CHAPTER TWO

 

Dr. Harold Svenson was neither wizard nor witch, although he was developing more familiarity with the witch community than he ever could have imagined. After Lilith Hazelwood, the town’s most powerful witch, had died, the transplant specialist had taken possession of her organs, and one by one, he was making sure that her body parts were put to miraculous life-changing use through organ transplantation.

The miraculous nature of these transplants had little to do with the doctor, talented as he was. They had everything to do with the witch’s remarkable body, powerful, even in death, as one operation after another had demonstrated.

Her organs were infused with magic, and the power they contained was transmitted to the transplant patient. Defying all laws of biology and compatibility, the witch’s organs were a universally accepted match for all donors.

Dr. Svenson was a kindly white-haired man in his mid-sixties. His assistant, Ruby Townsend, was a sweet, earnest young woman in her mid-twenties. She was in complete awe of her boss and of the results of these transformative transplants. On this occasion, the two of them were huddled with Jeremy, in a secluded corner of the hospital’s transplant wing. It was a conversation that demanded the highest degree of secrecy.

“She says that she’s a hard bone marrow match. But I recalled you saying that didn’t really matter for the other transplants. Do you think you can help her?” Jeremy inquired hopefully.

“The organs of the witch have never failed. I think your friend will be on her feet before the end of the week.”

Jeremy was heartened by the doctor’s confidence. He had every reason to trust Dr. Svenson’s judgment, as his own girlfriend, Mayor Wanda Macomber, was herself one of Lilith Hazelwood’s organ beneficiaries.

 “What about chemo?” Ruby inquired.

“That is standard procedure. But I don’t know if it is necessary,” Dr. Svenson mused. “I suspect not.”

“You take care of her, Doc,” Jeremy warned. If anyone could use a break, it’s her.”

“Is she in a lot of pain?” Ruby asked sadly.

“I think so. Although she’s never much for sharing. She’s a real hermit, you know. I don’t think that she’s left her apartment for a couple of years. She just kinda gave up on being part of the world. But smart. Uber smart. And a bit of a pessimist. But why wouldn’t she be?”

“After the operation, I wonder what she’s going to be like?”

“She’ll be happier, should be healthier, and she will be able to walk. That is the most important thing,” Dr. Svenson replied.

“But what else should be able to do? All of Lilith Hazelwood’s donors became very special after their transplants. Is she going to . . . be able to fly?”

“Lilith Hazelwood’s organs do not turn them into birds.”

“But it does turn them into something special. I wouldn’t mind if I were a bit more . . . special.”

“And what life-threatening disability would you like to suffer to qualify for such a transplant?” the doctor scolded.

Jeremy smiled at a chastened Ruby. “The mayor likes you fine just the way you are.”

“Do you always call her the mayor?”

“Always. She sure earned it. Speaking of whom, I have a date for dim sum. So, if you’ll excuse me. Good luck with Martine. And Ruby, she doesn’t really have any friends. Maybe you could keep an eye on her.”

Ruby nodded solemnly, and Jeremy made his departure.

The doctor turned to Ruby. “Ready to make a house call?”

*****

How had Jeremy and Dr. Svenson found a donor with no more difficulty than finding a date on Tinder? As Martine lay on the operating table, her mind was swirling with gratitude and disbelief. Was it really possible that a true bone marrow match had been found for her after all these years? That her lifelong sickliness and debilitating pain were about to vanish? That she was eventually going to be able to walk again? Walk again. Walk again. Walk again. The words revolved over and over again in her mind as she succumbed to the anesthesia.

But wait a minute! The anesthesia hadn’t worked properly. In a haze, Martine saw the doctor hovering over her and panicked at the thought of being operated on before she was fully unconscious.

“Don’t . . . do the operation. Not yet. I’m not ready,” she said weakly.

“The operation is over, Ms. Cadet. And it went quite well. I’ve taken the new blood samples and will receive the results very shortly. Take deep breaths and sit up as soon as you’re able.”

Martine groggily obeyed. The operation was over? But she had only closed her eyes for a few seconds. It almost seemed like someone was playing a prank on her.

Lilith Hazelwood’s ghost made a point of attending all of these transplant operations. After all, it was her organs that were being doled out like potatoes at a food pantry. By rights, she should have had say over what was done with them. But as a ghost, her powers were limited. In life, they had been vast. No other witch in Oyster Cove had more than a fraction of her awesome abilities, and she had reveled in her superiority.

