Miracle Woman (29 page)

‘Mom, you are the best mom in the whole big wide world too.'

Of all days that was the day she needed to hear it most. Profoundly grateful, Martha took Alice's hand in hers and walked as far as the school entrance.

Today she knew she couldn't face it: the faith and trust of those who expected her to heal and chase away the demons of pain and depression and channel energy into their bodies. She had no energy, nothing to offer them. Drained and defeated she could not face the upstairs room and those waiting for her. She called Evie at the store and asked her to cancel the first two appointments. The rest of the people she would try and contact herself.

‘Are you sick, Martha?' asked Evie, concerned.

‘Cass is dead,' she said simply, almost breaking down.

‘Oh God, I'm sorry. I know how attached to that kid you'd got.'

‘I knew she was going to die from almost the first instant I saw her, and that there was nothing anyone could do, Evie, only maybe help her prepare for it.'

‘You saw that?'

‘Felt it, I don't know.'

‘Don't go blaming yourself, Martha, it isn't your fault.'

‘Beth Armstrong thinks it is.'

‘You know deep inside you helped that little girl, no matter what her mom says!'

‘I pray so.'

‘Now listen, don't worry about things here, I'll sort it out. You try and get some rest and I'll talk to you later, OK?'

Mid-morning, when she tried to place a call to the Armstrongs, young Billy answered the phone. She could sense his embarrassment when he told her that his mom was unable to take the call, and that his dad was off meeting the funeral director. Hurt, she sat there not knowing what to do, wondering what the funeral arrangements would be.

THE NEED TO
escape was strong and as Martha drove over Sagamore Bridge she felt that immediate rush of freedom that a trip to Cape Cod always brought. Off season, the journey from Boston on Route 3 had taken half the time it normally did during the summer.

Beth Armstrong had broken down, cursing Martha when she'd called to find out about Cass's funeral arrangements. Martha was deeply wounded by the fact that neither parent wanted her to attend. She couldn't abide the thought of sitting around pretending nothing was going on as the child she had grown close to was laid to rest. Desperately she wanted to clear her head and get out of Boston. She needed time to think, to consider all the changes in her life. Packing a small bag she decided she had to get away on her own for a few days, something she had never done before, leaving the kids and Mike to look after themselves.

‘They'll not starve or pine away,' Evie had assured her.

Martha did her best to believe that, and left everything as organized as possible.

Mike had barely said anything when she told him of her feelings, explained her need to escape for a few days.

‘If that's what you want, Martha,' was all he'd said, not even offering to come with her. ‘A few days' rest will probably do you good and we can talk when you get back.'

Martha relished the thought of just getting in the car and driving as far as she could. Numb after Cass's death, she was tired and badly needed some time away. Since that very first time when she'd been called to heal, there had scarcely been time for her to unwind or think, or decide what was the right thing for her to do. She had acted on instinct and impulse, and where had it got her?

Perhaps Mike was right after all and she should walk away and turn her back on the gift. Too much of her life was being sacrificed for an ideal that she might never achieve.

From the minute she passed over the Canal, everything changed, the Cape's tempo dictating she slow down and relax as she drove along roads flanked by forests of evergreens, striking winter-stripped woodland and the haunting views of Nantucket Sound. Any of the large drive-in hotels and motels that were still open had vacancy signs
up outside, and unbelievable discount occupancy rates in the hope of tempting the winter traveller like herself.

Deciding to drive to Hyannis, she pulled the car up along the harbour where the ferryboats for Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket set sail. The fishing boats had returned from their day's work and were being hosed and washed down, the seagulls screaming as the fishermen worked.

