“You’ve held on to your long blonde hair for many years,” Vito said. “Was that part of your waiting?”
“My hair was always my crowning glory,” Vickie said. “No matter what terrible thing was going on around me, I had my hair. Now, I’m even facing the possibility of losing that.”
“Maybe it’s time you let go of your long hair,” Vito said. “Go for a new look, smart and sleek, one which will balance the inner and outer realms of your new self. The short hair will match perfectly the golden dahlias which fill the chapel.”
“There’s golden dahlias filling the chapel?” Vickie said.
“The chapel has been completely transformed,” Vito said. “Dee brought in a large party tent and erected it inside. The entire inside of the tent has been transformed into a fantasy of gold, at the center of which will be you. With your short golden hair, your head will shine like the sun in a galaxy of golden dahlias.”
“What if I keep my long hair?”
“Of course that’s your choice,” Vito said. “But it’s my interior inspiration that you’d be making a mistake. My sense of your present style, the long blonde hair with the baby braids, is that it belongs in the past, to a person you no longer are--your long hair is something that you hung on top of your head a long time ago because at that time, it brightened up your world, or maybe it was part of some teenage surfer fantasy or something, but now I sense it’s time for something that will bring into focus your considerable present beauty.”
“I’m fighting you,” Vickie said. “My greatest fear centers around losing my hair right before I die in a smelly sweat.”
“I understand,” Vito said. “I’m sure it must be exhausting to you to be trying to keep some control over your life--especially now that you’ve decided to be a bride one last time. A bride is caught between two worlds. In one world, she must give love, and in other, she must receive it--it’s when we receive love that we aren’t in control.”
“What you’re saying is that I’m resisting your suggestion to cut off my hair as my one last great act of defiance? As a way to stay in control of something while everything else is falling apart?”
“You’re a dying woman,” Vito said. “It’s only natural that you’d be preoccupied with the infinite--your vision is focused on what’s waiting for you out there--but it scares you when you travel out there--it’s unknown territory, so you return to the familiar to reassure yourself. That’s why you’re fighting me about the direction we should go with your cut--it gives you a feeling of reassurance because your haircut is finite, and easy to grasp, therefore easy to control.”
“I must be going crazy,” Vickie said. “Because for a moment, there, you were starting to make sense. Why don’t you spit it out and tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want you to give me your hair,” Vito said. “I want you to surrender all of your hair to me.”
Vickie sighed deeply. “Go ahead,” she said. “It’s yours. I’m through fighting.”
“Are you sure?” Vito said.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “Go ahead, Vito, make my day. Cut it all off.”
Chapter 21
“I love Mulroney,” Vickie said, “but in the back of my mind I wonder if this wedding isn’t my way of making one last defiant gesture at my cancer.”
“I understand where you’re coming from,” the tailoress said. “It’s as though the cancer has the power to dissolve in an untimely fashion your sacrament of marriage--by getting married, you’re standing up to it.”
The tailoress and Vickie were in the hospital, in an empty patient room commandeered by the ever-resourceful Dee, fitting precisely to Vickie’s full figure the Flower of Ireland, in all its magnificence. The tailoress, a woman in the median span of life who called herself Afshaan and appeared to have hailed from India, having been raised there, and educated in Catholic schools, and of no small beauty herself, worked expertly and quickly through the various sections of the garment, correcting trouble spots on-the-fly while at the same time encouraging sympathetic discourse into the weighty matters of cancerous tumors and their effects on the great moments of life. Thus far, Afshaan had not permitted Vickie a glimpse in the portable three-way mirror, which stood in the corner covered with a sheet from the hospital bed.
“You’ve got to go with what you’ve got, that’s all I know,” Vickie said. “In a way, it’s really a battle with Mother Nature herself.”
“It’s a tough battle,” Afshaan said. “You can’t make Mother Nature do anything she doesn’t want to do.”
“True,” Vickie said. “Thus far, my battle with her has cost me a lot of energy--and most likely, I’ll lose anyway.”
“Don’t give up,” Afshaan said. “Sometimes, Mother Nature accepts our humble efforts and lets us win. I hope it goes that way for you.” Afshaan stood up, stepped back, and regarded Vickie with a close eye, walking around her three times.
“It’s finished,” Afshaan said, checking her watch. “And not a minute too soon. It’s almost midnight.”
“Tell me what you think,” Vickie said. “Before I look in the mirror, I want to hear it from you. Don’t hold back. I want the truth.”
“The truth is, your transformation is that of a goddess,” Afshaan said. “When you first walked in here, I sensed the possibilities, but now I must admit, your unmatched beauty is something I will remember always.” Afshaan stepped to the mirror and pulled off the sheet.
Vickie turned to the mirror and sucked in a quick sharp breath. She did not immediately recognize herself. It was as though, under the onslaught of heavenly images generated by the inlaid handiwork of the garment, her mind had lost the ability to hold its focus. Time passed. The radiant linen sparkled with life and energy as she turned this way and that, feeling the silky synergy of the cloth moving in close counterpoint with her breathing. Her eyes wandered over the garment slowly, gradually adding up its uncountable sum until at once the many facets sprang together as one, presenting her with an image of perfect purity and innocence, an angelic forming of eternal wholeness. She found herself in a space where the fullness of time enfolded her, and the music of the Flower of Ireland’s visual harmonies vibrated into the core of her heart and soul.