In death, she was driven by one obsessive goal—to discover who was behind her demise and how to inflict the most painful and explicitly gratifying vengeance on them. She would not rest until it was done. But she would need earthly assistance for such a mission, from someone with formidable powers who was also beholden to her. One of these transplant witches. They owed her their life. They owed her.

Martine Cadet now had her very bones, the most basic foundation of the body and the powers that resided deep inside her, although how they would manifest themselves, Lilith could not be sure. She would have to keep an eye on this latest beneficiary to assess her usefulness toward the goal of revenge.

Martine was wide awake now, legs dangling over the edge of the hospital bed, still in her hospital gown.

“All right, my dear. I have a very busy day scheduled, so I think that we are done here. I will give you a call tomorrow afternoon about the blood results. For now, you can go home.”

“Okay, but . . . how am I going to get home? Are you going to call that van transport for me?”

“You’re going to stand up right now. And then you’re going to walk home,” the doctor said, with more certainty that he actually possessed. “Stand up. Right now.”

Stand up? What about a walker? What about rehab? Martine didn’t much feel like crashing to the floor on her weak, unreliable legs. But Dr. Svenson was fairly insistent. So, she gingerly scooted her way to the edge of the bed and gripped the edge of the bedside table, pulling herself to her feet in one frantic burst of energy.

“Excellent. Now, let go of the table and come here to me.”

Martine could barely hear him. She was completely fixated on the thing that was missing—the complete absence of pain. It was gone. Vanished, without a single lingering ache remaining. Almost involuntarily, she began to move her feet, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. No pain, no pain, no pain! She kept shuffling her weight from one foot to the other until she found herself right in front of Dr. Svenson. She had just walked! She could walk!

Though they were relative strangers to one another, Martine and Dr. Svenson fell together in a joyous embrace. Martine closed her eyes, and a vision flashed in front of her of being in the doctor’s arms for a waltz . . . at a wedding. He was beaming at her with the pride of a parent. What a weird, fanciful thing to be imagining at this moment.

“I’m going to let Ruby leave for the day so that she can walk you home. You live about one hour from here, yes? It is a challenging walk, but I don’t think you’ll mind.”

Martine’s slow smile was as genuine as it was rare. “No, I won’t mind.”

“And we will have a follow-up visit in two days. But until then, you must be sure to call me in case anything unusual happens.”

“Unusual, like what?”

Well, your bone marrow donor was a witch. So, something very freaky is about to happen.

“I would not care to venture a guess.”

All surgeries are physically traumatic, even those of the healing nature. They also take a huge psychological toll on the individual, even when successful. Dr. Svenson was sure that this was not the time to tell Martine that she was probably a witch.

*****

Ruby walked quietly beside Martine, thrilled for the other young woman and giving her the space that she needed to grasp the unfolding of her new life. At times, Martine’s gait was hesitant and self-conscious. At other times, she broke into a jog that Ruby could barely keep up with. At one point, she stopped abruptly in front of a fish and chips restaurant.

“I couldn’t get into this place. See this bump right here at the entrance? My wheelchair couldn’t roll in. Not unless someone was behind me and tilted my chair up. Meaning I’d have to ask for help, which I never wanted to do. I stopped going out at all soon after that.”

“Now you can go anywhere, do anything.”

“Can I? To the beach. Could we walk on the sand? Right by the ocean. That’s one thing that you never do when you’re in a chair—go onto the sand. It’s been so many years since I was able to do that.”

It was a detour that Ruby was happy to oblige.

Digging your feet into wet sand and wading into cold, crisp waves was so vastly different from the feel of a hardwood floor. Martine felt much like a convict just out of prison. And the longer she was out, the more resistant she was to returning to her apartment, which now felt like an insufferable cage.

Of course, she did have to return. But she tried to make the most of her time inside by starting to dismantle the guardrails around her queen bed. And by climbing up into a chair to climb onto the counter to check the highest shelves in the kitchen. She had never seen them before. In fact, everything in her apartment needed to be stood upon, climbed, or even kicked with her joyously restless new legs.

She would have slept standing up if she could.

*****

Oyster Cove was nowhere near the size of its adjoining Cape Cod neighbors. But there was far more to it than Martine could remember from her teenage days. Admittedly, she had never wandered far afield from either school or home. She hadn’t been any kind of explorer at all, in fact. Even before her legs failed her, she was usually wrapped up in a book or a computer screen.

But that was then. Today’s Martine was determined to walk down every square inch of every Oyster Cove Street. What a truly enchanting little town it was. Everywhere, there were murals and statues and mosaics and a patchwork quilt of color blanketing the town. She had read of the town’s reputation as a haven for artists, and now she could actually see what everyone had been talking about. It truly looked like a town she might want to live in.

