MARTHA AND EVIE watched as a passer-by stared in the window of Evie’s embroidery store, both of them waiting for the shop bell to jangle and announce the arrival of a customer. Martha was almost glad when the woman decided to move on and not disturb them.
She had fetched two large cappuccinos to go from the donut store across the street, and licking the frothy top off her own one she lowered herself into one of Evie’s hand-decorated chairs.
‘God, it’s so hard to get back into work after having such a great break! That’s the worst of vacations, you get to almost dread coming home.’
Martha smiled. Herself and Mike never managed to ever get more than about seven or eight days away as Mike always pleaded having too much work to do and acted as if the other software engineers up at CPI couldn’t be trusted to keep things running smoothly without him.
Evie rooted about in her bulging leather purse and drew out a wad of freshly developed photos. She passed them over to Martha to peruse, explaining the ins and outs of their holiday in Maine, and the picnics and expeditions they’d enjoyed. Martha admired them but was glad to have her closest friend back home.
They sat in companionable silence drinking their coffees and gazing around the small store. Martha had to admit that opening an embroidery store off the corner of Centre and Lime Street hadn’t really seemed a good idea when Evie had first mentioned it to her. Evie had been bursting with excitement at the idea of taking over the old hat and glove shop and opening a store dedicated to embroidery, the fiddly craft that she enjoyed so much. Martha had thought she was mad, guessing there were probably only a handful of people in the Easton area with a similar interest to Evie’s. Luckily her friend’s enthusiasm and innate good sense had prevailed and Golden Threads, named after a line in the poem by the famous Irish poet W. B. Yeats that they had all learned in school, had come into being. New England must be full of needlewomen, judging by the amount of custom that Evie had already built up.
‘Martha, look at this amazing sampler I discovered in an old secondhand store.’
‘It’s fine work, Evie. Whoever made it must have spent days and nights working on it, to get that intricate stitching right.’
‘Just look at those colours – all hand-dyed. I know they’ve faded but can you imagine it reworked?’
‘Will you sell it?’
Evie vehemently shook her head. ‘Never. This is too good a piece of work!’
Martha agreed.
‘It’ll hang on the wall.’
Martha smiled to herself. All Evie’s favourite samplers and precious pieces that she collected ended up on the display wall, there to be admired and commented on and even copied, but most certainly not for sale.
‘So I’ve told you my news, now what about yours?’
Martha laughed. Evie and herself had known each other ever since kindergarten, two little Catholic convent girls who had grown up only two streets from each other and had been close friends all their lives. College and marriage had separated them for a while but Mike’s move to work in software development and information systems at CPI in Cambridge had found them back living only five miles from each other and ready to pick up their friendship again.
‘Mike’s fine, the kids are fine and Alice is sure glad to have Becky back in class with her again this year.’
Evie laughed. ‘Did we ever think that we’d end up old married ladies with kids going to the same school?’
‘Never!’
‘Anyways, Mar, what’s going on with you? What’s this I hear about you being a healer and saving some kid’s life?’
‘I helped Timmy Lucas, that’s all. And it’s so kind of weird because one or two people have come up to me and asked me to lay my hands on their kids, as if I could do something to heal them.’
She could feel Evie’s hazel eyes watching her, reading her as she’d always been able to.
‘And can you?’
‘Can I?’
‘Yeah, can you heal them?’
‘I don’t know, Evie, honest to God I just don’t know. I definitely felt something that day when I touched Timmy. It was like an energy or strength going through me. I don’t know where it came from. I only know that I really wanted to try and help him, to stop his pain and suffering, I just wanted it to end.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I didn’t think, I just touched him, that’s all! I put my hands on him and maybe prayed a bit.’
Evie sighed.
‘You were always a great one for the prayer and believing in things.’
‘So were you.’
‘Yeah, but the nuns loved you better!’
‘Ah, shut up, Evie!’
‘I was too ordinary, they thought you were a far better prospect for joining the order.’
‘It’s the truth, Martha, you were far more spiritual than the rest of us. Still are.’
Martha laughed, thinking of herself in a nun’s habit and Mike and the kids’ reaction.
The other woman patted her arm. ‘Go on, and what about the others?’ she asked.
‘I just put my hands on them too.’
‘Did you feel anything?’
Martha considered.
‘I wasn’t sure but I got that same feeling as I did the time before. Not as strong, but well, something. I don’t know if the children sensed it too.’
Evie was engrossed in what she was telling her, excited almost.
‘And what happened to those kids?’
‘I don’t know! Honest I don’t. One had asthma, real bad. I told his mom she should bring him to the paediatrician. One had warts, you know the icky kind kids get all over their fingers, can’t get rid of them so his mother says.’
‘And you touched him?’
‘What was I supposed to do – refuse to touch him or hold his hand like the other kids do?’
‘And anyone else?’
‘A girl with tonsil problems – and you know Jeanie Sheldon, she works up at that beauty parlour? She made me put my hand on her throat as she wants to give up smoking.’
‘Whew!’ Evie exhaled. ‘That is a lot.’
‘How do you think I feel, Evie? How the hell do you think I feel?’
‘Obviously they must think that you’re some kind of medicine woman or healer.’
‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘I know.’
‘And are you?’
