The Gift of Angels

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  We were doing well, or so I thought, but I spent many hours sitting in bed or throwing up, since I was still having chemo on some Saturdays. Dean was my rock, and I have to admit that I used him all too often, crying out my pain and frustration. I understood now why Betty Jones had said she wasn’t going to do chemo again even if her cancer returned. There were moments when the pain was so intense that death seemed a welcome relief, a blissful, magical oblivion where pain wasn’t allowed to exist. At those moments—torturously long for all their briefness—I might have even prayed to die if I hadn’t so badly wanted to live for Marie and Brody. And, yes, for Dean, too.

  I should have known that it was too much for my husband—for anyone—to always be the strong one, bearing the family burden when someone else couldn’t push the load.

  After two weeks of radiation, Dean stood up in church in the middle of a talk and left the rest of us sitting there. I followed him out the door, my children’s gazes digging into my back. I knew their concern. Dean had never left church before, and certainly not in the middle of a talk.

  I had to move slowly because I never felt well these days, even on my weekends without chemo. By the time I was at the glass doors leading outside, he had slid behind the wheel. I went to the passenger side.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Miracles, miracles! They all get ’em. Why not us?” Bitterness twisted his voice, and if I hadn’t been looking right at him, I wouldn’t have believed my husband was the man speaking.

  For a moment I felt dizzy, as though my life had turned back the clock to more than eight weeks ago when I had been the one to leave church and race down the freeway searching for a solution. How was it some people deserved a miracle and we didn’t?

  There was still no real answer. Why would God save the life of our neighbor who’d experienced a heart attack, and not save me? Though I held precious hope, I didn’t fool myself about my outlook. Even if these treatments were successful enough to allow the surgery, my chances weren’t good.

  “We’ve been blessed,” I pointed out. “We have our angels. Look at Shirley, at Brent. Even Marie’s new friend. The whole ward has been supportive. The kids are coming in August and bringing the grandchildren. These are angels, Dean. Our angels.”

  He took my hands. “It’s not enough. I want a full miracle. I want you to be healed.”

  “So do I.” Without his support, I felt adrift again, back in the endless sand surrounding the city of Sodom.

  There was a knock on the window, and we both looked up to see Brody staring through the window, his unruly hair waving like the wind-swept sand I’d so recently trudged through in my experience with the scriptures. Dean motioned for him to get in the backseat.

  Brody had his scriptures with him. “I got it, Mom!” he exclaimed. “It’s in Mosiah.”

  “Got what?” Dean’s voice sounded normal now, and I was glad Brody had come. Dealing with my husband’s grief was much worse than dealing with my own. I understood now in a way I hadn’t before that it was as hard to watch someone you loved die as to be the one dying. Maybe harder.

  “It’s the words of the prophets. That’s what it means to set your tent toward the Lord.”

  I relaxed. Coming up with these scriptures did him more good than they did me, and I was grateful.

  We sat in the doorway of a tent made of animal skins. Beyond the doorway we could see many similar tents and other quickly built structures of wood, some with boughs for a roof, others with fabric coverings. All of the openings faced toward the sacred temple of the Lord.

  Near the temple, King Benjamin stood on a wooden structure that towered above the gathering. The hot sun presided over the lush landscape. Beyond the tents were the forests full of vegetation and colorful birds, whose calls occasionally rang out over the noise of the people. The sweet aroma of fruits filled the air.

  “My brethren, all ye that have assembled yourselves together, you that can hear my words which I shall speak unto you this day . . . open your ears that ye may hear, and your hearts that ye may understand, and your minds that the mysteries of God may be unfolded to your view.”

  King Benjamin, not only a king but also a prophet of the Lord. Joy swelled my heart and tears came to my eyes. How grateful I was for a loving Father who had sent a good man to lead and guide us! Hadn’t my family and I gathered together often to hear the prophet of the Lord—our faces, our thoughts, our tents facing him? Yes, we would sit in a modern living room watching the current prophet on television, instead of in a tent beneath a tower, but I knew it was the same.

