Chapter Eight
The next morning, Ophelia woke later than she had anticipated, rolling out of bed at nine. Mawmaw was already dressed and sitting in her recliner downstairs, tapping away on her iPad.
“Well, good morning,” Mawmaw grunted, looking over the tops of her silver-rimmed reading glasses. “’Bout time.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize I was so tired,” Ophelia said, stifling a yawn and plopping down on the tweed couch.
“No matter. I had things to do this morning anyway.”
Lucille walked into the living room and hovered next to Ophelia. “Ophelia, honey,” Lucille said, gently touching her shoulder. “Your aunt Susan told me you would be taking care of your grandma today. I’ll come in tonight for bedtime, but I’ve left my number on the fridge if you have any questions.”
Ophelia nodded with a smile.
“Finally,” Mawmaw said, exasperated. “I’ve been waiting for the helicopter to leave.”
Ophelia let out a snort. “Well, tell me how you really feel.”
“What?” asked Mawmaw incredulously. “Lucille is nice, but she doesn’t have a sense of humor. Plus, she fusses at me for cussin’.”
“Good fucking riddance,” Ophelia joked.
“You’re too late for breakfast, but there is coffee in the kitchen,” said Mawmaw. “Grab some quickly. We need to get started.”
Ophelia made herself a cup with a healthy dose of milk and sugar.
When she returned to the living room with her mug, Mawmaw set down her iPad, and her recliner creaked slowly forward.
It took an uncomfortably long time for the recliner to be upright.
Reaching out, she shook her bony hands at Ophelia.
Ophelia took the cue, got up from the couch, and adjusted the walker to be within reach of her grandmother.
She gently held Mawmaw’s elbows as she guided her to the walker, feeling her skin move loosely around her bones.
“To the parlor,” said Mawmaw. Ophelia walked them across the hallway to the treating parlor, where Mawmaw used her Traiteur gift to treat her patients.
The room was always closed off by two heavy French doors.
In fact, Ophelia had never been in the room.
As a child, she was never allowed in, and as an adult, she never thought to ask to see it. It was hallowed ground.
“I can’t believe I finally get to see what’s in this mysterious parlor you’ve been hiding my whole life.”
Ophelia opened the French doors, and the smell of dust that lingered throughout the house mixed with the scent of spicy incense tickled the hairs of her nostrils. All the curtains in the room were closed, and Ophelia could hardly see what was in front of her.
“Where are the lights?” she asked.
“On the wall to the right.”
Ophelia felt along the fabric wallpaper.
She found the switch and flicked on the lights.
Her eyes hurt from the sudden brightness in the room, and as she adjusted, a beacon of gold pulsed from the center of the room.
An ornate, gold altar sat in the center of the room, illuminating more of the parlor than the cloudy overhead chandelier.
It looked to be an altar that could be found in any renowned Catholic Church in Italy or France.
She moved toward it and grazed her fingertips across the cool gold.
She couldn’t believe that this venerable platform was here and that Mawmaw had hidden it this whole time.
On the right side of the room was a wood-carved exam table; she assumed it was used for treating.
Marble statues of saints cluttered the room on shelves along with beautiful paintings of old Louisiana landscapes.
There was an antique wingback chair in the corner where Ophelia guided Mawmaw to sit down, and Ophelia sat in a high-back chair, facing her grandmother.
“Welp.” Mawmaw cleared her throat. “This is where I treat people.”
“It’s gorgeous. Why haven’t you ever let me see this before?”
“It’s private,” she said with no further explanation.
“This altar is just…Where did you get it?”
“My grandmother, who got it from her grandmother. It’s been around. Do you want it?”
Before she could respond, Mawmaw let out a cackle, clearly amused by a joke that Ophelia didn’t understand. Ophelia stared at her, waiting for her to finish her laughing fit.
“All right. Let’s get to work. None of your other family members can do this, so let’s hope you can.”
Ophelia huffed. “Great. But you’re going to need to explain everything to me. I basically know nothing about being a Traiteur, and I have so many questions.”
“Mmm, yes, I suppose your mother didn’t speak much of it to you, right?”
“Not at all, really. I know you heal people through prayer, and I remember you healing Jack and me when we got hurt over the summers.”
“Oh yes, you two were so mischievous.”
“Why don’t I know more, though? I guess I just accepted it for what it was and never asked questions when I was younger.”
Mawmaw sighed deeply and stretched her long legs in the chair, then curled them back in place.
“Well, there is a level of discretion and privacy with being a Traiteur. For instance, we do not advertise our gift of healing. We can talk about it, tell people directly, but we can’t broadcast it.
We can also only treat those who ask for it.
And, well, your mom and your aunt Susan definitely had chips on their shoulders about it. ”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, who knows! Those girls hated waiting after church on Sundays for me to listen to everyone’s ailments, and oftentimes I made them sit quietly when the sick were here being treated. They were young and impatient. I’m sure they were a little embarrassed by me.”
Maybe that embarrassment was what Jack was referring to? She dug further. “Why on earth would they be embarrassed? It’s so cool. I would have wanted to tell everyone about it.”
