It\u2019s another morning at the Splendid Meadows retirement center. For now breakfast aromas hold the ever-present stench of cleanser and urine at bay. A big colourful banner on the corkboard in the television room reminds everyone that today is Saturday, March 16, 2019, a meaningless factoid when you\u2019re adrift upon the sea of old age. The best thing about this place is how it brought Nora back to me. Those odds were beyond slim, yet here we are, together. Will wonders never cease.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Today we\u2019re headed out for a three day stay at Chatenoa Lake just south of Red Deer. Nora and I work on a puzzle in the sitting room to kill time. It\u2019s a beautiful picture of London along the Thames. I push a piece close to its intended location with my gloved right hand, which makes Nora smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The bus is here, so we put away the loose puzzle pieces and head to the foyer. Iris Shanigan, Rehab and Activities Manager, gets everyone who is going organized. She gets on the bus last, followed by a skinny specter in a black hoodie and Reeboks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEveryone,\u201d she says, \u201cthis is Darcy Tannen. He\u2019ll be joining us.\u201d She volunteers at an outreach program for troubled youth and occasionally brings a young person to the center for a visit. Lord knows how she snagged this one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She comes down the aisle with Darcy in tow and stops beside us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLadies, do you mind?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I start to answer, but Nora cuts me off: \u201cNo problem, Iris, we\u2019ll take good care of him.\u201d Darcy plops down across the aisle. He can\u2019t be more than sixteen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The bus lumbers slowly out of the parking lot and the first half hour is quiet save for the muted rumble of the engine. Nora knits while I read. It’s Darcy who eventually breaks the silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat are you reading?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA western about a group of men who get together to rob a stagecoach.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAny good?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot bad. Not good. Better than staring out a window.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOne of the old guys back at the home told me you two were lesbians. Are you lesbians?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Without dropping a stitch Nora says, \u201cDon\u2019t start any bullshit. I don\u2019t mind calling Iris.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI’m not starting anything. Jesus.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo why are you here?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI’m on probation. Assaulted a guy where I live. Just a few punches, nothing serious. The judge gave me community service, so I need to interview one of you and write an essay for the judge.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I smile. Nora snorts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCan I interview you?\u201d he asks me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He pulls his phone out, sets it to record. \u201cWhere were you born?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA small town called Nagg Creek, close to Drumheller.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd who were your parents?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBernard and Patricia Smith.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His eyes widen then narrow. He shakes his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNaw, not… What year were you born?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNineteen thirty-one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He digs for something in his pocket. \u201cSo, was your dad\u2026 was he the<\/em> Bernie Smith? Like, burned six people to death in a church in the forties Bernie Smith?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I freeze. I had assumed my father’s misdeeds had been lost to time. I think to myself: Seven. There were seven in that church.<\/em> But nobody besides me and Nora would know that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes,\u201d I say, \u201cbut let\u2019s talk about something else.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Darcy pulls out a handful of cards, riffles through them, finds one, hands it to me. I’m looking at what I think is a baseball card, only the man in the picture has flossy white hair and is far too old to be a baseball player. Maybe a coach? I squint, and that\u2019s when I realize I’m looking at my father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Darcy says, \u201cThey\u2019re Murder One cards, a collection of the most notorious murderers in North America. Your father’s card is a collector’s item. Pretty rare.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I hand it back to him. \u201cI\u2019m not doing this if you’re going to hound me about my father.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCome on! I\u2019m not trying to be a prick, I\u2019m a huge<\/em> fan.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay, devil boy,\u201d Nora says. \u201cLeave her alone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll only do your interview on my terms,\u201d I say. \u201cYou can ask me questions, but not about my father. Got it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, okay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay. Continue.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy are you wearing a white glove on your right hand? Is that hand gimped or something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I look down at my shrouded hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow much charge do you have on that phone of yours?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNearly full.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood. Because this is a long story.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I think we all have a favourite parent, whether we want to admit it or not. Mother was mine. She was not a typical pastor\u2019s wife. She followed politics, something women of her time were not encouraged to do. She stood up for women\u2019s equality at a time when wives were still expected to serve their husbands. She spoke the truth at dinner parties without offending. I think she would have made a brilliant politician in another time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When she died, just before my fourteenth birthday, I could see no way past the pain. My father was pastor of Faith Gospel, Nagg Creek\u2019s Pentecostal church, and spent most of his time on community work away from home, so we were essentially strangers. I had a few friends, but none who had lost a parent. So for three months my life hung in hiatus. My father fed me and sent me off to school and I only spoke when spoken to. Father was dealing with his own grief at first, so I\u2019m sure he barely noticed my predicament, but by mid-November he was clearly worried about me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy don’t you help with the laying on of hands this Sunday?