She was trying with all her energy to do so, and finding that it didn’t really work.
R
A week went by, and Mr. Pavlik had not succumbed to death. In truth, he seemed further and further from it. Uneducated guesses might conclude that Mr. Pavlik had taken a turn toward recovery—but this was really too much for even the expectant Bethel Hills Church to hope. Instead, his regained consciousness that Friday night was regarded as the body’s last push, a final chance at time with Mrs. Pavlik before the final descent. This happened sometimes. The church celebrated it quietly, glad for Donna Pavlik that she could have those moments with Dean. God is so good, they said.
But Dean Pavlik awoke again on Saturday morning and was lucid for much of the day. The swelling seemed to be going down; Donna reported that he was less black-and-blue around the eyes.
No one wanted to encourage her. Why get her hopes up? Then corroboration from the hospice nurse got everyone’s hopes up: the nurse had never seen such a thing before. Truly, it was amazing. The people of the Bethel Hills Church of Holiness began to wonder: It might be a miracle! They would all be on edge, waiting to see it.
Sunday’s report was better yet. Mr. Pavlik was clear-headed, communicative, smiling, the edema all but gone. He said he had some tingling where once he had been numb. The hoping against fear won out: suddenly everyone was enthusiastic.
As if in payment for this faith, the good news mounted: he was energetic, the swelling was completely gone. Dean Pavlik had an appetite; he got his color back. The news from the series of MRIs was shocking: the tumor was unaccountably smaller, then was shrinking, then had disappeared. The doctor said such a recovery was not to be believed, but the Pavliks said it most certainly was. So many people were praying, they told the team of doctors, the nurses, anyone who would listen.
The hospice nurse was dismissed. Against all predictions, contrary to all case studies, Mr. Pavlik was given a clean bill of health. The Bethel Hills Church of Holiness had indeed witnessed a miracle—and all in a period of weeks. The church scheduled a potluck in celebration. It seemed the only thing to do.
And would the Pavliks attend? It was early for him to be out and about. Only weeks ago Dean was at death’s door! But why not? Miracles often present as ephemera. They have to be leaned into, not treated with care: either you believe it or you don’t. Yes, certainly Dean and Donna would be there. They said they wouldn’t miss it for the world!
The fellowship hall made its potluck transformation: tables carried in from the Sunday school classrooms and, around them, folding metal chairs clanked into place. The women’s ministry covered the tables in vibrant paper and centered each one with a pot of blooming bulbs.
The food appeared in its predictable and comforting array: scalloped potatoes and string bean casseroles, ham barbecue tidy on little buns, Jell-O salad, coleslaw and baked beans, salads tossed and coated in Italian dressing. There was coffee, tea, and lemonade in large thermoses, several trays of cookies, four or five pies, and a large white sheet cake with red frosting roses and “Welcome Back, Dean!” in looping script.
“Welcome back?” Justine murmured to Maddie. They stood gazing at it together, having just arrived from an afternoon at the mall. There they had browsed and talked about everything except Vincent, healing and God—subjects Maddie, these days, had been careful to avoid. Despite Mr. Pavlik’s steady recovery and all it might mean about Vincent’s gift, Maddie felt it best to steer clear of those topics with Justine, deciding to let her bring them up. Which she hadn’t done.
Now she and Justine were at the celebratory potluck, gazing at the cake which, in red icing, pointed to every subject they avoided. “Welcome back?” Justine said again. “Where’d he go?”
Reflexively, Maddie hit upon the other story of a New Testament resurrection: “I guess it’s kind of a Lazarus thing,” she said. “What do you think people said to him?” But she wondered why she felt compelled to give an explanation: she, too, found the word choice odd.
“Mr. Pavlik wasn’t exactly dead,” Justine answered. “Vincent doesn’t have you convinced that he can raise people from the dead, does he?”
“Absolutely not,” said Vincent, taking them both by surprise. Maddie hadn’t realized he had arrived, and now here he was at her elbow, the other, unspoken guest of honor at the celebration. “Vincent can do no such thing,” he said.
