Miracle Woman

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  Martha nodded. Their son was not yet one of those tall hairy creatures who appeared every so often at their home, acne-marked skin and deep voiced, legs and arms stretched to some new proportion. Patrick was witty and funny and had much of his father’s good looks and charm, yet they both knew his young confidence could be easily shattered.

  ‘I’ll talk to him tomorrow,’ she promised. ‘There’s got to be something he can say or do to . . .’

  ‘Will you stop kidding yourself!’ Mike shouted. ‘You know what’s happening to you is having a huge impact on the lives of everyone in this house. We can’t pretend it isn’t.’

  Martha had never expected her healing ministry to provoke such intolerance, and wouldn’t stand for anyone hurting or wounding a member of her family. What good did it do to help others if Mike and the kids got hurt and damaged along the way?

  ‘You go be a saint! Or Jesus come again! And do whatever you have to do but leave me and my kids out of it!’ Mike shouted.

  ‘Mike!’ she called uselessly after him as he stormed out of the house, and left her standing in the kitchen wondering how much longer they could go on like this.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  THE ATMOSPHERE AT home remained tense and strained, with the kids picking up on what was going on between them. Martha was relieved at Mike’s sugestion of a family outing that weekend.

  ‘Come on, you guys!’ he shouted. ‘Get your boots and jackets and gloves! How do you fancy a hike in the woods and a trip to Concord?’

  Perhaps what they really needed was to spend some quality time together relaxing and having fun.

  ‘We’re leaving in an hour,’ he threatened. ‘So be ready.’

  ‘Yeah, Dad!’ shouted Alice, jumping around the hall.

  Martha remembered that same sense of giddy excitement when she was a kid on those rare occasions when the weekly routine of school and church on Sunday was broken and her father brought her and her brothers out for a drive somewhere in his old Lincoln estate. She could still remember the sense of anticipation and the pride of being part of a family who could enjoy such a luxury, as she waved to the rest of the kids playing or hanging around on the street as they drove by. Her mother would perch up front with her jet-black hair neatly washed and primped into perfect waves, her good dress on, and the heady scent of her perfume and lipstick filling the car, her hand resting lightly on her husband’s thigh as the rest of them squabbled and pushed in the back.

  Time and time again they would beg to know their destination, only to be told they were going on a mystery tour. They guessed wildly in the back: ‘The Statue of Liberty’, ‘The Empire State Building,’ ‘Cork’, ‘Kerry’, ‘Blarney Castle . . .’

  Her father would encourage them, excitement and talk fuelling those imagined journeys until they turned into the parking lot of Suffolk Downs, the local race track, or the driveway of one of his old friends. Their mother would disappear off with the rest of the women, and their father would press them with dollars and dimes and while the adults talked politics and business, the children were corralled together and glutted themselves on jugs of homemade lemonade and warm cookies or flasks of scalding tea and chunky ham or egg sandwiches. Her father was dressed in a good suit and shirt, his fair Irish skin covered for the most part from any glimpse of sunshine. His hair slicked back, his broad face shining, his voice commanded the attention of all those surrounding him.

  Determined to leave her problems behind and enjoy the trip to the woods at Minute Man Park, Martha concentrated on filling the flasks with hot soup, packing up enough fresh crusty bread rolls, chocolate and cheese to feed an army, and making sure everyone had their heavy walking boots and weatherproof jackets as it was still cold out.

  Mary Rose was in a huff and Martha prayed God she’d snap out of it before Mike let rip with some comment about premenstrual teenagers.

  ‘The forecast is for it to stay dry so the park should be nice, and maybe we’ll get the chance to visit Orchard House too,’ suggested Martha.

  ‘Is that the house where the Little Women lived?’ questioned Alice. She was too young to have read the book yet but had watched the video over and over again.

  ‘Yes it is! Well, it’s where the lady who wrote the book lived and much of the story is based on herself and her family.’

  ‘Dad, this is so unfair!’ complained Patrick from the rear seat. ‘I’m not spending my Saturday traipsing around old houses where some stupid women lived. It’s pathetic!’

