Strife

14. Heal

October 5, 1971

I tried to talk to Sam about what’s been happening, but I never got the chance. The minute I mentioned the Harris Stonghton’s book, ha became furious. He demanded to know whether I had destroyed it, and when I said I hadn’t, he started shouting.

I was already on the edge, and having him yell at me set me off. I told him that he should have burned the book himself. He was the one who stole it, he was the one who brought it home, he was the one who tried one of the spells even after I told him the book was evil. I was sick of trying to help him! As we stood there screaming at each other, I was suddenly struck with a splitting headache, a piercing, stabbing pain.

Sam threw up his hands and stormed out of my room. I followed him, still yelling—and so I saw what happened. As he reached the top of the stairs, the mahogany table in the hall gave a violent lurch. It slid as if the entire hose has tipped on its foundation and slammed into him.

“Sam!” I screamed.

Sam clawed at the banister, but he couldn’t stop himself from falling. He tumbled down the entire stair, head over heels. When he reached the bottom, he lay perfectly still for a moment, his leg twisted behind him. He looked up at me for a moment, then turned his head to the side and vomited.

“Sam!” I screamed again, then ran to call an ambulance. I knelt beside him while we waited for it to arrive, but he didn’t open his eyes again. I felt numb as I rode in back with him to the local hospital. Luckily the doctors say that he’s only got a broken leg and a mild concussion. He’ll be all right. With a fall like this, they said, things could have been much worse.

Much worse—if things had been much worse, he’d be dead.

This can’t go on. I know what happened with the table—I did it. I did it, and I can never do anything like that again.

I won’t let another person die because of the Curtis witchcraft.

— Sarah Curtis

I woke up feeling fully rested. My body no longer felt achy or tired—I hadn’t felt so alive in what seemed like weeks. I glanced at the clock, expecting it to read somewhere close to noon.

Seven-thirty A.M.

Just then I heard the gentle hiss of the shower, and I knew my sister was stepping into it. It was early Sunday morning. The pale light was just beginning to peek through my curtains. I could sleep as long as I wanted. Sighing happily, I lay back against my pillows and closed my eyes.

Then I opened them again. I was wide awake.

I thought about the night before—the beautiful, magickal way I’d been able to experience being with Hunter. It had felt so wonderful to have him with me that I would have thought the whole experience had been a dream, if it hadn’t seemed so real. Beyond real—almost more than real, if such a thing was possible.

Mary K.’s shower ended. I waited a few minutes, but she didn’t come into my room to wake me up for church. I thought of the smile she’d given me the night before.

I heard the familiar sound of my father’s slippers as he padded down the stairs into the kitchen. There, then, was another thing I had missed—my family.

I threw off my covers and walked over to my closet. I pulled out a gray flannel skirt and a red sweater. Quickly I pulled on my clothes and brushed my hair.

I was going to church.

“Hi,” I said as I walked into the kitchen.

My mother looked up from the paper she was reading. “Morgan,” she said, her eyebrows lifted in surprise. She took in my outfit from head to toe, then smiled. “You look very nice,” she said.

I grabbed a Diet Coke from the refrigerator. “I thought I’d come with you to church this morning.”

My dad stared at me from where he was standing by the sink, his coffee cup lifted halfway to his mouth. He set it down on the counter. “Well, well.” A pleased grin spread across his face. Looking down at his bathrobe, he said, “I guess I’m lagging behind.”

Dad took his coffee and headed upstairs just as Mary K. came down. “What are you wearing?” she asked, staring at me.

“Morgan is coming to church with us this morning,” Mom said, as if it was the most obvious and normal thing in the world.

“Oh,” Mary K. said. Apparently this possibility hadn’t occurred to her. “Great!” She grinned at me and went to the refrigerator. “You want toast?” she asked.

The normalcy of the question seemed like something from another time. “Sounds good,” I said, sitting down at the table. In fact, it sounded better than good. It sounded like the best thing in the whole world.

