by Alton Gansky
DESPITE PHAM’S ASSURANCES THAT her coworkers held no animosity, Priscilla felt uneasy as she walked into the studio. She had unpleasant fantasies that people would avoid her or, worse yet, accost her with a volcanic eruption of emotion. Nothing of the kind occurred. The studio was emptier than normal because many of the people who attended Irwin’s funeral had not returned. The few people who were there greeted her more with sympathy than antipathy.
Even though she had been off work only a few days, the studio felt strange. It seemed years since she had walked its carpeted floors, negotiated her way around the many desks of news writers, producers, researchers, and other employees. She had come to the studio because after the funeral Pham Ho said he needed to speak with her about schedules and upcoming stories. Priscilla wondered if she would ever feel comfortable in the studio again.
“You made it,” said a cheerful voice. “I was hoping you would stop by.” Pham was substantially more upbeat now that the funeral was over.
“You said you wanted to see me.”
Pham nodded. “I do. I know I told you I wanted to discuss schedules, but that was only part of the reason.”
“What’s the rest of it?”
“Let’s meet in here,” Pham said, motioning toward the office next to his.
“Couldn’t we just meet in your office?” Priscilla asked. If memories haunted these halls, then they would converge in Irwin’s office.
“No,” Pham said simply and walked through the door. Reluctantly, Priscilla followed after him.
Everything in the office was the same. She remembered that last time, arguing with Irwin about her role as an investigative journalist as well as news anchor. She was filled with sorrow, for she had won the argument and lost Irwin.
“Have a seat,” Pham said, nodding toward a chair in front of the desk.
“No, thank you,” she said curtly. “Let’s just get on with this.”
“Ah, it’s still there,” Pham beamed.
“What?”
“Chutzpah. noticed it was missing at the funeral and feared you were losing it here.” Pham pointed at his chest
Priscilla looked at Pham with confusion. It seemed incongruous to hear the Yiddish word uttered by such an Asian face. “Chutzpah? What do you mean?”
“You know. Brashness. Boldness. Confidence.”
“I know what the word means, but what does it have to do with me?”
Pham sat on the edge of the desk. “You’re the epitome of chutzpah, almost to a fault. But I was afraid that it had been killed along with Irwin.”
“Don’t make light of Irwin’s death,” she snapped.
“I don’t make light of anyone’s death, and I certainly wouldn’t do so of Irwin’s. I valued him for his skill, professionalism, and his friendship. As far as I’m concerned, they can turn this office into a shrine.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because I’m doing what Irwin would do, and would want me to do.”
“And that is?”
“And that is to get you back on track.” Pham got up and paced the room. “You’re one of the finest reporters and news anchors in the business. I don’t know how Irwin kept you from skipping town to go to a larger market like L.A. I know you’ve had offers. I may not know why you’ve stayed, but I’m glad you did, and I want to make sure it stays that way.”
“What makes you think it would be any different now?” Priscilla’s tone softened.
“Because events like you’ve experienced can sap the strength from you. I’ve seen it before. You begin to blame yourself, and then you assume everyone else is blaming you. Then you simply drop out.” Priscilla stood in the middle of the room and watched Pham pace. “Let me ask you something,” he continued. “When you walked in here, how did you feel?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with any of this,” Priscilla said.
“Just tell me,” Pham was just short of shouting.
“I felt lousy, scared, guilty, responsible, uncomfortable. I felt like I don’t belong.”
“Exactly right about what you felt, and exactly wrong about the truth. You do belong.”
“No, I don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to watch someone die like that. To be that close to death, and to have it be your fault.”
Pham stopped pacing and stared at her. She had said the wrong thing. As a thirteen-year-old refugee from Vietnam, he and his parents fled the country after it fell to the communists. He and 160 other frightened nationals escaped in a leaky wooden boat. North Vietnamese pirates stole what meager possessions they had, and then, for the “sport of it” indiscriminately killed many of the defenseless refugees, including Pham’s parents. The corpses had to be dumped at sea. Pham had watched in horror as sharks shredded the bodies of his mother and father. Fourteen years later, through hard work and the help of a foster family, Pham had graduated from San Diego State with a degree in journalism. He was a natural behind-the-scenes man, never appearing on camera. Those in the know considered him an administrative genius. He had spent the last year as Irwin Baker’s assistant. Now that Irwin was gone . . . Priscilla didn’t want to think about that. Priscilla raised her hands, “All right, I guess you do know.”
“Better than anyone I know. And I’ll tell you what else I know—that a painful past doesn’t mean a painful future; injustice doesn’t mean no justice; and fear doesn’t mean the absence of courage. You belong here, Priscilla. If anyone was custom-made for this job, it’s you. Don’t let your fear and guilt, wrongly placed as it is, kill your future like that burglar killed Irwin. Call on the strength you’re famous for, and seize life.”
“I just need a little time off.”
“This isn’t about time off. Of course, you need time off. Anyone would. But if you let sorrow and fear steal your heart, then the time you take off will become permanent.”
Priscilla lowered her head. It was true: fear and guilt had almost taken control. She had nearly surrendered the rest of her life without a struggle. Pham was saying exactly what Irwin would have said.