\u201d he said one evening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cReally?\u201d My father had never asked me to do anything with him before. \u201cWhat if I do something wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou can\u2019t do anything wrong. It\u2019s easy, you\u2019ll see.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The laying on of hands differs in importance and practice among congregations. In our little church it was a weekly ritual that occurred following the sermon as a part of the Eucharist; my father would read a few passages of scripture while those who wanted a healing touch made their way to the front and kneeled at the first riser. Father would come forward and briefly lay his hand on their head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At first I read scripture while Father laid hands. Eventually I laid hands. I enjoyed the ritual of it, and my participation seemed to amuse the congregation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One Sunday morning Clayton Grieve came forward. He was a slender boy with wispy blonde hair, and that Sunday he looked particularly frail. He had been diagnosed with a brain tumor two months before and wasn’t expected to make it to Christmas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I dropped to one knee and laid my right hand on his head and prayed while Father read the scripture. As I knelt there, my eyes closed and my head bowed, a strange heat began to build in my shoulder. I thought it was a random hot flash at first and tried to ignore it, but it grew in intensity until it hurt. I was straightening up and backing away when it happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A rolling ball of electricity shot down my arm and struck Clayton in the scalp. I saw it, a frenetic yellow ball of sparks. From the congregation\u2019s gasps I assume they saw it as well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Clayton fell back and his eyes rolled up in his head. People rushed forward, grabbed him, laid him on a pew. His parents fought their way to his side. His mother was crying, frantic. Father pushed his way through the crowd, checked Clayton, and announced to the congregation: \u201cHe\u2019s fine, everyone! Back to your seats, please, he\u2019s fine!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I rushed out of the sanctum to my father\u2019s office in the back of the church. I felt humiliated for some reason, exposed. I cried and was still crying when my father arrived a half hour later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat was that? What in God’s name was that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don’t know, Father\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, I\u2019ll tell you what it looked like.\u201d He was smiling. \u201cIt looked like a true-to-life healing to me. I imagine it might get a few more souls in our pews, and if it helps Clayton Grieve, all the better.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He hugged me. Stunned and confused, I hugged him back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It did help Clayton, quite a bit. His sudden recovery astounded his doctors. His parents came to our house to thank me for saving their son\u2019s life. I accepted their gratitude before hiding in my room while they had tea with my father. At least they hadn\u2019t brought Clayton.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Everyone wanted to talk to me. They wanted to thank me for being God\u2019s blessed gift on Earth, as if it were intentional. Some of them wanted me to heal them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust a quick brush,\u201d Mr. Brown, the school principal, said to me one day in the school hallway. He was bent down with his bald scalp aimed at my face. \u201cMaybe I\u2019ll grow some hair back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I could tell he was just trying to be funny, but it wasn\u2019t funny to me. I ran away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I refused to attend church for the next two months. Eventually the fervor over Clayton Grieve died down and I did return, both to the congregation and to the laying on of hands. For a while everything was fine. I slowly convinced myself that what had happened with Clayton had been an isolated incident. God, in his infinite wisdom, had used me and moved on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It turned out I was very wrong on that account.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One Sunday Simon Minton knelt at the riser. He was a mean kid, never hurt me but pushed my friend Gladys into the thorny rose bushes on the outskirts of the school grounds once or twice, and there were rumours he tortured animals. Kids said he dissected his own dog. I don\u2019t know about that, but I knew a boy who said he\u2019d personally seen Simon spend an afternoon peeling the skin off live frogs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Why did he come up? I didn\u2019t know then and I don\u2019t know now. His parents probably sent him up, maybe as a punishment for fidgeting. I knew many parents who did that. It didn\u2019t matter, he was there, and I had a duty to perform. I put my hand on his thick black hair and bowed my head. My shoulder began to heat up. No<\/em>. Please no<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was nothing I could do. The lightning shot down my arm and threw Simon to the floor. Once again, the congregation surged forward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This time my father didn\u2019t panic. Instead, with a frenetic light in his eyes, he said: \u201cFolks, it\u2019s another miracle! Martha has performed another miracle for God!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n This time I rushed out of the church and ran the two miles home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When Father arrived he said: \u201cI thought I\u2019d find you here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t want to heal people anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy not? You\u2019re doing God\u2019s work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut why Simon Minton? He\u2019s a bully. Why would God use me to cure him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Father didn\u2019t seem to have an answer. He promised I didn\u2019t have to do anything I didn\u2019t want to, but his eyes told me something else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I decided I was never going to lay hands on anyone again. I refused to let God use me like a dumb tool.