Chapter Twenty Four
It was not difficult for Ophelia to stay awake during mass.
Her body ached against the hardwood of the pew, and when she knelt, she could feel her joints crumbling, her bones grinding.
One second of pain, my ass. Her mind wandered during mass like any good Catholic, not that Ophelia was remotely that.
She needed to text Etienne to thank him and ask for his advice on all things treating.
She really needed to figure out how she was going to use her new gift. Perhaps he could help.
She’d also need his help in navigating the social aspects of being magical. Was that even what people said—that they are magical or they have magic? There had to be some type of commonly used phrase amongst those with “extra abilities.”
Mass thankfully passed quickly, and before she knew it, the priest and the altar servers were processing up the aisle.
She and Mawmaw were slowly following the crowd to the exit.
They shuffled to the door while Mawmaw stopped every minute to greet a friend and introduce Ophelia as the family’s new Traiteur.
One middle-aged woman with red hair gently leaned into Mawmaw as they walked and whispered something to her.
Mawmaw smiled softly and then mumbled something in response.
They finally made their way back to the old Lincoln, and Ophelia helped Mawmaw in the passenger side.
“Well, hun,” said Mawmaw as Ophelia started the car, “you’ve got ya’self your first patient.”
“Really?” exclaimed Ophelia. “Already?”
“Yep, that lady in the navy-blue car is gonna follow us back home. Her name is Carrie. Sweet gal.”
“Did she tell you what was wrong?”
“Nah, she just said she needed help.”
The navy car followed Ophelia to the Pine House.
Carrie stepped out of her car, and Ophelia took note of her thin frame.
She could tell that the woman was once beautiful, stunning even.
Her hair was naturally vibrant with soft waves, and her features were delicate against enviably creamy, smooth skin.
But her gauntness dimmed her beauty. She lacked the roundness of someone who ate regularly and managed stress well.
No, this woman was struggling, and it showed everywhere.
Ophelia smiled at her and waved as she got Mawmaw out of the car.
“Carrie,” called Mawmaw. “Let’s go inside. This is my granddaughter, Ophelia, my namesake.”
Carrie returned Ophelia’s smile and timidly said hello as she followed the pair into the Pine House.
“Ophelia, will you get us some sweet tea, honey?” asked Mawmaw.
Ophelia noted the calm and kind way Mawmaw spoke, an unusual tone for her.
She was trying to put Carrie at ease and also get Ophelia out of the room for a moment.
Ophelia understood. Carrie trusted Mawmaw, not Ophelia…
not yet, at least. Attempting to give them more privacy, Ophelia took her time with the iced tea, carefully slicing the lemon and placing them on the edge of the glass like they do at nicer restaurants in New Orleans.
“Ophelia?” hollered Mawmaw. “Did you forget your way back to the living room?”
Well, that sweet voice of hers sure was short-lived.
Ophelia sashayed back to the living room while balancing the three glasses on a tray.
“Apologies for the delay, madam,” she said in a nasal-y voice with a horrible British accent. “Your tea.” Ophelia bent at the waist, offering her grandmother iced tea on a tray. Mawmaw snickered and grabbed a glass. Carrie followed suit, suppressing a smile.
“Now, I’ve explained to Carrie that I am no longer treating but that you are. She is open to you treating her, but she requires the utmost discretion.”
“Of course.” Ophelia nodded seriously. Confidentiality was something Mawmaw discussed with her. It was very important for Traiteurs to respect the privacy of those they treat, an unspoken rule of the trade, like not accepting money for service.
The three women stared at each other with discomfort, and Mawmaw pointedly looked at Ophelia as if to say, “You’re in charge now, go!”
Ophelia took a swig of her iced tea and set it on the side table in the living room next to Mawmaw’s recliner.
“Carrie, will you follow me into the treating parlor?”
The two women walked into the dark room.
Ophelia felt an immediate change. Her senses were heightened.
She could smell each individual spice of the incense in the room.
The dust particles dancing off the sunlight in the room were more brilliant than ever.
Ophelia brought Carrie to the side chair and asked her to sit.
Ophelia went through the ritual of lighting the candles and calming her mind.
She pulled the extra chair toward Carrie and sat down so that they were facing each other. This was it. She was going to treat for the first time on her own. A rush of energy rolled through her.
“Carrie, how can I help you?”
“I…I…I have a UTI,” whispered Carrie.
“Oh, okay. Well, those are super common and easy to treat with over-the-counter medicine. How long have you had it?”
“A week.” Carrie looked so ashamed, and Ophelia couldn’t fathom why. It was just a UTI.
“Carrie,” said Ophelia gently. “It’s okay.
It’s truly nothing to be embarrassed about.
Women get UTIs all the time. You can get them from not peeing after sex or holding your pee for too long, and some women get them easier than others.
Just depends.” Ophelia shrugged. “I myself have had a handful of them.”
A sob burst from Carrie, and Ophelia’s eyes rounded in shock. Oh my God, what did I say? Carrie was heaving tears as she buried her face in her hands.
“Carrie, Carrie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please tell me what’s wrong.”
