Miracle Woman

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  Martha swallowed hard, hoping she was making the right choice as she boarded the Aer Lingus flight to Ireland, the familiar green shamrock painted on the side of the aircraft and the air hostesses in their green uniforms bringing back a rush of memories of her and her brothers, like a load of jack-in-the-boxes, going home to visit with their parents. Martha had to pretend to read the in-flight magazine as she tried to control her emotions.

  Lara was in the office checking layouts when the phone rang. It was her sister, sounding hysterical. Lara tried to make some sense of what she was trying to tell her.

  ‘Ben’s in hospital!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was sick yesterday and when his room-mate went to wake him for college this morning he realized he was really bad. He’s here in Mass General Hospital, Lara, and they say he’s got some form of meningitis.’

  Lara rapidly went through a mental list of what she knew of the disease, her mind numbed with a desperate sense of foreboding.

  ‘He’s unconscious!’ sobbed her sister. ‘They said they’re doing everything but his kidney and liver are failing.’

  Lara automatically switched off her computer and threw the files she was working on into the desk, grabbing her jacket off the chair, racing out through the newsroom and towards the elevator.

  In the car, her brain began to function again and she flicked through her Filofax, pounding the number she wanted into her cellphone. Two, three times she called, but there was no response. Dread crawled through her veins as she drove, Boston’s traffic moving at a snail’s pace along the network of city streets as she cursed the roadworks and the excavations of the Big Dig. She remembered the small craft store in Easton, frantically trying to conjure up its name as she hit the button for directory enquiries, the operator putting her straight through.

  ‘Hello, is Martha McGill there?’ she enquired.

  ‘Sorry, who’s calling?’

  ‘Is Martha there? Listen, we’ve met before and I really need to speak to her right now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Martha’s not here.’

  ‘When will she be back? I’ve left messages on her machine at home. It’s urgent!’

  ‘I’m sorry, but Martha doesn’t work here any more. She’s gone away.’

  ‘Gone away! When will she be back?’ she demanded.

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘It’s Lara Chadwick,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘I’m a journalist.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. ‘Martha’s left Boston, and has moved away for a few months, and to be honest, I’ve absolutely no idea when she intends coming back.’

  ‘Do you have a number where I can reach her?’

  ‘No!’ replied Evie Hayes. ‘Martha and her family are living overseas. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.’

  Lara clenched the steering wheel, thinking of her nephew and his fight for life and how fate had decided she would be the one not only to meet the worker of miracles, his possible saviour, but also to drive her away.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  THE HOUSE IN Wicklow was everything she’d hoped it would be: an extended farm cottage on over two acres of land, close to the mountains with the sea and a beach of gold only a few minutes’ drive away. The inside of the house was clad in stripped pine, with simple chairs and couches and a wood fire with a basket of turf and logs for if the evenings got cold.

  Opening the back kitchen door she could see for miles, the view making her smile despite herself and lifting her spirit.

  The kids each had a bedroom to themselves, Mary Rose’s with a narrow gabled window that looked over their fields, Alice’s sun filled and to the back where a silver lake glinted in the distance; the room overlooking the front path to the house was assigned to be Patrick’s. Alice had made herself at home straight away, unpacking her toys and teddies and standing them in rows on top of the bed and the windowsill. Bored, the girls had complained at first about the archaic television in the corner, which only gave them four channels and which if the weather was misty barely seemed to work at all, but by the end of the first week she’d noticed they rarely bothered watching it.

  Martha loved the peace of the place and felt totally at home in its almost familiar landscape.

  Seamus O’Gorman the letting agent had also organized a car for her through Delahunt’s, the local garage. The car was eight years old but seemed as if it would go for ever along the bumpy country roads. Seeing she was on her own with the children, the sixty-year-old grandfather had bent over backwards to advise her on the best places to go and where to shop, and what to do in case of emergencies.

  The first few days she was so exhausted and jetlagged she had slept and slept and slept while the kids amused themselves and explored their new environment, the Irish weather fortunately clement and unusually dry and sunny. Then like a butterfly from a cocoon she had emerged, feeling much, much better, her thoughts clear, her body refreshed, ready to acquaint herself with her new surroundings.

  Her nearest neighbours were the Clarkes who owned the two horses and a mare and a foal which had permission to graze on one of their fields. Alice nearly lost her mind when she first looked out the window and saw them.

  ‘Mom, can I go out and see the horses?’ she’d screamed with excitement. Martha had to get her to quiet down in case she spooked them.

  The mare and foal trotted over immediately and Alice nervously patted them.

  Mary Clarke had come over and introduced herself a few days later, a girl and boy about Alice’s age accompanying her.

  ‘This is Katie and this is Conor, they’re eight and nine. They may as well have been twins as there’s only eleven months between!’ she laughed. Martha was delighted to have such a nice person living so close by and with kids just the right age for Alice to play with. While the two of them had a cup of tea and a chat she watched as Alice’s shyness began to dissolve and she agreed to go out and play with the other two in front of the house.

