Before I Wake

by Robert J. Wiersema

  After sunset, the people on the front lawn began lighting their candles. The doctor and the nurse had left together, and the four of us sat mostly silent in the family room.

  Karen rose to her feet. “I guess we need something to eat,” she said, starting toward the kitchen.

  “Why don’t we order something in?” Jamie suggested.

  Karen paused to consider the idea. “I don’t know how keen I am on answering the door at this point,” she concluded. “Besides, it’s no big deal. I can whip something up.”

  As she slipped from the family room, Simon called after her. “I’ll give you a hand.” Jamie and I sat for a few moments, looking at one another awkwardly.

  “Well, all the best parties usually end up in the kitchen,” Jamie said, standing up to follow, leaving me alone.

  Simon was chopping vegetables on a maple block on the kitchen table when I got there, carrots falling under a large chef’s knife, a tea towel draped over one shoulder. The kitchen was bright and clean, large and well organized. Karen was at the stove with a wok. “I could open wine or something,” she said.

  “Yes, I think so,” Simon said, glancing at me. “Let’s have some wine.”

  It was amazing to watch them work. As Simon finished chopping the carrots and swung toward the stove, Karen stepped away, leaving a space between her body and the wok, allowing him to slide the cutting board through and to empty the carrots in, never breaking Karen’s stirring. It was a dance between two people who had been partners for years.

  I couldn’t watch. The easy intimacy, the comfort and custom, it was all too much.

  I left the kitchen, then lingered in the family room for a moment, running my eyes along the bookshelves, over the CDs and records beside the stereo. The light was still on in the living room, but it was even gloomier than it had been in the afternoon. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was surprised that Sherry was still in exactly the same position she had been earlier, that she hadn’t turned in her sleep, or kicked off her blankets.

  I sighed, looking down at her. She looked completely normal, as if she might, at any moment, open her eyes, sit up and start speaking.

  The sound of someone clearing her throat in the corridor made me turn around. Jamie entered the room tentatively, carrying a glass of red wine in each hand. “It’s really sad, isn’t it,” she said, looking at Sherry, handing me a glass.

  “Thanks,” I replied, shy at being caught at the bedside. “I was—”

  “You don’t smoke, do you?”

  “No.”

  “No, of course not. You probably do aerobics or something too, right?”

  “I run,” I said.

  “Nobody smokes anymore,” she said. “I’m a social pariah.” Going to the corner she picked up her purse, fumbling for a moment before coming up with a package of cigarettes and a lighter. “Normally I’d go out onto the front step.” She pondered for a moment. “Maybe the backyard.”

  I took a sip from the wine as she left, then set the glass on the coffee table.

  Nobody inside the house noticed me leave, but the eyes of the people in the yard were upon me, following me as I walked up the sidewalk to my car.

  December 6

  Victoria New Sentinel

  Friday, December 6, 1996

  Miracle Vigil for Sherry

  “Please go home” says distraught father

  ~Todd Herbert~

  A group of several dozen seekers and pilgrims, many suffering from life-threatening diseases, kept a cold, candle-lit vigil outside the Fernwood area home of Sherilyn Barrett last night. They had been attracted by news reports that the four-year-old girl, comatose following a hit-and-run accident last April, had healed two women of cancer in the last month. “We just want to see her,” said Eliza Cox, 54, of Cobble Hill. “It seems to me that if she’s been chosen by God, then she’s been put on Earth for a reason.”

  “My son is dying,” said Donna Kelly, 24, of Seattle, accompanied by her six year-old son, Jeffrey, who suffers from leukemia. “There’s nothing more the doctors can do. If there’s any possibility that this little girl can do what the radio says she can do, then I don’t mind waiting.”

  Cox, Kelly and the other pilgrims may not get a chance to find the answers they are looking for. In a written statement delivered late last night, Simon Barrett, Sherilyn’s father, pleaded, “I’m asking you as a father, please leave my daughter alone.” His words went largely unheeded by the crowd, who clustered together in the Barretts’ front yard, lighting candles and waiting.

  SIMON

  For the second morning in a row I awoke with no idea where I was. As I opened my eyes I saw bookshelves, distorted by the angle at which I was lying. The shelves sat against a dark-green papered wall, coving into a cream ceiling—the paper Karen and I had put up when we moved into the house, before we had Sherry. The family room, flooded with morning light from the east-facing windows.

  I was home, on the couch in the family room.

  The moment I thought of the word home, I thought of Mary.

  She had left without saying goodbye.

  When I asked Jamie if she had seen Mary leave, she shrugged. “Maybe she just wanted to give you and Karen a little space.”

  Karen.

  I jerked to a sitting position, the comforter falling off my shoulders. She was leaning against the doorframe. “Finally,” she said. “There’s coffee on. I brought the paper in.” She slipped away before I could respond.

  I pulled on my pants and yesterday’s shirt, and put on my watch. 7:40. Running my fingers through my hair, I found Karen at the kitchen table, two coffee mugs and the morning paper in front of her. “Morning,” I said.

  Her eyes flicked up to me from the newspaper, then returned.

