by Davis Bunn
“You know, it’s crazy, but hearing all this has forced me to look beyond my own troubles. For the first time in, well, much too long.”
“You were surrounded by other people’s troubles every hour of the day at the hospital.”
“That’s right, I was. And they never touched me. Nothing has. Until—” She was interrupted by the sound of her cell phone ringing. She fished it from her purse and checked the readout, but all it said was “International.” “If it’s the hospital, they’re going to be glad they’re close to the urgent care unit.”
But when she answered, she heard Chris say, “We need to talk.”
They had returned to their room and were ready when Chris phoned them back, this time through the hotel switchboard. Amanda put him on the speaker phone, then listened as Chris related his visit to the Kissimmee church. She had not been able to squelch the gasp of surprise at the news that Emily’s daughter worked in the outreach center with Jackie.
The air seemed impossibly bright when they finally left the hotel. Amanda told herself it was silly: the weather was exactly as it had been every day since their arrival, crisp and dry in the mornings, hot by noon, blistering by afternoon, and dropping to near freezing within an hour after the sun went down. The night winds seemed to blow straight through her clothes, no matter how many layers she wore, rather than take the longer route around. It was almost eleven before they finally rounded the hotel and crossed the narrow defile to old Jerusalem. She felt very comfortable in a light cotton pullover. They walked in silence, both women filled to the brim with thoughts they needed time to digest.
Emily spoke first. “Who is this Jackie?”
“She was a nurse at the Melbourne hospital. Awhile back she told everybody she felt called to go into full-time ministry. Most of the staff figured she was going through an early midlife crisis. We stayed in touch. At least we did, until . . .”
Amanda walked on in silence, reflecting on how she had turned her daughter’s stillborn birth into a life change of her own. She felt no need to defend her actions. This was not about blame or even regret. This was about honesty.
As they approached the hordes of tourists pouring out of the buses parked by the Jaffa Gate, Emily said, “I’ve studied the map. We can walk around the Old City to where we’re going. But it will take longer.”
“Who cares how long it takes? We’re on no one’s schedule but our own.”
They followed the sidewalk down the escarpment and around the perimeter of the Valley of Tombs. They arrived at yet another parking area filled with buses.
“This is something I’ve wanted to do all my life.” Emily pointed to the steep-sided hill that rose on the parking lot’s opposite side. “This is the Temple Mount. Solomon’s Temple was up there. Now all that’s left is the wall you see over there.”
On the lot’s other side, behind barriers and a concrete plaza, loomed a wall of stones big as buses that literally supported the hill. Amanda felt a faint thrill over the presence of living biblical history. “That’s the Wailing Wall, right?”
“Yes. It’s all that’s left of the original temple structure. Up there, on top of the hill, the compound now holds a mosque and a museum. The ultra-religious Jews won’t go inside the compound because they don’t know where the Holy of Holies was located, and they might step on the forbidden space. So they come and pray here.”
Amanda had seen enough pictures for the scene to hold an almost familiar feel. The plaza and the space before the Wall was packed. Many of the people teeming around wore the long beards and wide-brimmed black hats of the Orthodox. Suddenly she felt self-conscious. “The only people I see praying up there are men.”
“There’s a separate area through the door to the left for women to go and pray.” Emily fished in her purse. “This has been a destination point for pilgrims for over a thousand years. The idea is to write out a prayer and slip it into the stones.”
A childlike wonder grew in Amanda, an intense desire to get this right. “What do I say?”
“The prayer needs to be something you’ve carried in your heart since you started the journey.”
Amanda pointed to an empty concrete bench fronting the barrier. “Can we sit there and give me time to think?”
“Absolutely,” Emily replied. “But you don’t need to think. You need to pray.”
Beyond the barrier stretched a featureless area paved in new stone, perhaps a hundred feet at its widest point. Over to their left was a narrow walk guarded by a booth and numerous guards, forming the only entry into the hallowed ground. Two open portals marked the corner where the path met the wall, one for women and another for men. According to Emily’s research, the men also had a chamber where the wall stretched under what was now an extension of the hillside. They had both seen photographs of men standing and praying and reading their prayer books as they swayed.
Amanda pulled the leather-bound book from her purse containing the Psalms and the New Testament. Even this was cause for shame. Here she was, praying at what had been a pilgrimage site for ten centuries, and she had to start by coming face-to-face with how little she had either prayed or studied over the past twelve months. She had gone through the motions, attending church and going to a women’s Bible study occasionally. But it was all external. Inside she had felt nothing.
Now she sat in the bright sunlight and stared at the text in her hands and realized why. To feel anything at all would have meant giving in to the anger and the bitterness. Instead, she had pushed all emotions away, hidden them down deep in the secret recesses of her wounded heart.
Sitting there on the hard stone bench, surrounded by strangers and noise, Amanda did not feel angry anymore. She felt raw and open and empty. She looked at the pen and the notepad on the bench beside her, and wondered if maybe what she really needed to write was I’m sorry.