It was his first interaction with Justine since the cafeteria argument weeks ago, and Maddie had anticipated it with dread. But to her surprise, Justine simply smiled and Vincent smirked back. There was no time for further conversation, because that was also the moment the Pavliks arrived, greeted by shouts and cheers, which then turned into a very long period of applause.
Before the Pavliks’ arrival, Pastor McLaughlin had warned everyone of Dean’s tendency to tire easily. He exhorted the congregation to take it easy and not to overwhelm him. But joy is difficult to restrain, and the Pavlik’s arrival (Mr. Gillece and Mr. Amoretti and others rushing to the door on seeing them, each of them wanting to hold it open; Mrs. Pavlik’s insistence on pushing Mr. Pavlik’s wheelchair, her face aglow, plump and shining; Mr. Pavlik’s long frame folded into the wheelchair, bundled despite the spring warming outdoors) was only the beginning of a sustained and elevated din.
Mr. Pavlik still seemed frail and looked a little pallid. The wheelchair was surprising to Maddie at first, and then understandable: the road to full recovery was long; already he had come so far. With some relief, she noted that his head looked normal enough: she tried not to stare; she was glad to see his hair was growing back. He smiled constantly and shook a lot of hands, and Mrs. Pavlik had always one hand resting on him or on his wheelchair, as though trying to grasp this new reality: that of his being well.
Everyone wanted to talk with them, and so Maddie and Vincent held back for a time, helping themselves to food. Vincent was happy to shout conversation, but Maddie didn’t feel much like it. Instead, she watched the Pavliks from the shadow of Vincent’s side, wondering what it was like to have their lives suddenly restored. Only weeks ago, they had faced the specter of lasting separation. Their grown children had come home to say good-bye to their father. Maddie herself had clung to his blanketed foot in prayer, had felt the spokes of his metatarsals riding just below his skin. She had seen him all but lifeless, had pleaded over subsequent weeks for the death verdict’s reversal—and God had answered (was it him? Or chance? Or some metaphysical triumph of good over evil?), “Yes.”
Now she and Vincent sat with a crowd from the youth group, and everywhere around them people celebrated or talked about things completely unrelated. At their table, for example, Vincent and the others were chatting about the upcoming baseball season, and Justine had resumed her normal role, peppering the conversation with caustic remarks. They were discussing who among them might skip school for the Pirate opener, and Justine scolded them for it and then, moments later, related a story of when she herself had done the same thing.
Maddie was only partially listening, however, thinking instead of her restraint in the past weeks, nurturing her friendship with Justine. She and Vincent seemed to have picked up where they left off: Justine with tolerant condescension and Vincent with either oblivion or honest unconcern.
Had Maddie expected more? Had she imagined there would be some earnest discourse between them in which they hashed out their differences or found some common ground? No, she realized. That was foolish. She had never in her life known Justine to apologize—certainly never when she was at least partially in the right, and Vincent wouldn’t force the issue. Vincent would simply follow Justine’s lead, would, along with Justine, pretend that it hadn’t happened, or that it didn’t bother him anymore (had it bothered him?), or that it simply didn’t matter.
And clearly, it didn’t matter. Because regardless of who had been right in that theological debate, there was Mr. Pavlik, well and sitting upright, growing stronger every day. Maddie watched him talk with Mr. Amoretti and lit
tle Joey, who stood awkwardly at Mr. Pavlik’s knee. With one hand, the child held a paper plate burdened with a large slice of cake. The plate slanted precariously towards the floor, but this pending disaster seemed to bother no one.
Across the room, Maddie saw Nicky carrying a cup of lemonade to Amy where she sat with friends. Her pregnancy was advanced at this point, and Maddie smiled to see that Amy couldn’t quite sit close to the table anymore. She was due at the end of May; she and Nicky had invited Maddie and Vincent to come help Nicky put the crib together. The last time they had been at the Tedescos’ house, Amy had practically pulled Maddie upstairs to see the baby’s room: she had painted the pale blue ceiling with clouds.
