Chapter Text
They met one day in February, 1917.
—Hey, hola, despertaste. —those were the first words my mother said to my father. He didn't quite understand them.
My mother, María Piedad de la Trinidad Juárez Rosales, was a Costa Rican nurse in the war; my father, Charles Walker, was an American soldier. He had been shot in his right shoulder. He tried to get up, but my mother stopped him. He tried to argue with her, but it was no use. My mother kept him in the trenches until he got better. He didn't quite know why my mother cared for him so much, but he liked it. She helped him eat, wrote letters to my paternal grandmother, and changed his bandages gently, lovingly, but professionally.
Language wasn't a problem for them; my father gave my mother the dessert from his rations, they drank coffee together, and he taught her English. It was those moments, those short conversations, that made them two lovers. My mother loved to read, baked, and was good with plants, and she didn't mind the idea of the silence she so enjoyed being disturbed by the crying or laughter of children. My father loved to cook, loved to write, and wanted children in the future. They both agreed on a desire for a happy and peaceful life.
—What if we get married after the war, Piedad? —my father asked her one day.
—Get married?
My father got on his knees, miming a marriage proposal with a ring he made from a napkin. My mother laughed but accepted. The war ended on Monday, November 11th, 1918. My parents got married two days after that, Wednesday, November 13th, 1918. My father didn't want to pressure my mother to start having children; he knew they were practically strangers, so they took their time falling in love properly, going on dates, giving gifts to each other, and all of that.
I was born on Friday, August 25th, 1922. My mother named me Mercy, my grandmother María Mercedes's nickname, in her honor. I was homeschooled since I lived a bit far from everything, I grew up reading medical books while my father worked and my mother took care of the home.
It was Monday, July 13th, 1928, and I was five years old when I discovered my healing powers. It was late in the day when my father hit his head on a kitchen cabinet while cooking. I was reading, the background noise secondary until I heard my name called. My father called me, so I got up from the armchair and walked over to him. My mother was cooking instead of him.
—Oh, Mercy, my only child, my little one, will you hold me now, before I die? —he dramatized with obvious falsehood. My mother scolded him, and we began to laugh.
But still, I hugged him. I also saw his wound close without him noticing or leaving a mark. It was... strange. My parents knew I couldn't feel pain like they did, only a kind of tingling, like fizzing, but only I knew I could do that, heal.
Sunday, February 2nd, 1931. I was eight years old when my parents discovered my powers. I asked if we could go book shopping, since I'd already read and reread all the ones we had by that point. My dad was driving, and my mom nagged me to put on the seatbelt she sewed into my favorite seat. She was always afraid something would hurt me. Ironic, isn’t it?
—Charles! Say something! —The moment my father's eyes stopped focusing on the road, something happened.
He lost control, I heard screams, and in the blink of an eye, I was out of the car. I felt that tingling, not pain, never pain. I looked toward the car and walked back with the caution I always had. The windshield was cracked, but there was no broken glass inside. My parents were bleeding, so I got in through the back door and held their hands. Silent minutes passed, watching their wounds heal, until my mother opened her eyes and looked at me.
I wasn’t hurt, no bruises, cuts, or scrapes.
—Mi-mi niña... —she stammered.
I didn't say anything. She looked at my dad, who was also waking up. My mom had a twinkle in her eye, and I didn't know what it meant, but from that day on, she insisted on honing my skills. She said I would help make the world a better place.
At first, we practiced with plants. She would break their leaves and stems and have me put them back together, repairing the damage she had done. Then with animals, mostly mice, she would break their little legs, stab them, poison them, and have me heal them. I bit my fingers every time I heard their shrieks, cries, and screams, even if they were just animals. I couldn't help but feel helpless at not being able to stop her torture. They would bleed to death if I didn't heal them quickly; I couldn't get their bodies to generate more blood to replace what they'd lost.
The next step was my own mother. My father would try to stop her, tell her what she was doing wasn't right. She would tell him it didn't matter, that it was just practice for the greater good. I would get nervous when we practiced, thinking: What if I kill her? What if I don't fix it before she bleeds out? And I would try to do it as quickly as I could. Then she would test me. She would hurt herself at random times of the day to keep me alert, falling out of nowhere and hitting her head while I was in my room reading, or cutting her hand in the kitchen while I was getting ready to go out with my dad to go shopping. It would get to the point where I would wake up in the middle of the night to check on her. It was an annoyance, a pressure in my chest that didn't quite reach the fizzy tingling when something hurt me.
But we weren't done with that. I continued, as I expected. Her specific words? Your turn.
She made me eat rat poison, poured boiling water on me, locked me out of the house on winter nights, even caught rats to bite me. Nothing happened; I couldn’t seem to die. Then we used the knife. No matter where she stabbed me, I didn't bleed. My wounds healed in ten seconds at most, but my mother didn't stop until they regenerated instantly. She tried to break my bones, but she couldn't.
All of this amazed her; it horrified my father.
While she wrote everything we discovered in her special notebook, he watched from a distance and sighed, shaking his head.
—You're hurting her, Piedad. —I heard him say when he thought I was asleep.
—Just think of the lives she'll save. —she defended herself and her actions.
Friday, August 23, 1940, my dad and I were reading in the living room. The silence was what I loved most, the calm, but my mother slammed the door when she entered. She was happy, too happy. She had a superhero application from the National Super Agency. A new government agency looking for gifted people, like me. The application benefits listed life insurance for family members, free education, a guaranteed job and money, plus "the honor of making America a better place," pure patriotic stupidity. I was sure they would use us as weapons; the European war threatened to drag the United States into the conflict. Death and hunger breathed down our necks.
I didn't want that, I didn't want to be a pawn they'd use to keep them from running out of soldiers. I felt that pressure on my chest again, my hands trembled, my eyes burned, and I could feel my face heating up as I told her.
—I don't want to... —what started as confident words ended in a whisper. —fill it...
My mother was confused, as if I were saying something meaningless, as if I had been the one who came up with the idea. My father's eyes were focused on everything but me.
—What are you saying, my girl? You were born for this! —she smiled at me, but there was no sweetness in her voice; all she had were her hands cradling my face. —It's your job.
I took a step back, catching one last glimpse of her before running to my room. My parents didn't fight this time. I wanted to cry, to scream, but I didn't know what to do or say. A few minutes later, my father knocked on my door three times before opening it.
—Mercy. —he called.
I looked at him; he didn't seem to be forced or persuaded. He sat with me on my bed, silent for a long time. I couldn't leave, I couldn't abandon them; they needed me here. My father was very careless. He went through life as if he had a second life. He worked in the rain with tools that seemed very dangerous, playing with knives to impress my mother when he cooked. His hands were full of scars, from the war and from the peaceful life. I had to be available to heal him, close his wounds, heal his bruises, mend his bones. If I wasn't here, who would be?
—The... —he began. —people need you.
My eyes watered as soon as I heard his words.
—But—you need me too. —I covered my face, not wanting him to see me cry.
He let out a soft laugh.
—I'll be fine, —he said, playfully ruffling my hair. —your mom will always be here when something happens to me, to yell at me and kiss my wound.
I hugged him tightly; he did the same.
—Even so, call once in a while, my little panacea.
They made a healer out of the careful daughter of a careless man.
They took the girl and buried her to make room for the heroine.
I filled out my application to enter the NSA and sent it in first thing Saturday. On the morning of my 18th birthday, I received my acceptance letter.
Name: Mercy Walker, "Panacea"
August 25th, 1940