by Jane Peart
“Want to go to church with me on Sunday?” Gayle asked.
Surprised and touched, Joy answered, “Oh yes. I’d like that.”
The small church to which Gayle took Joy when Sunday came was filled with a diversified congregation—people of all ages, colors, and ethnic backgrounds. The atmosphere was warm and friendly, with everyone greeting everyone else as if they had all known each other forever.
There was a long worship segment, followed by a thoughtful sermon. The Communion service was preceded by the singing of one of the loveliest of hymns, “Let Us Break Bread Together on Our Knees.”
Let us break bread together on our knees.
When I fall on my knees with my face to the rising sun,
May the Lord have mercy on me.
We will praise God together on our knees.…
There followed a few moments of meditation, after which the minister suggested, “Anyone who has a special need or is heart weary or burdened in any way is welcome to come to the altar and be prayed for.” Joy was a little surprised to see Gayle go forward. She knew her to be such a private person that she wondered at this public acknowledgment of need.
Joy saw Gayle kneel, head bowed over clasped hands, then saw two middle-aged women, one white, one black, go to her, gently lay hands on her bent shoulders. Joy realized the young doctor was weeping. Of course, Gayle had brought her struggle with Debbie’s death to be surrendered, lifted up, to have her sorrow healed in a special way. Although Gayle never spoke of it openly, Joy realized her deep spirituality, her sense of calling to be a physician, and the need she now recognized. Joy felt blessed by Gayle’s faith and her friendship.
chapter
23
AT LAST THE DAY for the dedication of the mural had come. There had been a small informal unveiling for the selection committee, and the members had all been complimentary. But now it was time for the formal unveiling and reception. The public, the press, members of the hospital board, sponsors, and civic dignitaries had all been invited to attend the ceremony.
Reporters from the newspaper and local TV stations would be interviewing. Sister Mary Hope had warned Joy to be prepared for questions. The very thought of that chilled Joy. She was both excited and more than a little nervous.
Molly had come for the occasion, and she and Joy arrived together to find the solarium crowded to the edges. It was glaringly bright with the extra lights of the television crews on hand to film the event for the local six o’clock news. The doors to the solarium had been left open so that ambulatory and wheelchair patients could see the goings on as well.
Joy could hardly believe it was over. Nearly a year of her life had gone into the mural. A year of unimaginable change. Not only had she achieved professional success in painting the mural, but there had been the unexpected inheritance of Montclair, and the fulfillment of her dream to travel abroad. Her reservations were made, and she was leaving for Europe the following week. There remained only one tiny seed of sadness deep within. Evan. She deliberately tried not to dwell on her emotions about him. She did not dare.
Flashbulbs popped as some of the guests took pictures of the mural. Joy blinked dazedly as Dr. Fonteyne greeted her. “Come along, my dear, you’re the real star of the show. I want to introduce you so everyone will know whom to congratulate.”
Leaving Molly in the good company of Gayle and Sister Mary Hope, Joy let him lead her up to where a podium and microphone had been placed. Joy’s heart was thumping wildly as Dr. Fonteyne began his speech.
“This beautiful mural will be a permanent source of inspiration to all the doctors and staff of this hospital as they treat suffering human beings who come here seeking help. It will serve as a reminder to all who strive in the healing arts that there is a Great Physician whose power surpasses all man’s meager efforts.
“It will provide comfort and hope to the patients’ family and friends who wait here as we with our human skills and with divine assistance try to achieve successful results.
“Last but certainly not least, we must credit the remarkable talent of the young artist who created these panels, Miss Joy Montrose.”
Here he gestured to her and there followed a burst of applause. Dr. Fonteyne let it continue for a few minutes, then held up his hand for quiet. “So we dedicate this mural today and invite all here to examine it, meet and congratulate Miss Montrose, partake of refreshments, and enjoy this time with us.”
The quiet of the crowd broke into a buzz of voices and laughter as people began to form a line in front of the mural. Immediately people came up to Joy. Debbie’s parents were among the first. Mrs. Matthews hugged her, saying, “Somehow you’ve given Debbie back to us in a way. Thank you.” Mr. Matthews’ dark eyes glistened as he shook Joy’s hand.
Moira Andrews, elegantly dressed and exquisitely coifed as usual, embraced Joy. “My time spent posing with you changed my life—it really did, my dear.” There wasn’t time to explore that further, but Moira pressed a small, beautifully wrapped package into Joy’s hands. “A little something for your trip. God bless you.”
Philip Kenan was also there, walking pretty well with only a cane. He gruffly congratulated Joy. “Well done, young lady.”
A tall young man approached Joy. At first she did not recognize him without his bandage. When she realized it was Todd Nelson, she exclaimed, “Todd, your eye! You can see!”
“Yes, just like in ‘Amazing Grace’—once I was blind but now I can see. In more ways than one, Joy.” He shook her hand and, still holding it, said, “I want you to meet my fiancée.”
The pretty girl with him told her, “I’ve been so anxious to meet you. You’ve done so much for Todd. He was terribly depressed after his surgery, but posing for the panel—well, all I can say is, it was a miracle. Even before they knew the surgery was successful, his whole attitude changed. Thank you.”