Now Maddie trembled slightly, overwhelmed by all the noise. With her plastic fork, she pried the red rose away from her cake’s white icing and let it slide to the plate. It was the same kind of cake they always had at celebrations: half chocolate, half white, and Maddie’s piece had apparently come from the middle, as she had some of both. She took a bite of the white half and realized that she had never liked these cakes. They were invariably dry and only remotely flavored, and the icing coated the roof of her mouth with something akin to wax. She pushed her plate away.
Then suddenly there was Mr. Pavlik. His wheelchair’s footrest tapped Maddie’s chair with a gentle thump, and Mrs. Pavlik was instantly effusive : “Oh, I’m sorry, honey! I didn’t mean to hit you! Are you all right?”
Maddie did her best to be consoling. It hadn’t bothered her in the slightest. She had barely felt it. Really, don’t worry about it. Still, Mrs. Pavlik continued to apologize.
Meanwhile, there sat Mr. Pavlik, quiet and smiling, reaching for Maddie and Vincent with both hands. “Thank you,” he said quietly, somehow still making himself heard over Mrs. Pavlik’s continued fuss, over the noise in the room. “Thank you so much for praying for me,” he said.
They had already said their “you’re welcomes,” and had already released Mr. Pavlik’s grip when Mrs. Pavlik had to chime in, too:
“Yes, thank you! Oh, thank you! They prayed for you, Dean. They came to the hospital and prayed for you!” Clearly she had informed her husband of this before, but it apparently bore repeating. Sure enough, she said it a few more times, taking their hands, too, and holding them tightly. She thanked them again and again with shining eyes.
Maddie was sure the entire room had heard her despite the din. She wanted to shrink away from them. How many times was “thank you” necessary? When Mrs. Pavlik rolled her husband away, Maddie was relieved that the interview was over.
Except that it seemed to lead to others. After the Pavliks’ departure, other people came, singly and in pairs, some of them elders from the hospital that day, some of them congregants—people who should have no idea that she and Vincent had been among them. Each of them expressed their gratitude; each of them most especially thanked Vincent. And both Maddie and Vincent said, of course, “You’re welcome.”
But how did they know, Maddie wondered, simultaneously realizing that she had begun to hope no one would know, that this would remain a secret among those at Mr. Pavlik’s bedside. She had begun to imagine that this miracle would overwhelm everything else, that thoughts of Vincent’s gift would be subsumed in celebration and then, perhaps, forgotten—just as it happened with Joey Amoretti.
When had she begun to hope this?
A glance across the room at the beaming and chatting Mrs. Pavlik dissolved the hope. This time the miracle would be announced and announced again. Maddie and Vincent would be thanked for this every time they saw Mrs. Pavlik, who wouldn’t be quiet about it until everyone knew what Vincent had done for them. With a growing despair, Maddie realized that Mrs. Pavlik would never stop talking about it. Should the entire world discover what had happened, Mrs. Pavlik would talk about it even then.
R
Vincent gave her a ride home that night. The windows were down, and cool, spring-scented air rushed through the car. After the chatter of the party, Maddie was glad for the meaningless noise of the wind, and glad, too, to be with Vincent. Alone with Vincent.
They stopped at the park, just to talk for a while, they said, to talk over what had happened. But they didn’t talk. Not really. And once again there was repentant prayer, all of it numbingly familiar.
When she got home, Maddie’s parents were already upstairs getting ready for bed. She went in the front door, walked through the quiet house and out the back door onto the deck.
The yard was dark, and the neighboring houses didn’t have their outdoor lights on. The only light came from a streetlight far up the hill, and when Maddie stepped down into the yard, that light was lost behind the neighbors’ roofline.
Her feet were bare; the ground was cool and faintly damp. With her back to her house, Maddie sat in the grass, and the hill that bordered their yard seemed to rise up in front of her. It seemed taller from this angle, and she thought this must have been the way it looked when she was very small.
The sky was moonless, but the stars were thick overhead. Arms straight and hands flat on the grass behind her, Maddie leaned her head back and composed a view of only sky. The borderless space made her catch her breath. At that moment, she could be anywhere, she thought, the stars and constellations so much the same over Kansas, over Indiana, over some nameless field in the flatlands of the Midwest. But then there came a small gust of wind and, at the corner of her vision, she caught some newborn, twisting leaves of their maple tree.
