“What?” asked Mawmaw incredulously. “Lucille is nice, but she doesn’t have a sense of humor. Plus, she fusses at me for cussin’.”
“Good fucking riddance,” Ophelia joked.
“You’re too late for breakfast, but there is coffee in the kitchen,” said Mawmaw. “Grab some quickly. We need to get started.”
Ophelia made herself a cup with a healthy dose of milk and sugar. When she returned to the living room with her mug, Mawmaw set down her iPad, and her recliner creaked slowly forward. It took an uncomfortably long time for the recliner to be upright. Reaching out, she shook her bony hands at Ophelia. Ophelia took the cue, got up from the couch, and adjusted the walker to be within reach of her grandmother. She gently held Mawmaw’s elbows as she guided her to the walker, feeling her skin move loosely around her bones.
“To the parlor,” said Mawmaw. Ophelia walked them across the hallway to the treating parlor, where Mawmaw used her Traiteur gift to treat her patients. The room was always closed off by two heavy French doors. In fact, Ophelia had never been in the room. As a child, she was never allowed in, and as an adult, she never thought to ask to see it. It was hallowed ground.
“I can’t believe I finally get to see what’s in this mysterious parlor you’ve been hiding my whole life.”
Ophelia opened the French doors, and the smell of dust that lingered throughout the house mixed with the scent of spicy incense tickled the hairs of her nostrils. All the curtains in the room were closed, and Ophelia could hardly see what was in front of her.
“Where are the lights?” she asked.
“On the wall to the right.”
Ophelia felt along the fabric wallpaper. She found the switch and flicked on the lights. Her eyes hurt from the sudden brightness in the room, and as she adjusted, a beacon of gold pulsed from the center of the room. An ornate, gold altar sat in the center of the room, illuminating more of the parlor than the cloudy overhead chandelier. It looked to be an altar that could be found in any renowned Catholic Church in Italy or France.
She moved toward it and grazed her fingertips across thecool gold. She couldn’t believe that this venerable platform washereand that Mawmaw had hidden it this whole time. On the right side of the room was a wood-carved exam table; she assumed it was used for treating. Marble statues of saints cluttered the room on shelves along with beautiful paintings of old Louisiana landscapes. There was an antique wingback chair in the corner where Ophelia guided Mawmaw to sit down, and Ophelia sat in a high-back chair, facing her grandmother.
“Welp.” Mawmaw cleared her throat. “This is where I treat people.”
“It’s gorgeous. Why haven’t you ever let me see this before?”
“It’s private,” she said with no further explanation.
“This altar is just…Where did you get it?”
“My grandmother, who got it from her grandmother. It’s been around. Do you want it?”
Before she could respond, Mawmaw let out a cackle, clearly amused by a joke that Ophelia didn’t understand. Ophelia stared at her, waiting for her to finish her laughing fit.
“All right. Let’s get to work. None of your other family members can do this, so let’s hope you can.”
Ophelia huffed. “Great. But you’re going to need to explain everything to me. I basically know nothing about being a Traiteur, and I have so many questions.”
“Mmm, yes, I suppose your mother didn’t speak much of it to you, right?”
“Not at all, really. I know you heal people through prayer, and I remember you healing Jack and me when we got hurt over the summers.”
“Oh yes, you two were so mischievous.”
“Why don’t I know more, though? I guess I just accepted it for what it was and never asked questions when I was younger.”
Mawmaw sighed deeply and stretched her long legs in the chair, then curled them back in place. “Well, there is a level of discretion and privacy with being a Traiteur. For instance, we do not advertise our gift of healing. We can talk about it, tell people directly, but we can’t broadcast it. We can also only treat thosewho ask for it. And, well, your mom and your aunt Susan definitely had chips on their shoulders about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, who knows! Those girls hated waiting after church on Sundays for me to listen to everyone’s ailments, and oftentimes I made them sit quietly when the sick were here being treated. They were young and impatient. I’m sure they were a little embarrassed by me.”
Maybe that embarrassment was what Jack was referring to? She dug further. “Why on earth would they be embarrassed? It’s so cool. I would have wanted to tell everyone about it.”
“Just kid stuff, ya know? Embarrassed teens. Some kid said I was a witch and that Susan and Clara must be witches too, and they had warts and whatever other mean things children say.”
Ophelia was satisfied with that answer. She was starting to believe Jack, the evangelical, was the one with the problem.
Ophelia took a deep breath. She desperately wanted to learn, but she was never going to be religious, and she had no support or community to treat. It all felt like something she should learn because it was her history, not so much something she could actually practice.