“Just kid stuff, ya know? Embarrassed teens. Some kid said I was a witch and that Susan and Clara must be witches too, and they had warts and whatever other mean things children say.”
Ophelia was satisfied with that answer. She was starting to believe Jack, the evangelical, was the one with the problem.
Ophelia took a deep breath. She desperately wanted to learn, but she was never going to be religious, and she had no support or community to treat. It all felt like something she should learn because it was her history, not so much something she could actually practice.
“Mawmaw, you have no idea just how special this is to me, but I want to be very transparent about my relationship with the Catholic Church. I know treating has a lot to do with Catholicism and prayer. But I’m not religious.
As in, I don’t go to Catholic mass, and I don’t believe in or practice the church’s teachings—or really any religion’s teachings.
” She paused, taking in Mawmaw’s neutral expression, then continued.
“And, truthfully, I don’t know what I believe.
I’d like to think that there is a god, but I don’t know.
So I just try to find acceptance in the fact that I don’t know, and I probably will never know while I exist on this earth. ”
Mawmaw smirked. “My girl, religion and God are what you make of it. Some use it to find purpose and peace in their life. Perhaps a way to find community. Then there are those that use religion and God to punish people and commit evil doings. But me…” Her smile deepened. “I use it as a construct for treating.”
“A construct?”
“You do not need to believe in a specific religion or god to treat. There are Traiteurs around the world. Many aren’t called that, but their gifts are similar.
Delphine had similar gifts, in fact—not exactly the same, but close.
However, the Cajun Catholic community embraced our ancestors and their healing abilities.
Catholicism served our ancestors very well—they were instantly part of a community, and they had the protection of the Catholic Church.
Which was a benefit for Traiteurs who had been historically shunned for sorcery or black magic. ”
Ophelia released a breath. “So do you believe in God? In the Catholic Church?”
“Baby, I’m old school. I believe, and I don’t like to go digging around too much to ruffle those beliefs. You, on the other hand, can do what you like. You’re young and curious. That’s good.” She squeezed Ophelia’s hand.
“Okay, then if I don’t need to believe in the church and I can question religion, I’m in.”
Ophelia’s mind reeled. So if treating wasn’t strictly a religious thing, then what was it?
“You look like you’re struggling over there,” said Mawmaw.
“But…but how does treating work? It can’t just be something I simply inherit. I just thought it was all the power of prayer and positive thinking. Is that it? If someone believes enough in your treating, they will be healed?”
“Possibly. Maybe. Sure, why not?” Mawmaw shrugged.
“Well, hold on. Let me clarify something. Treating is not the same as curing. It’s important you understand that.
Traiteurs cannot cure humans of diseases, disorders, viruses, or infections.
But what we can do is rid the human body of symptoms. So if someone has chronic migraines, my specialty, I cannot cure them of never having a migraine again.
But I can rid them of the pain they are experiencing at that moment and make their suffering less. ”
“I understand.” Ophelia paused for a moment.
She needed more information. This still wasn’t making sense.
“But let’s go back to this positive thinking piece and belief thing.
Are you saying it’s just about believing that I can heal someone and that person believing I can?
You know, the whole ‘you can do anything if you believe in yourself’ thing? ”
“Baby, belief is everything. A whole new world can open to you if you believe.”
“Okay…So it’s about believing, which means anyone could heal someone else? If they just believed and learned the prayers?”
“No.” Mawmaw sighed reluctantly. “I figured someone of your generation would have a harder time with this. It’s a gift.
Being a Traiteur is a gift. Our family—specifically the women in our family—typically carry the gift.
It can pass over a generation sometimes.
Your mother and aunt never really took to it.
But I always had this feeling you would. ”
“A gift,” repeated Ophelia.
“I fear I’m going to have to spell this out to you.
Think about it, Ophelia. Jesus turning water into wine, canonized saints that performed miracles, the fortune teller in Jackson Square accurately predicting fortunes, the local witchy woman casting spells.
If one of these things is accepted by society as fact, why can’t they all be? Aren’t they all the same?”
Ophelia’s head ached. It was as if Mawmaw had been tapping away at her psyche with a pick, and it finally shattered. She imagined picking up the pieces of her mind and putting them back together, but not in the same pattern. It was becoming something new.
“I’ve always wondered that. I guess some people would say that some of those examples are influenced by the ‘devil’ and are fake,” she said, using air quotes.
“Mmm,” hummed Mawmaw. “A lot of that is prejudice at its finest. But what is the devil but people acting horribly? People do horrible things and proclaim it was in God’s name.
So whether your gift is seen as godly or not, doesn’t really matter.
Bad people will always exist. People have gifts, and it’s how they use them that makes them good or bad. ”
“I’m sorry, but what are you trying to say exactly?” asked Ophelia suspiciously. She couldn’t mean what Ophelia thought she meant…could she?
Mawmaw just looked at her with raised eyebrows, encouraging her to say it out loud.
“You think magic is real.”