Still gazing at the sky, Maddie began to landmark her surroundings: the neighbors, the shrubs and trees of their property, the scale of the hill between them. She knew by heart the yards of the people on the street behind them and who lived where, the children who, in her sibling-free childhood, were her playmates. So long ago now, when she had been little, they had played kickball and whiffle ball in that adjacent cul-de-sac. On long summer evenings they had played hide-and-go-seek and ghost-in-the-graveyard, running and screaming, feeling the grass cool under their bare feet after the sun went down. Long after dark, their mothers would call them in, and families of children would disappear in reluctant obedience. Her own house would seem over-bright after those hours of playing in the dark. The light would seem foreign and the water, washing the grass and dirt from her feet in the bathtub, would be cold. Tucked into bed, Maddie listened as the crickets’ song leaked through the window screen, and already it would seem a long time ago that she had run for her life to home-base: the stop-sign at the turn to the cul-de-sac.
Now she replayed that afternoon’s events, starting with the potluck, because nothing before that mattered. There were Justine and her parents, the Amorettis, the Gilleces, Susan Sweet, the Tedescos, all of them part of the Bethel Hills congregation, that small but significant family that comprised so much of her life. And there was Vincent, already tanned, freshly showered, blue-eyed.
She had intended to talk with him in the car. She wanted to tell him about her theory, to confess her gamble that their sin was robbing Mr. Pavlik of life, Vincent of his gift. But Vincent had kissed her before she got the words out, and it had been so long, it seemed, since he had kissed her. One kiss wasn’t enough for Maddie. It never was.
She straightened and looked around her. The sky was a better view, she thought. It was unobstructed velvet studded with small specks of light. By contrast, this lateral view was murky, impeded by strange shapes and vague darkness. Darkness in the dark, Maddie thought: an unhappy concept.
And yet it was so. Only because she knew her yard so well could she name the dark shapes for what they were: the forsythia hedge, the boxwood shrubs, the split-rail fence at the yard’s edge. Beyond the fence, the earth climbed up, plateauing for the width of the next street of houses, and then it climbed again. At her back sat her own house and the street that climbed hills on both sides, while across from them the neighbor’s house also had a hill at its back.
Maddie lived, she realized, at the bottom of a bowl. The whole earth curved up from he
re, and if it went down again (as she knew it did), it would yet again curve upward in a seemingly endless succession of pleats and wrinkles. Reflexively she reviewed the bus route, the paths to school and to church, to downtown Pittsburgh. The entire region, she saw now, was composed of climbs and plummets; the earth—coming and going—was pitched at precarious angles. Uneven ground made for uneven footing, always difficult to navigate.
Sitting there on the lawn of her dark backyard, Maddie considered for the first time in her life that she wanted to get out.
19
Monday morning, and Justine opened with this: she wanted to know if Vincent had any plans.
Plans?
“Yes, you know. Like who is he going to heal next. And when. And who is going to notify the media—because you know, Maddie, that the media will become involved at some point. That kind of thing.”
Maddie felt winded: two days ago, she would have sworn that Justine didn’t believe Vincent could heal anyone, and now she was looking for an action plan, even expecting a strategy. Here was a decided change of heart—and in less than twelve hours. Throughout yesterday’s potluck, throughout the few weeks of Mr. Pavlik’s climb toward recovery, Justine had never allowed that Vincent had healed him. And sometime over the last twelve hours, Maddie had begun to hope that she never would. Justine’s matter-of-fact doubt might serve to quell a church-wide craving for miracles.
Now Maddie suppressed a growing fear: Vincent’s gift could not be sustained, not at the price God appeared to be asking. She had tried. She had found small if significant success. But if their little detour last night had shown her anything, it was that her fears were spot-on: she was unable to control herself—and ultimately, she didn’t want to.
“Well?” Justine was waiting on an answer. The game plan? What was Vincent planning to do?
No one had said anything about a plan. Not Nicky. Not Pastor McLaughlin. No one, so far as she knew, had a plan.
Healing Maddie Brees Page 21
