“It’s his son. He was accidentally shot,” said Marie. “He didn’t know what to do. They heard about you.”
Luke knelt down beside the young man. A thick pool of near-black blood was forming around his hip. Sandra could smell the death—the sweet rot that always wafted up from the bodies. This boy was dying.
So this was the “healing” that Marie had spoken of. She held her breath.
Luke looked up at Sandra. “Do you want to try?”
Sandra shook her head vigorously. How did he know what she could do?
“Try,” he said. It wasn’t a command, but it wasn’t a request, either. He stood back, giving her room, but also sizing up what she was about to do. This felt like some strange test.
Pushing her hair aside, Sandra got on her knees and looked up at Luke for guidance. The fact that he thought she could do this gave her confidence. She’d try. The older man was wailing, Marie holding him back. Just as with Ezra and Rick, she touched the young man’s stomach. As she did, Sandra closed her eyes and could see the path the bullet had taken, tearing through tissue and bone. It had gone in on the right side, ripping through the liver. Her wet, bloody hands began to heat up, and she could see the torn edges of this man began to fuse as though she were a surgeon. Not sure what to do with the bullet, she looked over at Luke. He was watching her intently. In her mind, she began to shrink the bullet until she imagined it to be the size of a benign speck of sand. The blood was still flowing out of the man, so Sandra stopped it and began thinking about new blood forming in this man’s arteries. The man’s body responded, creating new blood and fusing the wound.
She’d gotten used to her hands feeling like fire, but this was a tougher case. The man began to cough, which was encouraging. Sandra could see she now had Luke’s full attention. When she couldn’t bear the searing pain anymore, she took her bloody hands off the man’s stomach and fell backward, nearly propelling herself across the foyer. She turned her hands over; it felt like they were blistered, but instead she found that they were still pink and smooth. Looking up, she saw everyone in the house—Marie, Paul, Hugh, Lily, Ezra, and the man’s father—peering down at her.
In what was a true existential dissonance, the boy, his clothing soaked through with his own blood, got on his knees and stood with help from his father. So bloody were his clothes, it was impossible to imagine him living let alone walking.
The father turned to Sandra, who had made a similar slow ascension back to her feet with help from Paul. “I have heard about magical things on this ranch, but nothing like you.” He grasped her bloody hands. His were cool and Sandra was grateful to hang on to them for a moment to quench the burning of her skin.
Sandra didn’t know what to say. This was all new to her. There was silence in the room, and she couldn’t tell if she’d done the wrong thing or not. She looked at Luke, who seemed pleased but not shocked. She tried to read his expression, but he gave little away. She, however, was shocked and confused. She’d been virtually commanded to heal this boy like a parlor trick.
Seeming as stunned as Sandra, the boy pulled up his shirt. There was the appearance of a scar where the bullet had entered. It was as though the bullet had done its damage years ago, not minutes.
The father turned to Luke. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“It’s what we do here.” Luke shepherded the man and his son away from earshot and toward the door. The giant black door shut with a loud thump and Luke leaned against it. “That was fucking brilliant, Sandra.”
“That’s the shit she did to you, Ezra.” Hugh grabbed her and kissed her on the mouth. He was drunk.
“Far out.” Lily rolled her eyes. “That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some groovy shit.”
“She has,” concurred Hugh.
Only Ezra stood there, silent. Sandra met his eyes. They’d never talked about what she’d done to him, the night of the overdose. He looked stricken.
“I’m going to go and get changed.” Sandra looked down at herself, caked in blood, two handprints remaining where she’d absentmindedly wiped her hands on her dress. She staggered toward the stairs and then found the handrail and pulled herself up.
Fortunately, she had her own bathroom that included a deep claw-foot tub. Drawing herself a bath, Sandra sank down into the water. What was happening to her?
Later, as she sat on the balcony, wrapped in a bathrobe, she heard a knock at her door. Opening it, she found Luke Varner standing there.
“I wanted to check on you.” His hands were in his pockets.
She motioned for him to come in. She moved toward the bed and sat, but he leaned against the dresser instead. They were silent. Sandra didn’t know what to say anymore. Words seemed not to be as important to her as they’d once been. “What was that?”
“You just saved a man’s life.”
“How did you know that I could do that? I don’t even know how I do that.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Was it a test?”
“It was.” He sighed and looked like he wanted to say more. “What you did down there. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I hear you’re a healer, Mr. Varner. Surely you’ve seen something like it.”
“Other than me, I meant,” he added with a laugh. “No, I haven’t seen anything like that.”
“You can do this?” Sandra leaned toward him, her hands out.
“Yes.” He sighed. “But I’ve never seen you—” He stopped. “I’ve never seen anyone else do it. Can I ask? How does it work?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I can tell if someone is dying or not. It’s a scent they have. I’ve learned that I have the power to change the outcome. I coax the body into doing what I want it to do.”
“Have you always been able to do this?”
“The smell thing, yes. Ever since I was a child.” She looked down at her hands. “But the healing, that’s new. It comes through my hands, I think.” She flipped them over and studied them. “I don’t know that for sure, but they burn while I’m doing it.” She considered something.
“Anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Power of suggestion? Can you get into anyone’s mind?”
“Are you kidding?” She looked at her hands. “I think it all comes from my hands. I’ve never had a piano lesson, either. Well, not after the first one.”
“And you played like you did downstairs?”
She nodded.
“Your gift is powerful.”
“It’s not a gift. It’s a curse,” she whispered as though afraid to voice what she would say next. “I’m a freak.”
“You’re not a freak.” He smiled, sadly. “I’m sorry you’ve been made to feel that way. Welcome to Pangea, Sandra. You have a home here.” He turned toward the door and tapped his hands on wood. “And you haven’t even seen the recording studio yet.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Varner.”
“You can call me Luke.”
“Thank you, Luke.”