Miracle Woman by Marita Conlon-Mckenna

‘Was that some crazy on the line?’
    Martha nodded. She felt sick to her stomachthinking of him and the state he was in. Janet Rimaldi stared over at her and Martha made a show of looking busy. The next caller had found an injured squirrel in her yard and wanted directions to Highlands.

Chapter Eleven
    MARTHA’S MIND WAS in turmoil. Nothing could have prepared her for the demands now being made on her, and the expectation of utter strangers that she could help them. More stories had appeared in the newspaper. Lara Chadwick had tracked down two people who both claimed to have been healed by her: the student with a stammer she remembered, but for the life of her she couldn’t recall the child with a broken wrist that she was supposed to have helped.
    How could anyone believe that she – Martha Anne McGill from Easton, Massachusetts – had been blessed with the gift of healing! She was just an ordinary woman, nothing special, so why had this happened to her?
    A quiet person by nature, she was uncomfortable with so much attention and the invasion of her privacy. There were people constantly outside her home or driving up and down her street; already her neighbours were complaining. It hadgot so bad that now even in traffic she became suspicious of cars stopping beside her. The intrusion of these strangers on her family life was unbearable and at times she even worried for her children’s safety. Mike blamed her for it all, she knew that. If he had his way she would never have volunteered to help the Lucas boy and would have simply stood on the pavement with the rest of the onlookers. A thought she could not begin to countenance! Would it have made a difference? That she would never know.
    What she did know now was that she found it impossible to turn away those that came to her for help, who were in need of healing.
    â€˜You’re far too soft, Martha!’ joked Evie. ‘That’s your problem.’
    Her best friend was right. She was prepared to spend time and listen to people, and in the simple act of laying on hands experienced a power and energy for which there was no rational explanation. It was all so complicated! She stretched her fingers and hands, studying them, feeling her palms and wrists and pulse points, searching for an answer.
    She phoned Rianna Lindgard’s surgery. The receptionist told her there was a six-week waiting list excepting emergencies.
    â€˜I’m a friend of hers,’ insisted Martha.
    Moments later the girl managed to slot her in for a cancellation appointment the following day.
    Martha left the car at the station and took the T to town. Boston was a nightmare, with roads up everywhere as the planners tried to sort out the tangled mess of city traffic by building new roads, tunnels and bridges. It had been christened ‘The Big Dig’ and seemed to be going on for ever.
    It was raining lightly as she made her way towards Huntingdon Avenue, where Rianna’s surgery was situated. Two other people were already in the waiting room but the receptionist ushered her in ahead of them.
    â€˜Well, Martha, what brings you to this neck of the woods?’ asked Rianna. ‘I thought you went to Gibson Daly out near where you live.’
    â€˜We do,’ she sighed, settling herself into the ultra-modern black dental chair, which even contained a TV screen. ‘It’s just that I want your opinion on something, Rianna, and I hoped you might be able to help me.’
    â€˜Tooth trouble!’ smiled Rianna.
    Funny, she looked different in her white coat with her dark hair pinned up off her face, a little older.
    â€˜No, that’s not it.’
    â€˜Oh, gums bad?’
    â€˜No, Rianna. I should have probably phoned you, but I want to ask you a favour. Will you have a look at my hand?’
    â€˜Your hand! Are you mad? What do you want me to look at that for, have you hurt it?’
    â€˜No, Rianna, but I want to get it X-rayed.