  I understood now. Setting my tent toward the Lord meant setting it toward the prophet. How much could Lot have benefited from setting his tent toward his prophet instead of the wicked city of Sodom! If he had, his wife would not have looked back.

  Joy filled my heart as I watched King Benjamin address his people. I could look forward like they were doing. I could pitch my tent toward the Lord by following the living prophet.

  “Mom?” Brody asked eagerly. “Do you see? The people came from all over and faced their tents toward King Benjamin so they could hear what the Lord wanted them to do—you know, the commandments.” He beamed, looking younger than his eighteen years.

  “Listening to the prophet,” I mused aloud. I was proud of him. This was the most relevant scripture he’d come up with so far.

  “Well, not just the prophet. It means to hear the words of the Lord—wherever they can be found.” He looked at me and then at Dean and back again, his eyes intense, the lines of his face full of awkward angles not yet softened by age. “And what I want to know is how can you do that here in the car?”

  I met Dean’s gaze for a long, silent moment, and then without a word he climbed from the car, went around to open my door, and helped me out. Hand-in-hand, we went back inside the church, Brody trailing behind.

  As we entered the foyer, we saw Evelyn, a woman who lived around the block from us, with her seven-year-old, Stevie. Some less believing would call their presence coincidence. Some would call it fate. I believe it was an answer to prayer. Whose, I don’t know. Maybe Brody’s or Dean’s. Maybe even mine.

  Evelyn didn’t glance our way. She was poised over Stevie’s body in his wheelchair, pushing down on his tiny chest with a vigor that to my unpracticed eye seemed to be dangerously close to crushing him. The boy wheezed. Evelyn pushed down again, her arms like sturdy branches, leaning farther over Stevie to put her weight into the effort. Whenever she paused, the boy coughed and wheezed.

  Dean and I stared in fascination. Down Evelyn pushed again, her round, childlike face red with exertion.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Stevie rasped.

  “You feel better?” Evelyn took her hands from his chest and stroked his head that looked impossibly large compared to his toddler-sized body.

  “Yes, but the air is funny.”

  Evelyn adjusted the air tubes going inside his nose. That was new. He’d only had the oxygen tank for the past few weeks, and I knew it couldn’t possibly be a good sign. A knot tied itself in my stomach.

  Stevie nodded. “Yeah, better.” He took a deep breath to prove it, but even I could hear the rattle in his chest from across the room. Stevie had muscular dystrophy, diagnosed when he was only ten months. Slowly but surely he was dying. His muscle, what little he had, would deteriorate to the point that he wouldn’t be able to breathe at all—no matter how often or how long his mother pushed on his chest. Or his weakened body would succumb to an illness that wouldn’t even slow a healthy person down.

  I was rooted to the spot. I didn’t know Evelyn well, as Stevie was her oldest and her other children too young to move in the same circles as my own. That’s often how it went, women becoming friends because of their children, especially in a ward as large and varied as ours.

  “Is he okay?” Dean approached Evelyn, the grieving expression back on his face. “Can I help?”

  Evelyn smiled and shook her head. “Things build up inside, and w
e have to get them loose.”

  “Mom, can I go?” Stevie put his emaciated hand on the controls to his motorized wheelchair.

  Evelyn grinned at him. “Oh, so you’re feeling strong now, huh? Go ahead, try.”

  Stevie fumbled with the controls with great effort. This, too, was new. Even as recent as Christmas, Stevie had been able to work his controls with great skill.

  Stevie managed to go a few yards down the hallway where Brody was waiting for us so we could go inside together. Evelyn started to go after her son but stopped when Stevie and Brody began talking.

  Dean shook his head and muttered, “It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”

  I wasn’t sure if Evelyn had heard. She smiled again at me, her eyes luminous. “How are you doing?” It was the kind of pointed question I usually answered by glossing over the facts.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s too early to tell.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” I looked at Stevie, who was grinning up at Brody, both too far away to hear.

