Ada washed her hands and began her silent prayer, the one she always repeated before doing a chant. Lord, make me thy instrument. Give me strength to heal Mama’s hands. All power to you, in Holy Jesus’ name. Amen.
But something wasn’t right. Something was missing.
As she dried her hands, Ada repeated the prayer. Usually by “amen,” her hands tingled and heated up, and she knew the Spirit was in her. But now, no tingle, no warmth, nothing. Where are you, God? The question opened the flood of sound swirling inside, that immense roar that slipped along the rafters of her thoughts. For a moment, she crouched again by the barn wall and saw that burned hole in her dress, the swinging, flame-covered door. Those chained-in cows stared at her, their blue-black pupils bottomless pools deep enough to drown in.
No, she whispered, and the roar quieted. But it didn’t disappear.
Ada drew a glass of water, hands trembling. All the while she kept tamping down the rumble in her head by saying her prayer: Make me thy instrument. Help me do right. Her fingers never tingled.
Ada put down the glass and turned. Her mother lifted her head, expectant and crying, the pain, at last, surging through her body. Ada pulled a chair to sit facing her so that their knees touched.
Just do the motions. Say the chant and maybe the powwow will work.
Gently she picked up her mother’s left wrist and placed it in her lap. The hand was so raw that she whispered, “Mama!” Her mother’s eyes didn’t waver, sure of her daughter.
The skin was all charred away. Only black and red flesh remained, no pink, no blisters even, like her brother’s burn from years ago. Fluid seeped onto Ada’s lap, staining her skirt. On her mother’s palm, the worst burns formed ovals in the shape of a chain.
Ada had to close her eyes. Uncle Mark had taught her to look directly into the wound, to face the Devil, but she couldn’t. When she looked at her mother’s hand, the rumbling fire roared again. She pinched the bridge of her nose, listened to her own breathing, tried to hear God’s voice above all the din. But the rumble wouldn’t stop.
Just say the chant, she kept thinking. Just get through this. Then, God, where are you?
With her mouth inches from the wound, she whispered the secret words Uncle Mark had taught her. You just have to have faith. Have to have faith.
Ada paused to wave her right palm slowly over the burn. She leaned again and repeated the chant, lips almost kissing the wound. Three times she waved her hand over her mother’s palm, and three times she leaned in to speak directly to the fire. She told the Devil to leave this place; she asked the Lord to come heal this burn. In the quiet of the room, she heard her mother breathing, heard the mantel clock, the distant shouts and low rumble from outside. Ada knew her chant wasn’t working.
When she finished, Ada only glanced at her mother. Nothing had changed.
Then Ada went against her uncle’s teachings once more and did something she had never done before—she repeated the chant a fourth time. Again, nothing. At the very least, the chant should stop the pain, and at its best, the words sometimes even healed the flesh. But for the first time in her life, Ada couldn’t heal, couldn’t help her mother, couldn’t help anyone, not even herself. God had disappeared.
Ada placed her mother’s hand back in her lap. Soot smudged her mother’s forehead and cheek. Ada had to answer the question in her eyes.
“It isn’t working, Mama.” She stared into her lap. With the back of her hand, she wiped her tears. “It isn’t working at all, and I don’t know why.” Then she clutched her mother and sobbed on her shoulder. Her mother’s awkward hug came round her, burned hands not quite able to hold on.
4
Ada stood in the middle of the kitchen, while Uncle Mark told the medics they weren’t needed. “I’ll take care of these two.” He filled the doorway, blocking their view. The two men hesitated before turning away, and Uncle Mark closed the door behind them.
He stepped close to Ada, looked her over intently, eyed her pale face and trembling hand. “You all right?”
Ada nodded and pointed to her mother.
“Brother, I think I have some burns for you to powwow over,” her mother said. He sat before her and began whispering the chants.
Ada shuffled to the corner and sat. All she wanted was to look away, but instead she watched. Her uncle said the same chant. He paused and waved his hand over the burns. He leaned close again to whisper those sacred words, all of it just as she had done. This time, though, her mother relaxed and the pain faded.
Ada turned to stare out the window, into the darkness with its strange firelight. Stars appeared where they shouldn’t be, a vast, new emptiness right there beside her. She heard her father enter, but she didn’t get up.
“She’ll be all right,” Uncle Mark murmured when he saw Peter’s face. “She got these from the cow chains.” He spread salve on the wounds. “She won’t be able to help with the milking for a while. Or cook your supper, for that matter.”
Kate looked up, ash on her face, dark hair blown wild. “We saved them. All but Seven. At least for now. Might have to put Star and Betty down. They’re burned the worst.”
Peter said, “I’m so sorry.” He kissed her on the forehead and did the same to his daughter.
“We tried, Papa,” Ada whispered.
“I know, sweet Ady, I know.”
No, no you don’t, Papa, she thought. How could she tell him that if she hadn’t panicked, they would’ve saved Seven? And how did she tell him she couldn’t heal her mother’s hands? How did she put words to this?
She remembered the sparrow, the first time she had healed. She’d had trouble with words then, too. She was ten and had crawled into her hiding place beneath the kitchen window. The brick wall stayed cool there, that side of the three-storied house shaded by a giant catalpa. Close to the house, Ada’s mother kept lilacs and ferns, hydrangeas and peonies, and there beneath the lilacs that framed the kitchen window, Ada spent her afternoons reading and petting the soft ears of her brown-and-white beagle named Doctor.
One day, a loud thump against the glass startled her, and a second later, a small bird fell at her feet. It rested on its side, speckled breast barely moving, brown wings spread. Ada crouched beside the sparrow and watched the beak open and close and the black pool of an eye slowly grow empty. She petted its soft feathers cupped in her hand. The bird didn’t struggle, just opened its beak, while its head sagged to the side.
“Help this little bird, Lord,” Ada whispered. As she stroked its back, her hands grew tingly and her fingers buzzed with warmth. The sparrow’s heart fluttered in her palms, and slowly it lifted its neck and closed its beak. For a moment, the shiny eye peered into her, and the rest of the world blurred to just Ada and this speckled sparrow. Then she lifted her hands into the narrow opening and spread her palms. The sparrow paused before flying away. Ada saw no wings, no tail, just the swift shadow of a bird once more alive. But she had felt that heartbeat.
For the rest of that week, she carried the secret memory of the sparrow with her, touching fingers to