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It turned out it wasn\u2019t God I needed to worry about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A few weeks later father got a call from the Grieve family. Clayton\u2019s cancer had returned and the boy was on death\u2019s door. They needed Father to pray for him. He was gone longer than usual, and when he returned he looked dead himself, his skin ashen and his eyes buried in dark sockets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat’s wrong?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNothing,\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid Clayton pass?’<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes, now go to bed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Clayton\u2019s funeral was three days later. They had a closed casket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet\u2019s go through the trees,\u201d Gladys said, her chubby face unusually drawn and her eyes darting past me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat is it? Simon?\u201d Of course it was. Gladys was a larger girl and maybe that was why Simon picked on her. I suspect he ignored me at his parents\u2019 request; beating up the pastor\u2019s daughter was likely to bring bad luck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe\u2019s hiding behind that truck,\u201d she said, pointing, and I saw Simon\u2019s brown leather boots under the vehicle\u2019s front end. He hadn\u2019t caused any trouble at school since the Sunday I\u2019d sent lightning into his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe\u2019ll just follow us into the woods,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo he won\u2019t. He doesn\u2019t like the woods.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen he\u2019ll get us when we come out.\u201d Nagg Creek Middle School stood on the edge of town at the intersection of George Street and Walnut Avenue. Opposite those two roads it was bordered by a thick forest all the kids called the Never-Ending Woods. No matter where we exited, we would be a good hundred yards from the school. All Simon had to do was stand by the entrance and wait. \u201cBesides, I\u2019m wearing a new top, and I don\u2019t want to catch it on branches.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Now Simon had stepped around the truck and was jogging toward us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSee you at school,\u201d Gladys said hastily. She hugged her books to her chest with one hand, lifted her skirt with the other, and loped into the woods. For a large girl she could be very spry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I walked toward Simon. I had nothing to fear; he had never hurt me before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy don\u2019t you just leave her alone?\u201d I said when he was close enough to hear me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not here for Gladys,\u201d he said. \u201cI want to talk to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t know what to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat could we have to talk about?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat did you do to me?\u201d It came out more as a plea than an accusation. His eyes shone with desperation. \u201cI haven\u2019t been\u2026 myself\u2026 since then.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Panic fluttered in me like a startled animal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat do you mean not yourself?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI mean I don\u2019t like things I used to like. And I feel different about people now. I need to be myself again. Help me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I said. \u201cI don\u2019t know what I did to you. I want to forget it even happened.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He grabbed me and for a moment I was scared. He shook me hard enough that I bit my tongue. As abruptly as his anger surged it ebbed, and he let me go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPlease,\u201d he said. \u201cYou need to fix me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fix him? I didn\u2019t know how.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I said again, and began trudging through the crusty snow toward school. He didn\u2019t follow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Simon Minton died a week later. I would eventually learn that he hanged himself in his family\u2019s barn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A month after Simon Minton\u2019s funeral I arrived home from school and smelled alcohol. Other than communion wine, alcohol was forbidden in our house. My father\u2019s voice rose in the sitting room. It was followed by the voice of Clayton Grieve\u2019s father. I didn\u2019t think I\u2019d been noticed, so I snuck to my room. I left the door open a crack so I could hear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201c’Something needs to be done,\u201d Mr. Grieve said. He was usually a calm man, but today his voice was urgent and strained. \u201cRandall is in shock now, but soon he\u2019ll be angry, just as I am. Whatever Martha did to our children is unnatural. They might as well be condemned to Hell. Maybe Hell would be a preferable fate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat am I to do?\u201d Father asked. \u201cI can’t condemn my own daughter…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBernard, we’re not going to hide our children from the world forever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCharles, you need to understand we\u2019re not responsible for what’s happened. Be reasonable…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cReasonable?<\/em>\u201d Mr. Grieve\u2019s voice made me jump. \u201cAre you listening to yourself? Clayton can\u2019t even speak, and he has no heartbeat! How am I and Rosie not supposed to go mad? What about Clayton? Randall and Pauline Minton? Simon carrying on with that rope burn around his GODDAMN NECK?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I went numb. Clayton and Simon were still alive. Well, not alive exactly, from the sounds of it. And it was my doing. What would happen to me and Father? Perhaps the town would stone us like a couple of medieval witches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Father sighed. \u201cOkay, I\u2019ll prepare for an exorcism. Give me a week. But understand, Charles, that your children might fall dead once they\u2019ve been cleansed of whatever holds them on their feet. Tell Randall too. Make sure everyone understands.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201c’Jesus wept,\u201d Mr. Grieve said. \u201cWhether this works or not we aren\u2019t hiding any longer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAgreed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Grieve left, and father came down the hallway, stopping at my door. I pretended to sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid you hear any of that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I kept my eyes closed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDoesn\u2019t matter.