle watched in fascination as the young woman began to rub her palms quickly, as though she were kindling a fire between them.

She rubbed her hands for what seemed like thirty seconds, then slowly she pulled them away from each other, easing them out.

When her hands were about three feet apart, she took a deep breath, swung her elbows out, and swept her fingers in again.

Estelle gasped. From the center of her belly, where the girl's hands had stopped, a powerful surge was taking over. It was as though she was being lifted from the very core of her being, a pulling sensation arching her back off the mattress.

Then: heat, a warm rush of pooling blood similar to the sensation she had felt in her hands that other day.

Before Estelle had a chance to say anything, the girl's hands began to move again.

As though pulling invisible threads, her fingers plucked, plucked, plucked, pulling heat from Estelle's navel.

On and on the girl kept unspooling, as the widow watched her in pure awe, no longer frightened by the heat emanating from her body. There was an intense concentration in the girl's gray eyes as she plucked the threads that were visible only to her. Still a teenager, somehow she also looked older than time itself.

Estelle had intended to shut her eyes and welcome a soothing darkness, as she had done when the girl had treated her hands before. But this time she decided to leave her eyes wide open, and what she saw were the dreams of a little princess.

“SO YOU SAW A PICTURE, like an image, when she touched you?” Marjan asked in puzzlement.

“No, no, you mistake: not a picture but a film. Like an old film, with some color. And she did not even touch me this time.”

Estelle waved her hands in the air, showing their limber state. “I think when she put her hands over me, I see her memories. I see her thinking. Like energy too.”

Marjan sat back in her seat, sifting through what the widow had just told her. “And it's happened twice now? I don't understand—two times you've seen a film?”

Estelle nodded, licking her upper lip. “Two times, yes. Monday and last night. Tonight she is very tired from all the walking.”

The older woman paused and looked at Marjan. “I know this is amazing to hear, darling, but it happened. I have my eyes open, but I still see this film. It was a film of a little girl. She was wearing a beautiful white dress and turning, turning in the same spot. Like trying to make herself dizzy. That is all I saw and then the film was finished. And my hands, my feet, even my hips—no pain. Nothing for three days. Like magic. Strange, yes?”

The Italian widow was too busy licking her sugared sweat to see Marjan shake her head; nothing was strange anymore, she told herself.

Marjan turned the page, her eyes scanning the small print; the
Canon of Medicine
was certainly living up to its name in length: the edition that Filomina Fanning had procured for her from the
university library in Dublin was a condensed version of the five-volume masterpiece written by the physician over a thousand years ago, but it was still proving too vast for a quick skim.

She had spent the last hour scouring the book, and although thoroughly captivated by the techniques of breathing to heal ailments, she hadn't found anything on the peculiarities of healing hands. As much as she hoped to locate some clues within its pages, she was growing somewhat discouraged. She squinted at the fine print. No, nothing about hands transferring memories. Massage and oils, yes. Sandalwood oil, for example, when dropped onto the ledge of the ear, cures the body of all egotism. A perfect ablution before prayer. Here it was again, the universal pregnancy diet, all those foods she had been so anxious about serving.

Still, nothing like what Estelle had experienced.

Marjan frowned. Estelle had said that she felt a warmth course almost immediately through her body when the girl drew her hands above her, followed by a freezing sensation where the girl began pulling the air. Then she saw the picture of a young girl, in what looked like a white dress, twirling on the tips of her toes.

A young girl with red hair.

It was as though the girl was transferring her emotions or desires, maybe even past experiences, to Estelle while she tried to soothe her arthritis. A whirling little girl. Marjan's eyes followed the stairs in the kitchen. She thought she had heard a noise on the landing above her. It was only dawn, too early for either Bahar or Layla to be awake, she reminded herself. She wouldn't know where to even begin explaining her latest finding to her sisters. She brought her eyes to her hands, resting them in the hollows of her palms.

Healing hands. Transference of memories. A whirling little
girl. What was she not understanding about all of this? She looked up again.

Whirling. It was a practice done in many circles. Among the Sufis, those followers of a mystical strain of Islam, it was a treasured practice, as sacred as the prayers to Mecca. Sufis believed that whirling brings you closer to the center of God. It was a method similar to Estelle's meditation garden, where she traveled in a circular pattern while praying or thinking of her problems. By whirling, you align your core to the earth's core. Legend had it that the dance started with Rumi, who wrote poems to the Beloved nearly three hundred years after Avicenna wrote his
Canon
.

How was it that the image Estelle had seen was that of a girl whirling?

The knock was soft, hesitant. It came twice, then paused before sounding once more. Marjan reached behind her and opened the kitchen door. A familiar face stared back at her. “Hello,” she said, looking up at the old woman on the stoop.

The woman brought her hand to the knot on her head scarf. “I'm Marie Brennan. I live across the street.” Her voice and hand were both shaky.

Marjan smiled politely. “Of course.” She closed the Canon and turned to greet the woman fully. “How are you?”

Marie blinked and looked down at her orthopedic shoes. “Thank you. Good. Thank you.” She continued to stare at her shoes.

Marjan tilted her head. Dervla's sister had never been to the café before. “Do you want to come in?” she asked, pushing the door open.

Marie looked around uncomfortably. The alleyway was quiet but for a soft cloud of flour billowing out of the bakery next door.