“I never heard anything about a previous bleeding incident.” Allison said.
“She may have had a mild incident where the bleeding stopped on its own. If it happened when no one else was around she may have decided, for whatever reason, not to tell anyone. The bleeding tends to get worse with each episode if it isn’t treated right away.”
“I can’t believe she wouldn’t tell anyone,” Allison said.
“Well, maybe not,” the doctor said. “It could’ve been her first incident. I’m afraid her health was already compromised by the cirrhosis.”
“Thank you Doctor,” Frank said shaking his hand.
The doctor said his final farewells and offered to help in whatever way he could before making his weary and slump shouldered exit from the room.
Spontaneous tears streamed down Allison’s cheeks. Frank stood, seemingly paralyzed as if he didn’t know whether comforting her was the right thing to do. The sad basset hound look returned to his eyes. Father Mudd was at her side in a moment. Allison initiated a hug with the priest which seemed the only natural thing to do. She felt a certain bond with him from the baptism.
“I just don’t understand why. They said she was so much better, that her liver was healing itself. She was finally getting her life back on track. Please tell me why, Father. Why did her life have to end so sad?” Father Mudd stood patiently with his arm around Allison, handing her tissues.
“I’m not so sure it ended sad. You know her one wish was to die sober. And that she did.”
“I know but I still don’t get it. Why? Why did she do this to herself in the first place? And then when she finally gets serious about turning her life around, it’s too late. I just don’t understand.”
“And I don’t have any answers,” Father Mudd said so humbly and with such compassion that it almost sufficed.
Allison grabbed another tissue, wiped her face, and blew her nose. “Vicky said the same thing to me–I mean about not having an answer to a tough question. How come you people of faith never have any answers for life’s tough questions?”
“Maybe that’s where the faith part comes in,” Father Mudd said. This response seemed to trigger something in Frank, something deep and long lost. He looked up and drew his shoulders back. It was as if he just awakened from a long sleep.
“I’m going to go check on Bobby. He’s saying goodbye to Vicky right now. When he’s finished you can go back and see her,” Father Mudd said opening the door slightly ajar as he stood on the threshold of the small room
“Thanks for everything, Father,” Frank said shaking Father Mudd’s hand before he made his exit.
“I don’t know how to help, Al. Please tell me how to help,” Frank said after the door was safely closed.
“You can start by giving me a hug. I could really use one, you know. And I promise I won’t bite,” Allison said, strangely undone and endeared by his remark. They embraced. It was the first time in such a long time. Allison cried onto his suit jacket as he shushed her and stroked her hair. It was then she remembered the dream. It made her feel better to think of that dream, as if there was comfort in it somehow
“I just gotta tell you about this dream I had when I fell asleep in the waiting room,” Allison said, finally ending the embrace.
“I’m sure it doesn’t mean a thing, but I don’t know, maybe it was a sign or something.”
Allison told Frank all the details of the dream and he seemed stunned. “You’re kidding me?” he said when she had finished.
“No. Why do you look so taken back? It was just a weird dream”
“Did Vicky ever tell you about the ladder incident?”
“The ladder incident? What are you talking about?”
“She got stuck on a ladder trying to sneak up to my apartment.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t tell you,” he said. From the look on his face, it seemed he didn’t want to dredge up anything concerning the love affair in Allison’s presence.
“No, it’s okay, Frank. I don’t mind. I promise. I want to know.”
“She didn’t want to have to sneak past Sally’s apartment to come upstairs and see me, you know, because of all the gossip. Remember how Sally used to sleep with her door open?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“So this one night, she decides to swipe a ladder off of some workman’s truck and climb up to my apartment.” By this time Allison’s was laughing and soon the laughter caught on to Frank.
“That is so Vicky,” Allison said.
“She about scared the living shit out of me when she stormed through my patio door.” They laughed together like they hadn’t laughed in years.
“Anyway, the tricky part was when she decided to leave. She insisted on going back down the way she came up. Well, she gets stuck on about the third wrung down.”
“What happened?”
“She just got scared all of a sudden. I guess going up was no problem but she had this phobia about going down. She was absolutely paralyzed.”
“So what did you do?”
“I talked her down. Literally. Like some guy at the control tower talking to an airplane pilot in peril. She eventually made it down okay. I never will forget that. Are you sure I never told you that story?”
“I’m positive. I would’ve remembered that. That is really weird, I mean in light of my dream.”
“No kidding! You know I’m skeptical about that kind of thing but maybe it was some kind of message from Vicky,” Frank said. “Maybe she’s trying to tell you that she’s okay–that she’s with God. Maybe.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
A light knock on the door signaled the arrival of Father Mudd and Chief Bobby. They entered and Allison could see from Bobby’s reddened nose and eyes that he’d been crying. Her heart went out to him as it might have for her own brother.
“Bobby, I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved her,” Allison said placing her hand on his back.
“I just wish I could’ve done more for her,” Bobby said.
“I wish I could’ve too.”