  ‘Listen, Patrick, a bit of the Battle Trail will do us.’

  Sighing, Martha remembered the times when the kids were small and they’d just bundled them up in snowsuits and pushed strollers and Mike had strapped the youngest in the baby carrier and they’d gone exploring and walking for miles through the Massachusetts countryside. Nothing had fazed them then, or so it seemed. Grabbing a take-home pizza or wedging themselves in the booth of a small local diner and stuffing themselves with hot dogs and hamburgers, sharing their portions with the kids, had been part of their routine for years. She couldn’t remember when it had changed or why but slowly things had become more rigid and set, with proper arrangements having to be made.

  Today she was truly glad of Mike’s initiative, and the fact that every so often he still did manage to surprise her.

  The New England countryside was wrapped in winter, as if someone had emptied a packet of white frosting over everything, tinting each branch and tree, the ground dusted with a coat of snow. The trees were majestic in their bare simplicity, the evergreen pines stretching skyward and rustling in the wind.

  They stopped off in Lexington, got out and strolled around the town, standing in silence at the monument to soldiers of the War of Independence. Mary Rose dived into one of those candle shops that were now a part of almost every New England main street and came back out bearing three heavily scented candles that filled the car with their strange perfumes. Patrick and Mike objected to the cranberry smell.

  The Minute Man Park was quiet, with very few visitors, the air snappy as they pulled on their hats and gloves. Piling out, they found the free map provided and set themselves the target of a good two-mile hike. Mike and Patrick led the way, Martha and the girls following on behind. Martha was sure glad that she had decided to wear her fur-lined jacket and warm boots. The woods were silent and as they walked they could hear their own footsteps. Mike and Patrick chatted easily up ahead of them. Alice was all excited, making up stories about fantastic creatures that lived in the woods; Martha was hoping they might get to see some real animals, like deer in their natural habitat.

  Martha looked across at her elder daughter. Mary Rose had her Walkman on, the rolling thump of rock music wiping out any chance of her hearing the birdsong and wind singing through the trees around her. Martha sighed, regretful at what she was missing.

  ‘Come on you slowcoaches!’ shouted Mike.

  Martha was glad of the fresh air and exercise as she walked through woods of huge trees: ancient sycamores, maples and giant pines that towered over them. Bowled over by the sheer beauty of it, she produced her ancient Olympus Trip camera, wanting to take shots of the family.

  ‘Mom! Honest, you’re like one of those leafers, with a camera around your neck trying to photograph everything,’ complained Mary Rose.

  ‘You hush up, and don’t speak to your mother like that,’ warned Mike.

  ‘It’ll be a sorry day when nature and beauty smacks me right in the eye and I fail to notice it,’ replied Martha good-naturedly, having no intention of getting involved in an argument with her teenage daughter.

  With the camera she framed them, trying to capture that incandescent quality of childhood, as Mike stood behind them, his arm around Patrick who now stood almost as tall as his father. Waiting for just the right moment, Martha managed to catch through the lens the sheer joy of Alice’s dancing in the whiteness, kicking a pile of snow, her daughter’s lopsided grin hers for ever.

  They walked for two miles or
so and eventually chose one of the smaller picnic sites with its wooden benches and tables. Having it all to themselves, the kids cheered as Martha tumbled the food out onto the wooden table.

  The vegetable soup was still piping hot as she poured it into the plastic mugs, then unwrapped the bread, which they all used to dunk, Mike helping himself to another roll and the end of the soup. The kids filled up with slices of cheese, before attacking the chocolate.

  ‘We’ll have to walk this all off later,’ she groaned.

  Mike had spread the Battle of Independence trail map out on the bench and he and Patrick were engrossed, their two heads bent close as they mapped out a route they wanted to try. The girls and Martha would follow the literature route and head back to Orchard House and would meet the others afterwards.

  ‘You three going to be OK?’ asked Mike.

  ‘We’ll be fine, don’t you worry!’ she insisted as she wrapped up the leftovers and began to walk back down towards the car.

