Chapter Nine
Ophelia really needed a moment. Several moments. A lifetime to digest what Mawmaw was telling her. Treating was a gift. Not just prayer and positive thinking. A real magical gift. She stood and began pacing around the room as Mawmaw watched her, amused.
“I don’t know if all magic is real, but a lot of it is, yes. I’m sure there’s so much more out there that I don’t even know. My purview into the world of magic is limited to Oakdale and other parts of Louisiana. The world is much bigger these days. More connected.”
Ophelia’s jaw hung loose. “I feel like you’re trying to tell me Santa Claus is real.”
Mawmaw barked a laugh. “Now, that I can firmly tell you is a crock of shit. But that is the thing with belief. Some believe too easily, and some not enough. People can use easy believers to their advantage, control them, fool them. People can be horrid, but people can also use their belief, their skills, or gifts for goodness. And that’s what I like to think I do with treating, and hopefully, you will too. ”
Magic is real. Where does it end, though?
What is magical and what isn’t? What folklore is real?
Witches? Necromancers? Levitators? Vampires and Werewolves?
Holy shit. Where the fuck does it end? And who knows about all this?
This isn’t real. Oh my God. Is Mawmaw crazy, and I’m momentarily buying into it? What is happening?
Mawmaw clapped her bony hands together, jolting Ophelia out of her spiral.
“Quit your panicking. Let’s get started. We only have so much time before this old lady will need a nap.”
“Sure, sure,” responded Ophelia distractedly. She sat back in the chair and decided it was best to humor her grandmother instead of pushing her and questioning her on beliefs she held long and dear.
Mawmaw reached over and took Ophelia’s hands in hers and began praying in Latin.
Ophelia was perplexed by the suddenness of her actions and tried to ease herself into the rhythm of her favorite person’s voice.
Closing her eyes along with her grandma, she listened to the alluring sounds of the prayers.
Suddenly, Mawmaw slapped Ophelia’s right hand, making her eyes shoot open.
“What!” exclaimed Ophelia.
“What are you thinking of? Nothing?”
“Well, you didn’t tell me what the hell you were doing, so yeah,” she said, cocking her head for added attitude.
A slow smile crept across Mawmaw’s wrinkly face. “For Christ’s sake, think of something happy.”
“Okay, give me a second,” said Ophelia as she closed her eyes again and shook her hands out.
Conjuring a happy thought was more difficult than she anticipated.
So much of her life recently had been filled with sadness and fear.
Her last happy memory that came to her was when she was holding sweet Theo as she and Jade strolled around Audubon Zoo.
The two friends quickly realized that Theo was far too young to enjoy any part of the zoo when he didn’t even look when the tiger roared in its exhibit.
Her mind suddenly flicked to an image of her tiger standing over her in the early hours of the morning when Delphine died.
Immediately, Mawmaw dropped her hands. Ophelia opened her eyes, locking them with Mawmaw’s amber eyes, the same color as hers.
“You have a tiger,” Mawmaw whispered, curiosity coating her words.
“I…umm…how did you know that?” Ophelia asked.
“I could feel its presence just now. You were just thinking about your protector, weren’t you?”
“Feel its presence? Like, sensed it or…can you read minds?” asked Ophelia, horrified. How far would her beliefs be stretched today?
“Calm ya’ self. It’s not like that. I can’t read minds.
Thank God. Can you imagine those poor souls who hear everyone’s thoughts?
Lord, have mercy. There was a mind reader two towns over, and I tried to help ease the voices, but he went crazy.
Ended up in some dreadful psych ward. Horrible, horrible gift. Very difficult to control.”
Ophelia just sat there, dumbfounded.
“I could feel your happiness,” Mawmaw continued.
“Sense it, really. When your protector entered your mind, I was able to feel it acutely. That doesn’t happen often, but a protector is such a massive energy that it’s easy to pick up on.
With my gift—soon to be your gift—I can sense strong feelings,” continued Mawmaw.
“But only when I lay my hands on them, though. For me, I can always feel it in my gut.” Mawmaw patted her belly.
“I can only detect strong feelings like happiness, pain, sorrow. Those types of things. And as for your protector, I have one too.”
“You do? Is your protector a tiger as well?”
“Mine is a black bear.” Mawmaw leaned forward and stared at her gravely. “This is very important, Ophelia. When did you start seeing your protector?”