It was full of small businesses that she had never paid much attention to, certainly not in her chair-bound state. But now, heretofore impossible opportunities leapt out at her right and left.

Yoga. First class free! Well that was certainly worth checking out. There was nothing that drilled home her new realm of possibilities like the standing tree pose. Not that she was flawless, but she could do it. Her legs could do it. And they could downward dog—that was pretty easy—and they could warrior. And they could keep up with everyone else, which was truly a dream come true.

Then there was the gym membership. Oh, she absolutely needed one of those. Just looking around the crowded, buzzing, sweaty gym got Martine all jazzed up. Elliptical trainer! Treadmill! Any weight equipment that involved the legs was particularly appealing. She made an appointment for an orientation session and continued on her way.

They say you never forget how to ride a bicycle. That may well be true, but if you’re an adult who never learned how to ride a bicycle, that’s a whole ’nother ball of wax. Still, this was one activity that had filled Martine with such regret and envy. There were plenty of rental shops along the boardwalk, and she found one with her kind of bike.

She suspected that it was primarily for senior citizens, but what the heck. It had training wheels on it that were as large as the bicycle’s front wheel, and there was a sizable wire basket behind, possibly for groceries. Oh, she was going to have to admit it—it was a big old tricycle. But it was fun. And having fun was such a novel sensation that she barely recognized it.

By the end of the week, Martine had signed up for in-line skating classes, swimming classes, and a rock climbing wall. That last one was particularly intriguing. It just felt as if it would be such a triumph to go from a wheelchair to the top of the mountain, or at least the mountain that was painted on the rock climbing wall. And then there was surfing! That would certainly be a fairytale dream come true. But, she did recognize that signing up for that class would be a bit premature. After all, she didn’t yet know how to swim.

What surprised her most of all was how glorious it felt to be outside. The sun on her back in the salty fresh air and the sound of the waves and the gulls drew her back to the beach time and time again.

On one particular afternoon, not even a week after her operation, she again found herself at the water’s edge, but this time, she wasn’t merely content to stick her toes in. There were several kids body surfing and others who were just standing in waist deep, letting the waves bob them up and down like a merry-go-round. That didn’t look terribly dangerous. In fact, she was sure she could handle it. She pitched off her shoes and waded in all the way to her waist.

She may have drawn a few curious stares. After all, she was fully clothed. But it was a hot day. She would dry off fast enough afterward, and besides, the water felt so nice. She hopped contentedly up and down with the waves, sometimes facing the shore, sometimes facing the horizon.

At one point, she whirled around in the water to face the ocean and was startled to see an imposing figure coming in her direction. At first, it was only a head. While the hair on top was neatly trimmed, the face sported the bushiest beard she had ever seen, followed by the broadest shoulders she had ever seen, flanking the most well-developed chest she had ever seen. Unlike herself, he was predictably naked, at least from the waist up.

From the moment she saw him, Martine had this unsettling feeling of familiarity. How could she possibly know him? But he reminded her of someone. Someone major. Someone important. As he continued to make his way in her direction, she realized exactly who it was.

It had been many years since her junior high school English class had discussed the myths of the Greek and Roman gods, but she remembered drawings and statues of Poseidon. And here he was, right in front of her. Beard, shoulders, chest . . . of all her recent frantic sightseeing in Oyster Cove, nothing had prepared her for an encounter with a Greek god.

The odd thing was, he seemed determined to encounter her, and Martine might have known why immediately, if she had more awareness of how truly pretty she was. But her thick crown of curly black hair, golden brown complexion, and huge, deep sparkling eyes were making quite an impression. The young man walked straight up to her and planted himself just inches away. And then . . . what a smile. He looked at her soaked clothing and nodded approvingly, as he launched into a good-natured rant.

“You want to hear one of the dumbest laws ever conceived? You’re not allowed to be in here with your street clothes on. Did you know that? I think the rationale is that they’re very heavy and increase your drowning risk. But I think we all have the right to choose our own risks, and I suspect you agree. Paradoxically, we’re also not allowed to swim here without any clothes. Which is just a bit puritanical, don’t you think? I mean, I realize it’s a family beach. But shouldn’t there at least be a private little cove for some healthy skinny dipping?

“Too many clothes. Not enough clothes. Way too many rules, that’s what I say. Why are we listening to all of these bureaucrats? Keep your dog leashed. Why shouldn’t they enjoy a day of freedom at the beach, just like us? I gotta admit, I break that one all the time. Which I think you totally get, because I can see that you’re a woman who makes her own rules. You know what they say about rules?”