\u201d He leaned down and kissed my forehead. I smelled alcohol on his breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe\u2019ll talk in the morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I lay awake that night thinking about Clayton Grieve and Simon Minton. I recalled Simon\u2019s haunted eyes when he\u2019d asked me to fix him, and I concluded that immortality was merely a side-effect of my ability. I didn\u2019t give, I took away. I had taken Clayton\u2019s brain tumour away, only it had grown back. And I had ripped something away from Simon that had made him quintessentially Simon. He had killed himself because he couldn\u2019t imagine living life without it. I thought he must have felt the way I had those first few weeks after Mother\u2019s death, when I thought I couldn\u2019t possibly carry on without her. Once again I vowed never to use my power on another person.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As if it were my choice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Father told me an hour before leaving for the church that I would be staying home. I wasn\u2019t surprised. The day after Mr. Grieve had visited, Father had explained that he had no intention of holding an exorcism. He declared the situation a case of group hysteria triggered by grief and said he wanted to help the families achieve closure. At no time did he acknowledge that Clayton and Simon might still be at home with their parents. He had kept me out of school for the week and forbade me from leaving the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFinish up the dishes before I return,\u201d he said from the foyer. He had come in from readying the horse and carriage, had swapped his mucky clothes for a suit, and was headed out the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI will.\u201d I watched from the kitchen window as he disappeared into the dark. I waited five minutes before tossing my jacket and boots on and going after him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The church was three miles away. There was no moon to guide me, but I knew the trail by heart. Pulled by our two aging mares, Father wouldn\u2019t arrive much before me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Once at the church I snuck around back and peeked in a window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Grieves sat on diminutive chairs used for Sunday school. I\u2019d known Clayton would be there after what Mr. Grieve had said, but I was still shocked to see him. He looked like any kid might, given the situation \u2013 fidgety, glancing about nervously. His skin was white as chalk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sitting across from the Grieves were the Mintons — Mr. And Mrs. Minton, Simon, and little sister. Simon looked as pale and waxen as Clayton. When he turned his head I saw a brown discoloration around his neck — the fatal rope burn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n What was I doing here? I had no plan, but I couldn\u2019t let Father handle this on my behalf, no matter how upset he might be with me for disobeying him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I snuck to the front of the building and hid behind the bushes beside the front entrance. The front doors banged open and Father trundled out carrying a metal container. He waddled backward down the stairs, splashing what I could tell from the smell was gasoline. At the bottom he struck a match and dropped it, and a fire trail zipped back the way he’d come. The windows framing the door blew out with a WHOOMP. Flames danced in their place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He saw me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMartha, I told you to stay home!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere are people downstairs!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He marched over and looked down at me with empty eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI have to do this,\u201d he said. \u201cWhat you’ve done, it\u2019s an abomination.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I fled into the woods. He chased me but I was too fast for him. I eventually broke free of the trees and ran back to the church, which was now ablaze. The acrid smell burned my nostrils, and in the radiant heat my face felt like it was shrinking to my skull.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A dark figure hung from a broken window, arms and torso splayed. The face was covered in blood and lost to the dark, but I could tell from the build and the pigtails that it was Simon’s sister. She had done a poor job of clearing the glass from the frame, so she\u2019d torn herself open from sternum to belly. Flesh and clothing hung in ribbons. Blood pooled on the ground. She turned her eyes to me and blinked lethargically.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I pulled her out, knowing I was doing more damage but not willing to let her burn. I got her out, onto her back, and her eyes, molten orange in the glow of the fire, were wide, fixed on the sky, unmoving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI can help,\u201d I whispered to her, and placed my right hand over her bloody mid-section. \u201cI\u2019ll take your pain away.\u201d I closed my eyes and made a sacrilegious demand of God.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He obliged. My shoulder flared, and a ring of electricity, pale against the church flames, encircled my arm and flew like a shooting star into the young girl\u2019s torso. She bounced as if the earth itself had tossed her, and when she hit the ground she took in a whooping breath. Her eyes came back to life and she sat up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Father grabbed me from behind and dragged me to his horse. I think he took the girl for dead, but I saw her stumble to her feet and disappear into the woods. Father slapped me across the face when I wouldn\u2019t stop fighting him and threw me into the back of the buggy amongst the straw bales.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stared back at the church. It burned out of control. Six people were dead because of me, but I had saved one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I fall silent. Nora looks up at me, smiles, and falls back to her knitting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCome on!\u201d Darcy says. \u201cYou want me to believe you can turn people into zombies? I can\u2019t tell that bullshit to the judge!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot my problem.