  “Did you have any problem getting the paper? With the…” I didn’t know what to call the people outside.

  She shook her head. “I think I took them by surprise. I checked to see if anyone was on the step, but they all seemed to be over by Sherry’s window. I cracked open the door and just grabbed it. By the time they realized I was there, I was already gone.”

  I gestured toward the paper. “So? What does it say?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You’re not going to like this,” she warned. She closed the paper and turned it toward me.

  It took me a couple of seconds to register what I was seeing. Just below the banner headline were four photographs. The smallest was the picture of Sherry that we had taken at Sears on her third birthday—we had given a copy to the New Sentinel at the time of the accident. Somewhat larger was a picture taken at the scene of the accident, paramedics huddled around the tiny, blanketed form of our daughter.

  Dominating the page was a large night shot of the people in front of the house, their faces lit from below by their candles, the orange glow of the living room visible behind them. Inset into this larger photo was a black-and-white shot of a young boy, smiling into the camera.

  “Oh my God.”

  “That’s what they’re saying too,” Karen muttered. “Lots of human interest. Lots of sick people.” I scanned the story as she continued speaking. “They’ll be posting copies of it at Lourdes.”

  I took a swallow of my coffee. “I don’t like to think of how many people that article will attract.”

  “It’s already started. There were ten or fifteen people out there when I got the paper, and cars have been pulling up steadily.”

  I shook my head.

  “So what should we do?” Karen asked.

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. We could get an injunction…”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Do you want to be the one who has terminally ill kids dragged off by the police?”

  “Well, it would keep them away,” I joked.

  She gave the beginning of a smile and took a long sip of her coffee. “So,” she looked at me. “What happened to Mary last night anyway? She just sort of disappeared.”

  I shifted in my chair. “She mu
st have gone home. I tried calling, but she wasn’t there.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?”

  She waved her hand as if I should know. “For that, that whole thing with your trip up-island. That whole freak-out…” She seemed really uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, that’s all.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  The silence between us was thick. Neither of us knew what to say next.

  I drained my coffee and set the mug on the table. “Listen, would it be okay with you if I had a shower?”

  Her eyes flashed up at me. “Oh, sure.”

  “I just don’t really feel awake unless I—”

  “No, I know,” she cut me off. “I remember.” She gave a wry smile. “Your clothes are where you…where they usually are.”

  “Okay.” I pushed away from the table. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  KAREN

  I don’t think I breathed again until I heard the shower starting in the upstairs bathroom. I hadn’t known it would be so easy. Or so hard.

  The last time I saw Simon I had all but thrown him out of the house. Then to have him show up when I needed him so badly—to show up with Mary.

  My first impulse had been to slam the door; my next to fall into his arms. In the end, all I could do was let them in.

  Them.

  I couldn’t even think about it.

  I pulled the paper toward me and took another look at the front page. It was unsettling, seeing your life there—your own home, your daughter, your husband. All your problems, your tragedies—now public knowledge.

  Setting aside the paper, I went to the living room to check on Sherry. I wanted to open the curtains to let in the cold sunlight. Instead, for the second morning in a row, I flicked on the lamp.

  “I’m back, baby,” I said, judging her temperature with my hand. “Your dad’s in the shower. Are those people bothering you?” The crowd on the front lawn was singing again, but I couldn’t make out the words. “Are you hungry? It’s almost snack time. Another hour or so.”

  It was Friday, but with Simon spending the night, I had called Ruth and given her the day off. She had offered to come in just in case, but I had reassured her. “I think we’ll be all right.”

  With her not coming in, I would be bathing Sherry, checking the feeding tube and changing her diapers, tracking all her vitals—just like any night or weekend. “Another busy day for us, isn’t that right, sweetie? Isn’t that right?”

  I went to the window and peered out, pressing my eye to the crack between the frame and the blind, hoping not to be seen. Probably twenty-five people were now milling around on the front lawn. As I watched, another car pulled up in front of the house. Two elderly women gradually extricated themselves from the backseat and helped one another over the curb. They teetered past the knot of journalists on the sidewalk and into the yard, joining the crowd. A police car crawled past.

  No one even seemed to be looking at the house. No one except a little boy, at the front of the crowd, eyes locked on the living-room windows, staring directly at me. He was tightly bundled in a winter coat, head covered by a red toque, and sitting on a sleeping bag. Our eyes met, and he smiled, then looked down at the ground in front of him.

  I let the curtains fall back. I recognized the little boy from the front page of the paper—Jeffrey, six years old and suffering from leukemia.

  At the kitchen table, I examined the group picture of the vigil outside the house, the faces in a luminous half-circle. And there he was, barely visible in one corner, partially hidden by sets of legs. He was seated exactly as he was now, his back to the camera, his attention completely focused on Sherry’s window.

  It was as if he hadn’t moved in what—twelve hours? Fourteen? Fourteen hours on the cold ground? And for what?

  For what?

  SIMON

  It was strange to be naked in the bedroom, after such a long time away. It felt familiar, yet at the same time alien. Some of my clothes were still in the drawers and hanging in the closet. I pulled out a pair of jeans and a shirt, socks and underwear, folding the dirty clothes I had just taken off and leaving them outside the bathroom door.

