by Jane Peart
His words hung suspended, as if he wanted to say more but did not know how.
Joy was taken completely off guard. She had never expected such an admission from the doctor. At the same time, she was again struck by the artistic appeal of his face. Without being “Greek god” handsome, he was enormously attractive. Everything about him was so clean, so defined—the shape of his nose, the determined chin, well-shaped mouth. She looked at his hands. Hands told so much about a person. Evan Wallace’s were no exception. Strong, the fingers long, tapering, hands made for performing the delicate operations for which he was so highly known and praised.
Her attention was brought back to what he was saying.
“We also went to the Bradens’ office and looked at the mural you painted there.” A smile tugged at his mouth again. “It was amazing. You almost made me believe in fairy tales.”
Joy laughed. “Then maybe this mural will make you believe in miracles!”
At her remark Dr. Wallace’s expression subtly changed. He stared down into his coffee mug, then back at her with a strange, almost wistful look. “I’m afraid I don’t believe in miracles, have that kind of faith…” He shrugged.
“Well, there’s hope,” Joy said softly, somewhat taken aback by his blunt admission.
“I’m afraid I’m not very big on hope either,” he said crisply.
Joy almost asked, “What about love?” but stopped herself. Instead she said, “I should think that, as a doctor, you would feel that hope was important. Necessary in fact for a patient to recover.”
He shrugged. “Hope? Well, a positive mental outlook is at least beneficial. However, I don’t believe in offering false hope to my patients. I tell them what the facts of the surgery are, the potential risks as well as the possible results. I just don’t believe in miracles.”
There was an awkward pause. Then Joy tried again. “Is that why you objected to my theme for the mural?”
A frown deepened the furrow between his eyebrows. “Does it matter? Obviously, I was outvoted. Besides, personal considerations should not have entered into the decision. Your work won the day.” He changed the subject abruptly. “There’s something I’m curious about. Something I noticed on all your sketches. That little bee beside your name at the bottom right. Does it have any significance?”
“Yes, actually it does.” Joy hesitated, then said shyly, “But if you don’t believe in miracles, I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Try me.”
“It’s very personal to me. When I first came to the city, my goal was to attend the art institute, but I only had enough money to last me a few weeks. I had to find some kind of job. It was scary, to say the least. But Molly—she’s a kind of relative of mine—kept telling me to have faith, to believe that God had a plan for my life, a purpose for giving me my talent and the desire to develop it.” Joy’s voice faltered a little. However, Dr. Wallace was listening intently, and even though she was unsure of how he would react, she had gone this far and had to continue. “Living expenses were much higher than I’d anticipated. Time was running out. I still hadn’t found work and only had another week’s rent at the YWCA. Everything seemed pretty impossible. I called Molly in tears, and she reminded me that with God nothing is impossible.”
Joy’s hands tightened around the coffee mug, and she took a long breath. “I kept telling myself that, and then I did have a miracle. Two days later I got a job and a partial scholarship to the art institute. That’s where I heard John Feight, and”— she opened both her hands, palms up—“now you know why I believe in miracles.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Dr. Wallace said persistently. “Please explain the bee.”
“Oh, the bee. Well, aeronautically speaking, the way the honeybee is constructed, it’s impossible for it to fly. At least there’s no scientific explanation for it. Impossible, see? But it does.”
She looked at him. He was frowning fiercely. No telling what he must have been thinking. She finished limply, “I guess I identify with the honeybee.”
He seemed to be turning that over in his mind.
“Surely you can understand the principle,” she said. “It must have taken you a great deal of hard work, sacrifice— whether you call it that or not—to become a surgeon.”
“Hard work, sacrifice, yes! I don’t know about faith. The truth is, it came at a high price. To someone else the cost was great.” His mouth twisted slightly, and there was a bitter edge to his statement. Whether he would have explained that terse remark, Joy never knew, because at that moment his electronic pager sounded.
He cut it off. “Sorry, I have to go. I have two patients in post-op.” He stood up, looked down at her, and said, “This has been a very interesting conversation, Miss Montrose. We must do it again another time.”
