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  THE WITCH’S STRENGTH

  Book Six of the One Part Witch Series

  IRIS KINCAID

  THE WITCH’S STRENGTH

  Copyright 2018 by Iris Kincaid

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover design by Mariah Sinclair

  Editing by Valorie Clifton

  ISBN - 13: 978-17170611812

  ISBN: - 10: 1717061818

  CHAPTER ONE

  The film The Theory of Everything portrays a young Stephen Hawking’s physical decline into complete immobility, even as his genius soars. It’s a great film, even an inspiring film. However, if you happen to share the heartbreaking reality of near-total immobility, then your caretakers, with the best of intentions, are likely to subject you to this film over and over again, just to show you how full and rich life can be, even when you can’t lift a spoon to your own lips. Just to show you the wondrous contribution a person can make to the world, even when he can’t turn his head from side to side. Just to fire you up with inspiration and hope that will be a comfort to you in your own never-ending years of immobility.

  Here’s the problem with the best of intentions. Gemma Keating recognized that Stephen Hawking’s physical handicaps were comparable to her own. But that was where all comparisons ended. The man had been one of the great genius minds of all time. He contributed brilliant original thoughts to the world. He was a pioneer, a visionary, a black hole maestro. He earned his place in history for all time, and deservedly so.

  But Gemma could draw little comfort from the constant repeated exposure to his on-screen inspiration. She herself had suffered the progression of her muscle-wasting condition from a state of health at the age of eighteen to full immobility by the time she was twenty. Between the ages of twenty and twenty-eight, she must have seen this film at least fifty times. No, she did not want to be inspired by this man’s life yet again. The contrast between the meaning of their respective lives was too painful to dwell on.

  Stephen Hawking was one of the VIPs of history. Gemma Keating would never accomplish anything, never contribute anything, never leave any lasting legacy for the benefit of the world. She could not engage in senseless acts of kindness or make any new discoveries. She could not teach anyone anything. She could not plant trees, she could not recycle, and she would never have any positive impact on the world she lived in.

  Quite the reverse. She was a financial drain on society to the tune of two hundred and sixty thousand dollars a year in staff and equipment. By the time she died, she would probably have cost the society around her upward of ten million dollars to maintain her in a state of misery and immobility. She was not an asset to society, but a liability. She was the human equivalent of a negative number.

  Technologically, the small life support ward was the crown jewel of the hospital. The equipment there was state-of-the-art and compared favorably to life-support resources at far larger hospitals. It contained seven patients. All but Gemma had only minor brain activity and spent most of their hours in sleep. Gemma’s brain was fully intact, and she truly wasn’t sure whether this was a blessing or a curse. Her mind was her only healthy asset, and on some level, she was quite grateful for it. But it was also the source of continual torment.

  She would be trapped in this room, motionless, year after year, decade after decade, until she died, without ever having really lived. That was the reality that filled her mind daily, and sometimes, she looked at the other patients, blissfully unconscious, free of depression and mental anguish, and wondered whether they were the lucky ones.

  But on better days, she did feel compelled to count her blessings. She was surrounded by some very kind, patient, and accommodating people. High on her list of favorites was orderly Bruce Coffey. He was a strong, stocky man with a shaved head, who reminded her of a diminutive Mr. Clean. He was one of the go-to guys for getting patients from their beds to their wheelchairs and back again.

  While all the staff knew that Gemma still had control of her eyes and could blink once for yes and twice for no, only Bruce regularly used Gemma’s limited abilities to communicate with her. He knew that her mind craved distraction and vicarious adventures, and he reasoned that a great movie was the best medicine of all for someone in Gemma’s condition. He was right. Nothing could take Gemma’s mind off her troubles like a fantastic story on the screen.

  But it’s difficult for any one person to have the same taste in movies as another person. So, Bruce, diligently and gladly, would present Gemma with a weekly selection of movies gleaned from the movie channel lineups for the week, and also DVDs he had taken from the local library. A few years back, he had attached a used DVD player to Gemma’s television, and it opened up a whole new world of possibilities for both of them. In addition to “Yes” and “No”, Bruce and Gemma created a pattern of blinking that also signified “Maybe,” “I’ve already seen this,” “Never again,” and “I love this—put it on regular rotation.”

  It was Bruce’s pleasure to bring any tiny bit of happiness to Gemma’s life that he could. It was hard to imagine the heartache and despair that her situation must cause her. Actually, it was easy to imagine—it was just horrifying. And he just wanted to give her a daily micro-dose of happiness. Such as it was.

  If only he knew how thoroughly grateful Gemma was. Movies were her great escape. But she didn’t want to be subjected to movies about wheelchairs and Lou Gehrig’s disease. What a glorious day it was when she was finally able to communicate that to Bruce! What originally surprised him, and would have come as a surprise to everyone, was that Gemma often turned her nose up at Oscar-quality gold like The Theory of Everything, in favor of I Robot, Terminator 2, and her all-time favorite, Robocop.