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The bus takes an exit off the highway toward a row of colourfully painted businesses. One is called Gifts of the Earth and sports a huge dream catcher in the window. Another, Gramma’s Attic, has Christmas lights framing the door and porcelain dolls, antique-looking teapots, and colorful stitchery on display in the window. There\u2019s a pedicure\/manicure place with senior discount rates posted in big letters on the door. Iris has a knack for finding these little oases for the elderly tourist. I imagine she has a map of the country at home covered in pushpins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The bus pulls into a gas station to the side of the shopping strip. Beside the station sits a restaurant called The Jam Palace which is shaped like a medieval castle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Once we\u2019re stopped, Iris says: \u201cWelcome to The Jam Palace, everyone! I found this little gem last summer when I went with my friend Julia to Drumheller. They have the best scones I’ve ever tasted, and they sell homemade jam, which is just marvelous! If any of you want to buy some I can store it for you under the bus! I hope you enjoy yourselves!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I ease myself out of my seat. My butt has gone to sleep and my back is aching. Nora packs her knitting accoutrement into her big cloth bag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Darcy stands, stretches his lanky frame, and says, \u201cYou haven’t answered my question yet. The glove.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI told you, it\u2019s a long story. To be continued after lunch.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The inside of the restaurant feels less childish than the exterior — off-white stucco, thick dark wood beams running along the ceiling, copper lighting fixtures on the walls. Our waitress, a waif who is surely no older than nineteen, smiles as she takes the orders. By the time she gets to us her smile looks strained. She speaks to us very slowly and loudly, a patronizing affectation too many young people mistake for courtesy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat can I get you ladies?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nora orders pancakes. I order a chicken burrito with a side salad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCan you spice that up for me, dear?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The waitress\u2019s smile falters. \u201cDo you mean, like, salt and pepper?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI was thinking jalapenos.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don’t think we have,\u201d she says. \u201cNot a lot of call for that here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSalt and pepper is fine, then.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLook at you!\u201d Iris shouts. \u201cOrdering hot peppers — that’s brave! Julia talked me into trying some Tabasco sauce once, but it wasn\u2019t for me! Whoo! I can’t figure out how people eat that stuff!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nora and I wander the shops after lunch. She picks up a handbag at the place with the giant dreamcatcher and I buy a scented candle at Gramma’s Attic. We hold hands on the way back to the bus, something we\u2019ve always done.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou sure you guys aren’t gay?\u201d Darcy says. He\u2019s leaning against the bus having a smoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sure about us,\u201d Nora says. \u201cNot sure about you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOuch!\u201d he says. Once we’re back in the bus he wastes no time. \u201cThe glove. Let’s hear it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I steady myself and continue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My father was no criminal mastermind. No sooner had the firefighters finished their sifting of the remains of the church than some police officers from Calgary arrived at our doorstep and arrested him. He was dragged off and I never saw him again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was now an orphan of the province. My last name was changed to Daniels and I was sent to a mental hospital in Edmonton. There I underwent treatments consisting mostly of sitting with a psychologist and talking about my father. I never spoke about the healings as if they were real because I knew that would afford me a longer stay. Eventually the doctors declared me fit and I was transferred to an orphanage in Calgary and sent back to school.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In high school I met Norman Colter, a gentle introvert one year my senior. We got married a month after graduation. He told me he was as much an orphan as I was — his father had died in the war and he wouldn\u2019t say anything about his mother. I know he was an only child and that\u2019s about all I know. He never asked me about my past, so I never bothered him about his. We were young and the future was our destination, not the past.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We moved to Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, where Norman accepted a teaching position at Peacock High School. A year later I gave birth to our son Ben.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We like to think we mold our children, but I don\u2019t think I made much of an impression on Ben; he wasn\u2019t the moldable type. He was a colicky infant. As a toddler he frequently threw screaming fits. As a teenager he drove Norman and I to distraction with his recklessness, throwing himself at the world as if he were immune to its dangers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We all have our favourite parent and Ben\u2019s was his father. Ben caught the debate bug in college and engaged Norman whenever he could on discussions of politics, religion, history. Norman loved to debate even if his son outstripped him in the higher education department. Their discussions were always lengthy and good-natured. Passions ran high \u2013 I broke up my fair share of screaming rants that threatened to beckon angry neighbours — but father and son never turned on one another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ben was popular with his peers, particularly with the opposite sex. He brought girls home, introduced them briefly to me, then shuttled them off to meet his father. It was Norman\u2019s approval he craved. If a girl engaged Norman in conversation she would be Ben\u2019s obsession for weeks. If she could make him laugh it was months.