Martha sat quite still, concentrating on the glass drawers filled with the wondrous coloured tints of embroidery thread spread out beside her.
‘I am not . . . I don’t know!’
‘What happened to the rest of them?’
‘Mark’s mother said he’s doing fine, and Jeanie Sheldon phoned to tell me she hasn’t even as much as lit a match in the past three days.’
‘And the warts?’
‘Who knows about warts!’
Evie laughed, tossing her short brown hair. ‘Martha, maybe you really can heal!’ she said.
‘Don’t be joking. It’s not funny, honest to God it’s not!’
‘I’m not. Maybe you have a genuine gift for healing.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not? Look at all those crazy people you see on the TV who set themselves up as healers. Do you believe they can heal people?’
‘I don’t know, Evie.’
‘Well then, why shouldn’t someone genuinely good and caring like you be chosen? You are such a good person and, well, good people can do good things.’
Martha couldn’t understand what her friend was trying to say.
‘I do believe that. Maybe the powers that be have decided that this is for you, that you in your own way can now help people,’ Evie explained.
‘Don’t be so stupid.’
‘No, listen! You are a good person, probably the best I know. You listen to people, talk to them. You’ve been helping other people for years, but not so much that you yourself might have noticed it . . . Maybe this touching and healing is just, well, another step up from that, another dimension.’
To say Martha was surprised that her old friend would even consider the remote possibility that she could alter anyone’s physical state by touching them was just ludicrous. Evie usually had more sense. The coffee was cold and Martha didn’t want to intrude on any more of Evie’s work time.
‘What you doing next Tuesday?’ enquired Evie.
‘I’m meant to be working in the Highlands sanctuary, why?’
‘There’s a house auction over Newton direction and I thought the two of us might drive over and have a look. The old lady who lived there is meant to have a fine collection of early American craft work, quilting, samplers, who knows.’
‘Sounds interesting. Maybe I can change days with one of the other volunteers?’
‘Yeah, I thought we could go over way ahead of the auction and have a look at the items and then grab a bite of lunch.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘All going well, we’ll be home in time for the kids.’
Martha liked the sound of it, the two of them having a few hours together. So much had been going on in the past few days, she knew that Evie was the only one likely to understand the quandary she was in. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before and she hadn’t a clue what to do – whether to go along and try to help people or just ignore it and hope that they would get fed up and leave her alone. She needed to talk to someone. The sanctuary would understand and she’d swap days with one of the other volunteers. A day out with Evie would be great.
The shop bell clanged and a large-breasted woman in a crochet waistcoat and pale blue denim skirt entered. Evie greeted her warmly, and introduced her.
‘Martha, this is one of my favourite customers, Connie Jackson. She teaches a craft class over at the women’s centre in Concord.’
Martha shook hands politely, noticing the long list being produced from the woman’s purse and the scraps of fabric she was stretching out onto the counter.
Evie and the customer would be bound to spend the next half-hour at least considering various loops of embroidery thread and an age discussing colours and going through which size needle was the best.
‘Listen, I’ll leave the two of you,’ she said.
Evie nodded.
‘I’ll see you next Tuesday then.’
There was a large black car parked on the street outside her driveway. Martha recognized the driver immediately as soon as she stepped out.
Sarah Millen looked wretched and Martha could see she was still distressed about the accident, and unsure how she would react towards her. The woman was on her own and must have organized someone to mind the kids for her.
‘I hope you don’t think I’m intruding, but I had to come by and see you and thank you for what you did helping with that poor boy I knocked down. If he had died I don’t think I could have lived with myself!’ she admitted, her voice breaking.
Martha could see how upset she still was.
‘Listen, would you like to come inside, Mrs . . .’
‘It’s Sarah, please call me Sarah.’
‘Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?’ Marth offered.
‘Water would be just fine, thanks.’
She left the woman sitting in her living room and a minute later watched her gulp down the iced water as if her life depended on it.
‘Are you OK?’
Sarah Millen just shook her blond head silently.
Martha was filled with pity for her but unsure what to do.
‘I could have killed him! I can’t sleep or eat with thinking of him, of his mother and father. I try to work and I keep seeing that Saturday, that Godawful day! I can’t get it out of my mind.’
Martha blinked, hesitating, wondering what this stranger expected of her. The younger woman sounded frantic, hopeless, and her eyes were welling with tears.
‘My husband says it’s all my own fault. I know that – I’m not trying to blame anyone, I should have been concentrating more. I told that to the police sergeant, that I totally admit it’s my fault. That I hit that little boy!’
She was becoming even more distraught and upset.
‘I already made a statement,’ Martha admitted.
‘I’m not here about that. God, I’m not! I need you to help me. I saw what you did for the boy, the way you touched him. I think I’m going crazy, I have these bad dreams and I can’t eat, and trying to take care of the kids is . . .’
‘Do you want me to help you?’ Martha offered softly.
Sarah nodded, a shuddering breath gripping her.
Martha closed her eyes and as she reached forward and laid her hands on the woman’s shoulders she felt the tension and stress and fear within her so strong that she could almost imagine it running up her own veins.
‘Sarah, I need you to take slow soft breaths and feel the warmth and energy flow from my fingers into your muscles, I need to lift some of that awful heaviness from you, let it sift and run away like sand,’ she began, the healing energy flowing through her as she began to work.