She came back to herself again as the door opened and Dee walked in holding the bouquet, followed closely by Mary-Jo, both women flushed, excited, shiningly sartorialized in little gold-sequined dresses.
“Oh my,” Dee said. “You’re beyond beautiful--I’d shriek with delight, but we are in a hospital.”
“It’s like a splinter of Heaven broke off and landed in this room,” Mary-Jo said.
“The waiting is over,” Dee said. “They’re ready for us in the chapel.”
“It’s time?” Vickie said.
Dee took her by the hand and led her through the door. The procession--Dee in front, Vickie in the middle, and Mary-Jo bringing up the rear, her job being to hold away from the floor the long, delicate train--made its way through the warm, dimly-lit hallways past the amazed faces of night shift personnel, arriving at the chapel door beyond which Vickie’s destiny in the form of a man in a gold tuxedo stood waiting. Music played. A solo violin. The Ave Maria.
“You forgot something,” Dee said, pinning the golden Tara brooch, and pulling down the veil. She handed Vickie the bouquet. “There. Perfection has been accomplished.”
Vickie stood beneath the veil, her heart beating fast, her thoughts suspended--there was no longer past or future--not at this moment--not with the door about to open and show her the path to Mulroney, her beloved, awaiting her at the end of her walk down the aisle. A silence filled her soul completely, as though there was nothing more to say, no more stories to tell. The door opened revealing a stunning, intimate interior world of shining gold, the results of many hangings of exotic fabrics combined with the largesse of a half-thousand of golden dahlias. The single violinist bowed up the wedding march and Vickie began stepping forward towards Mulroney, the big man standing st
iffly at attention, eyes fiercely reaching towards her, his framework closely lieutenanted by a smiling Dalk. The big man consumed her eyes, to the point where she felt his life forces were pulling her towards him through the air, as though the solid world had evaporated, leaving only the two of them to complete their dance. A single white-hot stab of pain from the tumor shot through her upper abdomen, but she steeled herself and kept on marching to the singing strings of the violin.
We’ll never be so young again as we are tonight, she thought. We’ll be married and we’ll never regret it.
Mulroney stepped forward and steered her in front of Father Larry. She understood without thinking that she’d done all she could--her life had brought her to Mulroney. She found it enough, and was content, for the moment, to lay aside the dreams and fears of elsewheres and other realms.
The wedding had begun.
Chapter 22
“We’ll begin,” Father Larry said, “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Up close, Vickie noticed, Mulroney appeared--in spite of the brilliance of his shiny gold garments--pale and washed out somehow, as though the afternoon and evening of Dr. Lerner’s “poking and prodding” had been hard on him. His face, however, was set in a determined fierceness, like that of a downed hawk--injured, but still game for whatever lay ahead. A slight coughing noise from the corner of the tent drew her eye to the spectacle of Kilkenney glaring from his cage. Absurdly--somehow during the afternoon, the big man had arranged for his cat to be here at this most important moment.
Her attention refocused on Father Larry, who had apparently for some time been reading from Genesis. “Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother,” he said, “and shall cleave unto his wife and they shall be one flesh.”
Father read a psalm and a portion of the love chapter--Corinthians 13. He set his small wedding book aside and looked lovingly over his charges and beyond to the small group assembled, which included Vito, Scotia, and Afshaan. Vickie felt the pain in her back begin to spread and with a start realized she was losing feeling in her legs in the same manner as she had that afternoon. She braced herself inwardly.
“It is my great privilege to welcome and congratulate Vickie and Patrick here,” Father Larry said, “for by their committed action of coming together in this holy sacrament of marriage, they have shown us that life is so much more than a pilot episode for a possible future series. Mulroney and Vickie, here, have taught me that right here on earth, it is possible to forge a code of survival and love that I believe amazes even the angels, which are, no doubt, in strong attendance here at this early morning uniting of two souls.”
Oh no, Vickie thought. He’s going to be long-winded.
“The most heartbreaking moments of life,” Father continued, “often set the stage for our greatest triumphs--this marriage of Vickie and Mulroney is such a triumph. It is all the proof of heaven that anyone could ask, for we can see in their shining expressions a sweet message delivered to us here from a world beyond this one.
“The sacrament of marriage reminds us that we have a duty and right to be here on this earth--and a God-given right to freedom from the despair and loneliness we find facing us in the world outside.
“I want to say to the two of you, that this moment is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever encountered. In the days to come, whenever I’m feeling weary and indifferent to life, I will look back fondly on this moment and draw renewed strength from it for my own journey.”