  Robocop was the ultimate fantasy. It told the story of a fatally injured officer, on the point of death, having the only part of him that is not destroyed, his brain, preserved and installed into a super-strong, invincible robot body. The most important part of who he was as a person still remained—his mind. Sort of. But the parts of the body that get old, get injured, fall prey to diseases, get week, and eventually die were all replaced by a miraculous robot body.

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it could actually happen? It probably would happen. In two or three hundred years. That was the part that Gemma didn’t like to think about—that some marvelous way of freeing her mind from her body would one day be invented, long after she was gone.

  But for now, it was her favorite vicarious thrill. It was definitely on the heavy rotation list. She must have watched it at least once a month. Along with a number of other Sci-Fi and adventure films that she had paid little attention to in her younger and healthier days. If the goal of movies is for the viewers to envision themselves right into the story, she wanted to see herself vanquishing villains, braving danger, surmounting all odds, and saving the day.

  Oh, and of course, there were the love stories. That was also something she would only ever experience in life through the actions of others. How many times had she dreamed about her own happy ending when she was a giddy teenager? If only she had known to make better use of that precious, healthy, brief time in her life. She would certainly have had more than one boyfriend.

  He had been okay, more or less. But he was completely unmemorable. And not knowing what lay ahead, she had wasted a full year by herself, reasoning that she had all the time in the world to find love in the future. If only she had known to find some incredibly devoted young man. Then like Stephen Hawking, she too could have a
spouse, in spite of her current situation.

  Instead, Bruce’s devotion had to suffice. One time, he even brought his wife and two young kids in for her to meet. He talked about them so often that it was good to finally match up the faces with the stories. They were every bit as sweet as he was, although clearly sad about her condition.

  And the one last truly remarkable thing that she had to thank Bruce for was bringing Bethany Lockett into her life. Bethany was a local daycare teacher who had very few stains on her character. However, she had been caught going seventy-five in a fifty-five on the freeway and had a whopper of a fine to pay for it.

  Being on a tight budget, she opted to do community service instead, which landed her in the hospital. At first, she was ordered about for various random activities—setting up rooms for meals, cleaning things away, and administrative duties, but once Bruce got wind of the fact that she was there and available for any kind of assistance, he steered her right in Gemma’s direction and said that Gemma could use a reader.

  And so, Gemma got one. Bethany actually was a big fan of literature, and this was the most pleasant and nonpunishing way that she could possibly have been assigned to serve out her community service hours. With Bruce’s help in interpreting eye movements, Bethany was able to put together a selection of stories, figured Gemma’s top picks, and they were off to the races.

  Classical literature, adventure, love stories . . . Gemma was open to everything, but she especially loved it when all three elements were combined. So first up was The Count of Monte Cristo, a swashbuckling love story that was the very definition of a classic. Bethany was scheduled to come and read twice a week for an hour at a time, but the story was so engrossing, and Gemma seemed to enjoy the reading so much—at least Bethany hoped so—that soon, she was coming four times a week.

  Gemma did look forward to the sessions, even more than a good movie. Because it was human companionship as well as a great story. Bethany would often stop in the middle of the tale and provide some commentary, marveling over how well it was written or pondering the nature of revenge, or whether she would have had the fortitude to fake her own death if it was the only means of getting out of prison, etc. She often apologized for going off-track and quickly steered back into the story. Gemma wished she had some way of letting Bethany know that she didn’t mind. It was almost like she was involved in a real conversation. It was almost as if she had a real friend.

  Gemma had no idea how long Bethany’s community service was going to last. At least for a few months, she hoped. And after the first two months passed, she’d brace herself every week for Bethany to announce her final departure. But she was greatly relieved when the only announcements were of the precise date Bethany would return and continue their story in progress, or ruminations about what book they should read next.

  The last of Gemma’s steady companions was the dark brown therapy cat who roamed the life-support ward, and who the staff referred to as honey, sweetie, kitty, and every other bland endearment. He was there because there had been sufficient medical studies to show that the presence of pets lifts the spirits of people who are severely disabled and also provides some diversion and companionship to a group that received very few visitors outside of the medical staff.

  Of course, Gemma was the only one in the ward who was truly responsive to the cat’s presence. The feline dutifully visited all the patients, and there was one fellow he particularly loved to take a nap on top of—it must have been the body heat—but he clearly favored Gemma. Somehow, he could tell that she was still there.

  He made frequent visits to her bed. Of course, it didn’t hurt that her TV was almost always on and that the flickering images on the screen were of intense interest to a cat who lived in a room with a disturbing lack of motion.

  Ever thoughtful, Bruce noticed the cat’s interest in the TV and experimented with a few options for him. The cat’s favorites were Animal Planet, no surprise there, and loud sports. Basketball seem to tick off all his bells—balls being dribbled, buzzers going off, crowds roaring, and lots of quick hand motions, but the biggest reaction from him came from the annual international ping-pong competition on the sports channel. His reaction was a classic—head bouncing back and forth from one side to the other. He was so mesmerized, you would think he had been watching a mouse. Gemma didn’t care what others called him—to her, he became Ping-Pong.

