The Healing

Chapter 12





Violet gaped at Gran Gran in unblinking amazement, still holding tightly to Polly’s clay mask.

The old woman laughed. “I ought not be telling you tales about monkeys and witches just before you go to bed. You might never get to sleep.” Gran Gran carefully took the mask from Violet and set it on the shelf by the bed. Then she tucked the quilt tightly around the girl.

“The truth of it is, Violet, this is the first time I’ve been able to tell if you’ve been listening to my words. Leave it to Polly Shine to raise the hairs on a person’s head.”

As she did each night, Gran Gran sat with Violet until the girl finally nodded off and the old woman could be certain that the sleep that had taken the girl was a peaceful one.

Gran Gran stood up and then leaned down to kiss Violet on the forehead, careful not to touch the girl’s hand that lay open by her pillow. For the first time in ages, Gran Gran felt necessary.

In her own sleep, the velvety fabric of darkness began to part. The current of her dreaming carried her back to the time before remembering. She found herself living the stories she had been told, beginning when she was a newborn in her mother’s arms. She reached up for her mother’s face and felt the break of that heart when her mother’s arms were emptied of her child.

And then she was Violet’s age. The kitchen where she had grown up was warm and safe and she was known. The faces around the table returned vivid and distinct. Their voices sounded out once more, each carrying broken strands of memory. Aunt Sylvie and Chester and Little Lord and even the mistress. They whispered into the ear of her memory.

“Granada, want to hear a riddle?”

“The mistress going to be down here any minute with them clothes.”

“Granada, let’s go outside and play marbles!”

The next day, upon awaking, the past was fresh and moist and as real as the morning dew. She breathed deeply and noticed the unmistakable smell of biscuits in her nostrils.