The Healing by Frances Pergamo

was one syllable, with no tone in her voice, but it had the effect of a tidal surge. She was powerless to stop the force behind it. “Oh, Mike—” she said again, but this time it was a strangled sob.
    Then Karen began to weep. In the shade of the maples, where the bay breeze kissed her tears, she finally allowed her heart to purge itself. How could she reconcile all that she had just remembered with the man suffering at home? He had carried so much inside of him without burdening anyone. And now, rather than burden his family at all, he simply wanted to die.
    How could Karen look at him without falling apart? Especially now, when her most precious memories of him lay strewn around her like smoking wreckage. How could she, after recalling their first words . . . their first dance . . . their first kiss, ever let Mike gaze into the depths of her eyes and get a tragic glimpse of all they had lost? How could such a perfect husband and father become so ravaged by disease and circumstances that he was no longer the man she once knew? Over 90 percent of those who came down with MS never became so severely disabled, and they went on to live quality lives. Why not Mike?
    It was too much to bear. Karen felt like her chest was caving in as the despair exploded out of her. She sobbed until she couldn’t breathe, rocking back and forth on the bench with her knees drawn up and her head in her hands. “Oh, God,” she choked, praying for it to stop.
    Finally, the wracking sobs gave way to exhaustion. Karen didn’t lift her head from her hands for a long time; it took too much energy to move. She unfolded with a groan and let her feet drop to the ground. She opened her eyes, and the sunlight blinded her for a few seconds. Her heart jumped. A dark figure was watching her from the road.
    Karen squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. It was the woman in black. No . . . it was Grace Mitchell. Not the priestess of black magic who cast spells on giggling sisters in the middle of the night, but the dignified woman who bought tea and lunch meat at the Wayside Market.
    â€œAre you all right?” she asked.
    Karen’s brain was still sluggish. She wiped the wetness of her tears away and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Blinking to clear her vision, she looked toward the road again. The woman was still there, wearing her black linen shift and carrying her straw tote. But she wasn’t walking by like someone detached from the rest of the human race. Even with her trademark sunglasses on, Karen could tell she was gazing directly at her.
    â€œI don’t mean to intrude,” Grace said, because Karen, whose throat was raw, had yet to find her voice. “But I didn’t want to leave without asking if there’s anything I can do.”
    â€œI’ll be okay,” Karen muttered thickly. She was still trembling. “Thank you for stopping.”
    â€œYou look like you could use a cup of tea,” Grace said. Her voice had an oddly soothing tone, fitting her calm demeanor and her tendency to float by in defiance of a hurried world. “My name is Grace Mitchell, and I live in the house at the end of the road. I was just on my way home, and you’re welcome to come in and rest for a few minutes before going on your way. Maybe some tea and a splash of cold water on your face will help.”
    Karen thought she was hearing things. Was she being invited into the House of Five Gables?
    â€œOh, that’s awfully kind of you,” Karen said, “but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
    â€œIt’s no imposition, really. I’m going to fix myself some tea when I get home, and if you’d like some, just knock on my side door.”
    â€œThank you, Ms. Mitchell,” Karen said politely. “I just might take you up on that.”
    â€œI hope you do. And call me Grace.”
    Karen watched the mysterious woman, who now had a name and a