  The brown wooden house was set almost right on the roadway and boasted a simple but cheerful garden where the Alcott girls had played. Martha noted that Mary Rose had finally unplugged that dratted contraption from her ears and was actually listening as they walked to the back of the house, to the Reverend Alcott’s old schoolhouse. Here the three of them joined the rest of the visitors to watch a video about the family. Then they crowded back into the small gift shop and ticket area before entering the front parlour of the old house, as the guide began the tour.

  The interior had been unchanged for nigh on a century and a half since its most famous family had lived there, yet it had managed to stay homely and comfortable. Martha was intrigued by the intelligence and interests of its inhabitants and how they had filled those long days and lonely nights. Obviously neighbours and music and art and reading had been their comforts. Alice peeked and peered at everything and Martha could see her trying to take it all in, her mind assaulted by the history around her. Mary Rose was quiet but Martha knew her daughter well enough to know she was drinking in every word spoken about her heroine and was imagining herself living in such circumstances.

  The kitchen too was unchanged and Martha stood still picturing those ‘Little Women’ running out the back door to the garden and coming in to hug ‘Marmee’. Upstairs they saw where Amy’s sketches had covered the walls of her bedroom studio and the place where Louisa May Alcott wrote. The wonderful grey-haired lady who was their guide was busy telling them about her early footsteps into journalism and the publisher who, not wanting to pay her a full fee for her family story, agreed instead to a small percentage royalty to be paid on each book sold. The room erupted into laughter and Martha’s phone went off.

  It seemed incongruous in such a hallowed place to have anything so modern and crass as a cell phone in your pocket, and Martha frantically tried to switch it off, noting that Cass Armstrong’s mother had placed the call. Her mind was distracted as they continued through the rest of the rooms and came down the staircase.

  Both girls had decided they wanted to purchase something from the gift shop, and were taking an age to find exactly what they wanted. Martha was anxious to step outside and return Beth’s call, praying that Cass was doing all right and there had been no change in her condition.

  She left them to it. Standing out in the fresh air, she phoned the Armstrongs’ home.

  ‘Oh Martha, thank God! Cass is real bad and she needs you to come over straight away!’

  ‘Listen, Beth, I’m not at home. I’m up here in Concord with Mike and the kids, we’re having a family day.’

  ‘Please, Martha! You’ve got to come. She’s in a lot of pain and is so scared. She needs you real bad. We need you.’

  The other woman’s voice dissolved into sobs and Martha stood there stricken at the thought of what was happening to that family.

  ‘I’ll come as soon as I can,’ she promised.

  The girls were annoyed when she went in and began to rush them. A large tour bus had pulled up outside and a crowd of middle-aged French tourists were stepping out of it and filing towards them. Martha was anxious to get back to Mike and Patrick.

  ‘Come on, Mary Rose, choose something for heaven’s sake, I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘I thought we were collecting Dad and Patrick and going for dinner,’ insisted Alice.

  ‘Yes we are, pet, I mean getting your dad and brother, but we’re going to have to skip the meal as I have to get back home.’

  ‘Back home? Why, Mom, why?’

  ‘Do you remember that girl I told you about, Alice, the girl that was real sick?’

  Alice nodded, her eyes serious.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, I have to go see her, that’s all.’

  ‘Mom, can’t she wait till tomorrow or later?’

  ‘I don’t think so, pet, I just don’t think so.’

  Mary Rose brushed past her, nearly knocking an elderly Frenchman over.

  ‘Je m’excuse!’ he mumbled, trying to step out of her way.

  Her daughter marched purposefully out of the gateway and onto the roadside. ‘This is crap, Mom,’ she said. ‘You just go and spend all your time with those other kids, the ones you really care for!’

  ‘Hold on, Mary Rose, don’t you dare say such a thing to me. That kid is sick, dying. Her parents are distraught. You cannot imagine for one minute of your cosseted, cared-for life what those people are going through. You have absolutely no idea! None!’

  Two or three people were watching them, mother and daughter screaming at each other, Alice standing miserably between them.

