by Davis Bunn
“Did you hear a word I just said?”
Frank glanced over. “The pain had to come out sometime.”
Chris started to object, then remained silent.
Frank started talking then. He told about growing up in a house where his father’s arrival was a reason for celebrating. His dad was a long-distance trucker, gone for a week or so at a time. Frank described his mother as an angel who bound their family together with not just love but constancy. She was a steady hand, an army brat who had gone to nine different schools in six countries, who had loved her parents but vowed to give her own children what she had never had, a home that was theirs for life. She had stayed in the home to her last breath, surrounded by the clan she had founded and whose roots remained deep in the rocky Ohio soil.
When Frank finished, the two men drove in silence for a time. Chris started to ask about Lucy, what had gone on in the room and what Frank might do next, but something told him to wait. One glance at his friend’s face was enough to know Lucy was there with them. Her presence filled the car.
The light was almost perfect when Chris arrived at the shoreline an hour beyond sunset. The sky was a spectacular array of rose and gentle golds. The beach at low tide was wide, the exposed sand hard and compressed and almost dry. The sun sank low into the sky as a few couples watched the fading light and a man threw a Frisbee for his dog. Chris knew several of the people and waved in greeting, then began to run south, away from the boardwalk and the last tourists and the high-rise condos. A couple of dogs raced after him until their owners called them back; he ran on alone.
He often found himself praying in such times, quick snippets of thoughts, sometimes little more than images with no words at all. A picture of Amanda looking at him, the love light strong in her gaze, and a swelling urge to give thanks for the miracle that brought her into his life. A quick prayer for all her unfulfilled dreams, the needs that she seldom spoke of, especially now when his own world was so pressured.
This was followed by the image of Kent’s face as he was seated across the cafeteria table that morning. The relief he showed when Chris accepted. Of course he had said yes. What else could he say to such an incredible offer? He pounded next to the booming surf and repeated the title: President of Avery Electronics. He had a fleeting sense of understanding Kent’s reaction, and saw how it must have felt, wrestling not just with the idea of stepping down, but with the fact that a four-generation legacy was coming to an end. Chris felt another upswelling of emotion and knew he had to go in tomorrow and thank the man again. Because it wasn’t just a job and it wasn’t just a responsibility. The simple fact that Kent had felt so relieved when the deed was done left Chris convinced that it was the right decision for both of them.
If only he could do whatever was required and come up with an answer to save the company from the wrecking ball.
Which was good for another prayer.
He stopped then and stared out over the ocean, where the first eastern stars were just coming into view. He stretched his thigh muscles, then turned and started back.
He wondered about telling Amanda about his promotion. Whether it might be better to wait until her return, and they could savor the moment. He asked himself what she might prefer, and liked the fact that he had asked this at all.
It was when he climbed the stairs from the sand to the boardwalk that the idea came to him.
He liked it so much he smiled his entire way down the side road to the main street, then along the sidewalk to their cul de sac. He checked the time and decided that it wasn’t too late. He phoned the shop down the road and caught the woman just as she was closing up. He apologized for the hour and asked, “Do you have any idea how I could send some flowers to Jerusalem?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chris called out a greeting as he entered the house without knocking. He found Frank in the kitchen cutting vegetables and took over making the salad. Frank started the grill and set the patio table. The two of them moved around each other in comfortable ease. As Chris poured them glasses of lemonade, Frank set the plate with two steaks on the sideboard and said, “I’ve been thinking. You need to call your sister.”
Chris stopped blowing on the coals and turned around.
“By now she’s full of regret over what she said last Christmas. And she doesn’t know what to do because she can’t say she’s sorry.”
Chris swiveled the lid over the coals to let them burn down. “Why can’t she?”
“Because she’s human. Because you scared her to death. You asked her what she would feel like if she lost a child. It’s the truth she’s spent the entire year avoiding, ever since Amanda broke down.” Frank took his time settling into a chair. “Your sister’s a believer, right?”
“Yes.”
“So she likes to think God is going to protect her from all the hard knocks. Then here comes Amanda. Married to the brother she loves. A good woman doing good work at the hospital. A believer like her. And Amanda gets hit by your sister’s worst nightmare. How can she explain this? The simple fact is, she can’t. Nobody can.”
“I never thought of it like that.”
“You’ve been dealing with your own impossibles this year. Amanda and the company and your own grief. It’s a wonder you remember your name.” Frank waved toward the kitchen. “Go give her a call. Tell her it’s fine. You love her. Amanda is healing. Your sister needs to hear that from you.”
Claire’s voice came out low, subdued. “I’m glad you called.”
Chris could hear a frantic caterwauling in the background. “What’s going on over there?”
“Just the normal. The animals grow restless at feeding time.”
He disliked hearing his sister down, and even more the fact that he was the cause of it. “I shouldn’t have said what I did, Claire.”
“No. You shouldn’t have.” She sighed noisily. “But you did. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted you to understand what Amanda has been going through.”
“How could I not understand? I saw it.”