Stepping into the church was like visiting an old friend, welcoming and familiar. There was the spicy smell of the incense our church uses and the odor of faded roses as I passed by Mrs. Beacon’s pew. The strains of organ music drifted over the congregation. Mom’s friend, Mrs. Lu, turned and gave me a big smile as we slipped into the pew behind hers. I smiled back and waved to her three-year-old daughter, Nellie, who giggled.

When it came time to take communion, I leaned over to my mom and said, “I think I’m going to skip this.” I just didn’t feel right about it—somehow taking communion seemed like a definite commitment to Catholicism. Even though I appreciated the beauty of the service, I wasn’t about to stop practicing Wicca. I was glad that my family loved coming here, and I loved it, too—but Wicca had chosen me as much as I had chosen it, and I wanted to find a way to keep both of my religions in my life.

I half expected my mom to frown or look disapproving, but she just squeezed my knee and followed my sister and father to the front of the church. A short while later the service was over.

A new level of calm swept over me as my family and I stepped outside. The sky was a clear blue, and a few small clouds tumbled across it. I was glad I had come.

“Mom, Dad,” Mary K. said as we walked to the car. “Would it be okay if Morgan took me to the hospital to see Alisa later?”

My mom looked sideways at my dad, who nodded. Parental telepathy. “I guess it’s all right,” my mom said.

I smiled at my mom, and she smiled back. Of course, she would never refuse to allow Mary K. to see a friend in the hospital, but she could have insisted on taking Mary K. there herself. I felt like she was finally beginning to see how hard I’d been trying.

“Thanks,” Mary K. said. But she wasn’t looking at my parents. She was looking at me.

My boots clattered as we walked down the long corridor in the hospital toward Alisa’s room. The hospital was quiet, and I found it kind of unnerving. Mary K. had seemed really eager to leave right away once we got home, so I didn’t bother changing, and now I felt overdressed and awkward. Every step I took made me sound like a lumbering elephant.

Mary K. looked down at the small red-and-white teddy bear she was clutching against her chest. She had insisted that we stop at the drugstore before we came so that she could pick up a card for Alisa, and the teddy bears had been on sale. Bringing the bear was the kind of thing Mary K. was really good at—the kind of thing I never would have thought to do. “It’s so weird,” Mary K. said as she checked the door numbers. The nurse had told us that we’d find Alisa in room 341. "We’ve been in two hospitals this week.”

Personally, I thought that the animal hospital was more comfortable and homey than this sterile, silent place, but I didn’t say so.

“I’m glad Dagda’s okay,” Mary K. went on. “I hope Alisa will be, too.”

“She will,” I said. My voice conveyed much more certainty than I felt.

Mary K. gave me a sideways look but didn’t reply. I wondered what she was thinking. I had no idea whether she knew how close to death Dagda had been. Did she realize that Erin had healed him?

“Three forty-one,” Mary K. announced as we walked up to a door at the end of the hallway. It was half open. There was no noise coming from inside except for the steady beeps and whirring of machinery.

My sister looked at me uncertainly, and I realized that she was frightened. “It’s okay,” I told her, and rapped lightly on the door. There was no response, so I pushed it open a little farther. “Hello?” I called softly, but there was no reply. I was secretly relieved. The last thing I felt like doing was making polite conversation with Alisa’s family. I nodded at my sister and stepped inside. Mary K. followed me.

Alisa’s bed was at the far end of the dim room, near windows that were shrouded in curtains. She was either asleep or unconscious, and Mary K. sucked in her breath when she saw the machines clustered around her. Alisa’s hair was limp on the pillow, and below her closed eyelashes were dark circles. Her cheeks were sunken and pale, her lips chapped and peeling.

How could someone get so sick so quickly?

Mary K. hesitated, then placed the teddy bear on the small table next to Alisa’s bed, propping the card up against it. “So that she’ll see it when she wakes up,” she whispered to me.

“Do you want to wait awhile?” I asked.

Mary K. nodded. “If you don’t mind,” she said.

“Sure,” I said, looking back at Alisa. I could only glance at her for a few seconds before I had to turn away. She looked horrible.

There was a yellow chair next to the side table, which I lowered myself into. In spite of its hideous color, it was big and comfortable. I patted the empty space next to me— there was more than enough room for Mary K. to fit. “Do you want to sit?”