Then he was gone. Joy sat there sipping her coffee, wondering if she had said too much, revealed too much about herself.
It was hard to tell what Dr. Wallace was thinking. He was a hard man to understand. Yet there was something about him…What was it? Slowly it dawned on her. The recognition she felt was not because they had met before; rather it was that she had seen him in her creative imagination. His face was exactly the sort of face she had envisioned for the centurion in her mural, the Roman officer who had come to Jesus begging for healing for a servant. The same features—the steely eyes, the controlled face. His body was also that of a highly disciplined athlete.
The only thing missing was emotion. Wouldn’t the centurion’s face betray his distress over the illness of his favorite servant? Presumably, the physicians had given up. Why else would this proud Roman officer seek a Jewish healer for help? The man had risked his reputation among his fellow officers, among his own men, to come to Jesus. Wouldn’t he have had some anxiety about that?
Dr. Wallace’s face was carefully controlled. Would anything move or touch him deeply enough so she could portray his feelings in a painting?
The possibility mingled with doubt. Dr. Wallace would never consent to pose. Especially when he had so adamantly declared that he did not believe in miracles. Could she dare ask him? Could she risk it?
chapter
8
THE PANEL OF Jarius’s daughter was finished and received favorable comments from the staff. Debbie Matthew’s parents were especially pleased with it.
Joy still had four empty panels waiting to be filled and so far had not found models for them. When she had prepared her initial presentation, Joy had had no trouble envisioning each panel, but now choosing the right models was another thing altogether. Finding the right people to pose for the mural had become a fascinating detective game for Joy.
Armed with her sketchbook, she roamed the corridors of the hospital as nonchalantly as possible while searching for faces for the paralytic, the blind man, the centurion’s servant, and Peter’s mother-in-law.
One day she was wandering around the first-floor lobby, wondering if she might have to look among the visitors for a model for one of the panels. She went into the hospital’s gift shop, which was run by the hospital’s volunteer auxiliary, and there behind the counter Joy spotted a woman who might just be right for Peter’s mother-in-law.
Joy hung around, trying not to look conspicuous as she studied her. Had Peter’s mother-in-law been old or simply middle-aged? Joy knew that women in biblical times married young, in their teens. By the time they were thirty, they had grown children, probably married ones; some women were even grandmothers in their forties.
The lady behind the counter was perhaps in her mid-forties, possibly her early fifties. She was very attractive, her silvered dark hair perfectly set, her makeup skillfully applied, giving her olive skin a richness and her brown eyes brilliance. Although her nose was quite long and her mouth wide, she had a lovely smile. From her vantage point by the greeting card pyramid, Joy watched her as she graciously dealt with an indecisive customer.
Joy hesitated. Maybe she was too theatrical looking. But on t
he other hand, she would make a striking subject. Joy moved closer to get an even better look. The plastic name card pinned to the lapel of the woman’s pink jacket read, “Mrs. Moira Andrews.” Joy lingered indecisively, trying to act as though she were idly searching for a get-well card.
“May I help you?” a soft voice asked. Joy turned to find the subject of her artistic scrutiny at her elbow.
“Are you looking for a card for someone special?”
“No…I mean, I…well, actually, I was…” Joy halted, and then said, “I’m Joy Montrose. I’m painting the mural in the solarium on fourth, and—”
“Of course. I’m delighted to meet you. The auxiliary was totally enthusiastic about the idea when it was brought before the board. I’ve meant to come up and see how it’s progressing, but I somehow get stuck in the shop on days I work here.” She lowered her voice. “Sometimes it’s mostly browsers, people who are at loose ends, waiting for a family member to get out of chemo or surgery—or just killing time.” She winced. “How I do hate that expression, don’t you? As if time isn’t the most precious thing we have. I’ve become very conscious of that, volunteering here two days a week.” She paused. “Is there any way I can help you?”
Joy plunged right in. “Truthfully, Mrs. Andrews, I was looking for a model for one of the panels I’m planning, and I was wondering if you would consent to pose for me?”
