Miriam's Well

by Lois Ruby

  “Localized,” I heard the technician say. “Bet the doc’ll confirm it. She’s a lucky chick.”

  But what the doctor said was that I was to have a bone biopsy. They would put me to sleep, stick a long needle into my back and suck out something from inside that bone. The laboratory would look it over, and that would be the final word on the subject. I did not like the sound of being put to sleep. That’s what veterinarians did to old dogs. I never actually thought they were planning to kill me, but neither did the dog who was lovingly led into the execution chamber. “Poetry is a bitch.” I remembered Mrs. Loomis saying that and my shock at hearing it. It seemed so long ago, maybe months, since Adam Bergen and I had discussed fire and ice. But it was only a few unbearably long days.

  There was nothing Mama or the men could do about the biopsy without risking arrest, but they could holler at the doctors and nurses and social workers. Only when Brother James came to my bedside were they hushed.

  Brother James sent the men on to work and walked Mama down the hall to a sitting room. It was the first time I’d been alone for twenty-four hours, and I breathed the silence gratefully. A nurse had set a bunch of sunflowers in a glass by my bed, and I caught their scent like wilted summer grass. Brother James was back to fill my room with abiding comfort, and I quickly dismissed the pleasure of being alone.

  “Miriam,” he said, gathering me to him. I flopped onto his chest like a rag doll. His huge hands smoothed the gown over my back. “Put your life in the hands of the Lord,” he said softly. “Isaiah 40: ‘They who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.’ Remember.”

  “Brother James, please don’t be cross with me, but I don’t feel like I will ever run and not be weary.”

  “Remember Matthew 13. The people of Nazareth suffered for their doubt and disbelief, for we are told, ‘And He did not do many mighty works there, because of their unbelief.’ Let the Lord do mighty works within your body and spirit, Miriam.”

  “It hurts, Brother James, and I’m so scared.”

  “Shh, child.” He smoothed my hair off my forehead and wiped a tear across my cheek with a rough finger. He laid me back down on my pillow, with the bed cranked up to a near-sitting position. He slid his chair closer to the bed and took both my hands. His voice changed, became both more personal and more distant, as if he were shouting to me from far, far away. “I shall rebuke this child’s pain and disease, just as Jesus caused the fever to vanish in Peter’s mother. I call the pain out where I can see it, I summon it to the surface where I can smash it like a fly on the wall. What do you feel, Miriam?”

  “A churning in my stomach, Brother James.”

  “Yes, yes. The Holy Spirit is fiercely spinning and gathering everything in its path. It is banishing Satan. It is sucking up the pain in your back, it is swallowing whole the tumor they say is in your bones. It is drawing all the evil of pain and disbelief into a tighter and tighter circle. Do you feel it?”

  “Yes,” I said breathlessly. The black walnut, everything, drawn out of me.

  “Tighter and tighter, the circle.” His voice changed pitch; it was harsher now. “When the circle can compress no smaller, it will change direction. Is it changing now, child?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Yes. It is spinning out, scattering cool sparks outside of you. You are no longer afflicted, praise God.”

  I wanted desperately to believe him. I believed him. He was silent for a few minutes, with his jaw locked in a determined prayer. I felt no pain, and the panic that had been just below the surface since this whole thing started settled into a serenity. The quiet after the storm, I told myself. Or was it the eye of the hurricane?

  “Now that you’re feeling better, we must plan,” Brother James said. He still had hold of my hands. “We will not defy the law of the land, but neither will we comply,” he said. I did not understand. “Oh, I could bring in half a dozen brothers and have you out of this place and back in your mama’s house in no time.”

  “That’s where I want to be, Brother James.”

  “Yes, but we have this court order to contend with. It says they have the legal right to keep you here. It says they can run tests on you until they have their so-called scientific answers. But it does not say they can administer any of their poisons.”

  I furtively glanced toward the IV dripping into my arm.

  “I’ve checked on that. It’s only sugar water, no drugs. I’ll pull it out when I think it’s the right time, but we’ll go along with it for now. It’s to our advantage, and it doesn’t violate God’s law. But I swear to God, and Sword and the Spirit Church will stand behind me on this, I will never let them give you drugs that they disguise as medicinal, and I will never let them pump someone else’s blood into your veins. You have my word. Now, tell me about your friends.”

  “Are you angry with them for getting me into this?” I asked.

  “No, child. They only did what their mothers and daddies taught them. Do they come to visit you here?”

  “Diana’s coming tonight, I think, but I haven’t seen Adam yet.”

  “Lucifer comes disguised in plumes and finery, but is Lucifer still.”

  “I think he’s a nice boy, Brother James.”

  “A very nice boy. Well-mannered, bright, fine looking boy. But remember, he doesn’t follow our Lord.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “That’s my girl. Now, don’t worry about your mama. I’ll have Sister Naomi go over and stay with her until we get this settled, so your uncles won’t fret.” He pulled a peppermint out of his pocket. The crinkly wrapper reminded me of green cellophane around a Christmas fruit basket. He motioned for me to open my mouth, and he slid the red and white candy onto my tongue, as if it were a communion wafer.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Told by Adam

  “What is this? Dad, what’s this mystery food she’s passing off on us?” It jiggled on my plate like dead vomit-colored Jell-O.