“Yeah. .” Mary K. was staring at Alisa, not moving. She seemed to be in her own world, pondering something. Suddenly she turned to me. “I’m going to get a Coke,” she said. “I saw a machine in the front hall. Do you want anything? A Diet Coke?”

There was a strange edge in her tone, as if she were nervous. I wondered whether she was upset about the way Alisa looked—she certainly was a pitiful sight. “Are you okay?” I asked. “We don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to.”

“No, no,” Mary K. insisted. “I want to. I just. . want a Coke.”

I frowned at her. Her tone was strange and tense, as if she wanted to tell me more than she was saying. But— what? “Do you want me to come with you?” I asked.

“No—that’s okay. I’ll be right back. I mean,” she said quickly as she raked a hand through her hair, “I mean I’ll be back in a few minutes. The soda machine is near the entrance. It’ll take me a few minutes to get back.” Mary K. glanced at Alisa, then at me, and in that one glance I understood.

Mary K. wanted to leave me alone with Alisa.

She thought I could heal her.

Before I could even protest, Mary K. was out the door. Her footsteps retreated down the hall, first quickly, then more slowly. I guessed that she remembered she needed to take her time to get the soda.

I glanced at Alisa and had to suppress a shudder. She was so very sick. And I wasn’t even the one who had healed Dagda—Erin had done that! I knew next to nothing about healing, even with Alyce’s knowledge inside me. I wished Erin were there with me. I didn’t know whether she could heal Alisa, either, but she sure as hell knew a lot more about it than I did.

I sat on my hands, swallowing the sob that was rising in my throat. But what if I can help her? I wondered. How can I sit here and do nothing when Alisa might be—

Don’t think it, I commanded myself.

— dying. The word stung my consciousness like a fresh burn. I pictured Mary K.’s face. I tried to imagine what I would tell her. You see, Mary K., I know enough magick to fight dark forces, but not enough to help your best friend. . My vision blurred, and I rubbed my chest where it had begun to ache.

Alisa drew in a ragged, shuddering breath, then moaned. My stomach dropped. “Please don’t,” I whispered. Alisa grew quiet, but that didn’t make me feel better. I had to do something to help her. Even if I couldn’t heal her, maybe I could do a spell to take away some of the pain. Quickly I reached out and took her hand.

Immediately the cool, steady pulse of the heart rate monitor began a high-pitched scream. I dropped Alisa’s hand and jumped back, my heart pumping wildly. What had I done? I hadn’t even touched the machines! Without thinking, I screamed, “Mary K.! Mary K.!” I should have called for a doctor, but I didn’t even think of it.

The door was flung open and a tall African American nurse exploded into the room, pushing a cart full of machinery. “You’re going to have to get out of here,” she said to me as a doctor hurried in behind her and rushed to check Alisa’s monitors.

A chill breeze blew over me—I felt like the temperature in the room had dropped forty degrees. Goddess, help me! I thought. Alisa’s body shook with convulsions.

Mary K. appeared in the doorway, looking tense and pale. “What happened?” Her wide eyes fastened on Alisa’s machines, which were still going crazy. “Oh my God—what happened?” She stared at Alisa in horror.

I steered her out the door. “I don’t know,” I said as Mary K. tried to peer past me. Another nurse ran down the hall and pushed past us into Alisa’s room. “Look, the nurse said we should get out of here,” I said as calmly as I could, fighting my panic. Every nerve in my body was screaming.

“But we can’t just leave,” Mary K. protested. Her eyes were filled with tears.

“We’re in the way,” I said. “Mary K. — I’m sorry.”

I was. I was so sorry. But I didn’t know what to say. I had barely touched Alisa’s hand, and I hadn’t even been using magick at all.

Something had happened—but what? And why? I couldn’t have caused that, I told myself. I didn’t even do anything! But even if it was true, I couldn’t change the fact that Alisa had just crashed horribly. That she was very sick and maybe dying. And that I couldn’t do anything to help her.

As we walked down the corridor tears flowed down Mary K.’s face, a silent, steady stream.

There was nothing I could do to stop them.