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ben was good to me as well. He never left the house without kissing me goodbye, and he always brought me a bouquet of flowers on my birthday. But while he loved me, he worshipped his father, which was fine. More than fine, I think it was healthy for him. Norman was level-headed where Ben was wild, and I think they balanced one another out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I don\u2019t think Ben ever saw the bad times coming. Maybe he didn\u2019t think life could get as bad as it did. I mean, I wasn\u2019t there for him; I never witnessed him pumping that poison into his veins. But if I had been, would it have made a difference? I used to debate this with myself. Now, I don\u2019t think so. Ben was too much his own man to be swayed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Norman’s heart attack shocked and confused everyone. He didn\u2019t fit the stereotype. He was in his mid-forties, perpetually thin, active – when President Carter pushed recreational running as the ultimate fitness regime down in the States, Norman picked it up with a vigor. Every morning he rose before the sun, slipped on his track suit and sneakers, and ran three laps through the neighbourhood. He collapsed one morning jogging up the drive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We spent hours in the hospital waiting room without word. We got an initial report that he was stable, then it seemed the doctors forgot about us. I remember Dinah Shore playing on the small television set bolted to the ceiling. A few times a young nurse’s aide came to the waiting room and asked if we wanted anything to drink. Families came and went; we were constant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ben called his girlfriend Isla, who drove down from Regina. Norman and I liked Isla. She was a smart girl, polite, beautiful. Studying to be a journalist. Things between her and Ben appeared to be getting serious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Isla hugged me when she arrived and tried to assure me everything was going to be okay. She sat with Ben, her head resting on his shoulder, her black hair hanging nearly to his waist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A doctor finally came and took us to see Norman. He was covered in wires and surrounded by electronic devices; he seemed buried in the technology, diminished. He looked at us and smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCome here,\u201d he said. He was pale, his voice thin. He patted the bed. \u201cAll of you, come sit.\u201d I hugged him. Ben and Isla held his hand. We surrounded him like a shield.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI’m going to be okay,\u201d he said. \u201cThe doctor wants\u2026\u201d He trailed off in a weak cough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou should lay a hand on his forehead.\u201d Ben said to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stared at my son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He stared back at me expectantly, as did Isla.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The hospital kept Norman overnight. They told us he was going to be fine, he just needed to rest. A nurse would talk to me in the morning about his diet and exercise regime moving forward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n People from the high school came by the house in a steady trickle that day to give their best wishes and see how I was coping. The last person left near dusk. Once the front door was closed I joined Ben and Isla in the living room. They were in Norman’s recliner, Isla perched on Ben’s lap with her arm around his neck. Ben was nursing the last beer from the fridge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBen, why did you ask me to lay my hand on your father’s forehead at the hospital today?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Isla looked slightly embarrassed. Ben didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCome on, Mom,\u201d he said in his self-righteous tone, an affectation I had never liked. \u201cYou know why I said it. Isla knows too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cKnows what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI’ve been to see my grandfather in Calgary.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was too stunned to speak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI’ve always wanted to know my family history,\u201d he said. \u201cYou would never talk about your parents, so I decided to do some research. I know what school you and Dad went to, so I called them up. They told me when you registered and gave me the name on the registration. I followed that name to an orphanage in Calgary. The lady at the orphanage didn\u2019t want to give me specifics, but she did tell me when you came to them and from which city.\u201d Ben shrugged. \u201cThe rest took a little digging, but not much. I imagine I would have encountered more resistance thirty years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I should have known he could follow my past. He had probably had to tell some lies and stroke some egos, but not many. Nobody cared about protecting my identity anymore. And when Ben turned on the charm he got what he wanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhen did you go?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLast spring break. Isla and I went together.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe I should give you two some privacy,\u201d Isla said. She stood up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNonsense,\u201d Ben said. \u201cYou\u2019re part of this family now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe’s right,\u201d I said, and she sat back down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYour grandfather is a sick man,\u201d I said. \u201cWhat did he tell you? That I can heal people?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPretty much.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd you believed him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d he said. He stroked Isla\u2019s hair. She looked like she wanted to disappear. \u201cI don’t believe in the supernatural, you know that. But today I thought we might lose Dad, so what was the worst that could have come from you laying a hand on his forehead?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked down at my hands. They were shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou had no right to go see my father.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy grandfather,\u201d Ben said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe\u2019s not your grandfather!\u201d I shouted. \u201cYou have no grandfather! You met a man in prison who killed people a long time ago over some twisted delusion!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The more upset I got the calmer Ben\u2019s expression became, which enraged me. He was like his father, putting up a wall of indifference when faced with ugly realities.