“You take as much time off as you need,” Pham said in a soft voice. Then in a firm, authoritative tone he stated, “But you will be back to work, and you will do a wonderful job.”
Lifting her head, Priscilla nodded. “Monday,” she said. “I will be back Monday.”
“Now the hard question. Do you want to continue covering the Healer story?”
After a brief meditative pause, she replied, “Absolutely.” Pham slapped his hands together and grinned. “Chutzpah!” he shouted.
“Chutzpah,” she echoed and grinned for the first time in days.
TEN
Sunday, March 22, 1992; 8:45 P.M.
ADAM PREPARED A NO-FRILLS sandwich—two pieces of bologna with mustard on wheat bread—and plopped down on the sofa. He turned on the television and watched a National Geographic special on the Bengal tiger.
It had been a disappointing Sunday. His alarm didn’t go off, which led to a hectic morning of preparation. He had to do without his usual sermon review time. Both Sunday school and morning worship attendance had been down. This often happened on long weekends, but occasionally, as this Sunday, it happened without conspicuous reason.
The smaller group, coupled with an overcast day, made for slow services. By the time Adam stood in the pulpit, he was uncertain if he were in a worship or funeral service.
The evening service had been no better. The congregation was sparse, making it difficult for Adam to preach. He had often maintained that he would much rather preach to 5,000 than 50; not for vanity’s sake, but because of the human dynamics between audience and speaker.
The phone jarred Adam from his silent complaining. It was Ann Lorayne. Her message was short and delivered between bitter sobs, “David . . . is . . . dying.”
Sunday, March 22, 1992; 9:45 P.M.
ADAM’S STOMACH HURT AGAIN. He hated these calls. In all probability he would sit with a woman who would become a widow. There was so
little that could be said, and less still that could be done. The only ministry option available to him was to simply be there. Although he had done this task many times, he had never reached an emotional balance with it. No matter how often he had watched people die, he could never grow used to the grief left behind.
The doctors and nurses would do all they could, then express their sorrow and leave. Although it was probably unfair, he often envied them. Their work was over, and his was just beginning.
Having parked at the far end of the hospital’s parking lot, Adam walked, head down and lost in thought, toward the glass doors that led to the lobby. As he entered, he was greeted with a staggering vision: the large room was filled with people in wheelchairs and lying on stretchers. There before him were the lame with atrophied limbs; the weak with nasal tubes carrying oxygen from green tanks to ailing lungs; the blind with their red-tipped white canes; the uncontrolled bodies of those with cerebral palsy, their head and limbs jerking from one position to another. But worst of all were the children, some bald from repeated exposure to radiation and the infusion of chemotherapy. One mother gazed vacantly at the cyanotic infant she held in her arms, and quietly hummed a lullaby.
There was a strange quiet in the room, and with it an unmistakable air of expectation. As he entered, everyone looked his way. The sudden confrontation as well as the magnitude of human suffering jolted Adam. He had seen the crowds when he was released, but didn’t realize that the sick and lame were still at the hospital. What are they waiting for? he wondered.
Adam was so lost in his thoughts that he did not immediately notice the crooked little figure at his feet. Looking down he saw a boy, maybe ten years old, whose body was twisted. His spine was curved so severely that it was nearly impossible for him to look up.
“Mister, are you the Healer?” The tiny voice that came from the frail form shook Adam’s soul. Simultaneously feeling compassion and repulsion, Adam knelt down to look into the boy’s eyes. He saw an incomprehensible sadness and yet, a brief but discernible spark of hope. Adam could say nothing; he simply gazed at the tragically deformed boy.
“Mister, are you the Healer?” the boy asked again. “Have you come to heal me?”
The incongruities in the boy’s voice impacted Adam’s mind like a meteor crashing into the earth. It was a voice of hopeful sadness.
“What do you mean, son?”
“Are you the Healer? I want to be healed.” There was mournful sadness in the boy’s voice, a melancholy rooted in a hope that teetered on the edge of despair. In his eyes, Adam saw something possessed by children, but lost to adults: a simple willingness to believe, to cling to hope no matter how unreasonable the situation. That expectancy glistened in the boy’s bright blue eyes—eyes that had never looked directly forward. Something in those eyes touched Adam with a searing intensity that branded the boy’s image on his soul.
Not knowing what else to say, Adam slowly shook his head and replied softly, “I wish to God I was, son. I really wish I was.”
Adam stood and quickly made his way to the elevator leaving the boy behind. At the elevators he was stopped by a large, uniformed guard with heavy eyebrows, a broad nose, and narrowly spaced eyes. May I help you, sir?” he asked firmly.
Adam was nonplussed. He had been to this hospital many times to visit ailing members and had always simply walked wherever he wanted.
“I beg your pardon,” Adam said, adjusting his glasses.
“Do you have business in the hospital?” the guard asked intently.
“Yes, I do,” Adam replied coolly. “I’m Reverend Adam Bridger, and I’ve been called to the bedside of one of my members.”