  Beside us, Dean clenched and unclenched his fists, ready to bolt or to explode—maybe both. I put my hand on his arm. “Honey, let’s go back in.”

  “What’s the point? This is where the real miracle is needed, not in there.” He turned to Evelyn. “How can you stand it?”

  Emotion filled Evelyn’s round face. She looked down at hands that had so recently pumped on her son’s chest, essentially extending his life. Her short brown hair fell into her eyes. I wondered if she was going to collapse into tears.

  Taking a long breath, she looked up at us, her jaw firm, her eyes steady. “I’ve had a lot of years to think about it, and what I’ve come to is this: many people who see miracles are often like the Nephites, forgetting the Lord as soon as the miracle is behind them. Someday they’ll need to be reminded again and even again. Or worse, they’ll fall away when they don’t get what they want. I might have been that way too. Having Stevie in my life makes me remember where I came from and where I want to end up. He is the miracle. I’m not about to forget him on any day—or the Lord because of him. I will never stop trying or fall away from the Church because I know the only way I can be with my sweet boy forever is to keep holding onto the gospel and God’s promises. My reliance on the Lord is the only reason I survive each day.”

  I saw it all clearly as she spoke. Scenes from the scriptures where the blind, the lame, the critically ill all reached out to the Savior to be healed—followed by His loving response. In this age we don’t have the opportunity to touch the hem of His robe for a cure, but terminal illness, or extended illness of any type, does keep people from forgetting the Lord. It reminds them daily of their dependence upon Him and brings their understanding of gospel precepts to a new level. How better to appreciate the eternal nature of the family than when one member faces death? How much more likely is a person to search the scriptures when she has a compelling reason to understand the truth? I knew from my own experience that the gospel had become more important in my life than anything else. More important than jobs, or houses, or cars, or vacation, or my dream of a restaurant.

  Tears dripped from Dean’s eyes. I took Evelyn’s hand, unable to speak. She was right. Stevie was the miracle—my miracle. And his mother was one more angel sent to help me and my family along this path we had to walk.

  Neither Dean nor I could forget the Lord now. Like Evelyn, we needed Him to get through each day. But what if I was actually cured? Would we forget the miracle that would have surely been ours? No, I thought, I won’t let that happen. If I’m healed.

  If.

  “He’s a smart kid,” Brody said to us when at last we joined him.

  We turned to watch Evelyn help her son hold down the controls to his chair.

  “Yes,” Dean replied, “he gets it from his mother.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  My skin draped on my body, and my hair was thin to the point of having to cut it short and wear a hat, but I felt better than I’d felt in weeks. I’d had my last chemotherapy and radiation treatments at the end of June, and now, a week later, I waited in the hospital to see if the growth had pulled away enough from the artery for me to have the surgery.

  The moment of truth.

  Dean sat with me, holding my hand. I swallowed hard, difficult because of the sores in my mouth caused by the chemo. They’d heal, I knew, but they made eating even more difficult for me. Not good since Dr. Snell had threatened to put me in the hospital on an IV if I lost more weight.

  “Mom?”

  I looked up to see Sharon, her stomach finally showing her pregnancy. “Honey!” I stood and wrapped my arms around her.

  “Brody and Marie told me where you were. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Your father is here.” I’d purposely not wanted the children around when we found out if there was a chance for the surgery. I wanted time to prepare if it was bad news.

  “Oh, Mom. We should all be here. At least those of us who can.” Sharon turned to hug Dean. Father and daughter looked alike, except what was plain on him became pretty in her feminine version. Her dark blonde hair was long and thick and, her eyes held the same unmistakable kindness as her father’s.

  “Besides, I have news,” she added, turning back to me. “I couldn’t wait to tell you. It’s a girl!”

  We squealed and hugged each other again. “Finally, a granddaughter,” I said, smiling so hard my face hurt. For that moment I forgot everything else in my joy.