“Um…I saw it once when I lived in New York, and I saw it recently. Why?” she asked with a twinge of concern.
“Have you seen your protector outside of a dream?”
Ophelia nodded in response. “Only once. The other times I was asleep—or thought I was asleep, I suppose.” She rubbed her face. This was a lot.
“Okay. Listen. If you ever see it when you are conscious again, that’s when you know you are in imminent danger. When your tiger appears in your dream, it’s trying to warn you or ward off bad spirits in your vicinity.”
“But what is it—this protector, my tiger?”
“Like I said, it’s a protector of sorts.
Some Traiteurs in Louisiana also came from Native American descent.
It’s possible through merging our families and cultures, our lineage received the animal protective spirit from them.
I’m not sure. Maybe one day you can investigate our ancestry through one of those crazy websites. ”
Ophelia nodded again, still lost in thought. “What am I being protected from?” she murmured to herself. Her heart was pounding. Her mind immediately went to the serial killer and, of course, the attack in New York.
“I don’t know, dear,” Mawmaw said, patting her long gray braid in a nervous manner. “It’s best you find out, though.”
Ophelia pressed her hand to her chest. She could feel her breath becoming shallower and her heart beating faster. “And it only shows itself when its person is in danger?”
“Pretty much, yes,” said Mawmaw, smoothing her braid over her left shoulder. “I’m not surprised that you have one. It’s common in our family, but why you are seeing it now…That is something you need…” Mawmaw trailed on, but Ophelia couldn’t hear. She stood and walked toward the door.
“I’ll be right back,” she mumbled in a daze and opened the large pocket doors of the treating room.
As she walked down the hallway and out the back door, Ophelia heard her grandmother hollering for her to come back and get her some sweet tea.
Ophelia knew that she could wait. She let the screened door slam shut and inhaled the smell of pine trees and grass as she continued walking past the garden with the birdbath, past the first line of pines, and into the woods.
The crunch of dead leaves under her sneakers was so loud, louder than any other sound.
It was all too much. Ophelia began running.
She ground her teeth and nipped at the soft inner flesh of her cheek, continuing to run farther into the woods.
An imaginary lump in her throat started to harden and swell.
She was gasping for air as a memory consumed her.
It was 5:20 a.m. on a Wednesday in December, and Ophelia arrived at the community center to unlock the door.
This was part of her weekly routine, where she would meet up with neighbors to fold and sort clothes that would be passed out to the unhoused of New York City.
Gregory, an older man who only wore khakis, always brought a thermos of coffee for the volunteer group in the morning, and the rest took turns grabbing bagels.
They were all different ages, and it made her feel like part of the community.
She quickly became a dedicated regular. And after a month of volunteering, Brian, the program coordinator, gave her an extra set of keys to the basement so she could unlock the door in the mornings. She typically arrived first anyway since she lived a stone’s throw away from the center.
The center itself was grand, built with large limestone blocks and ornate pediments graced the old glass windows, but the volunteer work was in the dark basement with thin maroon carpet.
She couldn’t explain it, but the basement always smelled like an elementary school cafeteria.
She descended the outside stairs of the basement.
Her cold hands hurt as she tried to turn the key in the lock.
It wasn’t opening, as expected, in the December chill.
She dropped her work bag on the ground, bracing herself for the trick Brian showed her.
She lifted the handle and turned the key at the same time.
Nothing. She got herself in position to try again, but with more force this time.
“Hey there, young lady. Need help?”
A man appeared at the top of the stairs. It was so early in the morning that the sun had not even risen yet. Ophelia could only make out the shape of him. Was he a new volunteer? Ophelia didn’t think she had ever met him before, but it was so dark in the stairwell.
“No thanks. It’s just the cold weather sticking the door.”
Ophelia didn’t turn back around. He took a step down into the stairwell. She froze. The air changed.
“Are you a new volunteer?” she asked. Her heart rate picked up, and the hairs on her arms raised, and her entire world narrowed to the man in front of her. She knew on a molecular, biological level that he was a predator. He meant harm.
“Sure am,” he said and casually strolled down the steps, reaching Ophelia on the landing.
He was no volunteer. He looked haggard. Not poverty-stricken but strung out. His jeans were dirty, and his gray hair was standing up like he had run his hands through it from stress.