Mrs. Andrews looked surprised. “Me? Pose? I don’t know…” She flushed. “What would it involve? I mean, in time? You see, my week is pretty much filled—I come here two days a week, then Wednesday is my garden club, and Friday I play bridge…” Her voice trailed off hesitantly. “I really don’t know.”
Quickly Joy explained her method of working. A few informal sketching sessions until she got the angle she wanted, then a few hours of positioning her figure in the overall composition.
“I suppose I could arrange it, shift some things around. My hairdresser appointment could be moved…,” Mrs. Andrews began. While they were talking, two people had come into the shop. One was now standing at the counter with a stuffed elephant in hand, waiting to pay for it.
Mrs. Andrews glanced over her shoulder, then touched Joy’s arm and whispered, “Excuse me, my dear. Customers. Let me think about it and let you know.” She hurried away.
Joy realized that Moira Andrews’ face was the kind she longed to paint. The bone structure was good; the eyes particularly held depth. The few visible lines around them and around her mouth could be accentuated in the portrayal of Peter’s mother-in-law, a woman whom Joy imagined had seen much of life—joy, sorrow, loss, pain, troubles of many kinds. Joy guessed that in spite of the fact that Moira Andrews was perfectly groomed, expertly made up, she too had known some deep valleys. If only Joy could portray that. She felt an excitement, as she always did when she was on the edge of creating. She hoped she could persuade Moira Andrews to become a model.
Back on fourth, Joy worked on the background of the panel she intended to use for the healing of the paralytic. She outlined temple pillars and the distant blue of the Judean hills. She was concentrating so hard that at first she didn’t hear her name being spoken. It was repeated—“Miss Montrose.” Joy stopped painting and turned, brush in hand, to see Mrs. Andrews.
“I don’t mean to disturb you, but I just came up to see your work. The painting of the little girl is lovely, so lifelike. You are a very talented young woman.” She looked at Joy for a moment. “And you’re so young—how old are you, dear?”
“Twenty-three.”
Moira shook her beautifully coifed hair. “About the same age as—” She paused, then said quickly, “I’ve decided I’d like to pose for you—that is, if you still want me to.”
“Oh, I’m so glad, Mrs. Andrews.”
They arranged a day and a time for her to come. Mrs. Andrews took out a small notebook and a pen and jotted it down. “Oh dear, that’s my bridge day. But no, this is much more worthwhile. I’ll get a substitute,” she said with a firm nod, replacing her notebook and pen into her purse. “I’m so glad you asked me. Peter’s mother-in-law. Hmm—I don’t think I even knew Peter was married or had a mother-in-law. I guess I have some catching up to do on my Bible reading. Well, thanks again. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
Mrs. Andrews gave Joy a little wave of her hand and left the solarium, her high heels making small tapping sounds as she walked down the hall toward the elevator.
The second week Moira Andrews was posing for Joy, she said with the breathless air of one sharing a great confidence, “You may be interested to know, I bought a New Testament and started reading it.”
Joy halted, brush poised, to look at her with surprise.
“I’m not proud of it, but I confess I’d never really read it before. Not really. Oh, I was familiar with some of the most quoted verses and with some of the Psalms, like the Twenty-third. Of course we had a Bible in our house, prominently displayed on our bookshelf. You know, one of those showy red leather ones with gold lettering. But I’m ashamed to say that although I dusted it regularly, I rarely opened it.”
Joy made no comment, just went back to carefully painting in the detail of the veil Moira was wearing. It was an Indian sari that Moira had suggested herself. She had brought, for Joy to choose from, several she had purchased when she was on a trip to India a few years ago. Originally she had bought them to wear as a fashion statement to some of the large parties she and her executive husband attended. Joy was unsure at first of using one. Then she decided that the way it draped was artistic, and she had painted a linenlike texture to substitute for the gauzy gold material, and it had turned out fine.
“I read a chapter or two before coming here on the days I pose,” Moira continued. “In fact, other days too. It’s a very interesting way to start my day. I wish I’d done it years ago when…”
Whatever else she was going to say was lost in a deep sigh.