She felt a swooping sense of rising away from where she was and where she had been for the past year. Part of her remained seated there beside Emily, who had started sniffling while leafing through the pages of her own Bible. But another part was up very high indeed, far away from the regret and the year of wounds and stress and sleepless nights. Now she saw with a clarity far more piercing than this sunlit desert day. She was able to envisage the prayer she would have written, had she been able to sit here at any point over the past twelve months: Turn back the clock. Make my baby live.
But there was no going back. Time only moved forward. It had been moving all year, hard as she had tried to peel back the hours and change the life she had been given, and make her baby arrive happy and whole and alive.
Martha would have been one year old today.
They’d given her Christopher’s mother’s name. Amanda had considered it one of life’s great gifts, coming to know her husband’s wonderful mother before Alzheimer’s had stolen away her mind. So Martha had been their first choice for the baby, the only name either of them ever really considered. Amanda recalled the day with vivid clarity, coming home from a company party, celebrating a new account Chris had landed, one with great hope for new growth and new jobs and a new future. There in the car he had asked her thoughts about a name for the baby; when she told him, he had to pull to the curb because he was so happy he could not keep the tears from blurring his vision.
But Martha had never taken her first breath. And the new client had gone bankrupt. And all their hopes had been lost to a rising storm.
Amanda cleared her eyes and looked again at the Wall rising before her, with the rows of bearded men reading and swaying and gesticulating and praying. She saw the slender slips of paper wedged into the cracks. And suddenly she understood.
It came to her with a silent shout, as clear as a thunderous explosion, one powerful enough to resonate through her entire being and shake away the veil of regret. Life had dealt her a harsh and undeserved blow. She had survived. Now it was time to move on. The question was, move on toward what? That was the only choice she had. She could remain shackled to a
ll that was past. Or she could face all the uncertainties and fears and doubts that a new day might bring.
Amanda picked up the pad and pen and wrote her prayer.
Father, give me the power to live a full life.
Give me the strength to be a loving wife.
Awaken in me a new hope.
CHAPTER NINE
But as they stood and started toward the entrance, they were halted by what awaited them on the other side.
“This is not what I came here for,” Emily declared. Visitors were checked through the security perimeter one by one. They then passed down a narrow open-sided corridor before approaching the Wall itself. At this point, young men in black suits and beards and wide-brimmed hats or yarmulkes stepped forth and welcomed them. They were courteous and intelligent and they spoke a variety of languages. And they stayed with the visitors, and they talked and they talked. They only departed once a gift was made, and if the payment was given while the visitor was still inside the security area, another young man instantly pounced.
“It is kind of a circus,” Amanda agreed.
Amanda and Emily watched the bearded, black-clad men swirl and swoop on yet another couple entering the compound.
“I came here to pray,” Emily said. “Not to be accosted by bearded guides.”
Amanda came up with a possible solution. “I could go talk to one of them back in the parking lot. Ask if they would sort of keep the others away if we agree to pay them.”
A voice from behind them said, “No, no, that won’t do. It won’t do at all.”
Amanda and Emily turned to find themselves looking down at a diminutive Israeli woman. “Why not?” Amanda asked.
“Because the young man will take your money, is why not. They’ll take as much as you can give them, more than you want. Then when you’ve paid, they’ll push you to hurry. And since they’re forbidden from touching the women, they will press you with their voices.” The woman was as wrinkled as a sun-bleached prune, with glittering eyes almost lost in the folds of her face. She waved her cane in front of them. “Shoo, shoo, they will tell you. Go and hurry and get away, so I can go find another to pay me.”
“But that’s awful,” Emily said. “Why do they let this happen?”
“They? Who is ’they’? Those men, they are the they.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“They are all studying for the rabbinate. You understand, rabbinate? They are young and they have families and they are hungry. They spend all their time pulling at their beards and arguing over books and praying. Then they come here, they say, to pray. And yes, of course, they do pray. But after, they tell the tourists, welcome, welcome, here is the Wall, and this is the history, and now you pay me and go, good-bye, and here comes another.”
Amanda interpreted, “They have every right to come and pray at the Wall, and they use this as an opportunity to pester visitors who don’t know any better.”
“Is what I said, no?”
“But what do we do?” Emily demanded. “I’ve waited all my life to come here and pray too. And I don’t want somebody knocking on my elbow and telling me it’s time to leave!”
“I already say, they don’t touch the women.”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
The woman was not the least put off by Emily’s irritation. Her wrinkles rearranged themselves into a very ancient smile. “From where are you coming?”
“Florida.”
“I hear is very nice, this Florida.” She gestured with one swollen hand. “Come.”
As they approached the security perimeter, Emily and Amanda tied colorful scarves over their hair. The old woman nodded approval. Just before the checkpoint at the Wall’s entryway, the first of the young rabbis moved forward. The old woman snapped a single word and the man backpedalled away. Twice more it happened as they approached the Wall. Each time the old woman served as their protector.
They entered the dark corridor leading to the women’s section and were instantly surrounded by a quiet noise, like the sound of a rushing stream: women’s voices, hundreds of them, joined together in solitary prayer. The flood of sound carried such force it seemed to sever all connection to the outside world.
