Fire Touched Read Free

occasionally as seemed appropriate. Eventually, we moved from vitamins to makeup. Despite rumors to the contrary, I do wear makeup. Mostly when my husband’s ex-wife is going to be around.
    â€œWe also have a product that is very useful at covering up scars,” she told me, looking pointedly at the white scar that slid across my cheek.
    I almost said, “What scar? Who has a scar?” But I restrained myself. She probably wouldn’t get the
Young Frankenstein
reference anyway.
    â€œI don’t usually wear makeup,” I told her instead. I had an almost-irresistible need to add “my husband doesn’t want me attracting other men” or “my husband says makeup is the work of the devil” but decided that any woman whose name I couldn’t remember probably didn’t know me well enough to tell when I was kidding.
    â€œBut, honey,” she said, “with your coloring, you would be stunning with the right makeup.” And, with that backhanded compliment, she was off and running, again.
    Izzy’s mom used “natural” and “herbal” to mean good. “Toxin” was bad. There was never any particular toxin named, but my house, my food, and, apparently, my makeup were full of toxins.
    The world wasn’t so clear-cut, I mused as she talked. There were a lot of natural and herbal things that were deadly. Uranium occurred naturally, for instance. White snake root was so toxic that it had killed people who drank the milk from cows who had eaten it. See? My history degree
was
useful, if only as a source of material to entertain myself with while listening to someone deliver a marketing speech.
    Izzy’s mother was earnest and believed everything she said, so I didn’t argue with her. Why should I upset her view of the world and tell her that sodium and chloride were toxic but very useful when combined into salt? I was pretty sure she’d only point out how harmful salt was anyway.
    She turned another page while I was occupied with coming up with more toxins that were useful—and I was distracted from my train of thought by the picture on the page. A mint leaf lay on an improbably black and shiny rock in the middle of a clear, running stream with lots of water drops in artistic places. It made me a little thirsty—and thirsty reminded me of drinking. And though I don’t drink because of an incident in college, I sure could have used something alcoholic right then.
    Come to think of it, alcohol was a toxin—and useful for all sorts of things.
    â€œOh, this is my favorite part,” she said, caressing the dramaticphoto, “essential oils.” The last two words were said in the same tone a dragon might use to say “Spanish doubloon.”
    She reached into her bag and pulled out a teal box about the size of a loaf of bread. In metallic embossed letters, “Intrasity” and “Living Essentials” chased each other around the box in lovely calligraphic script.
    She opened the box and released the ghosts of a thousand odors. I sneezed, Joel sneezed. Izzy’s mother said, “God bless you.”
    I smiled. “Yes, He does. Thank you.”
    â€œI don’t know what I would do without my essential oils,” she told me. “I used to have terrible migraines. Now I just rub a little of our Gaia’s Blessing on my wrists and temples and ‘poof,’ no more pain.” She slid out an elegant, clear bottle that held some amber liquid and opened it, holding it toward my nose.
    It wasn’t that bad. I admit my eyes watered a little from the peppermint oil. Joel sneezed again and gave Izzy’s mother the stink eye. From upstairs came a gagging noise and loud coughing. Ben wasn’t here, and I didn’t think Zack was the type. I’d have thought Adam and Darryl would both have been more mature. If I had any doubt that they were teasing me, it would have been dispelled by the way they