More than anything in the world, Ivy Merchuk longs to be just another face in the crowd-easier said than done for a woman born with the ability to heal grievous injuries with the touch of her hands. To a young girl just struggling to fit in, this gift is an unbearable burden, one that fills her with shame and anxiety. Her mother understands and cautions the young girl to keep this strange and wonderful ability a secret, for fear that her daughter will attract the wrong sort of attention. So Ivy struggles to conceal her extraordinary skills from the world as she grows into adulthood. Desperate for answers, she pours herself into a life of research and lands a job as a librarian. One fateful night after work, she stumbles onto a brutal crime scene. Horrified and conflicted, she makes the difficult decision to help the victim, who has been beaten almost to death. And this chance encounter with a brooding urban samurai named Victor Morgan sends her already precarious world skidding off its axis. What these two discover together will change both of their destinies.

The Healer

By Sabrina Furminger

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Sabrina Furminger
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-4075-9

Chapter One

The morning bus reeked of sweat, cheap cologne, bologna, and weed. Ivy juggled a book bag and coffee cup and struggled to stay on her feet between an overweight postal worker and a Korean exchange student. The student giggled into a pink phone. Far too perky for this hour of the morning. The bus hit a bump and lurched forward. A small drop of coffee spilled onto the postal worker's shirt. He didn't notice. She said nothing.

Ivy's eyes wandered aimlessly. She never knew where to focus her eyes during the morning commute. They fell onto a plastic twenty-something in a polyester suit standing a few feet away. Likely a financial type at the beginning of his career. His hair is too perfect. He winked at her and pulled his lips into a shit-eating grin and revealed teeth that were far too white to be natural. Ivy averted her gaze and focused instead on an ad for erectile dysfunction medications plastered above the window.

Would it really be so bad if I smiled back? Her eyes drifted back to the young man's tanned face. He'd been staring. He blew a kiss. Quickly, her eyes returned to the spot of coffee on the postal worker's shirt. Tomorrow I'll save the bus fare and drive. Her stop couldn't come soon enough. She pushed her way through the groggy masses and was relieved when the banker didn't follow her off the bus.

Try as she could to avoid it, people stared at Ivy wherever she went. "There's something about you," strangers would say. "I can't look away." They approached her on the bus, in the library, at the produce market around the corner from her apartment. "You should be a model," they'd utter in amazement. Ivy couldn't see what they saw. She saw average: a big mass of curly brown hair, blue eyes, her mother's nose and lips. Sometimes she'd stammer out an awkward thank-you, but for the most part she'd hurry off and pretend she hadn't heard them. Her mother had handled similar interactions with tact and warm smiles. I wish I was invisible.

Ivy didn't date. Didn't have friends. Seven years had passed since her mother's death, since she'd put 3,000 miles between herself and her father, with no complaints on either end. She lived a quiet life in a small apartment in Vancouver's crowded West End. She worked, read, ran along the beach, and ate alone. Rinse and repeat. Each day she strove for invisibility.

Ivy was attempting to fit her lunch into the overstuffed employee fridge when Janet—her eternally exasperated boss—burst into the break room.

"A busload of eight-year-olds ... within the hour," Janet reported breathlessly. Clearly this was crisis time. "Colleen will lead them through story-time. Stand by with the vacuum cleaner and a garbage bag. And make sure none of the little bastards ride the book carts."

"Would you like me to choose some books ...?" But Janet was gone before Ivy had a chance to finish her sentence. Janet rarely remained in a room long enough to confront a question or a dissenting opinion. Ivy sighed and headed to the supply closet for the vacuum.

"Not what I had in mind when I became a librarian," Ivy mumbled as she hauled the ancient contraption out of the closet. She sighed, closed her eyes, and pictured the pile of books awaiting her on her bedside table. The image gave her pleasure. I'll take five minutes with a good book over a prolonged conversation with another person any day. Books were free of judgment. Books couldn't hurt her. Books accompanied her to restaurants, on bus rides, to bed. Books ushered along the hours so that Ivy could collapse into a deep sleep without once having to speak to herself.

But sometimes, books failed her, as they did sixteen hours after the frenzied onslaught of hyper third-graders. In the uncomfortable space between wakefulness and sleep, her repressed instincts began speaking up for themselves. Is this it for me? Will I always sleep alone? The chatter rose to a fever pitch. Her mother had begged her to knock life off its axis. I'm barely scratching the surface of life. I'm a freak. I can't shake my truth.

Her thoughts strayed out of bounds, to the incident with the homeless man a few weeks previous. He'd been a daily sight, lounging under a tree near her bus stop. He'd never once begged for money. Often, he'd smiled at her, a toothy, ageless smile that reminded her of the jack-o-lanterns her mother had carved with such precision.

One morning, Ivy had arrived at the bus stop and noticed a large red puddle on the sidewalk where the grass met the pavement. Slowly, her eyes had drifted from the puddle to where her homeless man lay sprawled under his tree.

"Are you okay, sir?" She'd received no reply as she moved towards him. Only when she was four steps away had she realized the seriousness of his condition. His skull had been smashed in. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow and uneven.

I can save him. The thought had been unexpected. Heavy with uncertainty, she'd closed her eyes and implored her hands to vibrate. Nothing. She'd strained. Okay, I'm ready. It's time. Again, nothing.

Defeated, she'd called 911 on her phone, and looked on forlornly as the paramedics wheeled her homeless man away. She'd sat at the bus stop for two hours. Bus after bus had passed her by. He had yet to return to his spot under the tree. She didn't know if he'd survived his injuries.

I opened Pandora's Box and found—nothing. Dust and disappointment. She pulled the pillow over her head. Maybe I've outgrown it. I'm a freak either way. Her heart cried out into the night.

Ivy took her work home with her every night. Leaning against her Jeep (a farewell-and-don't-come-back gift from her father), she balanced a stack of books on her hip and searched her purse for her keys. Last night she'd led herself through several academic journals documenting aberrations in human evolution. This weekend she planned to return to her favourite subject: anthropology. Looking to explain myself away. The air was damp and crisp, typical September weather for the Pacific Northwest. Perfect night for a run, and then a sweet surrender to wine and books.

Or I could go clubbing and pick up a guy for a one-night stand.

A smile danced across her lips and faded fast. Those experiments, few and far between as they were, always left her feeling empty and angry.

A crash of shattering glass shook her from her reverie. She froze. Indistinct sounds of scuffling and shoving poured out of the alley down the block from her car. Feet kicking meat. Male laughter. Groans. Despite the laughter, there was nothing funny about the groaning.

Alarmed, Ivy surveyed the empty street. Do I run? Do I call the police? If so, what do I say? That I heard a loud noise? Frantically she turned to her instincts for guidance and was informed that, in this instance, the police would arrive too late to save a life. Better to actually see what's going on and be a reliable eyewitness. She swallowed her fear, placed her books on the pavement, and crept into the alley.

"This isn't a game, Victor," boomed a male voice, deep and unaccented, from fifty yards away. "You're out of your league."

Ivy kept to the shadows. Her eyes were slow to adjust to the dim light. Eventually she identified four male silhouettes: three standing, delivering the kicks, the other on the ground. The piece of meat. One of the standing silhouettes...