Joy painted on, letting the silence lengthen. Beyond the solarium, the regular hospital noises went on—an orderly pushing a laundry cart went by whistling, a doctor was being paged, elevator doors opened and shut.
Joy took a few steps back from the panel, tipped her head, and surveyed critically what she had done.
“Well, that’s all I need, Mrs. Andrews. I like to let a painting mellow. Then I can come back, fill in more details later. You’ve been very patient, and I really appreciate your doing this. I know it hasn’t been easy for you, switching all your appointments around the way you had to.”
“No, you’re wrong, Joy. It’s I who should thank you. Posing for you, spending these quiet hours with you here in the solarium, has given me time to think, time I never allowed myself before—because it was too painful. I’ve made such a mess of things—my life, the lives of those dear to me. I’ve been a foolish woman. Too often I’ve let pride govern my decisions. I’ve made so many mistakes that have hurt others. I thank you for this time. The tapes you played while I was posing— some of that music I would never have listened to before. Sitting there, I had to listen, and the words began to make sense to me…”
To Joy’s dismay, Mrs. Andrews began to cry. Tears rolled down unchecked, sending narrow rivulets of mascara down her cheeks. She sniffled, groped for a handkerchief. Joy stood by helplessly, not knowing quite what to do. Here was a woman who had everything—wealth, beauty, status in the community— and she was weeping like a brokenhearted child.
“You see, Joy, I have lost something very precious, and I don’t know if I can get it back…” She wiped her eyes and began to talk. “I have a daughter. I never mentioned her to you because we’ve been estranged now for nearly three years. It’s my fault. She was our only child, and we lavished her with everything—at least we thought we had. My husband was wealthy, so we were able to give her everything—toys, a pony. And we always took her with us on vacations—cruises, Bermuda, skiing in Aspen. We sent her to the best schools, gave her a beautiful debut, a coming-out party at my husband’s country club, and t
hen…”
The tears started coming again. Impatiently Mrs. Andrews dabbed at her eyes. “Then she came to tell us she’d fallen in love—and that’s when it happened. The young man was totally unsuitable. No education to speak of, no profession—in fact, he was a commercial fisherman! Came from a family of fishermen—father, brother, grandfather. I told her they had nothing in common, that she would regret it if she were foolish enough to marry—”
Moira stopped to blow her nose, and Joy wondered how she could not see the irony in what she was telling her about her daughter’s choice. Moira took a deep breath and went on. “I influenced her father to stand with me—against the young man, against the marriage. I refused to even see him or to meet his family. I carried on terribly, Joy—I see that now. In the end she regretfully, reluctantly chose him over us. After all we’d done for her…” Moira broke down again. “At first she tried. She sent letters, cards, but we—at least I—returned them. I didn’t allow my husband to relent—weaken, I called it. I kept saying she’d be back once she realized that we were right, that a marriage like that couldn’t work, that it wouldn’t last.”
Moira drew a long, sighing breath. “We haven’t seen or heard anything for months. I don’t even know how to reach her, to tell her I’m sorry, ask her to forgive me…I’m sure her husband resents us. Things were so bitter, such harsh things were said, that I don’t think it will ever be forgotten. A reconciliation seems impossible. It would take a miracle.”
Joy reached out and took Moira’s hand, gently pressing it. “That’s what these panels are all about, Mrs. Andrews—miracles. Let’s ask Jesus to perform a miracle. Let’s ask him to restore your relationship with your daughter. That kind of miracle is just as important as the physical healings.”
It had taken a kind of boldness Joy didn’t know she had, but Moira Andrews had seemed so desperate, so needy, that Joy had been filled with compassion. It struck her that Jesus was often so filled with compassion for the desperate people to whom he ministered that his caution had been overcome and he had prayed for their healing, knowing that his heavenly Father would honor that prayer. In a way Joy had felt that, too. She had been very aware of Moira’s need at that moment and had lost her self-consciousness.