“She loved you, you know,” Bobby said. “She told me if anything happened to her, she wanted you to have her things. I don’t have any use for any of it. It’s strange. It was just the other night she mentioned it. I believe she might’ve known she was going home to the Great Spirit.”
“Thank you, Bobby. There’s one item I think should go back to Vicky,” Allison said and Bobby smiled as if he understood. “I think she should be buried in her dress; the one her grandmother made her.”
“She can go meet Grandma Dooley in it.”
“Yes. You know I loved her too,” Allison said and Bobby nodded in his quiet way.
Frank shook Bobby’s hand and offered his condolences. “I’d like to help with the funeral expenses,” Frank said to Bobby, then turning to Allison he said, “That is if you think we should.”
“I think we should,” Allison agreed.
“You may go back and say goodbye to her if you like,” Father Mudd said, addressing Allison and Frank. “I’ll be waiting here for you.”
Father Mudd stayed behind in the room with Bobby while Allison and Frank made their way to Vicky’s room.
All the machines had been turned off, all the tubes removed, leaving behind a stark silence. There lay Vicky with no sign of physical struggle or strain appearing on her face. She looked tranquil and younger. Allison went over to her bedside and squeezed Vicky’s lifeless hand and kissed her pale forehead as she wept silently. The coolness of her flesh reminded Allison that she was in fact gone.
“Goodbye Vicky. I’m so glad you came back into my life. I wish we had more time to renew our friendship. It meant so much to me.” The tears began to choke off her words. Allison looked up at the crucifix on the wall and said, “God be with you.” She gave her one last kiss on her forehead and stepped away.
She could tell by looking at Frank that he was about to cry. Allison squeezed his
hand and he smiled at her behind red blurred eyes. She knew at that moment what she had to do.
“I’ll be waiting in the room with Bobby and Father Mudd.” She turned to walk away. She would give him this moment alone with Vicky. It was the least she could do after all the years she gripped too tightly to him. She would let it go. She wouldn’t feel jealous. She would turn, walk away, and leave him with his dignity.
As she walked away she thought she heard him say through his tears, “Goodnight, beautiful Vicky.”
Allison stopped in the middle of the hallway and mouthed the words: “Beautiful Vicky.”
Afterword
Allow me to pull a Vicky here and give you the Webster’s Dictionary definition of the word “miracle”: 1) an event or action that apparently contradicts known scientific laws and is hence thought to be due to supernatural causes, esp. an act of God. 2) a remarkable event or thing; marvel.
This book is a miracle. I hope that doesn’t sound too presumptuous. I believe most creative acts are a miracle, whereby God, one way or another, breaks through to our world. Let’s just say I experienced the miraculous first hand with the writing of this book. Just as surely as the Lord let the lame walk, the blind see, the dumb speak, and the prisoner free, he let me write.
As far back as I can remember I wanted to be a writer. One of my early memories is putting a book together for my mother with scotch tape. It didn’t hold together very well. The scotch tape didn’t stick and the pages kept falling out. I futilely tried to convey something of my imaginary world on paper, but my poor fine motor skills wouldn’t let me form my letters correctly and sent my uncontrollable (yet colorful) illustrations off in wild scribbling directions. Even then I suffered for my art! It was an exercise in frustration yet this crazy dream of writing persisted.
I had a whole cast of characters in my head. There was Sue Norlake, Tom Stuffy, and Linda Puck to name but a few. Don’t ask me. I have no idea where the names came from. They each had their own story. Many of them were orphans who lived in our garage and it was my responsibility to help them. They were real to me. They accompanied me during the day and talked to me. And, of course, I talked to them, which I learned early on in school was a social “no-no”. I was the weird kid on the playground who talked to people who weren’t there. And so I had to stifle my instinct to drift off into this imaginary world and act out these dramas going on in my head. Yet these people who weren’t there had stories which burned within me to be told. I was definitely not normal!
And so the social difficulties started early in school and it didn’t take long for the academic troubles to follow close behind. I learned to read okay, though I often had no idea what I was reading. I could sound the words out, I knew what the words meant individually, but to see them constructed as a sentence on a page, all comprehension was lost to me. It was somewhere around second grade when Sister Mary Timothy was giving directions for an assignment that I realized I had no idea what she was talking about. I knew the words she was speaking were in my native tongue of English, but somehow they were getting scrambled around in my head and were coming through as Greek, or Swahili perhaps. I was lost from that moment on… lost and scared to death.
I was labeled an underachiever. I just knew I was flawed. I had a giant “F” etched on my forehead for all to see. Then there was the impulsivity. I was too scared to move at school, but at home my actions were as out of control as the jumbled and confused thoughts in my brain. I went through a period where I actually belted myself to my desk chair at home so that I could sit still long enough to finish my homework.
In fifth grade, my mother took me to a progressive pediatrician who labeled my condition Hyperkinetic Syndrome. This was back in the early seventies. Today we know the condition as ADD/ADHD and everyone seems to have it. Never did I imagine that my affliction would someday become fashionable!