  ‘Get in the car, Alice.’

  Martha fiddled with the alarm, grateful when the doors opened. Mary Rose was standing blinking and furious on the roadside.

  ‘Get in!’

  They drove in silence, Martha already regretting her over-reaction. How could she expect the girls to understand the bond she felt with Cass, the almost spiritual link between herself and the sick child? Young and shielded from life’s tragedies they were bound to be jealous of another child usurping her attention, and now disrupting their time together.

  Mike and Patrick, to their credit, said very little when she explained the situation to them, although she could read the anger behind Mike’s expression as he drove. She was glad that he did not display it in front of the others.

  ‘Come on, you guys, it’s not the end of the world. We’ll drop your mom off and head up to that new Mexican restaurant near Harvard Square.’

  There was mumbled agreement from the back and she shot a look of gratitude towards Mike, which he pointedly ignored. Looking out the window as trees raced by Martha steeled herself for the visit to the Armstrongs and seeing Cass.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  MARTHA TRIED NOT to think of the frantic tone of Beth’s call as she drove immediately over to the Armstrongs’ once they got back to Easton. Pulling up outside Cass’s home, she took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together before going inside.

  Tom’s broad face was puffed and strained, like a punch drunk boxer clinging to the ropes, as he opened the door to her.

  ‘The doctor says the end is near, that she can’t go on much longer.’ He swallowed hard, trying to mask his dismay as she followed him up the stairs. Billy and Jay stood at the bedroom door looking scared and miserable. On the landing Beth was arguing with Linda O’Hara, a tall blond young woman in nurse’s pants and a white sweatshirt.

  ‘God damn you! Phone for an ambulance and get my daughter to hospital immediately! They’ve got equipment there, they can revive her, stabilize her! They’ve done it before! It’s her only chance!’

  Martha could read the pity in the nurse’s face as she tried to talk to the distraught mother, reason with her. Out of the corner of her eye Martha could see Cass lying in the bed looking for all the world as if she was really tired and was falling asleep. Only as she stepped nearer did she notice the rapid movements of her narrow chest, like a small bird fighting for its life, th
e lungs sounding like they were heavy with two bags of water.

  ‘Hi, Cass,’ she said softly, hoping the young girl could hear her. She reached for the small pale hand and squeezed it, noticing that the bruising from all the intravenous drips she’d been on had only now begun to fade. The child moaned two or three times as if in pain. Martha softly stroked her skin.

  ‘Cass, I think you can hear me. It’s Martha. I’m here beside you. If you are in pain I will try to help you.’

  She leant over, barely touching the child’s skinny frame, letting her hands absorb the dulled pain and sending gentle healing waves through her fingers. She was conscious of waves of tightness, fear, confusion: these were the emotions the child was feeling in her last moments.

  ‘Don’t be scared, Cass,’ she hushed. ‘I’m right here beside you and the pain is going, going, going. Can you feel it leaving you?’

  Cass seemed to try and murmur something.

  ‘Don’t be scared, Cass honey.’

  Tears ran down Tom Armstrong’s face as he reached for his daughter’s other hand.

  ‘Remember what I told you about my daddy . . . well, Cass, I think soon you are going to leave the shell of the old Cass behind. You are not going to need this body much longer.’

  A tear slid down the beautiful face.

  ‘It’s all right, Cass, don’t be afraid.’

  Beth Armstrong had stopped arguing. Sensing the change in her daughter’s condition, she rushed back into the room.

  ‘Please, please, Tom, I’ll get the ambulance!’ she sobbed, trying to punch the number into the phone.

  Tom Armstrong never budged. He sat where he was, staring at his only daughter. The crowded bedroom was stuffy, a sickroom smell, so Martha got up and walked across and opened the white window. Fresh air wafted in, the sound of birdsong and distant traffic filling the silence. Beth, now silent, came over and lay on the bed beside her child, pulling her gently into her arms. Martha beckoned for the boys hiding at the doorway to join them. Billy’s eyes were raw and red with grief.