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFor what it\u2019s worth,\u201d Ben said, \u201che says he thinks about you constantly and hopes you\u2019re happy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGet out,\u201d I said. \u201cYou two aren\u2019t staying here tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n They left. Once they were gone, the silence of the house pushed in on me. I had a glass of wine, something I hadn\u2019t done for years, then went to bed, something I suddenly realized I had never done without Norman beside me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I had trouble getting to sleep. I kept thinking about Norman, even though the doctor had said he would be fine. As I pictured him alone in his hospital bed my right shoulder first began to ache, then tingle, then burn, as if there were an ember at its center about to burst into flame. It eventually settled and I lost consciousness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I dreamt, for the first time in a long time, of a burning church, and of my father\u2019s hard expression as he slapped me across the face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The doctors were wrong. Norman had another heart attack in the middle of the night, and by the time they attended to him he was already gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ben and Isla didn’t call or come to see me, but many of Norman’s co-workers and students did. The day felt like a dream, time flying by in uneven stretches. I had never known just how many lives my husband had touched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A few days later I called Ben at his dorm. I assumed he\u2019d gotten the news of his father\u2019s death and gone back to the college with Isla. I figured he was sulking. I understood if he needed time before talking to me; I needed time as well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHello?\u201d A man answered, not Ben.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHello, this is Ben’s mom. Is he there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBen’s gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n For a horrible second my heart dropped. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The man must have heard the strain in my voice. \u201cNo. Shit, no, you thought… He’s not gone<\/em> gone. He left with his girlfriend this morning. I think he pulled out of school. My name’s Brad, by the way, I live across the hall. His door was open, and the place is emptied out. I heard the phone ringing and thought it might be Ben calling to say he\u2019d forgotten something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh,\u201d I said. \u201cOkay. I understand. Thanks Brad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo worries. Goodbye, Mrs. Colter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGoodbye.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I put the phone in its cradle. I was not surprised he’d skipped out. He was looking for answers, a quest that had begun with him finding his grandfather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Life went on. I didn’t hear from Ben for a week, then a month. One day I realized it had been a year.<\/p>\n\n\n\n You don\u2019t have to chase after your children once they’ve left, you only need to wait until they need your help. Ben wouldn\u2019t need my help for a long time, but when he finally did he was in more trouble than I could have imagined.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One day the doorbell woke me from a nap. I had no idea who it might be; people didn\u2019t visit me as a rule. This was close to a decade after Norman\u2019s passing and I was living the life of a hermit, leaving the house to get groceries and work my shifts at the grocery store and that was about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was Ben. I didn\u2019t recognize him at first. The last time I\u2019d seen him his hair had been trimmed and tidy; now it was shoulder length and greasy. He’d grown a beard. The deep wrinkles on his face made him look like an old man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom, Isla is dying.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I hesitated. As much as I wanted to protect him he looked unhinged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere is she?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShe’s at her place, I guess,\u201d he said, rubbing his face. \u201cWe broke up two years ago. She\u2019s married to another man.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I let him into the house, directed him to the living room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShe has cancer,\u201d he said once he was seated. \u201cI\u2019ve been following her, watching her go to her chemo sessions.\u201d He rubbed his face again and when he dropped his hands they drummed nervously on his thighs. \u201cI know how pathetic that is, but I still love her. I can\u2019t help it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHave you been doing drugs?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He laughed, and I saw his teeth were black at the roots.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou bet.\u201d He said, holding one arm out so I could see the tracks. \u201cAre you going to lecture me now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cWhy did you come here? Why now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause I need you to help her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI can’t. Not the way you’re thinking.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cProve it. Come with me. Lay your hand on her and show me it doesn’t work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow could I do that, Ben? Just knock on her door and\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He lunged before I could finish, dragging me off the sofa, down the hall, out the front door. He would have gotten me into his car if I hadn\u2019t kicked him in the shin. I scrambled inside and made it to the kitchen before he hip-checked me into the counter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSorry…\u201d he said. \u201cSorry, Mom, but I can’t… I have to help Isla…\u201d He went to a knife block beside the stove and got a medium-sized cleaver. \u201cYou have to understand…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n As I got to my feet he grabbed my wrist and forced my hand palm-down on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo! Ben, you can’t do this!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI have no choice.\u201d He brought the cleaver down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At first the pain was like hitting a wall; it stunned me. Then it bloomed, and I screamed. I slipped toward the ground, but Ben scooped me up and sat me in a chair. He grabbed a dishtowel from the fridge door and wrapped it around my profusely bleeding hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was in a daze. He scooped the three fingers he’d amputated off the table and shoved them in his pocket. My blood had drawn crazy patterns on everything. I looked at my makeshift bandage — red pulsed through the fabric and ran down my wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt’s going to be okay,\u201d he said, his voice high and trembling. \u201cI’ll call 911.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He did, and then he left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As I waited for the ambulance I thought of how useless I\u2019d been to Norman and to Ben. I knew that if my son ever came back I would let him in despite the horror that had just happened. This is the frailty of parenthood. I wished I could have the strength of indifference that strangers possessed. I wished I could see him at my door and tell him to leave, even call the cops.