Until I Die

onto the surface of a time-darkened painting of Roman ruins. “Hi, Mamie!” I said, as I walked up behind her and plopped down onto a stool. I took a bite of tartine as I watched her work.
She carefully finished her brushstroke, and then turned, smiling brightly. “You’re up early, Katya!” She made a gesture that indicated that if her hands weren’t full, she would kiss me. I smiled. The all-important first-time-I-see-you-in-the-day cheek-kisses. I would never get used to letting someone get that near my mouth before having the chance to brush my teeth.
“Yeah. I had some stuff I needed to do before school. And I was just thinking about something I heard at the market the other day. I thought you could explain it.”
Mamie nodded expectantly.
“This woman was talking about finding a guérisseur . For her eczema, I think it was. And I’ve heard of guérisseurs —I know the word means ‘healer’—but I don’t really understand how they work. Are they kind of like the faith healers we have in the States?”
“Oh, no.” Mamie shook her head vigorously and tsked reproachfully. She placed her paintbrush in a jar of liquid and wiped her hands on a towel. From this enthusiastic response, I knew I was in for a good story. Mamie loved telling me about French traditions that I didn’t already know about, and the weirder the topic, the more she enjoyed it.
“ Pas du tout. Guérisseurs have nothing to do with faith, although some claim that their healings are psychosomatic.” I laughed as I watched her become animated, warming up to her story. “But I, for one, know that’s not the case.”
Voilà! I thought. Trust Mamie to have information on such a bizarre topic . “What exactly are they, anyway?”
“Well, Katya. Guérisseurs have been around for centuries—from the time that there weren’t enough trained doctors to go around. They usually specialize in something, like the healing of warts or eczema, or even setting broken bones. The same specialized gift is passed from one family member to another, and once the gift is passed, the previous healer no longer bears the gift. There is always only one guérisseur in a family at a time, and each must consciously accept the responsibility in order to inherit it.
“Which is why there aren’t that many left. It used to be an honored profession. Now with modern medicine and rising skepticism, fewer people are proud to carry the gifts, and most of the younger generation refuse point-blank to accept it. And when that happens, the gift just disappears.”
“Sounds pretty awesome, actually,” I admitted.
“Even more awesome when you see it work,” Mamie said with a twinkle in her eye.
“You’ve met a guérisseur ?”
“Why, yes. Twice, actually. Once was when I was pregnant with your father. I wasn’t even three months along, and an old farmer who lived near our country home asked if I wanted to know if it was a boy or girl. Turns out he was a guérisseur , and that was his family’s gift. That and curing nicotine addiction, if I remember correctly,” she said, tapping her lower lip and staring off into the mid-distance.
“And you didn’t think it was just a lucky guess?” I asked.
“Out of more than a hundred babies, he was never once wrong. And your own Papy wouldn’t have the handsome face he has today if it weren’t for another guérisseur ,” she continued.
“Once, when he was burning a pile of leaves, the wind changed and the flames hit him right in the face. Burned his eyebrows and the front of his hair right off. But a neighbor rushed him straight to his mother, and she ‘lifted’ the burn. Strangest thing … she didn’t even touch him, she just acted like she was sweeping it off his face and then throwing it away, flicking it off her fingers. And it worked. He had no burns. But it took a while for his eyebrows to grow back.”
“Well, that one’s a little harder to dispute,” I admitted.
“There’s nothing to dispute. It works. These people have some sort of power. Just don’t ask why or how. It doesn’t make any sense. But a lot of important things in this world don’t.”
Her story complete, Mamie patted the front of her apron and came to stand next to me. “I have to work, dear. The Musée d’Orsay needs this by the end of the week.” She brushed my chin softly with her hand. “You know, Katya, you look more like your mother every day.”
From anyone else, this would have destroyed me. From Mamie, it was just what I