  Mary Clarke was Wicklow born and bred and filled her in about the neighbourhood and the places to take the kids and things they might all enjoy. If she was curious as to why someone like Martha was renting a house close by she disguised it, seeming to accept her at face value as an Irish American pleased to revisit the country of her forebears.

  Martha and the kids spent much of the summer walking and exploring the countryside all around them, swimming in the freezing waters of Brittas Bay and Silver Strand and climbing the Sugarloaf mountain and driving up over the Dublin mountains through Sally Gap to the Featherbeds, watching young men cut out the turf and dry it in the sun in much the same way as she imagined their great-grandfathers had done before them.

  Wet days, when the rain streamed along the window pane and pelted down, they drove to Dublin, visiting the busy crowded city and Trinity College and the Viking Centre and the ghostly Kilmainham Gaol where the 1916 leaders had been executed. Other times they explored the many towns further down along the Irish coast, visiting Waterford and its amazing crystal factory. There always seemed to be something to do, though most of the time they were just happy to stay put.

  In Wicklow town the shopkeepers were beginning to know Martha, and she knew they had nicknamed her the Yank or the American. She came there to collect her purchases of meat and fish and eggs and bread every few days. The kids were already addicted to the creamy Irish ice-cream and chocolate.

  Mary Rose had been sullen and uncooperative, and catching her trying to make an hour-long transatlantic call to her friend Cindy, Martha had banned her from using the phone without permission.

  ‘It sucks, Mom!’

  ‘When I can trust you, Mary Rose, then you can use the phone again, all right?’

  There were a few days of silence between them and then she had signed the girls up for riding lessons at the local stables, which was only about half a mile up the road. Mary Rose yet again complained about being sent to do something she didn’t want to do.

&nb
sp; ‘Well, you can’t sit in your room all day listening to your Walkman for the next few months,’ argued Martha, ‘or you’ll drive yourself and everyone else in this house crazy!’

  She’d gone off in a huff and Martha had pitied poor Alice having to put up with her.

  The riding lessons had been a great success. After only a few, Mary Rose was insistent on joining the older age group.

  Every morning Martha watched in disbelief as her older daughter pulled on a scruffy pair of jodhpurs and a T-shirt and sweater and after a quick breakfast set off for the stables where she would spend most of the rest of the day. Mucking out stables, grooming the horses, exercising them and riding, totally content with a load of other horse-mad like-minded teenagers.

  Patrick had arrived over, mooching around a bit at first, feeling out of it, but after a night at the local disco with the oldest Clarke boy she reckoned he had begun to tag along with a crowd his own age. Mary told her the girls were all mad about his American accent and ways.

  Martha loved the quiet and the solitude, the lack of rushing around and the time to sit and reflect, or just read a book or watch a lazy bee hover over the collection of wild daisies, montbretia and nasturtium that scrambled over the stone wall outside the house. She had no regrets about coming to Ireland and now knew that as far as the kids and herself were concerned she had made the right decision.

  Content in herself, she kept in touch with her friends and family and loved to hear from them. Once or twice a week Mike phoned the kids to see how they were doing, surprised that they were busy and content.

  Martha was pleased to see her kids relaxed and enjoying themselves without the pressure of summer camps and grind schools, happy to play silly games of cards or kick a football in the fields with the local kids till late into the night. She had discovered the local library and alone at night immersed herself in reading the great Irish novels, missing Dan more than she could ever have imagined; the sound of his voice was enough to make her smile, as he told her about what was going on back home. He’d mentioned he planned to take a nine- or ten-day vacation from work, and hadn’t yet decided what he was going to do. Maybe play golf! Martha was unwilling to put any pressure on him, except to say there was a warm welcome if he wanted to come visit Ireland, but not expecting him to.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  MARTHA CONSIDERED THE August sky, clear and blue with only the slightest trace of clouds, hoping that the breeze would dry the huge pile of washing on the line. Later on she planned to take Alice into town with her, as she wanted to get some shopping for the weekend. The Clarkes had invited them over to a barbecue, Irish style, which meant if the rain came there’d be a mad run into the kitchen to finish off cooking the steaks and hamburgers. She wanted to buy them a good bottle of wine, and some strawberries and raspberries for the dessert.

  Alice was outside playing with Conor and Katie and another child from a house down the way, the four of them racing around in their shorts and T-shirts trying to catch each other.

  Martha smiled to herself. She’d just got off the phone from Dan, who had surprised her with the good news that he was due in Dublin the following week. His trip to Ireland was part business and part pleasure, he’d explained, and Martha’s whoops of delight had no doubt confirmed to him which part she fulfilled. She couldn’t wait to see that big lump of a man again and knew in her heart that Dan Kendrick had become far more than a friend or a casual romance to fill the gap left by her husband. He was someone she could trust and totally rely on and respect along with physically wanting him too, daydreaming like a besotted twenty-year-old about lying in his arms. Dan had told her of his feelings for her. Martha scarcely credited her own response, and the fact that she was finally ready to overcome all caution and admit she’d fallen in love again. Spending time with Dan would give them both the opportunity to see just how serious their relationship was.

