About the Book
Martha McGill was an ordinary woman. Nothing extraordinary had ever happened to her, unless she counted her marriage to Mike and the birth of her three perfect, healthy children. Until the day of the accident, when she touched the Lucas boy as he lay dying on the tarmac, and they said she saved him. That was the start of it all . . .
As word of her healing spreads, Martha’s life and the lives of those around her are radically altered. Hounded by the media and those in desperate search of hope and miracles, Martha is forced to decide what is most important in her life.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
About the Author
Also by Marita Conlon-McKenna
Copyright
Miracle Woman
Marita Conlon-McKenna
To James
Acknowledgements
My daughter Laura, for her constant support, encouragement and wisdom during the writing of this book, and to my husband James and children Amanda, Fiona and James for their love and patience.
My editor, Francesca Liversidge, Sadie Mayne,
Beth Humphries and all at Transworld
Caroline Sheldon and Christopher Schelling
Pat Donlon, for the ‘Boston’ experience
Anne Frances Doorly
Catherine Harvey
Anne O’Connell
Martin Butler
Helena Hughes-Levine
Gill Hess and the team in the Dublin office
I am extremely grateful to the healers I talked to in America, England and Ireland who gave their time, spirit and energy.
Also thank you to all those who told me of their experiences of having healing or being healed.
Chapter One
THE DOG DAYS of summer were upon them, New England sweltering in the late August heat as Martha, crab like, darted in and out of the shade of Easton’s canopies and store-front porches, the air shimmying above the baked ground as she attended to the messages scrawled on a notepad in the bottom of her purse. Unhelpful, her daughter Mary Rose dawdled along behind her. Today was Martha’s mother’s birthday and already she was frazzled at the thought of ten of them sitting down to dinner, a meal she had offered to cook. Frances Kelly would sit at the the top of the table, resenting the thought of being another year older and admitting her true age, the rest of them trying to jolly her along. It didn’t bear thinking about.
She needed lemons, and icing sugar and fresh cream, not to bake a cake, as one had already been ordered from Jesseps bakery, but to give the appearance of having baked one. She sighed to herself, remembering the dry cleaning to collect and the wine and bottle of Irish whiskey needed from the liquor store on the corner. The street was busy and the grocery store bustling with Saturday shoppers.
Finding the small purple ticket, Martha collected Mike’s fawn-coloured summer jacket and taupe chinos, along with a linen shirt of her own which thankfully no longer bore the red wine stain from the barbecue at Kathleen and Jim’s, the previous weekend.
Mary Rose and herself deposited the clothes in the back of her old Volvo and set off again. Ignoring the tempting smell of fresh brewed espresso and cappuccino and melt-in-your-mouth fudge browns that greeted entrants to the best home bakery store in miles, Martha joined the queue at the counter to collect the cake. Jenny Jessep tilted it towards her for approval before ensuring that the walnut frosted cake sat snug in its gaily coloured pink box. Martha added a dozen donuts and an Italian tomato bread to her purchases. She passed her daughter the box along with the keys of the car.
‘Put it carefully on the back seat, honey. Mind you don’t squash it!’
Mary Rose sighed.
‘I want to listen to something on the radio, Mom, so I guess I’ll just wait in the car.’
Martha licked a line of perspiration off her top lip, annoyed that her daughter couldn’t even be bothered to help with the rest of the groceries.
She grabbed a small shopping cart as she entered the Easton Market and flew along the familiar aisles, mindful of the things she needed. She crossed off the list. Usually she hated people who made lists but knew in her heart there was nothing worse than setting to cook a meal for a large group and discovering that you had forgotten something. She added a peanut Hershey bar at the checkout as a reward for her endeavours.
Driving in the glaring sunlight Sarah Millen pushed the hair back off her face and adjusted her sunglasses; she was tired and could feel the familiar tension and start of a splitting headache as she passed along Commonwealth Avenue. Rachel her three-and-a-half-year-old had already managed to pour her cup of orange juice all over the floor of the car and was probably sticky as hell and Kevin the baby had scarcely stopped crying since she had put him in the car seat. The poor kid had been awake half the night teething and his gums were swollen and painful. He needed some more of that teething gel that numbed the pain and one of those plastic teething things you stick in the freezer to cool.
She was mad as hell with her husband Ryan. It was meant to be equal partners with regards to caring for the kids, what with both of them working full time, but somehow it always ended up with her getting up in the night missing her sleep, not him. She was the one busy finalizing designs for the architect’s office where she worked, which were due on the partner’s desk on Monday and it meant her having to work most of the weekend. Yet, after lunch when she’d asked him to run to the drugstore and get what she needed for Kevin he told her he was already late for his tee-off time for golf and that she’d have to just go fetch it herself. Fetch it herself sounded nothing but she had hoped to crawl back into bed for the afternoon when the baby slept and now she had had to shower and dress, drag Rachel away from the cartoons and battle with a sleepy Kevin to get him strapped into that darned car seat.
