Fables & Other Lies

“Forget what?”

“Burdens from their trauma. It’s not our place to ask those questions.”

Our place meaning hers and the long line of women who came before her. Outsiders called them healers; the locals called them witches. It didn’t come with the negative context that word often carried. My grandmother had helped many people. Her mother helped even more, but that was before we had doctors and nurses and hospitals. Even so, a lot of people still visited our house to seek treatment when they were out of options. It was something Wela passed down to my mother and that was where it stopped. Maybe if I hadn’t been kicked out of the house and left the island I’d have followed the same lineage of work. Maybe if I hadn’t found luck and a way to make a living in my own way. Maybe, but probably not, because unlike my mother and hers and hers, I questioned everything.

“So what does Papi’s death mean?” I asked after a moment. “It makes no sense. Mami is really ill. Papi died. Shouldn’t she be well? What does the doctor say? Have you even called him or have you been working your miracles on her instead of listening to science?”

“Of course, she’s been seen by a doctor. He has found nothing. He said it’s likely she’s shut down because of the experience.”

“So, she’s not ill then, not really. How would any of those leaves help her?”

“Like I said, they heal every wound—physical, mental, everything.”

“This is all so antiquated. We’re not in the seventeenth century. If she’s having a psychiatric break, she should be in a hospital.”

My grandmother pursed her lips. “There’s a nurse monitoring her day and night. You’d know that if you bothered to step foot in her room.”

“That’s not fair.” I felt a flush of anger creeping up my neck.

“Life doesn’t care about fairness. We live, we suffer, we die.” She met my gaze. “You’ve been afforded more than most. More than all of us. You’ve had peace and health and happiness. You’ve had freedom. And yet you sit here speaking about fairness?”

I bit my tongue, unable to keep my eyes from burning. I hated when she lectured at me, but she was damn good at it, I’d give her that. We were both quiet for a moment, respectively brewing.

“As for the meaning behind your father’s death,” she said. “I don’t know. My theory is that the island wanted you back.”

“What?” I stopped breathing. “Me?”

“I think that was the reason for your father’s death.” She searched my eyes, as if looking for some kind of confirmation I didn’t have. “I think it has unfinished business with you, and I don’t know what it is, but my intuition says that you bargained with the Devil the night you sat in his chair, and now he’s brought you back to collect.”

“Did you see that in your tea?” I glanced at the cup beside her.

“Maybe. Not that you’d believe it if I did.”

“It’s kind of hard not to question that. An island isn’t a person. It can’t possibly need anything from me.”

“An island is a piece of land like any other. All of our ancestors rest beneath our feet. Don’t you think they have power?”

“If they did, why would they let my father die like that? And my mother . . . ” I shook my head, standing from the table, heart pounding. “I don’t believe in witchcraft and you know it.”

“What I do with this tea is not witchcraft, Penelope. You know that as well as I do. I’m a Catholic, after all.”

“I don’t know what you people believe anymore.” I began picking up the plates and taking them over to the area of the sink.

“Leave the plates.”

“I’m going to set them here.”

I just needed something to do. Someone would wash them. Not me or Wela, but one of the staff. Picking up my own plate and washing it was something I didn’t start doing until after I left the island. I’d been so spoiled when I lived here, with my nannies and maids. It wasn’t a big to-do, either. Even my maids had maids and my nannies had nannies. Normally, I’d take a moment to get to know them, but I’d decided that this trip I wasn’t going to tie myself to anyone. I was here to say my goodbyes, my final goodbyes.

“Let me read your tea,” she said.

“No.” I stopped what I was doing and looked at her. “You know that makes me uneasy.”

“Uneasiness is a reflection of the state of your spirit.”

“My spirit is fine, thank you very much.” I crossed my arms, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Your spirit is tied to this island, and the island has been uneasy for some time now. Maybe that was why you had to come back. Maybe you’re here to get those leaves and cure your mother. To right a wrong.”