“It’s rare for there to be two in one generation, but maybe that’s why the gift skipped your mom and Susan.”
Ophelia nodded. It made sense to her, and she mulled over what her sisters would think about her being the next Traiteur. It would have been nice to share it with one of them. Mawmaw interrupted her thoughts. “I know you have your feelings about the Catholic Church and God and whatnot, but I still want to teach you some of these Traiteur prayers. They are passed down orally from generation to generation. You don’t need them to treat, but to me, they are special. I hope you find some value in them.”
“I’d love to learn them, Mawmaw.”
Mawmaw clapped her hands together. “Excellent. If anything, they could help you clear your mind. You could use them as a…” Mawmaw paused, thinking of the word. “Oh, you know what I’m talking about? What do those hippy-dippy people call praying?”
“A mantra?”
“Yes, yes, that.”
Ophelia rolled her eyes and laughed. “Please never change.”
“Don’t worry, I’m too old to do that.”
Learning the prayers was a strain on Ophelia’s already exhausted brain, but she managed to retain most of them as they followed a specific pattern for each ailment. There was one for warts, one for coughs, one for rashes—the list went on. They would come easier and easier with time and repetition, Mawmaw promised.
The day passed quickly. By dinner time, they were both spent.
“You’re eating with me,” Mawmaw ordered. “Lucille put leftovers in the fridge. She’ll be over in a bit to help me get ready for bed, so let’s eat now.”
“I guess I can stomach your company a little longer,” Ophelia joked as she pulled out the leftovers and fixed their plates, heating them up in the microwave.
Ophelia and Mawmaw sat at the circular table in the kitchen, eating leftover jambalaya with green beans, bread, and milk. They sat in comfortable silence as they finished their meals.
Ophelia placed both hands on the rickety table. “I’m not drinking a full glass of whole milk with dinner, Mawmaw. I only have it in front of me ’cause you drink it. So where do you keep the booze?” she asked, sliding the offending milk out of sight.
Mawmaw let out a raspy laugh that sounded as if it came from the bottom of her belly.
“You are catching on,” she said, shaking a finger. “Go to the treating parlor and look under the altar all the way to the back.”
Ophelia walked to the unlit treating room, using the light emanating from the gold altar to guide her way. She pressed a hand on the cool surface and caught a glimpse of her reflection. It was barely there with the darkness in the room, but there she was. At this point, with everything she learned, uncovered in one day, she was utterly exhausted and confused. But she had that right feeling. That feeling she only got when she was doing something that made her soul sing. And this…it felt right. Ophelia searched under the altar, pushing aside cloths and various instruments, and found a crystal decanter holding a caramel-colored liquid.
Ophelia walked back into the kitchen. “What’s in this bad boy?” she said, patting the side of the decanter.
“Cognac.”
Ophelia brought down two glasses from a kitchen cabinet and filled them with ice. Sitting back down, she carefully pouredthe dark liquid into the glasses and looked at her Mawmaw, raising her glass.
“To Traiteurs,” Ophelia said with a proud smile. The homophone didn’t go unnoticed by Ophelia. Surely many had thought that the practice of treating was traitorous from their narrow view of life.
“To Traiteurs,” Mawmaw echoed, clinking their glasses together.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next morning, Ophelia headed downstairs dressed for mass in a cream midi-length sundress that showed off her summer tan. Mawmaw was sitting in the kitchen waiting as Lucille cooked breakfast. Mawmaw looked wonderful in her Sunday best with her long gray hair carefully braided over her shoulder, a small dragonfly hairpiece pinned just at the beginning of the braid. She was a vision. A true matriarch.
Sunday mass was as expected. Ophelia went through the motions. Stand, sit, kneel. Stand, sit, kneel. Ophelia carefully observed those around her to see how they interacted with her grandmother as a handful of people stopped by to say hello after mass. All were kind. She didn’t see any signs that her church friends thought she was out of her mind. Furthermore, Ophelia firmly believed that she wasn’t.
Ophelia had stayed up late the night before, going over everything Mawmaw told her and taught her. She cogitated on it. Poked holes in it. Questioned it but came up short. Whycouldn’tmagic like this exist? And what was the difference between a miracle recognized by an old man in a funny hat and her grandmother treating someone by laying her hands on them?
One thing kept sticking with her. Mawmaw had said, “I’msure there’s so much more out there that even I don’t know.” What else was out there? What folklore was real and fake? Vampires and werewolves? Surely not. Mermaids? The Rougarou? What about levitators and spellcasters?
What she did know for certain was that her grandmother was not crazy. After yesterday and all that she learned, she knew her grandmother was brilliant. Wonderful. The most compassionate woman alive. If Jack couldn’t see that, then it was his own fault.
Mass ended with a procession led by the priest and followed by the altar servers, then the congregation. As Ophelia and Mawmaw made their way to the Lincoln in the parking lot, a disheveled-looking woman rushed over to them carrying a red, squirmy baby.
“Mrs. Ophelia, Mrs. Ophelia,” she called, out of breath.
