Prayers of a Stranger: A Christmas Story

by Davis Bunn

  “Did I say otherwise? No, I did not.” The manager was stout and gray-haired and smiled at the flowers. “But roses would make for such a sweet hello, yes?”

  Amanda tucked the card into her pocket and carried the vase with both hands. She caught sight of her goofy smile in the elevator’s mirror. The surprise had come at the perfect moment. She could not even remember what she had been so worried about.

  Amanda showered and lay down on her bed and fell asleep looking at the flowers. She awoke when Emily slipped the key into the door and opened her eyes to the sunset turning their room golden. A languid ease filled her. She stared at the pale blue sky beyond their window, content to do nothing but enjoy the smooth flow of her own breathing. She had not known such a moment since the days of her pregnancy. Back then she had often stopped and rested, claiming it was what the doctor ordered, but in truth doing so because she wanted to revel in the life that was growing inside her. A part of her, and yet totally unique. She had never felt so complete as in those moments. It was a revelation, something utterly unexpected and yet so incredibly natural. Chris had bought a rocking chair for the nursery and placed it across from the crib and close to the rear window. Amanda had loved to sit and listen to the soft creaking and caress her growing tummy.

  Emily emerged from the bathroom. “Where did the roses come from?”

  “Chris sent them.”

  “What a wonderful man.” Emily stretched out on her bed. “They’re lovely.”

  “I was so worried when I got back, and then here they were.”

  “Worried about the child?”

  “Yes. Her name is Rochele.” Amanda sat up and told Emily about the girl.

  “Maybe that’s why you went. So you could hold a child again. Be a nurse. Care for someone.”

  Amanda reached out and touched one of the flowers. “Maybe.” She turned and looked at her friend in the next bed. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For keeping you at arm’s length all last year. For not getting to know you before now.”

  Emily looked at her. “First of all, there’s no need to apologize. You did what you needed to do. Second, you need to recognize that a change has come. I know because I’ve been through it. You are rejoining with life. There may be moments when you feel overwhelmed by guilt or sorrow or just a nameless dread. I want you to remember this, being here with me, and I want you to tell me you’re ready to get on with whatever comes next. That you’re ready to hope again.”

  Amanda tasted a smile. “I am.”

  “Good girl.” Emily swung her feet to the floor. “Then let’s get dressed and eat. I’m starving.”

  When the phone rang, Amanda was in the bathroom putting on her makeup. She waited to see if Emily called her in, then remained where she was, granting her friend a bit of privacy. When the voice went silent, Amanda opened the bathroom door to find Emily seated in their room’s only chair. The older woman stared out the window, her face streaked by tears. She cradled the phone against her chest with both hands as though it were a child.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Emily blinked twice, dislodging another tear. “I have to go home.”

  All of Amanda’s protests were stifled by the expression on her friend’s face. Emily showed no sorrow, nor worry. Instead, she wore a look of gentle astonishment. Amanda walked over and seated herself on the side of the bed. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Frank fell. He’s in the hospital.”

  The professionally trained component of her mind slipped into gear. Amanda could almost feel the wheels grind. “Emily, look at me. Give me the long version, please.”

  “It happened last night. Frank heard something pop in his hip and he fell. He said the pain was ferocious.”

  Amanda examined her friend, unsettled by the eerie calm. And yet there were no telltale signs of shock. “This probably means the joint gave way. It happens. They’ll get him settled, do a scan, then start on the replacement procedure—”

  “Oh, I know all that. It’s already happened.”

  “He had his surgery?”

  “He’s back in his room.”

  “Emily, are you all right?”

  “Me? I’ve never been better.” And she smiled. “Why do you ask?”

  “You look, well . . . happy.”

  “I’m more than that. I’m positively awestruck.” Emily reached over and took her hand. “Do you know what just happened?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “The answer to my prayer. The reason I came to Israel.”

  “You were afraid about Frank’s response to needing surgery?”

  “Of course not. I’m talking about our daughter.”

  “You could not have lost me more if I were in a different hotel.”

  Emily’s smile broke out once more. “No, I suppose I’m making a mess of explaining.”

  “Stop talking in riddles and tell me!”

  “Frank wants us to reconnect with Lucy.”

  Amanda rocked back. “What?”

  The tears started flowing again. Emily gave no sign she noticed. “Frank prayed that God would give him a sign. Something to show that a change really had taken place. That the bad times really were behind us.”

  When Emily stopped, Amanda thumped their joined hands on her leg. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Frank spent all of ninety seconds telling me about his fall and the surgery. Then he just flicked away my questions and started in on Lucy. While they were together, Lucy told Frank she wanted to name her daughter after the baby girl we lost.”

  Amanda felt her own vision blur. “Emily, that’s . . .”

  “Lucy said she could not make up for the lost years. Or the pain she’d caused us. But she wanted to do what she could to replace what had been taken from us.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Chris answered Amanda’s call just as he was leaving Frank’s room. She was speaking from the hotel lobby and using what Chris called her hospital voice, crisp and precise and professional. Even so, when she thanked him for the flowers, her voice turned to honey. She gave him Emily’s flight details, then asked if he minded her staying for the two remaining days and leaving when planned. Chris replied that he had assumed this was what she had planned to do all along, which seemed to relieve her and trouble her in equal measure. When he asked if anything was the matter, she cupped the phone and told him about a little girl named Rochele. Chris felt himself growing numb as he listened, assured her it was fine that she stayed, shut his phone, started the car, and left the hospital’s multi-deck parking lot.