  On this particular day, Ping-Pong raced into the room, followed by another cat, with lovely orange and black fur. They chased one another around the room, with Ping-Pong finally ending up on Gemma, not entirely sure if the new cat was friend or foe. Someone appeared at the room’s entrance.

  “Bella! What you doing in here? Did you find yourself a new buddy?”

  The young woman was Lorna Sinclair, and noticing that Ping-Pong had settled on top of Gemma, she drew closer. In a glance, she took in everything—the life-support equipment, the unconscious patients, and the look in Gemma’s eyes.

  For her part, Gemma was dumbfounded. She had never seen such an exquisitely beautiful human being in the flesh. Of course, the screen was full of gorgeous movie stars. But alas, the hospital was not. It was a strange thing to know that such beauty actually existed. And it was exhilarating, as if someone had just brought in one of the great paintings in history, a masterpiece, and put it on the wall to gaze at. She was the blooming, healthy epitome of human perfection.

  “Can you understand me?” Lorna asked.

  Gemma blinked once.

  “That must mean yes,” Lorna said excitedly.

  This was greeted with another blink.

  “Two blinks for no, and then she closes her eyes for a good long three seconds for maybe. We’ve got a good system worked out,” Bruce said, coming up from behind them.

  “I–I just followed my cat in here. We came today to visit my doctor. And my friend Ruby, his assistant. My name is Lorna.”

  “I’m Bruce. And this is Gemma. Gemma has been here for eight years. I’ve been working here for five. So, we’ve gotten to know each other really well.”

  “Does she have family? Does she have visitors?”

  “She was raised by a single mother. But she died a couple years before Gemma got sick. No family left. And no visitors. Not unless you want to count Bethany. But why shouldn’t we count Bethany?”

  “Who is she?”

  “She comes in to read to Gemma. All kinds of books. At first, she came in because she was doing some community service hours for speeding. But her hours were served over two months ago, and she still keeps coming in. Keeps comin’ and readin’. I guess that makes her a really special friend.”

  This was surprising news to Gemma. Bethany’s mandatory hours had been served! She hadn’t said a word about it. She just kept coming in, chatty as can be, always enthusiastic about the reading. Always looking forward to the next book. Coming to visit Gemma, even when she did not have to. The thought moved her to tears. Bruce wiped them away.

  “There is a whole lot of soul trapped in this body,” he said to Lorna. “I would give my right arm to give her a normal life. I really would.”

  Lorna was moved to tears herself. “I have a friend I would like to bring to see her. He is a doctor. Kind of a brilliant guy.”

  “Is he a miracle worker?” Bruce asked.

  “You know, he kind of is.”

  *****

  If this were an ordinary transplant operation, using the body parts from an ordinary donor, Dr. Svenson would have no problem telling his patients exactly what to expect. He would know what to expect.

  But his recent operations had all involved the internal organs and body parts of a donor who was anything but ordinary—Lilith Hazelwood. She had been the most powerful witch who had ever resided in Oyster Cove. All of her organs were infused with such potent energy and regenerative power that her transplant beneficiaries not only had their bodies healed, but a portion of Lilith’s powers took seed in them and bloomed into remarkable abilities. Not the ful
l range of Lilith’s witchy talent, but still formidable and unnerving.

  But never wanting to complicate matters, Dr. Svenson had decided that it would never be a good idea to tell someone that he was about to put a witch inside them. Their fear might make them say no to a life-saving procedure, and it would be a tragic opportunity lost. At least that is how he rationalized it to himself. But to inject an element of honesty into the proceedings, he always tried to explain that what he was about to do was highly experimental.

  “I have performed musculoskeletal grafts before, but never on someone whose muscles had wasted away as extensively as yours have. I have reason to believe that this procedure can help you, but I can make no promises. Only that . . . I will do my very best for you. My very best.”

  Gemma blinked several times rapidly, shocked and startled and bursting out of her skin with hopefulness.

  “Hold on. Was that an answer?” Bruce asked carefully.

  Gemma blinked twice for no.

  “Do you want to have this operation?”

  Gemma slowly, carefully blinked once.

  Bruce let out a whoop of joy. “It’s on. She said yes.”

  There was relief all around. As Lorna, Dr. Svenson, and his assistant, Ruby, huddled to discuss the logistics of the operation, Bruce bent down and whispered into Gemma’s ear.

  "If you had said no, I would’ve told them that you said yes. That’s how badly I want you to get well.”

  Gemma’s eyes widened, and Bruce wasn’t quite sure how to interpret their expression.

  “You want to punch me? Because there’s nothing that would make me happier than your punching me.”

  Of course, being able to punch anyone was silly, wishful thinking. But Gemma was dying to know what was actually possible. Was she going to be able to wriggle her toes? Was she going to be able to ball her hand into a fist? Would she be able to nod? Shrug? Speak again, even just a little bit?