Petite Hélène reached forward and dug her fingers into the doctor's arm. Her face was drawn and pale, and her eyes were red and swollen from crying. 'How soon until we . . .' She swallowed and looked away. 'Until we know one way or another?' she finished softly, turning to face him again.
Dr. Weiner looked deep into her eyes, wishing there was some way to give her more hope. But there was so little hope. He and the battery of surgeons had raced against the clock. Against one of the most devastating and dangerous wounds a human being could suffer. The bullet had been fired at nearly point-blank range and had perforated the stomach before lodging in the liver.
Petite Hélène pressed herself against Edmond, her face buried in his chest. 'Is there anything we can do?' she cried softly.
Dr. Weiner clapped a weary hand on her shoulder. 'Pray,' he suggested gently. 'If you believe at all in the power of prayer, now's the time to pray.'
Petite Hélène entered the hospital chapel and quietly shut the door behind her. Soundlessly she slipped down the aisle and into the front pew beside Hélène.
Hélène turned to her, a questioning look in her eyes.
'The operation is over,' Petite Hélène said quietly. 'Now all we can do is wait and pray.'
Hélène followed her niece's eyes to the crucifix suspended above the altar. Her lips quivered and her shoulders slumped. She covered her haggard face with her hands. Pray, she thought numbly. For ten hours, she'd been trying hard, but the prayers weren't forthcoming. Each time she bowed her head and closed her eyes, the same nightmare vision sprang before her.
'Someone named Z.Z. sends you her regards.'
Hélène stared down at the barrel of the revolver, unable to move as the Chameleon's index finger began to squeeze the trigger.
Then suddenly Nigel knocked her sideways with all the force he could muster. She screamed as her body slammed into the hard plastic cabin wall behind the Plexiglas bulkhead. She caught a blur of movement as Nigel charged forward, his forearm deflecting the Chameleon's aim.
The sound of the shot was like thunder. The bullet slammed into the bulkhead in front of her, the Plexiglas quivering under the impact, the mirror strips adorning it cracking into intricate glass cobwebs.
She felt the blood surging to her temples as Nigel wrestled the Chameleon. Both men's faces were red, and their veins stood out on their foreheads as if sculptured in bold relief. In seemingly slow motion they struggled for control of the gun, their arms quivering as they exerted as much pressure against each other as they could possibly summon. Then, in horror, she watched the Chameleon's gun arm slowly coming down. . .down. . .down. Down into Nigel's body.
Ca-rack!
She let out a piercing shriek and covered her ears with her hands as Nigel staggered forward, staring at the Chameleon in surprise. Then, with a superhuman effort, he somehow managed to turn the gun against the Chameleon. A last blast shook the cabin, and the Chameleon froze. This time it was his turn to look surprised. Then he slid slowly down to the carpet. Nigel bent forward and grasped the bulkhead, gasping for air.
'Nigel?' Hélène's voice was a strangled cry. 'Nigel?'
On hands and knees she crawled out from behind the bulkhead and got shakily to her feet. He started to turn. Then his legs gave out from under him, and she caught him as he sagged backward. Slowly she lowered him.
'Nigel. . .' She shook him desperately. 'Nigel!' Then she let out a cry and shrank back. His abdomen was soaked in blood.
'Oh, God, Nigel, no!' she screamed in panic, the tears streaming down her cheeks. 'Not now! Don't die now!'
And then she cradled his head in her arms, staring as if mesmerized as his blood pumped out from his body, and all her hopes and dreams along with it.
She heard a chilling, high-pitched scream. At first she thought it was Nigel. It was several moments before she realized where it had actually come from—the depths of her own throat.
'Tante Hélène! Tante Hélène!' She felt Petite Hélène's arms around her, compassionately rocking her back into the present.
Both of them were crying, and they cried and cried for a long time.
Nigel lay motionless in the narrow bed, a network of clear plastic tubes coursing into his body. The television monitors on the table beside the bed registered low, painful bleeps and traced listless graphs. Hélène turned and looked at the doctor without speaking. She tried to smile bravely, and touched his arm.
He nodded reassuringly and left her alone in the room.
