Page 13 of The Moonlight Healers

“She told you I was a healer,” Cecelia said, her blue eyes impossibly bright against the white of her veil, the only color, it seemed, in the entire room. “And I was, or I thought I was, for a long time. I was told that by my mother the same way you were told by yours. But then I became a child of God. And I learned that He is the only healer. The abilities in our blood, the so-called magic we have been given is not of His making. That touch is something else, something dark, and I will not have it used in this hospital. Do you understand me?”

Helene’s heart pounded. “Y-yes, Sister,” she stammered.

“Good,” Cecelia said. “You’ll need to wash up then. And join the other nurses for the evening prayer.” She glanced at the clock that hung on the wall next to a silver cross. “It starts in twenty minutes, and we don’t tolerate tardiness.”

CROZET, VIRGINIA

2019

5

LOUISE

As the sky gleamed a cerulean blue over the rolling mountains, Louise and Bobbie pulled onto the dirt road that led to her grandmother, Camille’s orchard. It had been over a month since her last visit, and in that time the orchard had transformed as it always did, from bare and brown in late spring to a lush, green, summer landscape dotted with peach and apple trees. On one side of the road were strawberry and blueberry patches, where several people picked the plump fruits off the vines, baskets at their feet. On the other was a small market. Louise caught a glimpse of Caroline, her childhood friend, standing near the outdoor register as she handed a family with two small toddlers a basket and pointed them in the direction of the peach trees.

“Trees are looking healthy,” her mom muttered as they entered the gravel parking lot next to the market stalls. She had grown tenser with every mile.

Louise’s instinct was to give her mother an escape route. She always tried to be a buffer between her and her grandmother, because anytime they were forced to interact, her mother seemedto dim like a collapsing star. Only now, there was no alternative, because Louise needed them to sit down together, explain to her what it meant that she was a healer, that they were all healers.

At the warehouse behind the market, Jim, the orchard’s general manager, stacked crates. He had been an immovable presence there Louise’s entire life, usually off among the trees, inspecting each one for signs of disease. He was quiet and gruff, and barely tolerated the tourists who streamed in from Charlottesville or Richmond. But he loved the orchard as much as her grandmother, had been there since Camille was a teenager, and was devoted to the family as much as to the fruit trees. Jim didn’t have a spouse or children and practically lived at the orchard, often stopping by the house after his shifts for dinner with Camille. When Louise was younger, she used to wonder if Jim was a little bit in love with her grandmother. Even as a child, she could sense there was something tender about their relationship. She had hoped they would fall in love like in a movie, that Jim could move into the house so her grandmother wouldn’t be alone anymore. But that had never come to pass.

“Is that Jim? Oh, come on. We have to go say hi. I haven’t seen him in ages.” Bobbie unbuckled her seat belt.

“That’s because you’ve refused to come here ever since I got my driver’s license,” Louise said under her breath.

“I heard that, Louise.”

“Mom.”

“What?”

“We came here to see Grandma. You can’t stall forever. We’ve already stopped twice.”

“I’m not stalling,” Bobbie said, obviously lying. “I just want to go say hi, see how he’s doing. You know I used to be so terrified of him when I was a little kid, but I think I wore him down over the years. He started to talk to me when I was in college. I finally realized he’s just not big on children. Or teens, I guess.”

Bobbie got out of the car. Reluctantly, Louise followed.

The market had expanded over the last few summers from when it had been a simple folding table loaded up with baskets of fruit. There was now a large tent set up beside the storage barn, under which were multiple wooden tables, along with a sign advertising prices for pick-your-own fruit as well as gallons of cider. Louise hung back at the first table alongside her mother, noting boxes of doughnuts and baked goods, jugs of peach cider and jars of preserves.

“Local peach jam, fresh-baked peach doughnuts, blueberry honey…” Bobbie murmured as she put her sunglasses on her head. “There’s no way your grandmother is making any of this stuff.”

“We outsource,” came a gravelly voice from a few yards away.

They both looked up as Jim walked toward them. When Louise usually saw him in passing on her visits to the orchard, he’d give her a small nod or a few mumbled words of greeting. But he approached Bobbie with a genuine smile on his leathery, bearded face.

“Hey, kiddo,” he drawled. “It’s about damn time I see you around here.”

“Nice to see you too, Jim,” Bobbie said as Jim wrapped her into a quick embrace. “I know, it’s been a while.”

His gaze traveled to the bruise beneath Louise’s right eye. “Pretty nice shiner there. I heard about the accident. You okay?”

“A little bruised but okay.”

He turned to Bobbie. “How about you?”

Bobbie put her sunglasses back on. “A little emotionally bruised, but also okay.”

“Got it. No need to say more.” Jim picked up one of the jars of preserves. “Apparently there’s a market for local peach chutney.” He emphasized the wordchutneyin his lilting country accent. “Lots of changes here, Bobbie. We also have interns from the university.” He rolled his eyes. “I guess we get some kind of tax credit.”

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