Torturing her kids was not her
idea of fun, and in the sweltering heat she turned the air conditioning on full blast, hoping to cool herself and the kids right down. The shops were busy and she needed to park right up close to the drugstore so she could get in quick and out and home as soon as possible. In the distance she spotted a student in a small red Chrysler pull out of a space. Pushing her foot on the accelerator, Sarah surged forward, turning the wheel sharply. The power steering of the Jeep made it extra easy to pull in.
Timmy pedalled as fast as he could, his skinny legs pumping the heavy pedals of his brother’s old bike as he tried to keep up with the rest of them. Sweat clung to his head and behind his knees with the effort but his mom had told him to stay with Ralph and the other boys that afternoon. Hanging out with his big brother and his gang of friends was special, and made him feel way older.
Blinking, Martha McGill exited the store, the automatic door heralding her return to the sweltering heat and sunlight. In the distance she could see her daughter, singing along to the car radio. Just as she stepped off the kerb a bunch of boys flew past her on shiny bicycles, a smaller boy bringing up the end, cycling past Mary Rose, trying to catch up on them.
A second! An instant! Martha couldn’t believe it!
A black Jeep came out of nowhere and swung right across. The boy and his bike crashed against the enormous front grille and bumper, disappeared under the crushing weight of the car, heavy metal, tyres, plastic all screaming together in that frozen time when she realized the child was mangled somewhere underneath. There was a baby in front in a car seat and a toddler strapped safely in the back. The driver, distracted, couldn’t have seen him, the flash of movement beside her vehicle unnoticed as she touched the accelerator, the trusty mountain bike folding under the huge wheels, the boy tumbling on to the ground, the thud and noise as the heavy vehicle moved over him, the aghast driver instantly slamming on the brakes.
Martha stood transfixed as people rushed by her. The driver’s face blanched snow white at the realization of the small boy lying on the tarmac of the car park, underneath the weight of her car. The security guard pushed past her as a crowd gathered around the injured boy.
‘He’s bad! Real bad!’
‘The kid’s not breathing!’
‘I think the boy’s dead.’
Martha kept a firm grip on the recycled brown paper bag she was carrying. It couldn’t be! It just couldn’t be that on a bright summer’s day she would witness the end of a life. That her child would see another child die. It just couldn’t be!
She pushed through the crowd. Why, the boy was only about nine or so, just a kid, his bones and the bike frame mangled together, the spokes of the bike wheel sticking through the bones of his leg. The security guard knelt beside him, his head bent down watching his chest. A young girl and an elderly man were already trying to help, searching frantically for a pulse, any sign of life.
‘Don’t move him!’ ordered, the guard. ‘And don’t move the Jeep. It could make things worse.’ The name Hal was written in large green embroidery on the badge on his shirt. ‘I’ve already called for an ambulance,’ he said.
Martha edged closer. Something about the boy was familiar. Dark hair, small for his age. Baggy navy shorts, a white Nike T-shirt, torn and tyre tracked and steeped in blood, his eyes closed, one side of his face almost embedded with dirt and gravel. It was the Lucas boy, the youngest. Timmy! That was his name. Why, he’d gone to the same pre-school as Alice, her youngest. The family lived down around the corner at the bottom of their street, she knew his mother.
‘Let me through. Let me through!’ she insisted. ‘I know the boy! He’s a neighbour’s child.’
Shoving and pushing, the crowd of onlookers was swelling. Curious, they were moving forward, ready to witness the tragedy of a small boy’s death.
Panic filled her voice as she knelt down beside him: the security guard was making a sign to her that the boy was already gone. The young girl kneeling beside her on the roasting tar admitted there was no pulse.
‘Timmy, don’t go! Don’t leave us!’ Martha ordered, touching the abnormally still figure crushed under the enormous wheels. ‘Can’t you try getting him to breathe again!’ she demanded angrily of the elderly grey-haired man crouched beside her. ‘You’ve got to try. Please!’
Hal was reluctant to move the boy but they all agreed they had to try something. The retired nursing home administrator took charge as in a haphazard way they took turns and began life support, trying to force air into his lungs, his chest moving up and down like a balloon as they inflated it.
‘Timmy! Please, Timmy, you’ve got to try and breathe!’
The old gentleman, defeated, shook his head and gave up. Martha touched the boy’s underdeveloped arms and stroked the good side of his face, the small dribble of freckles along his nose, aching to remember which part the small boy had played in the kindergarten Nativity play. She pictured him jumping through the water sprinkler with all the rest of the neighbourhood kids out on their front lawn, or hiding behind his big brothers when he came trick-or-treating. Pedalling furiously on his bike, playing snowballs, a myriad images of a childhood shared with her own children flashed before her eyes. Timmy couldn’t die – he just couldn’t! His mother should be here with him. He would listen to his mother’s voice.