“If you understood, you wouldn’t be pressing us to come up this Christmas.”
“I just thought—”
“Amanda needs to come to this in her own time, in her own way.”
“We miss you. It won’t be Christmas without you.”
“Yes, it will.” He fumbled for something positive and could only settle on, “We’ll call.”
“So you’re really not coming?”
He found himself filled with a genuine remorse. But this was the right decision. “No, Claire. Sorry. But no.”
A bit of the bossy tone returned. “I can’t believe I’m letting you get away with this.”
“You’re not letting me do anything. I’m doing this for my wife. Whom I love very much.”
“Nobody could ever push you into doing anything you didn’t want to do. It used to get me so angry.”
“And it didn’t do you any good, did it? So don’t start now.”
There followed a sort of huffy silence, one that Chris recalled vividly from his growing-up years. Then, “I love you, my hard- headed brother.”
“Take care, Claire. I’ll call you when I can.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Amanda and Emily entered the main plaza fronting the Jerusalem bus station and were instantly enveloped by a crowd. The people jostled and talked and pushed. They were not being impolite, Amanda realized; it was just the nature of the Jerusalem bus terminal. Frenetic, a bit tense, and very loud. She stopped four people before one of them took the time to read the name on her slip of paper. The woman called to a man in a bus uniform, giving the village name a guttural lilt that Amanda could not hope to emulate. The officer gave her and Emily a typical underhanded wave, gesturing for them to follow. They ran and pushed as he easily slipped through the crowd, not once looking back to see whether they kept up. He pointed them to a bus and moved instantly away, no
t granting them a second to thank him.
The driver informed them that they wouldn’t depart for another fifteen minutes, so the two women walked over to a neighboring stand and bought plastic cups of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
“I never thought I would find a place that offered anything as fine as Florida juice,” Amanda declared. “I was wrong.”
Emily had been silent through the walk to the terminal, almost withdrawn. “Are you sure you don’t mind if I don’t go with you?”
“Of course not. To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m going either. It’s unlikely I’ll discover something the Israeli doctors missed.”
“But you should go. I just feel like I need some time alone to absorb everything that’s happened.”
Emily had been acting strange ever since getting off the phone with her husband.
“Will you tell me what’s going on?” Amanda asked.
“Frank went to see Lucy. With Chris.” She glanced at her watch. “They should be on their way home now.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I just did.”
“You know what I mean.”
Emily gave an almost dream-like smile. “I prayed for this, and now it’s happened.”
“That was what you wrote and put in the Wall? That Frank would go see your daughter?”
“Of course not, silly. I asked for peace in our family. All our family.” She sighed. “Frank has been like a powder keg ever since Lucy got in touch.”
“That must have been very hard on you.”
“Frank is so protective. He knows how much all this has hurt me. Lucy was the daughter we had after we lost our little one. She has been special to me ever since.”
“Which only made it hurt worse when things went wrong,” Amanda finished. “Poor Frank.”
“After she stole my mother’s jewelry, he barred her from ever setting foot in our house again. But it wasn’t because of the theft. It was because he couldn’t stand to see her hurt me anymore.” Emily smiled. “I never thought this day would ever come.”
Amanda took hold of her friend’s hand.
“Will you say a prayer for us?”
“Of course.” Amanda spoke the words with eyes open, not giving a thought to all the people surrounding them. There they sat, two Western women at an aluminum table in the noisy station. Another bus rumbled away. Around them people chattered and rushed. When she finished praying, Amanda continued to hold Emily’s hand. She found herself thinking back on her own little slip of paper, writing the words and fitting it into a crack between the big stone blocks. She wondered if there was any chance of her own miracle appearing like that.
As the bus trundled through the town of Bet Jola, Amanda had the sense that she had entered a different Israel. The quiet little town was less than twenty miles from the center of Jerusalem, yet worlds removed from the touristy bustle. She stared out the bus window at a seedy, rundown city, but what she saw was the world of normal Israelis. People looking for work and holding down jobs and doing the best they could for their families. Arabs and Israelis alike strolled the streets. There were a number of women and even more children. But between these isolated pockets of activity, the place held a remarkable sense of timeless silence.
The name of the woman they’d met at the Wailing Wall was Miriam. She lived in a small house of her own, one of few in a village dominated by apartment blocks. Hers was the oldest structure on the street, a flat-roofed building of one story with a waist-high wall bordering the street. The concrete and stone wall was whitewashed and gleamed in the sunlight. The front windows were barred, the door made of nail-studded wood.
Amanda rang the bell and waited. She could feel eyes watching her, but when she turned and looked she saw no one.
Miriam opened her door and nodded her satisfaction. “You came.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
“It is good to offer a stranger the hand of peace, yes? Come, come. There is a little angel I would like you to meet.”