  “Tofu,” my mother said. “It’s healthy. It’s Japanese. They eat it in California.”

  “Yes, but we’re in Kansas, Abby. This is beef country.” Dad moved the offender under a lettuce leaf, which, incidentally, was a lot greener than any lettuce we’d ever eaten in this house.

  “I’m trying to make you two healthy,” Mom said, pouting. She was hurt, as if she were Japanese, or even Californian.

  “Speaking of healthy,” my father began, “I’m up at Memorial Hospital today visiting McGorkle, that client of mine who was in the grain elevator accident, and I pass this room, you could swear a foreign potentate is staying in it. There’s a sign on the door saying NO ONE ADMITTED WITHOUT PRIOR CLEARANCE, and standing outside the door’s an armed guard. And who do you suppose is in the room?”

  “Danny Glickman?” Mom guessed. Dan Glickman was a member of our synagogue and also our congressman.

  “Not Danny Glickman. That girl, the religious nut with cancer.”

  “That’s Miriam Pelham,” I said quietly.

  My mother asked, “You know this girl?”

  “Sort of.”

  Dad squished the tofu with his fork. “So, does she really buy into all that Jesus stuff?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “God, the poor kid.”

  I told my parents I was going to the library after dinner, but I went to Memorial Hospital instead. Don’t ask me why. I had to show my driver’s license and leave it with the guard outside Miriam’s door before the nurse would even go in to ask if Miriam wanted to see me. Finally, they let me in. Miriam was curled on her side with the blankets up to her ears and her back to me. She didn’t say a word when I walked in.

  “It’s the vulture,” I quipped. “You know, the thing with feathers?” Nothing. “Okay, so you’re mad at me for getting you into this mess. You’re freezing me out, right?”

  I was feeling pretty stupid talking to her back. Maybe sh
e was asleep, and I was really talking to myself—even stupider. So I walked around to the other side of the bed. Her eyes were wide open, and tears were dribbling down her face at this weird angle, like winter rain.

  “Why are you here?” Her voice was nasally and thick, as if she had a bad cold or was me during allergy season.

  “Good question. Why am I here?”

  “You’ll think of something. You’re the debater.” Those tears kept sliding down her face, soaking her hair. A wet circle was spreading on her pillow. I looked away; I was always embarrassed when my mother cried. Diana never cried, which is part of why I liked her so much. Finally—I don’t know what got into me—I picked up a corner of the sheet and wiped Miriam’s tears with it.

  “I’b id trouble, Adam.” Now she was using the sheet for a handkerchief, blowing her honker like a grieving widow.

  “Can I do anything?”

  “Doe.”

  That cut me off, clean. “Yeah, well I’ll see you later, then.” I was more than ready to leave. Besides, the air-conditioning was blowing spores all over the room from these big puffy flowers, and my nose was starting to run. If I stayed much longer, I’d be using the other corner of her sheet.

  But when I got to the door, she eased herself onto her back. I saw the pain streak across her face like lightning. “I’b id big trouble.”

  Did she want to talk? I hung around a minute, but she didn’t say anything else. “Listen, why don’t I check in with you in a couple of days when you’re feeling better, okay? I’m getting ready for a debate tournament in Dodge City on Friday and Saturday. Maybe I’ll come by on Sunday.”

  “And baybe you won’t.”

  That was a real possibility.

  “But baybe you will?”

  “Sure.” Not a chance. Well, a slim chance.

  “It’s insane, Adam, clearly insane,” Diana said. We were in Mr. Bennet’s van, somewhere way west of Wichita. Mr. Bennet was alone in the front seat, then Diana and I had the middle section, and behind us Andy Woodman and Jeremy Schein, our sophomore novice team, were catching a nap before we pulled into Dodge. We were past the Golden Arches, the Pizza Huts, and the Taco Ticos, out into what is nostalgically called the prairie. We call it the boondocks, that wheaty flatland between Pratt and Dodge City, where Wyatt Earp is supposed to be buried, but isn’t.

  “I mean, the girl is stuck in the hospital with a police guard, and half the state of Kansas is arguing over what’s best for her,” Diana said. “I don’t see what the fight’s about. I know what’s best for her.”

  “Yeah? What?” I thought about the soaked pillow.

  “They should start zapping her with chemo, Adam. I know. I interviewed Dr. Miller for the Vanguard article.” Diana, of course, was editor of the school paper. “And Dr. Miller’s a cancer specialist. He’s world-famous all over the greater Midwest, and he says the treatment of choice is chemotherapy. He mentioned some drug, Cytocel, that he’d probably prescribe, and he says she’s got better than a fifty-percent chance of beating this thing. So what are they waiting for?”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple.” It used to be, I thought to myself, but it was getting more and more complicated every day. I was actually thinking about going back to the hospital to visit the girl.

  Andy leaned forward and dug his chin into my shoulder. “Who are you talking about, that Jesus weirdo up at Memorial?”

  “They’re poetry partners,” Diana explained.

  “Wow. She’s one of the looniest space cases I ever knew.”