Joy met Todd’s clear gaze. They knew what miracle had happened.
A stream of others came also, several of whom Joy vaguely recognized. Some told her that they had been patients at Good Samaritan while she was working on the mural and that watching her had whiled away the tedious hours of recovery. Many nurses and doctors were among those congratulating her. The response was almost too much. Joy began to feel an emotional overload. She moved over to the doors that led out onto the deck, feeling the need for some fresh air.
“Joy.” She heard the familiar voice speak her name, and she whirled around to see Evan. He must have seen her leave and followed her out from the crowded solarium.
His eyes swept over her. “Congratulations. You deserve everything people are saying about it.”
“Thank you, but you are a part of it, too, you know.”
“The centurion? That’s not me. That’s your idea of what I might be if I—” He halted. “So you’ll be leaving next week.” He paused. “May I take you to the airport?”
Joy shook her head. “No, thank you, Evan. Molly’s here and she plans to take me. She’s staying after I go, to close up the apartment for me.”
“Oh, I see. Well…can I come see you off?”
Joy bit her lower lip, feeling unhappy, then said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Evan.”
He hesitated. “I don’t want you to go, Joy. I’m afraid that you won’t come back, that I’ll never see you again.”
“Of course you will, Evan. Of course I’ll be back,” Joy protested. She was about to say more, but just then Dr. Fonteyne came out on the deck, accompanied by a well-dressed couple.
“Ah, Miss Montrose, here you are. The mayor and his wife want to meet you.”
By the time introductions were made and pleasantries exchanged, Joy realized that Evan had left. She looked around but he was gone. There was nothing she could do.
Joy entered the huge terminal at New York International Airport, checked the direction board, then headed for the escalator. Her heart was hammering loudly. This was it at last. She was really on her way. She stepped off the escalator at t
he top and went along the moving walkway to the gates that led to the lounge for international flights. She verified her flight number, looked for the correct gate, then advanced through security. She pulled her ticket out of the handsome leather shoulder bag Evan had given her and moved to join the line of people waiting at the check-in counter.
Was this really happening? It still felt unreal. She was given a boarding pass, and her suitcase was tagged and weighed. Then she glanced around, searching for a seat in the crowded lounge. She had just started toward an empty chair when she was startled to hear her name over the PA system.
“Miss Joy Montrose, courtesy phone. Miss Montrose, please go to the nearest white courtesy phone. Call waiting.”
She halted, set down her bag, listened. The announcement came again. She hesitated, then checked her watch. Who could be calling? Molly? Joy had just spoken with her four hours ago when Molly had seen her off to New York.
Evan? She looked at her watch again. Evan might just be getting out of O.R. He had taken Joy and Molly out to dinner the night before, and they’d said good-bye.
The announcement was repeated a third time. Joy shifted her shoulder strap and hurried toward the white courtesy phone.
It was Evan. “Couldn’t let you go without telling you that I’m really happy you’re getting to do this, Joy. I just don’t want you to forget me. I want you to come back.” His voice sounded strange, faraway. Miles already separated them, and soon there would be an ocean…Her fingers tightened on the receiver.
An announcement echoed through the building. “British Airways flight number 647 now boarding.”
Joy stiffened. “Evan, I have to go. They’ve just announced my flight.” She looked over her shoulder. The line of people was beginning to move toward the door leading down the ramp. The announcement was repeated.
“Joy, I just wanted you to know I love you.” Evan’s voice was husky. She knew what he was waiting for, hoping she would say. But she could not say it.
“Thank you, Evan, for calling, for everything. I have to go now. Good-bye.” She hung up and hurried to the quickly diminishing line of fellow passengers, her pulse racing with excitement. She did not know what lay ahead. She only knew what she had left behind.
chapter
24
Dear Molly,
I’m on my way, airborne over the Atlantic. Looking down, all I can see are mountains of clouds, and I’m floating on number nine! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for encouraging me to have this dream, strengthening my belief that it could come true, and helping me accomplish it. I only wish you could be sharing it all with me. I will try to keep notes, remember everything I see that I think you would be interested in hearing about. Thank you for the rolls of film you stuck in my purse—I promise I’ll keep my camera loaded and bring lots of pictures back to share this wonderful experience with you. They are serving luncheon now. Seems as if I just ate. However, it looks delicious, so I’ll close for now. More later from London!
Always,
Joy
Dear Molly,
London is fabulous. I have saturated myself with hours spent at the Tate and National Galleries and still have not seen everything I wanted to or absorbed it all.
To be able to get close enough to see brushstrokes on these masterpieces, to just sit and stare at them, is fantastic.
The light captured in Turner’s landscapes, the English countryside painted by Constable, makes you want to walk along the roads yourself. Whistler, of course, and I spent hours viewing Millais’s and Rossetti’s paintings. What an experience this is.
Dear Ginny,
Couldn’t resist this postcard from the National Gallery. When you accuse me of being impractical and a dreamer, remember: “The most beautiful things in the world are useless: peacocks and lilies, for instance”—John Ruskin.