What had undoubtedly once been a small and rather ordinary home of indeterminate age was now a welcoming palace of bright colors. The stone floors were layered with soft carpets. The walls were all freshly painted in rose and coral and lavender and sky blue, then adorned with smiling butterflies and great sunflowers and rainbows. The furniture was pared down to child-size, small tables with chairs and benches to match. The tiny entryway was lined with shelves and hooks. The living room’s rear wall held a basinet and changing area and all the accoutrements any infant station might require.
As Miriam led Amanda through the kitchen, two young women in kerchiefs paused in their meal preparation to smile and greet her. Through the open rear doorway Amanda saw an unexpectedly large garden, which had been turned into a playground.
The infants’ play area was under a broad canopy with gauze netting. The sandbox was huge and was set within an emerald green lawn. It was the nicest patch of grass she had seen in Israel. The swing sets and slides were set back behind a hedge of blooming flowers that also bordered a netball court. In that way, there was not one play area but three, all sectioned carefully from one another, to match three age groups, all playing happily in their own areas. The surrounding wall was ancient, made of stone up to about shoulder height, with a newer addition of stone and concrete that rose to well over Amanda’s head.
Miriam then led her into a back bedroom that had been turned into a nursery. A number of little pallets were piled in one corner. Shelves were filled with toys and stuffed dolls. All of them looked to have seen many years and many little hands. Two of the three cribs were occupied with sleeping infants.
The rear windows were covered with gauze-like drapes. The filtered sunlight turned everything the color of soft rose. The lighting was so dim Amanda did not notice the little girl at first. Then she saw the little hands go up.
A child was playing quietly in a corner between the cribs. As soon as she spotted Miriam, she extended her hands, pleading silently to be picked up. Miriam walked over and lifted the little girl, who nestled into the nape of the woman’s neck as she had clearly done so many times before. From this place of safety, bright, dark eyes watched Amanda.
“This is Rochele,” Miriam said. “Can you say hello, my little one? No? Well, never you mind. There is nothing the matter with silence.”
Amanda smiled at the child, but at the sight of a stranger the girl hid her face behind Miriam’s hair. Amanda suspected the child already had a lifetime’s experience with the things doctors and nurses hid behind their smiles. “How old is she?”
“Two years and two months. She is very small, yes?”
“There can be a great deal of difference in body types. But, yes, she does appear somewhat undersized.”
And frail. There were all the telltale signs of poor health, the pallid features, the slack skin. And, yes, she was very small. “She receives enough nourishment?”
“We are constantly pressing her to eat more.”
Amanda caught the defensive tone. “I wasn’t talking about the child’s time with you here. I’m sure you do the best you can with all the children in your care. I meant at home. Is there money for food, and is she cared for by her family?”
“This little one could not be more loved or cared for. The problem is not her food.”
Amanda was tempted to check on the types of food Rochele was being fed. But she caught the manner in which Miriam held the child. This woman had seen too much of doctors as well. Their suspicious questions, their desire to assign blame, their callous manner of mistrust. “I am sure you and Rochele’s family do everything possible to keep this child healthy.”
Miriam visibly relaxed. “And yet I fail. We all do.”
“She looks all right.”
“She is. Today. This hour. Everything is good. But only because we keep her sheltered, away from the others, eating her little nibbles every two or three hours, feeding her as we would a baby bird. And she eats like one, don�
�t you, my precious darling?”
Miriam carried the child back into the living room, and Amanda followed. The kerchiefed woman tending the stove turned as they passed and crooned at Rochele, who responded with a shy smile. Miriam seated herself on the divan and let the child slip between her knees, where she stood with the uncertainty and imbalance of someone half her age, suggesting a severe lack of muscle development.
“Can you tell me her symptoms?”
“So many symptoms. So much this darling girl must endure. You will be here for hours.”
“I have hours.”
“Nu. She even looks at one of the others playing outside, she is ill. She breathes dust, she is ill. She plays with a cat, the same. She loves my cat but she cannot touch it, not even for an instant. She watches the world through a window, and she grows up alone.”
“Her parents?”
“Her father is gone from us, may he rest in peace. A good man, but also not strong. His lungs. He was young when he was taken, only thirty-five. He and his wife emigrated from Tunis. A few Jews still live there, not many. Once there were forty- three synagogues in the city, now there are two. So when the Arab Spring opened the borders, they came. Rochele arrived four months after her father died. We called her a gift from heaven. But now, with these aliments . . .” Miriam breathed once, a rattling sigh. “The mother, she has suffered too much.”
Amanda gave that a long moment, then softly pressed, “What precisely are Rochele’s symptoms?”
“She never has the normal child’s ailments. With this one it is never just a cold. Her fevers, ah, you must see them to believe. One moment she is fine, the next her fever rises to a hundred and two, a hundred and three, and still it rises. We bathe her in ice water, and slowly it goes down. Then there are the coughs. How such a tiny one can cough like this . . . it hurts me to watch her try and breathe.”
Amanda reached out one finger like she was approaching a shy kitten. The child watched her with solemn eyes but did not back away. Amanda stroked the soft dark hair, the face. Rochele was truly a beautiful girl, with the calm resignation of someone far older.