  Diana said, “You don’t know everything, Andy.”

  “No, you’re the only one who knows everything.”

  Diana smiled. “Well, I know what they should be doing. They should be moving posthaste into aggressive chemical treatment while the tumor is still localized. A direct quote from my Vanguard article. Adam? You’re not talking.”

  “I don’t have to. You talk enough for all of us.”

  “Well, thanks a lot. You sure depend on me to talk in debates. I’m always bailing you out.”

  “That’s a bald-faced lie!”

  “Right,” Diana said, leaning over to kiss my neck.

  “Stop all that slobbering. I’m sleeping,” Jeremy shouted.

  “But it’s the evidence that’s most important,” whispered Diana, “and the evidence is clear that Miriam can’t risk any delays.”

  Andy climbed over the seat and planted himself between Diana and me. “What’s that crazy religion she’s in? Something like Sword and Sorcery.”

  “Sword and the Spirit,” I replied. I’d heard the name half a dozen times on TV in the past week, and my parents were always talking about it at dinner. “It’s from the Bible somewhere. It means ‘the word of God.’”

  “Yeah, the Great Swordsman. Are they, like, nineteenth century or what?”

  “All right, Woodman, let’s get the facts straight,” I said. “It’s a small religious sect with about six hundred members in Kansas and Nebraska and maybe Indiana, I’m not sure. The head man is this guy about the size of Bull on Night Court—heavy beard, carpenter’s overalls, Shepler’s bargain boots—you get a clear picture? They call him Brother James. His name’s probably really something like Gonzo or Howie.”

  “You’re such a cynic, Adam. The man definitely has charisma,” Diana said.

  “The church gets off on the Bible, which they call the Book in Gold Leaf. And they’re not into doctors.”

  “What have they got against doctors?” Andy asked. “My uncle’s a urologist.”

  “Oh, gross,” said Diana.

  “Their thing about doctors is, they believe that all healing comes from God, maybe through Jesus, I’m not real clear on that, but they say it goes directly to the sick person and doesn’t need an errand boy like a doctor.”

  “That’s cool,” Andy said, “only what happens if she gets sicker and sicker? I mean, like, people die of cancer.”

  I’d thought about this a dozen times, how she could die while she was waiting for God to cure her. Or worse, she could die while waiting for the government and the doctors to fight it out with her family and Brother James. And wasn’t Brother James just like an errand boy, just like a doctor, only he didn’t give drugs?

  “How come you know so much about it?” Andy asked, flexing the earphones he was anxious to put on to drown out my voice.

  So I kept the answer short. “I pay attention. Jesus, it’s on the news forty times a day.”

  “I only watch CNN,” Andy said. “Is it on CNN?”

  No, but I had a feeling it would be soon. This thing would be huge. The prairie streaked by, and I couldn’t clear my head of Miriam Pelham.

  Diana slept most of the way back from Dodge. She said she was getting something and didn’t think I should come over to her house. She coughed in my face to emphasize her point. I was always sneezing and snorting because of my allergies, but when Diana got a runny nose, it was like a national health crisis.

  So anyway, it looked like I wasn’t going to be enjoying what I’d looked forward to most that whole week—lying around on Diana’s couch with the only light coming from the TV. And nothing else was going on, so after we dropped Diana off, Mr. Bennet dropped me at the hospital.

  Miriam sat on her bed, dressed in her usual school clothes and with her hair pulled back over one shoulder. She was cutting words out of a magazine to make a collage or something. When I pushed her door open, the breeze made a bunch of her cutouts fly around the room. “Hi,” I said, chasing the scraps of paper around.

  “How did you do in Dodge City?” she asked.

  “Won.”

  “Of course.”

  “Diana’s a lot better than I am.”

  “She couldn’t be.”

  “Right. I lied.”

  She liked my grin. It made her own eyes smile, which was a lot better than those soppy tears from the other night.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Oh, nothing.” She gathered t
he words into a messy pile and stuffed them in her drawer, along with a bottle of rubber cement. On the bedside table was a small glass of some thick orange-colored juice, with its weight sunk to the bottom. I leaned forward for a whiff of it. She handed me the glass, and I drank some warm apricot stuff.

  “Disgusting, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Then how come you gave it to me?”

  “It’s been here two days.” She shifted around, and the magazine slid to the floor. I reached over to pick it up and felt the apricot rise in my throat. The magazine was called Young Christian Crusader, and it had a white basketball player on the cover, a guy who looked like he’d never sweat.

  “So what are you doing with the cutouts? Making something—what—a scrapbook?”

  “A sort of letter.”

  “About all this stuff you’re going through?”

  “No,” she said, her eyes dimming again. “Who’s it for?” I thought maybe she was making it for me.

  “This boy I know in Emporia. He’s going to Greece this summer on Teen Missions International. He’s going to put up buildings. It’s like the Peace Corps, only Christian.”

  “He doesn’t get paid for it either, I’ll bet.”

  “Not a dime,” Miriam said, smiling again.

  “So, are you going with him?”

  “To Greece?”

  “No, with him, going out with him. Is he your boyfriend?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. He’s just a boy I met at a church conference. Brother James introduced us.”