Dear Gayle,
I’m sure you’ll be interested to know that I took the train down to Kentburne to see what I could find out about my English ancestors. Birchfields is now called the Faith Devlin Montrose Nursing School, and there is a small teaching hospital nearby. In the courtyard is a statue of Florence Nightingale, and inside, a smaller one representing “The Valiant Army Field Nurses 1916–1918.” There’s a list of names including Katherine Cameron Traherne. That’s Cara Montrose’s twin sister, remember from the scrapbook at Montclair? The sculptress was Bryanne Montrose Colby. My family seems to turn up everywhere!
Dear Molly,
I know you’re always searching for something to write in calligraphy, so I’m sending you this poem, which is written on the wall of a quaint little village church in Upwaltham.
I will not wish thee riches nor the glow of greatness,
But that wherever thou go
Some weary heart shall gladden at thy smile,
Or shadowed life know sunshine for a while,
And so thy path shall be a track of light,
Like angels’ footsteps passing through the night.
Dear Molly,
Paris truly is the city of light. Hard to explain, but it’s easy to see why artists once flourished here and still do. Many set up their easels along the way to the cathedral in Montmarte and on the banks of the Seine. It is all so picturesque, I itch to do the same. But right now there is so much to see that I shall have to wait until I join the group tour next week. I am on my way to the Louvre today. Au revoir!
Dear Molly,
Corot, Courbet, Matisse, Renoir, Degas. All the names I’ve known ever since I first became aware of such artists and their work. How I pored over reproductions of their paintings in art books. Now to see them! The colors, the way they come to life before your eyes! It all seems so natural, so easy, when of course they sketched, labored, repainted, and began all over again. Yet the end result are these masterpieces.
Dear Molly,
I am exhausted. In fact, I’ve never been this tired in my entire life. Yet I’m exhilarated! I am so alive with all I am seeing, soaking in. Tomorrow I meet with the group of painters and we’re off to Arles. Imagine! To walk the same streets as Van Gogh and Gauguin, see the pastures and houses they painted.
There are fifteen of us altogether in our group, men and women, all ages, all eager to get started on this exciting journey. We board the bus with our bundles of brushes, paints, colored pencils, portable easels—a ragtag-looking bunch. There is a lot of joking and laughter. I believe it will be a fun group to be with. The two leaders of this tour are well known to some but new to me. They are New York artists and exhibit there. Our bus driver is a comedian and keeps up a lively narration—in English but liberally sprinkled with French, so that we are all picking up his way of speaking to each other. It is a hilarious mix, and we are all having a good time. Anxious to get started on some painting.
Dear Molly,
Am working mostly with watercolor. It is the easiest medium and more spontaneous than colored pencils, with which I tend to get too detailed. We are urged to work quickly, get down impressions, washes of color on which we can later work in our studios for more finished paintings.
Every evening, after we have a leisurely dinner “en famille,” one of the two leaders offers a critique of our day’s efforts. This is very helpful. We learn from each other’s work.
Dear Molly,
I haven’t written much because I have been too busy painting as much as I can. What an opportunity! I want to make the most of my time under the guidance of these two incredible artists. I am enjoying getting to know the other members of the group. We have all gotten along so well, it will be hard to say good-bye when it is time for us to go our separate ways. My sketchbook and portfolio are getting full. I think I shall bundle up most of what I’ve done and mail it to you so that I won’t be porting it around for the rest of my trip. Hope that’s okay. You can open it and look through what I’ve done. I think you’ll be pleased.
Dear Molly,
Tonight was our last night together. It was sort of sad but also a happy occasion
. We exchanged addresses and promises to keep in touch, perhaps even to meet again for another painting tour next year, maybe in Italy or Spain. I shall always be grateful for this opportunity not only to meet some wonderful fellow artists but also to learn some new and useful painting techniques.
After saying good-bye to the members of the group upon returning to Paris, Joy decided to take Todd Nelson’s suggestion and go to Provence, rent a bike, and take a cycling trip through the region.
She was still experiencing the stimulation of the painting tour, and it wasn’t until the second day of her bike trip that Joy felt a letdown. It wasn’t the scenery or the weather that caused it. They were both beautiful. Late summer in the south of France was spectacular. It was being alone. She missed the interaction and camaraderie of being with her painting companions. But more than that, she wanted someone with whom to share her experience.
As she pedaled, she recalled Evan’s offer: “I’ll take you to Europe, to France, Italy, anywhere you want to go.” He would be a wonderful traveling companion. She imagined them roaming the French countryside together, taking serendipitous side trips.
She knew that Evan would have researched the area and its history beforehand, that he loved exploring, and eating different foods in out-of-the-way little restaurants. She knew he would appreciate the novelty of it all.
Traveling in Europe with him would be special, interesting, enjoyable. The more she tried to put it out of her mind, the more insistent the thought became. It was Evan she missed.
Fiercely she pedaled, trying not to think of him. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Being free? Living like a gypsy with no responsibilities. In France on my own. Hadn’t she dreamed of staying in little country pensions, eating bread and cheese and fruit, stopping anywhere to paint? That’s what she wanted. Or what she thought she wanted.