Running her hands along the small chest and ribs she felt the pain his body had endured: unbearable. She gasped with it. It was too much for a child. She wanted to lift the pain from him, ease it, she wasn’t prepared to let him die, not here like this: she wasn’t going to let him go.
‘Timmy, you just got to stay with me,’ she ordered in that voice that all parents reserve for their children. ‘I know you can hear me,’ she insisted. ‘You cannot go! I won’t let you go. Your mommy and your daddy and your brothers need you! Do you hear me, Timmy, you have to stay right here. You have to stay.’
The pain was intolerable; as she laid her hands on him she could sense it. The searing sharp agony, the intense pressure on his organs.
‘Here, lady! Give us some space!’
The paramedics had arrived and were anxious to move the public out of their way. Martha refused to budge from Timmy’s side as they matter-of-factly checked him.
‘It’s too late,’ one of them said softly, looking over at the driver.
A murmur went around the crowd. Martha was conscious of Mary Rose’s pale scared face, and of the driver of the car breaking down, hysterical, only a few feet away.
‘I didn’t see him! As God is my judge, I didn’t see him! I had the air on to cool the car down for the kids.’
‘We’ll transfer him to Children’s Hospital, but there’s nothing more we can do,’ declared the chief paramedic, a forty-year-old family man who tried to disguise his dismay at the death of a child.
Fury filled Martha as she realized they had already given up on Timmy and were just going through the motions for the sake of the shocked huddle of people standing around. God couldn’t do this, shouldn’t do this. Silently she prayed. God, let him live. Come on, Timmy, hang on in there! Fight! Don’t give up. Come on, Timmy, live! You’ve got to fight and not give up.
There seemed no response.
‘Please, lady, I have to ask you to move out of the way, we got to try and move him from under these wheels.’
She couldn’t let go of him, there was such pain in his heart and chest and stomach, inescapable pain, Martha could feel it as her hands rested on him, she wanted to take the pain away from him, draw it out, release the fear of taking a breath or moving that was killing him, making him want to run away and hide from it and leave his small broken body behind.
‘I’m here, Timmy,’ she said slowly. ‘The pain is going, I can feel it going, leaving you. You must be able to feel it too!’
The heat was burning through the palms of her hands, running up the bones and veins of her arms as she reached that hiding place; her own breath caught in her throat with the impact.
‘Lady, I told you already. We�
��ve got to move him,’ insisted the senior paramedic as he gestured for a few of the men to step forward and help raise the heavy vehicle. Hal was organizing them as the ambulance team tried to lift Timmy on to the gurney.
Martha kept her hands on him.
‘You his mom?’
She shook her head.
‘I’m a neighbour, that’s all. His name’s Timmy. Timmy Lucas. He lives down on Sycamore, just off Mill Street. I know him, know the family.’
She held her breath as the front end of the Jeep was lifted, the grimacing faces of the lifters testament to the enormous weight of metal and rubber that had crushed the boy. There was such pain in his heart and chest! It was unbearable.
She had to untangle it, ease it. The energy was passing between them, pulsing from her to the child, like jump-starting a flat battery; she could feel the shudder of response, the faint flicker of life. There it was! A breath, so slight you would barely notice it, a breath!
‘Timmy!’ It was Timmy. The real Timmy, she could feel him. ‘He’s breathing.’
‘Oxygen, get the mask on him quick!’ ordered the driver, pushing her aside as he slipped it over the boy’s nose and mouth. ‘He’s back.’
A low gasp went up from the swelling crowd of onlookers, and Martha noticed Hal, the security officer, wipe tears from his eyes.
‘You want to ride with him to the hospital?’ offered the attendant.
‘Is he going to be all right?’
‘He’s got a lot of injuries . . . who can say. It looks pretty bad.’
Martha scanned the crowd, looking for Mary Rose. She noticed the older boys who’d been with him standing silent, holding their bikes at the back.
‘I think that’s his brother.’ She motioned to a tall gangly fourteen-year-old standing just a few feet away, misery and guilt etched all over his skinny face. Ralph Lucas clambered into the back of the ambulance at the paramedic’s request and hunched worriedly over Timmy.
‘You next of kin?’ asked the driver.
Martha shook her head. She wasn’t family, and besides she wanted to go fetch his mother quickly and bring her to the hospital. That’s what Timmy needed most, to see his mom and hear her voice. Tearful and shocked, Mary Rose stood in the sunlight waiting for her. Martha hugged her daughter close.
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