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I lifted my mutilated hand. Despite the pain I pushed it against my forehead. I felt the heat gather in my shoulder, and I let it shoot down on me like a bullet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The paramedics found me passed out on the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We’re at another stop. Iris finally has the decency to look wilted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLadies and gentlemen,\u201d she says, \u201cwe\u2019re about thirty minutes out. Feel free to use the washroom or pick up some snacks while we fuel up. If you need help stay in your seat, I will be coming around.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Darcy is gawking at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou made yourself immortal to heal your fingers?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I pat his arm. \u201cI\u2019m not a healer, Darcy, I\u2019m a thief. I stole Clayton\u2019s tumor; I stole the darkness in Simon that made him want to hurt things; and I stole the emotional chains I carried around for my son and my dead husband.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The bus stops. Iris appears beside us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow are things here, ladies?\u201d Nora says, \u201cIris, Darcy has been a perfect gentleman this whole time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s the last day of our trip, and I’m walking back from dinner at the lodge. The evening carries a warm breeze. Beside me, the lake slaps against the shore. I’m walking along the wooden plank sidewalk that cuts through the shrubs leading to our cabin, focusing on my feet. These wooden slats were a stupid choice for a place frequented by the elderly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere’s your girlfriend?\u201d someone says, and I don\u2019t see the speaker at first, but then I see it\u2019s Darcy up ahead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNora’s not feeling well,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat brings you out here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He\u2019s holding a knife.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI’ve been thinking about the story you told me,\u201d he says. He laughs, a sound devoid of joy. \u201cIn fact, I can\u2019t stop thinking about it. I need to know if you\u2019re telling the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He lunges and catches me with the knife in my left side. The blade slides in and out, cold then hot. Shocked, I step forward and slip in my own blood, going down hard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you immortal, Martha?\u201d he asks, bending down and looking me in the eye.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I slam my gloved hand against his face, and I immediately feel his darkness, so like what I realize I had felt in Simon Minton. The ball of electricity shoots down my arm and strikes him in the face, and he screams and falls back. He scrambles to his feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat did you do to me?\u201d he screams. \u201cBitch, what did you do to me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He runs into the darkness, and that\u2019s the last I\u2019ll see of Darcy Tannen. His new life will bring him challenges, which I hope he\u2019ll be able to overcome.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I get up very slowly, my mid-section on fire. I think I might have cracked some ribs. The bleeding is bad, but it will slow soon enough. I manage to get upright and walking again. Not far to go. I take my time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nora is on the couch watching television. Presumably sweaty from her walk, she\u2019s removed her top. Her stomach, from sternum to waist, is a tangle of old scars like choppy waves on the sea. She smiles, then sees I’m hurt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt’s okay, it was just Darcy. It’s over now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re bleeding!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat doesn\u2019t matter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n On the table in front of her lays the items she went to the nearby gas station down the road to get — a jerry can of gasoline, a stack of newspapers, some matches, and a bottle of sleeping pills. We\u2019ve planned this carefully. Iris might lose her job, and that\u2019s too bad, but sometime soon our tired hearts are going to stop but we\u2019ll keep walking and talking, and what then? We\u2019ve decided we don’t want to find out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nora helps me into bed. She wipes at my knife wound with a wet cloth. There\u2019s not much to wipe, it\u2019s already healing. She leaves me and busies herself getting things prepared. She shreds the newspaper into the garbage cans in various rooms and douses them with gas. She comes back to bed. We take our pills because we aren\u2019t keen to find out what burning to death feels like. She goes and lights the cans and then we both settle in. We hold hands. The fire alarms begin to wail just as unconsciousness settles over me. The alarms are useless, because this cabin\u2019s occupants have no interest in escape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Iris sees the flames first, and frantically calls 911. She watches helplessly as the cabin burns, her mascara dribbling off the end of her chin. Once she\u2019s calmed down, she calls the home and tells them what has happened. Then, like a traumatized mother hen, she checks on the others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Firefighters arrive. They fight the flames, but in the end the little cabin burns to the ground, leaving nothing but a black crater. It\u2019s midnight when the last truck backs out onto the service road and rolls into the night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Early in the morning, before the sun rises, the wind picks up. Free at last, Nora and I spin among the rustling elms. We skim the surface of the lake before gliding into the endless sky.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" It\u2019s another morning at the Splendid Meadows retirement center. For now breakfast aromas hold the ever-present stench of cleanser and urine at bay. A big colourful banner on the corkboard…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-171","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/171","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=171"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/171\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":209,"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/171\/revisions\/209"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=171"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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