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“Could I have a moment with Bea, please?”
“Sure.” He removes his arm and walks among the tombstones.
“Yes, love?” Bea says to me when Ronan is out of earshot.
“Could you take me back to Marie Laveau’s tomb?”
“Of course. Do you wish to make an offering?”
“I do.”
As we walk, I look again at all the gravesites, think about the people buried here on this hallowed ground. When we reach the tomb, I turn to Bea.
“I don’t have anything biodegradable to leave.”
“A coin or two is fine,” she says. “Or simply your good thoughts or a prayer. She will hear you.”
I walk toward the tomb, reach into my purse, my fingers grazing the silk bag, and pull out my wallet. “How many should I leave?”
“It’s not the gift that matters,” Bea says. “It’s what the gift represents. What is in your heart.”
I nod and grab two quarters from the zippered compartment of my wallet. I set the coins among the wealth of other gifts.
And I make my wish.
When we return to Ronan, leave the cemetery, and bid goodbye to Bea, I grab his hand.
“What did you think?” he asks.
“I think…I’d like to learn more about Voodoo.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ronan
“Voodoo?” I ask.
“Yeah. I mean, it means something to your grandmother. It’s a huge part of the city’s culture. Of its history.”
This woman never ceases to surprise me. I know exactly where to take her—the New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum. Mémé took me there often when I was a kid, and it’s located in the heart of the French Quarter, offering a fascinating look at the history and traditions of Voodoo in New Orleans.
A half hour later, we’re entering the museum, complete with dim lighting and an eerie atmosphere. Mary’s eyes widen as she gazes at the walls adorned with various artifacts and artwork related to Voodoo, including dolls, masks, and ritual objects.
“You want to watch the short film about Voodoo in New Orleans?” I ask.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind.”
She watches with rapt attention, taking in the information I’ve known my whole life. Voodoo is interesting and intriguing for sure, but I don’t put any stock in it or any other religion.
One of the highlights of the museum is its collection of Voodoo artifacts, including traditional Voodoo dolls, gris-gris bags—small fabric pouches that contain talismans—and other ritual objects. I’ve seen all this before, but Mary seems completely mesmerized.
Another section of the museum focuses on the role of Voodoo in New Orleans’ music and cultural traditions.
And of course, there’s a whole section on Marie Laveau herself.
After an hour, my stomach is growling. The beignets didn’t last long, and it’s past lunchtime.
When I open my mouth to suggest something to eat, Mary says, “I’d like to shop. Maybe get a souvenir.”