There was something about his air and his uncensored babble that freed Martine up to ramble likewise. “Unjust laws exist. Shall we obey them, or shall we transgress them at once?”

The Greek god looked thunderstruck. “You know, busting out Thoreau is usually something people save for the third date.”

“I think he was talking more about slavery, though, than skinny-dipping. Although if any of the transcendentalists had been a nudist, it would have been him.”

It had been over eight years since Martine had been on her last date, but the look of gleeful intrigue on his face seemed unmistakable. An especially large wave crashed into them, threatening to knock Martine to her knees. But her new friend grabbed her firmly in what almost felt like an embrace, had it not been justified for emergency purposes.

As Martine closed her eyes to blink the splash of water out of them, she was startled by the most vivid vision of this young man kissing her. A really long, intense kiss. What was up with that? She barely knew this guy and she really wasn’t the kind to indulge in those kinds of wild fantasies. Of course, it had been a really long time since she had been involved with anyone. Maybe it was the euphoria. Maybe it was the motion of the ocean. In any case, she needed to get back onto dry land and compose herself.

As they headed back to shore, a black Labrador started barking frantically at them.

“That’s Ahab,” her new friend explained. “He’s not as fond of the water as his namesake. He worries that I’m going to get in trouble. He’s worse than my mother.”

As they exited the water, Martine could see a lovely young woman with three small children heading in their direction.

“That’s my family. And I suspect they have snacks. Would you care to join us?”

A wife and kids! How could Martine have misread his signals so badly? No, she would most definitely not like to join them. Geez. What had she been thinking?

“Enjoy your . . . snacks,” she said tersely over her shoulder as she strode away quickly.

Every inch of her clothes was dripping wet. She settled on a patch of hot, dry cement to wring out as much water as she possibly could without actually disrobing. It was still a very hot day, and in half an hour, she would probably be completely dried out.

Of course, she was subjected to Mr. Greek God and family busting out the picnic cooler and luxuriating in their oceanside feast. Well, good for him. Clearly, he was a family man, and he had found a woman who’d supplied him with all the rug rats he needed.

She certainly would not have been a good match for him, given her aversion to the burdens of family obligations, the irritating demands of children, and her general unfitness for large sociable groups. It just wasn’t her thing. Why, then, was she feeling so bummed out when she hadn’t really been in the market for a Greek god in the first place?

Now, what did he think he was doing? He was headed right for her, with Ahab bounding after him. Plus, a wobbly two-year-old toddling in his wake. Why hadn’t she just left when she’d had the chance?

He handed her a paper plate topped with two oatmeal cookies. “It just occurred to me that when I said that this is my family, I should have clarified that this was my sister, my niece, and my two nephews.” He looked carefully to see if there was a reaction of relief, and Martine reluctantly gratified him. “Even Ahab doesn’t belong to me. Although he thinks he does.”

The two-year-old had reached them and looked intently at Martine. She gave him a big smile, which prompted him to come in close, turn around, and plop right into her lap. He twisted his head and gave her a big toothless grin.

“That’s Crew. He’s a big, shameless flirt. C’mon, dude, I saw her first.”

Crew leaned back against Martine’s chest, perfectly at home. In a quirky flash of her imagination, Martine saw an image of the baby’s face, only it was matured to where he appeared to be about five or six years old. How odd.

Crew’s uncle shook his head at his presumptuously friendly nephew. “You’re the worst wingman ever. Next bar night, I’m leaving you at home. Now, I think it’s time that we left Ms. . . . Ms. . . .?”

“Cadet. Martine Cadet.”

“Left Ms. Cadet in peace. I am Morgan, by the way. Morgan Beaumont. So, Cadet. That sounds rather military.”

“It’s French.”

“Oh, French! Well, I know how the French say goodbye.” He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on both cheeks, which Crew promptly tried to imitate.

“Haitian French,” Martine clarified, a bit taken aback by the more intimate kiss that again flashed before her eyes.

“Ah. My bad. So how do the Haitian French say goodbye to their new friends?”

“With great suspicion.”

Morgan was hooked. “Got any plans for the Fourth? No? Meet me here for fireworks. I’ll bring the food. Seven o’clock sound good? Right here, okay?”

Martine’s reluctant smile was the only confirmation required. Morgan scooped Crew up into his arms and whistled for Ahab to follow them back to the family picnic.

A date!