  That was when I spied Marie and Brody across the room and waved them over.

  “I told you she wouldn’t be mad,” Sharon said. “We should all be here.”

  I hugged Brody and Marie. Afterward, we sat waiting, Marie and Dean gripping my hands.

  I held my breath when Dr. Snell called Dean and me to his office for consultation. He’d been reluctant to talk during the ultrasound examination, saying he wanted to verify his findings first, and I worried that his reaction meant the worst.

  “He’s never been one to give false hope,” Dean told me. “Let’s take him at his word and believe that he really did want to confirm his opinion.”

  “Well,” Dr. Snell began, “I’ve talked to the radiologist and two other specialists to verify my diagnosis.” He grinned, something I had never seen him do before, and it transformed his smallish, tight-looking face. He looked younger and lighter, though his hair was so dark his face already wore a five o’clock shadow. “The surgery is definitely a go.”

  “Thank you,” Dean whispered, though I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to the doctor or saying a prayer. He bent down to give me a hug, and I started crying, but this time my tears were happy. Truthfully, I think I’d steeled myself against the possibility of the worst, and this gift, so unexpected, so precious, was the best I could ever remember receiving.

  We were alone only a minute. My children came bounding into the room, brought by the nurse, and they fell into our arms, laughing and crying. Only Brody was a little reserved, though I figured that was because we were being watched by several nurses through the door.

  “I knew it!” Marie said.

  I almost opened my mouth to tell her we were still at the beginning, that anything could happen, but at the joy in her eyes, I changed my mind. We needed this time to celebrate.

  “I can’t believe it,” I murmured dramatically, clasping my hands to my chest. “It can’t be true! I just can’t believe it!”

  Sudden silence fell as everyone looked at me uncertainly. Even to me, my voice sounded odd, and I could see they wondered if I was becoming hysterical, which I could argue I had every right to do, given what I’d been through so far.

  “Angela?” Dean asked, reaching out to me.

  I gave him my most brilliant smile. “Yep, I can’t believe I’m finally going to have a granddaughter!” I started for the door. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I suddenly feel hungry enough to eat a moose.”

  Unfortunately, I’d probabl
y have to settle for a banana sandwich.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Marie!” Brody shouted from somewhere on the main level. “Phone. It’s that girl, Becki.” He said it disapprovingly as I once would have. “And you need to remember to keep the garage door shut.”

  “I was emptying the garbage in the bathroom,” Marie called back.

  That was amazing in and of itself. Though her cleaning methods had improved, she still almost always forgot to empty the garbage.

  I wondered what Becki wanted, and I geared myself up for a fight. From what Marie said and what I could glean from the talk in the neighborhood, Becki was becoming more and more out of control. I didn’t want to forbid Marie to see her, but I didn’t exactly want to encourage the relationship, either.

  Marie came into my room a short while later, The Hiding Place tucked under her arm. “Want me to read to you, Mom?”

  I nodded. “What about Becki?”

  She shrugged. “She wanted to go hang out at the mall, but I told her about finding out today about the surgery and that I wanted to stay here with you.”

  I would have done a tap dance if I’d been able. As it was, I sat up and motioned for her to sit beside me.

  “Actually . . .” Marie sat down on the bed and stared at the book in her hands. “The truth is, she told me I should say her mother was going to take us down and stay with us, but it was really her boyfriend.”

  My hand plucked at the bedspread. “What did you say to that?”

  “I told her I didn’t want to go. Besides, Alison’s coming over later. I told Becki to come, too, if she wants. Maybe we can be a good influence on her. I hope she comes.”

  I nodded, but my heart rebelled at the idea. I didn’t want her around to influence my daughter.

  “She’s really not a bad person, Mom,” Marie said, her eyes troubled. “She really does believe in the Church, and she wants to do what’s right. I think she’s just a little, well, lost right now, what with her mom having another baby and all.”