For a long moment she just stood there looking at Nigel in silence. Then she turned away to stare at the monitors. She saw the unsteady green lines becoming weak mounds before becoming lazy lines again. Then slowly she tore her eyes away from the screen and approached the bed. She sank to her knees and pressed her cheek against Nigel's hand. It felt cool and lifeless. Only the occasional bleeping of the monitors assured her that he was still showing signs of life. She Remembered what Petite Hélène had told her—how many hours ago, now?—'Now all we can do is to wait and pray.'
Did she know any prayers? she wondered. And could she pray? No, she couldn't pray—couldn't since that winter afternoon so long ago when Maman had been carted off by the Nazis; couldn't since Catherine and little Marie's torture and disappearance; couldn't since the day Jeanne had been snatched so brutally from life. She hadn't been able to worship God after he had abandoned all things dear to her. So how could she pray for his help now? It would be. . .two faced. Hypocritical. A desperate, last-ditch attempt just in case all else failed.
She looked up at Nigel, lying there so pale and motionless. He had put his life on the line to save her. She owed him a prayer. A thousand prayers.
She took a deep breath. For a moment she hesitated. Then she kissed his hand. 'I'll start praying for you, my darling,' she whispered. 'I'll pray for both of us!'
Once again she stared back at the monitor. It seemed to have been silent for too long. The bleep, when it finally came, filled her with relief.
She tried to swallow, but there was an immense lump blocking her throat. Her hands were clammy and trembled. Could she really Remember the prayers she had not said since childhood? She had promised Nigel that she would pray for him, but could she summon the prayers up from the dead-letter box that was religion in her mind and begin chanting them? For both Nigel's sake and her own? Could she even begin to believe in the comfort of prayer, let alone its power?
She closed her eyes, and again the scene of horror sprang up before her. Nigel throwing her out of harm's way, sacrificing himself to save her.
God bless him, she thought, and those three words triggered it. The long-forgotten prayers began to surface from the depths of her soul. Almost without her knowing it, her lips began to move, and in a whisper she surrendered herself to God.
'Our Father, who art in heaven. . .'
Her heart leaped joyously. So she really did believe. She squeezed her eyes shut and bowed her head.
'Hallowed be thy name. . .'
She thought she heard a sound, a quickening of the monitors' bleeps, but she couldn't be sure. Vaguely she heard activity, a door opening, soft footsteps, excited low voices, but nothing could penetrate the invisible wall of prayer that she had erected around her.
'. . .Thy kingdom come. . .'
The nurse who had come in ran back out; a moment later, Dr. Weiner came rushing in with her, his stiff white smock flapping around his legs. There was a buzz of conversation.
'The monitors are registering an increase in his pulse,' the nurse said quietly.
Dr. Weiner bent down and watched one monitor, then another, nodding slowly. 'Maybe,' he murmured. 'Just maybe . . .'
The nurse turned and noticed Hélène for the first time. 'How did she get in here?' she whispered harshly. 'No one's supposed to be—'
'Hush,' the doctor said patiently, feeling his hopes rising as the monitors' pulses quickened and jumped. 'I invited her in. Under the circumstances, I didn't think it could hurt.'
'.
. .Thy will be done. On earth as it is in heaven. . .'
Hélène's eyes were still closed. She wasn't even hearing the doctor and the nurse. Nor was she hearing the jumping pulse-beats of the monitors. Instead, she felt a tightening in her throat. She slumped forward and began to tremble. All at once she was realizing what the prayer was doing. It was stripping away all the years of pain. Like a snake shedding its old skin for a new one, she began to feel lighter. Freer. Like a caged bird must feel after its sudden release. Finally she was stepping over the threshold of heaven after spending an eternity in hell. The demons that had haunted her for a lifetime had been cast back into the darkness.
She looked up and opened her eyes. Then she caught her breath. The doctor was standing there, smiling as though he'd witnessed a miracle. The nurse looked confused as the monitors bleeped happily. And slowly, ever so slowly, Nigel turned his head sideways, opened his gold-flecked eyes, and smiled at her.
'Hélène. . .' he whispered.
A sob caught in her throat. For a long moment she was silent. '. . .And. . .and forgive us our trespasses,' she said in a fervent whisper, 'as we forgive those who trespass against us.'
Sins Page 78