I was on Ritalin for three years. Say what you will on the question of medicating children with this disorder, but the fact is, it did help. I could concentrate. I could think things through. I didn’t interrupt. I waited my turn. And for the first time since I started school, I began to have some self-esteem. The problem was it badly suppressed my appetite and I was losing too much weight. I was taken off the meds sometime in eighth grade. By high school I reverted back to all my old problems.
Years and years of struggles started up again. I won’t bore you with all the details, but I will tell you that the only real joy in my life during those tough years was the imaginary characters in my head and their stories. Still this dream of being a writer endured. Yet it seemed so unreal to me. Talk about your pipe dreams! How could I become a writer when I couldn’t even put a sentence together?
Somehow I graduated from college. “By the skin of her teeth, the grace of God, and a little pull from me,” is how my academic advisor put it. Anyhow, I guess that’s how it happened. Determined to do something productive with my life, I decided to pursue a career in the helping profession; a profession which so many of us screw-ups opt for. And I say that with the utmost love and admiration for all the beautiful people in that profession who have helped me over the years. I worked harder than I ever worked before. It took everything I had but I managed to get a Masters degree in Counseling. I landed a job in a mental health clinic and worked there a couple years. A couple years was all I ever managed to work anywhere. I left there as I left so many jobs–feeling despondent, feeling like a failure. It wasn’t that I was such a bad counselor, as it was I couldn’t stay organized enough to keep up with the paperwork. Here I was almost thirty years old and I still hadn’t figured out what I was supposed to do with my life. I only knew I wanted to write, but that was out of the question because how could I?
That summer, unemployed, broke, miserable, confused, and completely lacking in focus, I stayed with my parents at their place in northern Michigan. I wandered around in the woods and by the lake that summer with a bible and a notebook desperately trying to find God, desperately looking for answers. Yes, God literally led me by the restful waters and restored my soul. I read the psalms and wept a lot.
That summer in the woods of northern Michigan I had a very real experience of the living Christ. I was given hope through the words in that bible that, surprisingly, I not only comprehended but seemed to leap off the page at me. Through those words I was washed clean. I experienced healing, hope, and yes, forgiveness for all the sins committed–all the sins that flowed from a wounded self-esteem–all those acts intended to boost myself when all I succeeded in doing was hurting myself and others. That would have been enough, but the Lord is never outdone in graciousness. He whispered that old dream into my heart again. He commanded me to pick up a pen and write, telling me not to be afraid, that it would be okay. He told me that with each word I put on paper, he would rewire my brain.
I sat on this old tree stump in the woods of northern Michigan with that notebook and that bible and I began to write. It was mostly journaling at first, but soon those imaginary characters from inside my head demanded to be set free. And so with one word at a time I began to write.
That was the beginning of my miracle. I realized then that I am a writer. I realized God plants dreams in our hearts at a very early age for a purpose–that we might heal, serve, inspire, refresh, spread the good news and bring others to new life.
That was several years ago and I’ve had other not so successful attempts at “real” jobs since then, but slowly I am beginning to accept the person that God made me to be; and to recognize that it’s all gift. I am nothing special in that regard. That gift is for everyone who wants it. That is my prayer for anyone reading this right now, going through struggles of his or her own. They may be very different struggles from mine, but I’m here to tell you, this is a God of miracles. He longs to call us all forth from our tombs. I know he called me forth from mine and it is a miracle. Praised be Jesus Christ.
“For I know well the plans I have in mind for you, says the LORD, plans for your w
elfare, not for woe! Plans to give you a future full of hope. When you call me, when you go to pray to me, I will listen to you. When you look for me, you will find me. Yes, when you seek me with all your heart, you will find me with you, says the LORD, and I will change your lot.”
- Jeremiah 29: 11-14
M. Grace Bernardin
Pentecost Sunday 2009
Acknowledgements
I believe it only appropriate to begin by thanking my husband, John. Together we’ve shared this dream of writing, which began the very first night we met. It’s so exciting to see the dream finally come to fruition for both of us. A simple internet search for John William McMullen will yield the fruits of his literary efforts. But of all John’s achievements, his most challenging to date is getting his fledgling wife through this project. His ever-persistent pushing and prodding (gentle pressure!), undying encouragement, helpful suggestions, endless inspiration and belief in me as I stumbled through this second novel (the first novel was an experiment of sorts and we’re all greatly relieved that it will never end up on anyone’s bookshelf, although John wants me to scrap it for parts) is one of the greatest graces bestowed on me. Thanks John for everything. I seriously could not have done it without you.
I wish to thank the Writer’s Group who endured readings of my earliest drafts; particularly Doug Chambers, who gave me so much confidence in my writing ability and is the spirit of that group.
I have many friends who encouraged and supported me along the way (and you know who you are). I wish to thank two in particular: Susan Milligan for believing in this dream at times when I couldn’t. Susan–thank you for the countless times you propped me up and told me I had a gift; especially during those times when I just thought the whole thing was crazy and what the heck was I doing with my life anyway. You are my Barnabas.
ODD NUMBERS Page 73