“No, no, it’s not you. It’s me. I’m a horrible, horrible person.” Snot dripped down her nose and sat on the bow of her lip, threatening to spill over.
“Shh…” Ophelia gently stroking Carrie’s arm to calm her. “You’re okay. You’re okay. We’re gonna get you all fixed up, okay. You’re not a horrible person. I can assure you of that.”
In truth, Ophelia didn’t know that, but she knew it was what Carrie needed to hear. Besides, Ophelia could feel the great emotional pain Carrie was holding by touching her arm. She also sensed a lot of physical discomfort. The poor woman needed help.
Ophelia grabbed a cloth from under the altar and offered it to her. Carrie graciously took it and wiped away her snot and tears.
“Carrie, let’s take one thing at a time. I’m going to treat you first, and then we’ll talk. Can I place my hand on your lower abdomen?” Ophelia scooted closer to Carrie, and the red-haired woman nodded, trying to stifle her tears.
“Okay, you good? I can start now if you’re okay with it?”
“Yes, I am. Go ahead.” Carrie was a brave, trusting woman. Ophelia knew in her heart she was not horrible.
Ophelia placed her right hand on Carrie’s lower abdomen and felt its soft swell.
She closed her eyes, cleared her mind, and focused on her own breath.
Ophelia could feel her pain, but not in the literal sense like she did during the transfer.
It was more like an empathetic feeling. A pull on her heart.
An instinct that said when, where, and how this woman was in pain.
The mild pain from the weeklong UTI was dragging on Carrie mentally and emotionally, but Ophelia knew enough to understand that something else was going on.
However, she proceeded with the treatment.
Calm washed over her as she pulled on that internal string.
The gift that she had felt before in her had bloomed into something larger and powerful and…
brilliant. She imagined white light pulsing within her, and she poured that healing light into Carrie.
It felt like giving the perfect gift to your best friend.
She was so excited to see Carrie’s reaction.
Ophelia opened her eyes as Carrie let out a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, thank you,” Carrie whispered with her eyes closed. Her face was relaxed, and her body sat easily in the wingback chair.
She’d treated someone for the first time on her own, and not only had it been fairly easy, it felt wonderful. Like she had a purpose. Ophelia beamed, and a tear of relief rolled down Carrie’s pale and sunken cheek.
“Anytime.” Ophelia smiled, patted her hand, and stood.
“Now, go to the pharmacy in town and get a pack of those cranberry pills. The generic brand should do it. They turn your pee a bright orange. It’s crazy, but yeah, take them, and it’ll help flush out the bacteria.
I was able to take away your discomfort, reduce inflammation, and rid you of any surface-level bacteria, but you know how it goes, I can’t cure you from ever getting them again.
These UTIs can be nasty and recurrent. Have you gotten them before? ”
Carrie nodded.
“Okay, just stay on top of it with the cranberry pills, and if it gets worse, I recommend going to an urgent care or your primary care physician for some antibiotics.”
Carrie erupted into a sob again.
“Carrie, what’s going on?” Ophelia said gently. “You can trust me.”
“My…my husband isn’t very nice, and I have found someone else who…
is nice. And, and I want to leave my husband, but I can’t.
” Carrie let out a single sniffle and used the cloth to wipe her face.
“The kids, ya know? And the last time I had a UTI, my husband found out ’cause his stupid friend works at the doctor’s, and he accused me of being a whore.
He...” Carrie stumbled, looking for the right words to say.
“Well, I’m sure you can guess what he did.
But he wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t. I love another, I do, and yet I can’t leave him. ”
Ophelia sighed. “I’m sorry that happened to you.
That friend of his at the doctor’s office is a jerk and an idiot.
Urinary tract infections are not sexually transmitted diseases.
There are many ways they can be contracted.
” Ophelia thought for a moment, then asked, “Have you been to the women’s shelter before? ”
“No. I know I should…” Carrie trailed off, never finishing her thought. Ophelia knew there was no excuse that would make sense said out loud.
Ophelia nodded and held Carrie’s hand. Of course, Carrie could call the cops, but maybe her husband had friends at the police too. Small towns were like that. If he had a lot of friends in Oakdale, there would be no bounds to his influence.
Perhaps she was hesitant because of money. Lawyers were expensive. She was clearly afraid of her husband, and a divorce would mean constant fear of physical retaliation or potentially losing custody of her children.
Ophelia wanted to fix all these problems for her, but knew that she couldn’t. She also knew that it could take multiple attempts for women in domestic violence situations to leave.
“Tell you what. I’m going to give you my cell number. I live in NOLA, but if you start to feel bad again, call me. I have a way to get some antibiotics, and I can bring some in for you.”
That was a lie. She did not have a way to get antibiotics, but she would figure it out.
Perhaps she could ask Etienne for a script.
She doubted he would entertain that. She could always go to the doctor herself and feign UTI symptoms. She’d commit small crimes so this woman wouldn’t get beat black and blue again.
Carrie left shortly after she was treated and had Ophelia’s cell number tucked into the pocket on the inside of her purse, hidden between the folds of a gas station receipt. Ophelia hoped that she would call her if she needed it.