The chamber was long and broad and softly lit. The only adornments were fragments of stone set into the other three walls, riven with faint traces of ancient script. Benches were scattered about the chamber. Women lined the space before the wall, some standing with hands clasped and eyes shut, others reading from holy books and swaying slightly as they chanted. Amanda and Emily shared a smile of quiet delight.
Amanda stayed in front of the Wall, reading from her little book and praying, until her feet hurt. When she turned away, she expected to find the old woman gone. But there she was, seated on a bench, reading from a tattered book of her own. Amanda walked over and saw that the text was in Hebrew. She sat down beside the woman and waited until her head turned her way to say, “I can’t thank you enough.”
“You are pleased with this, your visit?”
“It is everything I hoped for and more.”
“Good. Then I too am pleased. Nu, you will perhaps do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
She held out her hands, the joints swollen and twisted with arthritis. “It is not possible for me to shape the words. I have a paper, I was going to put it in the Wall. The Holy One, he knows what is on my heart. But it would be nice to have the words written there.” Again there was the rearrangement of wrinkles. “One can never tell. Perhaps he likes reading things, yes?”
“I would be happy to help.”
The woman reached into the pocket of her dark jacket, shiny with wear and washing, and pulled out a folded slip of cheap paper. “You have a pen?”
“Yes.”
“Write these words. Heal Rochele.”
“I’m sorry, how do you spell that name?”
“Rochele. Rachel. Heal Rachel.”
“All right. I’ve written it. Anything else?”
“That is enough. That is why I came. To pray for the child.” But as Amanda started to rise, the woman reached over to halt her. “Perhaps there is another. But I have no more paper.”
Amanda settled back and reached into her purse for her pad. “I do.”
“What do you think, will the Almighty dislike me for coming with one request and asking two?”
“I sure hope not. I came with nothing and I’ve written down a lot.”
A stronger tremor entered the old woman’s voice. “Write this, then. If you will not heal the child, give me the strength to survive her passage.”
CHAPTER TEN
As Chris turned into his drive, he was greeted with the humid fragrances of ocean and seaweed. The street where he and Amanda lived was only four houses long. Three properties ran down each side, and the two owned by the Vances and the Wrights shared the narrow circle at the end. Chris loved their cul de sac and how it cut them off from the beach hordes. Yet they were close enough to smell the salt every time the wind blew from the east.
He loved driving from October until April with his windows down. He loved being in a beachside town that had remained tight-knit and conservative and strong enough to withstand the tourist tides. He loved his job and his company. He loved his wife.
He cut off his motor and remained where he was, staring at his garage door and the lights to either side of his front porch. They were set on a timer, something he had thought was silly when Amanda had insisted upon it, but now considered a boon, as it kept him from arriving home to a dark, empty house. He listened to the crickets and the gulls and thought how wonderful it was, to be alive and in love with his wife and living here.
He heard footsteps through his open window and turned to see Frank approaching. “You aiming on coming over, or do I feed your steak to the dogs next door?”
Chris remembered. “You invited me for dinner.”
“It wasn’t an engraved invitation, but yeah, that’s right.”
/> “I totally forgot.” Chris rubbed his face. “What a day.”
Frank’s grin reflected the doorlights. “One of the many reasons I’m glad to be retired.”
Chris rolled up his windows and fell in beside his neighbor. “How late am I?”
“None that you’d notice. I fired up the grill awhile back and just let the coals cook down.” He glanced over. “Did I disturb a worry session?”
“Actually, I was just giving thanks. Something I used to do all the time, driving home, knowing Amanda was there waiting for me. It’s been so long . . .”
Frank didn’t speak as they rounded the house and entered the screened lanai containing a miniature pool and an indoor- outdoor seating area. “Make yourself comfortable. Pitcher there has lemonade and pomegranate juice made up fresh. Emily’s favorite. You want anything else, help yourself in the kitchen.”
“This is fine.” But he didn’t move. Now that he was seated, even reaching for a glass was more effort than he cared to make.
Frank made a process of fanning the grill. “You want to talk about your day?”
Chris knew he needed to tell Frank about going to meet Lucy. Instead, he thought back over the meeting that had started less than half an hour after he returned from Orlando. “My company’s CEO asked me to attend the board of directors meeting.”
“Is that good?”
“Hard to say.”
The board had asked Chris endless questions about Campaeo and why he had talked to them as he had. Chris assumed a complaint had been lodged at the highest levels, most likely through the Orlando lawyers. He should probably have been fearful for his job, especially with cutbacks looming. But after the meeting in Kissimmee he had remained filled by an unusual sense of clarity and peace. So Chris had calmly reported his research into Campaeo, describing the US executives who had been only too happy to recount their frustration over the Brazilian way of doing business.
He had then recited from memory the process through which he had come up with the figures for their own bid, and his insistence upon having payment secured up front. Kent Avery had not spoken once. When Chris was done, the board asked for a few clarifications, then looked at one another, as though a secret signal was being passed, before asking him to remain for the rest of their discussion. Chris was ready to leave; he had a dozen critical issues waiting on his desk. But he had phoned downstairs, explained the situation, then sat there and listened to them worry for another half hour before his impatience boiled over.
