light on either Ms. B's face or her scarred body.
"Look at me," Emily snapped. "These marks are from burns. They're part of who I am. You don't insult me by seeing them. You insult me by wanting not to see them."
Gwen blinked. She had spent her entire life around people who had wanted her to be different from what she was. She gulped and met Ms. B's eyes.
"Again," the woman said. "Why do you think the water heals some people and not others?"
"Why do you want to know?" Gwen countered, folding her arms defiantly over her chest. "Are you looking for advice?"
Ms. B's eyes widened, then crinkled into a deep, quiet smile that Gwen recognized and appreciated. "No," she said, "I am not, thanks all the same. Actually, I am interested in learning how you think. If you think."
Gwen inhaled sharply. She had not frightened the woman with her attitude. Ms. B had not grown suddenly insecure and ordered her out of her presence.
"Well?"
No one had ever spoken to her this way. As if what she said mattered, if only as an intellectual exercise. "Some people think the water's magic," she said tentatively.
"Do you?"
"I don't know. It might be. That is, it may only work if you believe it does. Deep down, that is. Some people act like skeptics, but they really believe. Or want to."
"Do you think I don't believe?"
Gwen shrugged. "I don't know. I can't think for you, Ms. B."
Emily sat back. Gwen feltâknewâthat she had gone too far. She liked this woman. But, as usual, she had blown all possibility of making contact with Ms. B by a useless show of bravado.
"I... I didn't mean that," she said, feeling stupid.
"Mean what?" Ms. B asked crisply. "That you can't think for me?" She cocked her head. Her expression was that of someone engaged in an interesting conversation. Which was to say, she was not smiling, but neither was she visibly angry. "I would say that, with that comment, you have shown me that you possess a teachable mind."
Two hectic spots of color rose in Gwen's cheeks. "Can I come back tomorrow?" she asked.
Emily Blessing smiled. "Anytime," she said.
T hat evening, Emily thought about children. She had heard about Gwen Ranier and her unfortunate mother, and could see for herself the direction the girl's rebellion had taken. Mothers were of paramount importance to the development of their offspring, she thought, whether they did anything or not.
She stayed awake all that night, as she did many nights, fighting off the memories of another child. For Emily had once been offered the chance to be a mother, even though her body had not borne an infant. She had once had a boy to raise. And she had failed that boy utterly.
The last time she saw Arthur had been four years before, in a hotel in Tangier, Morocco. She had only caught a glimpse of his face before the fire that would nearly claim her life had broken out. He was there, waiting to see her, and she was walking over to him, nervous, anxious, excited...
They had never made contact. The fire had swooped into the room like an army of avenging angels, spreading destruction and terror in a heartbeat. The ceiling had fallen; the people inside the building had run, screaming, in all directions. Emily had fallen and been trampled by the mob. She woke up days later in a hospital room, looking like some nightmare beast.
Afterward, during the long months of her painful recuperation, she had seen Arthur on television, delivering some sort of apocalyptic message. But Emily had paid no attention to what he said. It was enough to know that he was alive. She had reached for the phone then, determined to find him somehow. He was alive! Arthur had made it out of the fire without a scratch.
She put down the phone. Yes, she thought soberly, he was alive.
And he had chosen not to find her.
She could not blame him. Emily was not Arthur's real mother. She had come to be his guardian by default after her sister had been thoughtless enough to kill herself before her child was weaned,
"Look at me," Emily snapped. "These marks are from burns. They're part of who I am. You don't insult me by seeing them. You insult me by wanting not to see them."
Gwen blinked. She had spent her entire life around people who had wanted her to be different from what she was. She gulped and met Ms. B's eyes.
"Again," the woman said. "Why do you think the water heals some people and not others?"
"Why do you want to know?" Gwen countered, folding her arms defiantly over her chest. "Are you looking for advice?"
Ms. B's eyes widened, then crinkled into a deep, quiet smile that Gwen recognized and appreciated. "No," she said, "I am not, thanks all the same. Actually, I am interested in learning how you think. If you think."
Gwen inhaled sharply. She had not frightened the woman with her attitude. Ms. B had not grown suddenly insecure and ordered her out of her presence.
"Well?"
No one had ever spoken to her this way. As if what she said mattered, if only as an intellectual exercise. "Some people think the water's magic," she said tentatively.
"Do you?"
"I don't know. It might be. That is, it may only work if you believe it does. Deep down, that is. Some people act like skeptics, but they really believe. Or want to."
"Do you think I don't believe?"
Gwen shrugged. "I don't know. I can't think for you, Ms. B."
Emily sat back. Gwen feltâknewâthat she had gone too far. She liked this woman. But, as usual, she had blown all possibility of making contact with Ms. B by a useless show of bravado.
"I... I didn't mean that," she said, feeling stupid.
"Mean what?" Ms. B asked crisply. "That you can't think for me?" She cocked her head. Her expression was that of someone engaged in an interesting conversation. Which was to say, she was not smiling, but neither was she visibly angry. "I would say that, with that comment, you have shown me that you possess a teachable mind."
Two hectic spots of color rose in Gwen's cheeks. "Can I come back tomorrow?" she asked.
Emily Blessing smiled. "Anytime," she said.
T hat evening, Emily thought about children. She had heard about Gwen Ranier and her unfortunate mother, and could see for herself the direction the girl's rebellion had taken. Mothers were of paramount importance to the development of their offspring, she thought, whether they did anything or not.
She stayed awake all that night, as she did many nights, fighting off the memories of another child. For Emily had once been offered the chance to be a mother, even though her body had not borne an infant. She had once had a boy to raise. And she had failed that boy utterly.
The last time she saw Arthur had been four years before, in a hotel in Tangier, Morocco. She had only caught a glimpse of his face before the fire that would nearly claim her life had broken out. He was there, waiting to see her, and she was walking over to him, nervous, anxious, excited...
They had never made contact. The fire had swooped into the room like an army of avenging angels, spreading destruction and terror in a heartbeat. The ceiling had fallen; the people inside the building had run, screaming, in all directions. Emily had fallen and been trampled by the mob. She woke up days later in a hospital room, looking like some nightmare beast.
Afterward, during the long months of her painful recuperation, she had seen Arthur on television, delivering some sort of apocalyptic message. But Emily had paid no attention to what he said. It was enough to know that he was alive. She had reached for the phone then, determined to find him somehow. He was alive! Arthur had made it out of the fire without a scratch.
She put down the phone. Yes, she thought soberly, he was alive.
And he had chosen not to find her.
She could not blame him. Emily was not Arthur's real mother. She had come to be his guardian by default after her sister had been thoughtless enough to kill herself before her child was weaned,
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