The chill air felt good and she pulled her windproof jacket on, gulping in the tangy sea breeze as she walked all along by the shore and Marina. The big hotel on the waterfront was still open and she thought she would see if they had a room. The receptionist, a plump young woman with a welcoming smile, was delighted to sell her one, and tried to hide her disappointment that it was only a single for two nights. Walking along the wooden decking she noticed the pool was shut for the season, and many of the rooms had their heavy curtains closed over. Opening her room she was pleasantly surprised by its comfort and magnificent view. It was tempting to just kick off her shoes and crawl into bed, but she decided to get something to eat before retiring. The quaint seafood restaurant on the corner was still serving till eight and overcoming her embarrassment about being on her own, she sat up at the counter and ordered the house special, which consisted of an assortment of tasty fish pieces, lobster, crab, calamari, served with a tangy sauce and baked
potato with sour cream. A television in the corner was tuned to the news and she watched that as she ate. Mike would have loved this place, and she stifled the momentary pang of regret that he was not with her.

She was cosied up in bed by 9 p.m., her curtains drawn, the TV switched off, as she rolled up into a ball and wrapped herself in the heavy yellow and blue comforter. It felt good not to have to answer to anybody and to be able to switch off the light and lie in the darkness with the sound of the ocean outside her window as she fell into a deep and heavy sleep.

In the morning she momentarily forgot where she was, waiting for the sounds of the household to wake her up: Patrick in the bathroom, Mary Rose drying her hair, Mike putting on the local TV news for the traffic and weather report. Instead there was silence, broken only by the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner and the chugging engine of a boat. Turning over she ignored them, not waking again till 10.30.

How had she slept so long! She wasn't used to sleeping in and being lazy like this. She'd missed breakfast but after a quick shower got some coffee and a muffin down near the harbour.

Martha had stayed in Hyannis a few times when they were kids, in one of the cheap motels up near the roadway, her father making a big to-do about the vacation. They swam in the pool and spent hours on the beach playing football and
chasing each other, their fair skin freckled and dry, scalps itchy with sand, wearing constantly wet swimsuits. One summer she had got burned on their first day on the Cape, red as a beet, refusing to believe that the sun could actually cause such damage, her shoulders and backs of her legs so painful and sore that she could barely walk for the rest of the two weeks. She'd had to lie in the darkened motel room for three precious days of the vacation, her mother covering her in cooling yoghurt and keeping her company, both of them miserable as her brothers and father went off fishing and swimming and enjoyed themselves.

Her father, an out and out Democrat, prided himself on going to the same part of the world as the Kennedy clan, those tanned and big-teethed rich kids regularly spotted in the distance going back and forwards in a legion of sloops and sailboats and power racers. He took enormous pride in the Irish emigrant Catholic family who eventually saw their son named President of the United States. ‘Anything is possible in America!' he would say again and again to them all. He'd wept like a baby on hearing of the shooting of Jack Kennedy in Dallas, inconsolable at the loss of the man and the dream on that November day. Now a memorial park overlooked the beach and water. Martha stood there watching the seabirds wade giddily along the shore, boats bobbing on the distant blue swell; she remembered her father
in his rolled-up shirt-sleeves and grey trousers and his grand belief in them all.

Two days later she drove on to Chatham, not bothering with lunch and buying herself a soda and a bread roll to eat on the beach. Resisting the temptation to linger in the myriad tourist gift shops and traditional inns, she parked and walked up along the Shore Road glad of her fleece-lined jacket and knitted hat as the sea breeze caught her. The old lighthouse looked out over the water and deserted golden sand. She sat in the rough grasses of the dunes and ate, watching the waves and listening to the roar of the ocean.

There, wrapped in the solitude, she asked herself how she had come to be in this place where so many people expected so much from her. She had tried to help one solitary child and now found herself deluged with those searching for hope, praying for cures and miracles and expecting her to intercede for them, lay her hands on them and cure their diseases, mend their broken limbs and heal their wounds, chase away the shadows that stalked them and soothe their damaged spirits. They expected too much of her, far too much. The healing power was deep within themselves, but many – no, most – of them had chosen to ignore it.