  Martha sat in the canvas deck chair out back and put her feet up, glancing at the rest of the post and the newspaper as she stretched out her limbs in the warm sunshine. Evie had forwarded on a bundle of mail from back home. Martha skimmed through it: she was saddened to hear from Henry Madison of his brother’s death, but glad he’d had his surgery and was planning the trip of a lifetime to his beloved Italy with his friend Celeste.

  Sitting there doing nothing she realized how she’d come to enjoy the pace of Irish country living, far removed from the frantic demands of her American existence. The peace was suddenly disturbed by the distant sound of the children shouting and screaming, and she jumped up wondering what in heaven’s name they were fighting about. There was no sign of them around the cottage or in the field so she ran towards the gate, spotting the splash of their coloured T-shirts at the end of the lane. Alice ran frantically towards her screaming, ‘Mom! Mom! Come quick! We need you!’

  As fast as she could, Martha raced towards the group of children, alarmed to see a heavy farm tractor pulled into the ditch beside them, the driver hunched down over something. Filled with dread, she breathlessly ran towards them.

  ‘Mommy, it’s Conor and Katie’s dog, he’s hurt!’

  Relieved that at least the children were safe, Martha immediately recognized the Clarkes’ small white and black Jack Russell terrier lying on the rough ground.

  ‘Tiny didn’t see the tractor!’ sobbed Katie. ‘He was chasing a rabbit through the long grass!’

  She bent down to examine the poor animal, shocked by its injuries. Blood was seeping from his stomach and nose where the tractor blow had caught him. Tiny whimpered wildly every few seconds, the sound of his pain filling the still air.

  ‘Tiny, come on, Tiny, get up!’ pleaded Conor, the small boy in shock kneeling beside his pet.

  ‘Mom!’ pleaded Alice. ‘You can do it! You know you can. You can make him better.’

  As the four children stared at her, Martha stood transfixed.

  ‘My mom can heal him, Katie, she can,’ Alice assured her, staring straight at Martha.

  Innocence, trust and complete honesty in her child’s eyes – how could she betray those ideals? The very things that as a parent she had taught her daughter every day of her life!

  ‘She’ll fix him, make him better! Just wait and see,’ promised Alice. ‘Mom’s able to stop bleeding, and heal people, honest she is.’

  Alice pushed her towards the animal. ‘Please, Mom! Please!’

  The tractor driver, eyes downcast, avoided the children’s stares. ‘Missus, do you think I could use the phone in your house to get the vet, maybe he could do something,’ he offered. ‘The poor thing’s in a lot of pain and might need to be put down.’

  ‘Oh, of course, the house just at the end of the lane, the back door is open and there’s a phone in the kitchen near the dresser. I’ll stay here with the children.’

  They were looking at her, waiting, expecting her, the adult, to be able to do something to resolve the situation. Desperately she wanted to help the small dog, relieve his agony, and could see hope flicker in the children’s eyes, the belief that she could restore their pet to the way he had been, back jumping and chasing across the Wicklow fields after rabbits.

  The dog’s eyes were glazing over, he was giving in to the pain, shudders racking his blood-matted body, tongue out, panting.

  ‘Mom, please do it, don’t let Tiny die,’ begged Alice, pummelling her legs, hysterical almost. ‘Please! You can cure him.’

  The tractor driver had disappeared from view.

  She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t help the small creature! How could she, with so many witnesses? The children would talk! They were only children, after all. And the man if he came back! A pint after work down in the local pub and he might come out with it. She’d already lost so much, how could she go through it all again? The men, women and children of this new community would in their hour of need then call on her, and in fairness how could she possibly refuse them and turn her back on her calling once the word of her healing power got out?

/>   The dog’s eyes began to glaze, deep in shock, as instinctively she reached for him and made the decision.

  ‘Good boy, Tiny! That’s the good dog,’ she urged softly as she laid her hands on his quivering body, gently feeling to see where he was bleeding from and trying to staunch the flow. ‘It’s all right, Tiny, I’m not going to hurt you,’ she comforted as she tried to draw off the pressure and pain from his swollen abdomen.

  The dog panted rapidly as if having trouble breathing and Martha moved the position of her hands, feeling the energy flow through her fingers, hoping that the small dog would respond.

  ‘Poor Tiny’s in bad pain!’ murmured the boy hunkered down beside her, gently petting his dog’s paw with the tips of his fingers.

  ‘He is, Conor pet, and I’m not sure if we can save him.’

  Concentrating, Martha focused on the animal, hoping that the terrier would respond in some way to her touch and gain some alleviation of its pain. The four children were rapt with attention.

  ‘Mom?’ asked Alice.

  ‘Ssshh, pet, let me work . . . Come on, boy! Come on, boy,’ she pleaded, hoping that Tiny could still hear her and was responsive to the human voice.

  ‘He moved! Look!’ shouted the boy.

  It was almost imperceptible but the dog had definitely tried to move.

  ‘He’s getting better,’ murmured the little girl Maeve.

  The animal gave a shudder and tried to stretch his paws, making an awkward effort to lift his head.

  Martha, hardly daring to believe it, noticed that the blood seeping from the gash on his stomach had seemed to ease a little. Pulling off her waistcoat, she gently wrapped it around the small frame as she lifted the injured dog up into her arms.