Vickie sniffed the air, detecting a slightly sour scent. With alarm, she realized it was coming from Mulroney. Her mind reeled with the effort to contain her fear. She’d smelled that smell once before--at the death of her mother! She glanced at him, but he was still holding steady, albeit it seemed to her his face had paled considerably. Father Larry was droning on--would he never stop? She wondered if she’d make it to the vows.
“Within the bonds of marriage,” Father said, “we find the highest level of commitment. We are not seeking in marriage a life of comfort and luxury for ourselves--instead we are embracing the opportunity to sacrifice ourselves for one another.
“We do not take this commitment lightly--but instead, we do everything in our power to live up to the sacrificial spirit of marriage--we accept any amount of personal pain and suffering that God allows if it will serve for the good of our marriage partner.”
God help me, Vickie prayed. May my pain be of some value tonight.
“Mulroney,” Father said, “I want to charge you with the responsibility not merely to be a good provider for your wife financially, but also to be a shining example of spiritual providence to her.
“Vickie, I likewise charge you with the responsibility not merely to be a good wife to your husband, but to be also a source of light and faith to him, no matter what the personal cost to you.”
Yes, she thought. I will. No matter what the cost.
“I further charge the two of you,” Father said, “to conduct your marriage in such a manner as to continually point the way to God, recognizing that you have your example of Christian marriage to share with others--an example which should be an encouragement to anyone who comes to you in need of faith, hope, and strength.”
“Excuse me, Father,” Vickie said. “But I’m having a problem with pain.”
Mulroney put his arm around her. “How bad is it?” he said. She noticed a slight sheen of oily sweat covering his face.
“I wanted to be alert for the ceremony,” she said, “so I stopped taking my pills--I think I’ve made a mistake--it’s really starting to hurt me bad.” In spite of herself, her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m spoiling everything.”
“Why don’t we stop for a moment,” Father Larry said, “while somebody gets your pills for you?”
“No,” Vickie said. “I want to go on--but I wonder if we could hurry it up a little. Also, I need someone to hold me up--I’m starting to lose feeling in my legs.”
“I’ll hold her up,” Mulroney said. But in spite of his promise, she could feel his arm around her waist growing weak. She leaned against him to better her chances of remaining upright.
Father Larry moved closer. “Vickie and Mulroney,” he said. “Have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?”
“We have,” they said. Mulroney kept shifting his weight not to lose his grip on her. In the corner, Kilkenney was acting agitated. Perhaps he could smell the sour smell coming from Mulroney as she could. The pain in her back glowed hotter and hotter, shutting off the feeling in her legs.
“Will you love and honor each other,” Father Larry said, “as a man and wife for the rest of your lives?”
“We will.”
“Face each other and join your right hands and declare after me,” Father said.
“Dalk,” Vickie whispered. “Hold me up.” She felt her brother’s powerful arm slip around her waist, not only holding her upright, but lifting her clear of the ground. Dalk was solid as stone.
Father Larry began whispering the cues, guiding Mulroney through the vows.
“I, Patrick,” Mulroney said, “take you, Vickie, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.” His grip on her hand weakened to the point of soft, sweaty fragility, like a baby’s. He barely seemed to be breathing.
Father began whispering her cues, leading her on.
“I, Vickie,” she said, “take you, Patrick, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”
Father Larry stood back. “What God has joined,” he said loudly, “men must not divide.”
Mulroney lifted her veil. There was something wrong. He was shaking badly, all color gone from his face, all strength from his mighty frame. Kilkenney bumped and thrashed and hissed loudly from his
cage in the corner. Mulroney grabbed her face and planted a whisper of a kiss on her lips.
“I’ll see you in the morning, my love,” he said, and collapsed in a heap at her feet. Reflexively, Dalk reached for him, letting go of Vickie. Her legs dead to all feeling, she collapsed atop her husband. Mulroney’s eyes, wide and staring, looked through her to a place far away, a place--she realized deep inside her soul--where it was always morning. She felt the commotion around her, the screams of the women, the hands lifting her up, the wail from her own depths, all in a blur, the outpouring of which bespoke but one thing to all--one thing everybody understood.
Mulroney was dead.
Vickie felt the feeling return to her legs and with the aid of Dalk, shakily rose to her feet. The crash team swooped in and loaded Mulroney onto the gurney. They’d try to save him. It was in the nature of things that they should do so, should try to bring him back. But she knew it wasn’t possible.
“Yes, my love,” she said. “Yes. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Chapter 23
“I’m confused and frightened,” Vickie said. “Right now it’s all I can do to hold on to the memory of what it felt like to be human.”
“Dr. Lerner’s on her way here,” Dalk said. “There’s a chance they can bring Mulroney back. They’ve got him hooked up to the machines. Don’t you think we should wait and see?”
The brother and sister stood beside the limo at the entrance to the Medical Center, attempting to answer the question of what to do next, in keeping with the traditions of those who had occasion to frequent hospitals only to find themselves at the thresholds of unknowns. Dalk had finished loading a caged Kilkenney into the limo. A light rain misted the mercury vapor glare surrounding them, but a percolation of thunder promised imminently a larger delivery of the wet stuff.
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