Read Healing Waters for Free Online Page A

off. But the helplessness was foreign. The person before me was a fraud; Sonia Cabot would never allow this tangle of catheters and hanging bags of fluids to tether her to the bed. The real Sonia would return soon, and I would be there to once again resent her for being able to light up a room merely by breathing the air.
    Now that air was bitter with the smell of her flesh, and I coned my hands to my nose behind the sterile mask. I thought she slept, but her eyes startled. Eyes that couldn’t close, couldn’t even blink, and couldn’t hide from the horror that must be etched into my face.
    â€œIt’s Lucia,” I whispered. “I’m here, sorella. ”
    She searched the ceiling for my voice.
    â€œHere.” Picking my way among the lines and catheters, I pulled myself as far onto the bed as I dared and got my face above hers. In the cap and the mask and the chalky complexion of my own fear, I was probably no more recognizable to her than she to me, but I attempted a smile. I hoped it reached my eyes and lied to her.
    She examined my face like a small child trying to decide whether to return the smile or burst into tears. If there was something I should say to take the terror away, it escaped me, and as I grasped for it, I took hold of the first words that fled past.
    â€œYou cheated death again,” I said.
    It was the phrase our father had used in our childhood when we ran in whimpering over a skinned elbow or a case of injured pride. “The good news is,” he would say, “you cheated death again.”
    Our mother would shriek, as only an Italian mother can, “Anthony Brocacini, that is a horrible thing to say!”
    â€œYou baby them too much,” Dad would shout back with equal ethnicity.
    And Sonia or I would forget our wounds and run for cover as our parents volleyed insults and clattered pans and slammed doors.
    I saw the memory now in Sonia’s eyes, a glimmer of glee before it glazed.
    â€œYou’re going to live,” I said.
    As she eased back into open-eyed sleep, I wondered if she’d want to.
    What is the matter with you, Lucia Marie? that same Italian mother would have said. You can’t let your sister hear you thinking like that.
    Her voice was a tape that shouted down my thoughts from time to time. I hadn’t heard it for a while, probably because the only time it played was when I dealt with her precious Sonia, whom our mother continued to protect, even from the grave. Usually I could bury her voice under busyness or a package of Oreos. Tonight, I could only sink under the weight of what I knew she expected of me.
    You take care of her, do you hear me? No one else understands how sensitive she is. They think she’s so strong, but you know her, Lucia Marie. You’re the only one left who does.

    When I went back to Lounge A after my shower the next morning, Georgia and the other half of the Designing Women—Francesca— had turned the place into the perfect setup for a Mary Kay party, complete with a pink tablecloth and a bouquet of tea roses. I couldn’t imagine where a person got such things at that hour of the morning.
    Marnie wafted an arm at the spread of bagels and fruit and every flavor of cream cheese and said, “We knew you’d be hungry.”
    Actually not. Seeing her took away what little appetite I had. The rest was swallowed up in her assumption that of course a woman of my weight was always ready to chow down. I just wanted a Diet Coke, and I wondered in some non sequitur way why we fat people always drank low-cal soda.
    But I couldn’t get away from the Southern hospitality.
    â€œYa’ll eat,” Georgia said. “Get you a plate, Lucy.”
    â€œLucia.” Francesca ran her eyes over the antacid-pink scrubs I’d just donned. “You haven’t even been home yet, have you?”
    All three of them were clad in versions of the same catalog-cover outfit; Marnie’s was