Cass was beyond healing, she'd known that the minute she'd set eyes on her, and yet she had been drawn to help the young girl accept the frailty of her human body and the strength of her spirit.
Could she have changed anything to do with Cass? She thought long and hard about it, realizing that approached by Beth Armstrong again, she would do the exact same thing, and become involved with the child. The parents were in a turmoil now, and she wished that she could help them assuage their grief as she knew it was one of the things that Cass had worried about: what would happen when she was gone. Sitting on the sand Martha had much to consider; the healing had propelled her to a prominence she was not sure she wanted, or enjoyed. Mike and the kids were her priority and yet as more and more people sought her help there was less time for her husband and children, something she had never intended to happen. How could she be all things to everyone? There was just one of her and at the moment she felt like a piece of elastic being pulled in all directions. But her energy levels were high and in the winter sunshine surrounded by sea, sky and earth she felt strangely renewed, the constant ebb and flow of the water giving her strength, the maze of puzzles in her brain unravelling and becoming clear strong lines which she knew she must follow. On the beach Martha truly felt at one with nature, and the spirit that ruled every facet of her life, her doubts and concerns soothed by the vast blue of the ocean. She had been granted the gift of healing and she must use it.

She drove up along the National Seashore to the very tip of the Cape to Provincetown, the place where the pilgrims first landed. Walking through its narrow streets and arty shops, she stopped to buy Alice a simple wooden whale mobile for her bedroom which she couldn't resist: hand carved and hand painted it balanced beautifully. She and Mike had taken the kids whale watching from here about three years ago when they had rented a beach house in Yarmouth for ten days. It was one of those rare and magical trips that each and every one of them remembered perfectly and still talked about.

It was getting dark by the time she checked into a narrow pastel-painted wooden house that bore the legend ‘The Liberty Rose – Bed and Breakfast'. Her room was covered in swathes of floral chintz and had been decorated with loving care by someone obsessed with the colours pink and green; every little detail had been contemplated and co-ordinated, right down to the peppermints on her pillow in their shiny pink wrapping and a log fire set to light in the grate. Yawning with tiredness, she was more than happy to climb into bed and phone home. Patrick filled her in on what they were all doing as Mike and the girls were out. Disappointed, she sent them all her love and promised Patrick she'd be home real soon.

She rose early the next morning, checking out after a feast of crispy bacon and pancakes, syrup
and coffee with cream that would probably clog every artery in her body.

The owner stared at her as she handed in her key.

‘I know you,' she said emphatically. ‘I definitely know you.'

Martha just smiled.

‘Oh my! You're that woman who does that miracle healing that I read about and I saw you on TV, on WBZ4. I can't believe I had you staying here under my very roof last night!'

Martha just nodded.

‘Are you working down here?' the woman asked inquisitively.

‘No, I'm not, I just came down on a break.'

‘Well, you're more than welcome and please come back and visit any time,' she said, as she swiped Martha's credit card details. ‘Would you like to sign my visitors' book?' she asked, pulling a floral-patterned book from under the desk.

Martha, trying to think of something suitable to scribble in the side margin that would please her hostess, wrote ‘A garden of delight!' Not very original but it seemed to please Kate Anne Brewster, the owner.

‘Please come back again!' she laughed as Martha signed the payment slip and said goodbye.

Renewed by her few days of exile, thoughts of home now filled her mind. Martha knew it was high time she got back to her family and the fulfilment of her healing work.

IT FELT GOOD
to be home. Martha was glad of the clutter and chaos of the house on Mill Street, as Mike and the kids welcomed her back. She still grieved for Cass but knew she had to concentrate on the living, her family and friends and those that needed her.

Mary Rose had tidied and cleaned their bedroom, vacuumed the den and scrubbed the shower tiles so clean that they looked almost brand new. Martha was gracious about her daughter's peace offering.

‘I'm sorry, Mom. I guess I didn't think about how you were feeling and was just being jealous and stupid and stuff.'