  I showered using the same soap, the same shampoo, as if the last few months had been only a dream. I found one of my razors in the cupboard.

  When I got back downstairs Karen was still staring at the front page of the newspaper.

  “Much better,” I said with a gusto I didn’t entirely feel, picking up our mugs from the table. “Can I get you another cup?”

  She didn’t answer me for so long I began to wonder if I had actually said the words out loud. Then she looked up at me. “What are we going to do, Simon? What are we going to do?” Her eyes were desperate.

  “I don’t know. I feel like it’s out of our hands.”

  She pushed the paper toward me. “Look at this,” she said, tapping the photograph with an extended finger. “Look. His name’s Jeffrey. He’s got leukemia—”

  I nodded. “I know. I read the—”

  “He’s only six years old, Simon. He’s six years old and he’s dying and he’s been sitting out in front of our house all night.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “He’s got no chance. Can you imagine being six years old and being told that you’re not going to get any older? That you’ll never grow up?”

  I wanted to reach out to her, to make it all go away, but I couldn’t.

  “Can you imagine having no hope?”

  “Karen—”

  “No hope, except for a little girl—”

  “Karen—”

  “What if someone told us…What if someone said there was someone who could help Sherry?”

  “Karen, what are you trying to say?”

  “How can we just let that little boy die? How can we let all of those people suffer, when—”

  “We don’t know that Sherry can—”

  “We do know, Simon.”

  “We don’t know,” I repeated. “I would have thought that you of all people…”

  “I know, but—”

  “Fairy tales. That’s what you called them, all of those stories about saints and miracles, all that dogma your mother tried to ram down your throat. Fairy tales.”

  “I know. But Simon,” she said, “look at the evidence. Look at what happened to Ruth. And to her sister. And to that woman who reported it to the paper—Those things happened, and it had nothing to do with faith.”

  I walked over to the counter and poured myself another cup of coffee. “So what do you want to do?”

  “You’re angry.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not angry. I’m—scared. What happens if we bring him in here? What happens if…if Sherry can’t do it? Can’t heal him? And what if she can? What then? Do we let everyone in? And what does it do to Sherry, every time she…” I choked on the word. “Every time she heals someone?”

  “But what—” Karen was cut off by a loud knock at the front door. She rose automatically from her chair, but I waved her down.

  “I’ll get it. It’s probably a reporter.”

  “Be careful.”

  I was surprised by the concern in her voice.

  “I will.”

  I opened the door just a crack at first.

  “Mr. Barrett?” the stranger asked, meeting my furtive eye. “I’m Father Peter.” He was dressed in crisply pressed black trousers, coat and vest over a black shirt, buttoned all the way to his neck, and topped with a stiff white collar. He was almost bald, save for a light trace of hair along the ridges of his scalp. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses over cold gray eyes. Tall and painfully thin, his skin stretched tight over his chin and cheekbones. He wasn’t an old man, but with the shaved head and the dour expression, he seemed skeletal.

  “Yes?” I answered, not loosening my hold on the door.

  “Mr. Barrett, I’d like to speak with you and your wife.” He glanced back. The crowd was beginning to gather behind h
im.

  “Why?”

  “It would be better if we discussed that inside the house.”

  I opened the door, seeing little to fear in a priest. As he slipped inside I could hear voices raised outside, just beyond the stoop. “Hey…what about…Why’s he…”

  Karen was standing just beyond the foyer. The priest stepped forward, his hand extended. “Mrs. Barrett, I’m Father Peter. I’m very pleased that you’re giving me this opportunity to speak with you.”

  She took his hand and shook it gingerly. “Do I know you?”

  “I was at the hospital the night of Sherry’s accident. Visiting a friend.”

  She thought for a moment. “I remember. Do you remember what I told you?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “What is it that you want?”

  There was a chill in the air, and the cold seemed to radiate from him.

  “I’d like to meet Sherry, if I could,” he said.

  “Why?” Karen asked.

  He sighed, impatiently. “I was sent to see you by the archbishop—”

  “We’re not Catholic,” Karen said.

  The priest smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “That’s why he sent me. I’m not directly affiliated with the diocese. I don’t preach, I don’t have a home church…”

  “Yes, but why are you here?” I interrupted.

  “The archbishop called me this morning, quite concerned about the story in the newspaper, the coverage on the television news. He asked me to stop by—informally—and try to find out what was going on.” As he spoke he toyed with a coin in his left hand.

  The coin caught the light, flashed through his fingers, tumbled.

  Surprisingly, Karen stepped to one side. “Sherry’s right through here.” I followed them into the living room.

  The priest went directly to Sherry’s bed and turned back the covers. Karen stood to one side; I could see how tense she was. I felt the same way. He lifted Sherry’s right arm, turning it to expose her palm.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “He’s looking for stigmata.” Karen answered, as if she couldn’t believe what she was saying.

  “And there are none,” he said as he checked Sherry’s other hand. “That makes it considerably easier.”