“What is the name of the person you are visiting?” The guard clipped his words as he spoke.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Adam said. “I’ve been in this hospital hundreds of times over the last few years, and not once has anyone stopped me from—”
“I’m just doing my job, sir. Look,” he continued, “you just walked through the lobby, didn’t you?”
Adam nodded.
“And you saw all those people, didn’t you?”
Adam nodded again.
“Well, they come by the hundreds and sit there. Most of them wait quietly. Others wander around the halls, often disturbing the patients. For a few days, the hospital almost shut down. So unless you show me that you have legitimate reason for going upstairs, this is as far as you get.”
Gazing back at the lobby, Adam considered what he had just heard. He had trouble believing that he had been so sequestered as not to have read or heard about all of this beyond the initial information provided by Dick Slay.
“I understand,” Adam said. “I’m sorry if I seemed a little gruff. I’m afraid I’ve been out of touch the last few weeks, and I guess I was overwhelmed by the people in the lobby. I’m here to see Mr. David Lorayne in ICU.”
The guard checked his clipboard list and then nodded. As Adam rode the elevators to the fifth floor, his mind was filled with the image of the crooked little boy. The meek and hopeful appeal echoed in his ears, “Are you the Healer?” Adam was surprised to discover tears in his eyes.
After identifying himself to the ICU nurses through an intercom, Adam was granted permission to enter. David Lorayne’s room was just inside the door. Ann stood by her husband’s bed. Her face was drawn and her eyes red. She stood stooped over the dying figure. David Lorayne lay motionless, an oxygen mask covering his face. A plastic bag with clear solution was suspended on an IV stand. Above his head was a heart monitor that showed his heart rhythm and gave a digital readout of his pulse rate.
Adam took his place beside Ann and, placing his arm around her shoulders, and silently prayed. Due to his own recuperation and overwhelming schedule, Adam had not visited the Loraynes in the hospital—Ann had insisted on it. Normally, he would visit the hospital several times a week, but his own condition had forced him to visit only by phone.
Fifteen minutes later Adam spoke. “How long have you been up here?”
“They brought David up two hours ago.” Her voice was shallow and raspy from crying. “They say he could go at any minute or linger for hours. I just don’t understand. They said that it was a routine operation and assured us that very little could go wrong.”
“Do they offer no hope?”
“None.” Tears trickled down her face and fell onto the bare arm of her husband; Ann gently wiped them off. “The doctors say that David may have had a negative reaction to the anesthesia; that the blood vessels in his brain constricted causing his brain to slowly shut down.” Adam had heard all this before in their phone conversations, but allowed her to explain it again. It was Ann’s way of coping. “They want to know if I want them to do things if David stops breathing.”
“Things?” Adam was puzzled for a moment. “Heroic efforts?”
“Yes. That’s what they called it—heroic efforts.” Ann reached for a tissue from a box on the nightstand. “I don’t know what to tell them. I can’t say let him die, but I don’t want him to be hooked up to all the machines either.”
“Is the rest of the family here at the hospital?”
“Yes. They went to the cafeteria for some coffee. Michael is . . . do you remember Michael?”
“I met him last Easter at the church. He’s a civil engineer, isn’t he?”
“Yes, in Los Angeles. What I started to say was that he’s having trouble dealing with this. He won’t show it or say it, but I know he’s afraid.”
“That’s normal. In fact, it’s good. His fear is an indication of love, not unmanliness.”
“Pastor, what do I tell the doctors when they ask me to sign those papers to let David die?”
Adam stood silently. There was no clear answer. Being an optimist he always had hope, and he wanted to believe that David might wake up someday if they kept him alive. But his experience also forced him to be a realist. If the doctors were suggesting that the family sign release papers that would free
the hospital from the responsibility of maintaining a life with extraordinary means, then they probably had good reason for doing so.
“I think it’s best that we discuss it with the rest of the family,” Adam finally said.
“I don’t feel right leaving David.”
“Ann,” Adam said softly, “there’s nothing you can do here. David may linger on for hours, maybe even days. It is unreasonable to expect yourself to stand here hour after hour. You have an important decision to make, one that should be made with the rest of the family.”
“I still don’t know.”
“Ann, you’re exhausted. At least come down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee.”
She said nothing.
“Ann, if the situation were reversed and it was you on the bed and David standing where you are, what would you tell him?” David recalled Dick Slay asking him a similar question. It had worked then . . .
After a moment of silence Ann reached for her purse. “You’re right. But only for a few minutes.”
Adam found the family huddled around a table in the center of the cafeteria. As he and Ann approached, a man he recognized as Michael stood. Even at a distance, Adam could see the fear in his eyes.
Adam spoke quickly. “There’s no change in your father’s condition.” Adam thought he detected a sigh. Humans are wonderful creatures. Even when no hope is available, they cling to it.
Ann introduced Adam to the others around the table. In addition to Michael there was Larry, David’s older brother, and his wife, Eva.
“I know that this is a very difficult time for you all,” Adam began. “I honestly wish there were words that would make this time easier, but there are none. All that remains for you is to face the situation and your emotions honestly. I also want you to know the whole church is praying for you. We will do anything we can to help.