  He drove home, traveling against the grim-faced flow of people headed for the industrial parks and the jobs they hoped they would still have next week. But he wouldn’t think about that now. Frank was well, the man’s conversation with Emily had apparently gone great, and Amanda was off again tomorrow treating a sick baby . . .

  Chris walked around his front yard, thinking about a world six thousand miles away and how it impacted them here at home. Amanda had told him about her attempted foray into the maternity ward and how it had ended with her fleeing in a panic. Yet now here she was doing what came naturally. Helping the helpless. Caring for the little ones. Giving them a chance at a whole tomorrow.

  He knew what was troubling her. She doubted whether she could actually help the baby get well. He knew he should be caring more about the child’s illness. But just then all he could think of was how amazing it was to hear that resolve in her voice. His wife, the critical care nurse.

  He locked the car, went inside, changed into his jogging shorts, and carried his smile out for a run.

  When he returned an hour later, he stretched in the backyard, then carried the good feeling inside, picking up the clothes he had scattered in his hasty departure that morning. He showered and dressed, planning to go back to the hospital. Then he decided to lie down on the bed, thinking he would rest just a few minutes. But he shut his eyes and was gone.r />
  In his dream he stared into the face of his wife and heard her speak his name. “Christopher.”

  The soft music of that one word propelled him from sleep. It carried him out of the bed and across the bedroom and out the back door into the closing light of day.

  The back of their yard was lined by bamboo, forming a golden hedge in the sunset, rising up twenty-five feet in places. When the wind came off the ocean, like now, the cane rustled and sighed, as musical as living chimes.

  Chris stood by the screen and rubbed the sleep from his face. Amanda’s soft voice called his name once more. “Christopher”. It was a vivid memory now, strong as the salt on the ocean breeze.

  Most of the time she called him by the name the rest of the world used. Chris. He liked it well enough. He knew some families where the longer version of a name was something that only emerged in anger. Amanda never did that.

  Christopher was the name she spoke in their special moments, turning it into a secret melody, one she sang only for him. That one word always carried a wealth of feeling, so much that it seemed like a language all their own. The light in her eyes was so clear, her love so potent, she humbled him. She saw to the very heart of him, through all the fears and pains and misgivings and failures. And she loved him. She gave herself to him fully. Those were the most beautiful and complete moments he had ever known. And far more than he had ever deserved.

  Only when the sky went dark and he returned inside did he realize his face was wet.

  After breakfast the next morning, Amanda left Emily to finish packing. She walked through the hotel lobby and entered the morning sunlight. The air was cool in a manner very different from Florida. There was no humidity, which meant the chill was deceptive. When she was in the sunlight, it was possible to ignore just how cold the air remained. Even this early the light was brilliant and powerful. She greeted the two guards who were on permanent duty outside the hotel, one to check cars and the other to inspect all baggage and people before permitting them entry. She walked around the side of the building and entered the small city park. This time of morning, many of the benches were filled with locals reading from tiny black books, men and women alike, seated where they could see the Old City and perform their morning prayers. There was a quiet intensity to the place, a feeling that all who came were offered a moment apart from the world and its woes. It was a good place to call Chris and ask permission to do the impossible.

  She was a little nervous. It was hard to identify precisely what caused her stomach to ripple with apprehension. As she dialed the number for their home, Amanda decided it was simply a desire not to quarrel. Even so, she needed to explain fully what was going on here, and how grave her concerns were. What she wanted most of all from Chris was his blessing.

  Chris answered with the deep voice that told her she’d woken him up. “I know it’s the middle of the night, but this can’t wait. I’m taking Emily to the airport and then going back to see this little girl. And I’m scared, Chris. I need to talk this through with you. I need you to tell me what to do.”

  He was quiet a long moment, then said, “All right, Amanda. I’m listening.”

  The need to get through this was so strong her words came in a rush. “Emily has to go back. But she’s ready because her miracle has happened. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s the truth. She didn’t come to see Israel. She came to pray for a miracle and it’s happened.”

  He sounded much more awake now. “You’re talking about Frank and Lucy.”

  “Yes. I’ve prayed for my own miracle, and I need to stay and see it through.”

  He sounded almost detached as he responded, “What is your miracle, Amanda?”

  “I told you about the child. Rochele is such a lovely baby. She’s sick and the doctors won’t help her. I don’t know what I can do. I have no access to her records. But I feel like it’s important . . . No, that’s not correct. I know it’s important for me to stay. It’s vital, Chris. I need to try and help this little girl heal. And at the same time, it sounds crazy, just hearing myself say those words. What on earth can I possibly do with my few hours here that the doctors haven’t done themselves?”

  There was no hesitation. No emotion, really. Just this deep resonance that carried an exceptional sense of certainty. “That’s not the miracle, Amanda.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not asking for the miracle you need. You’re talking about the child. But that’s not about you.”

  She turned and walked farther along the path to where she could step off the cobblestones and enter into a clump of desert pines. The air was spiced with their scent.

  Chris asked, “Are you still there?”

  “Yes. I’m thinking about what you said.” The needles were laced with sunlight and formed a veil through which she could see the golden wall of Jerusalem. “You’re right.”

  Chris remained silent.

  “I didn’t come here to ask for a child to heal. I asked for me to heal.”

  “And us.”

  The two simple words released a dam of emotions. She had not even realized she was holding back, she had repressed them for so long. But suddenly, here in the tiny enclave fashioned from the same ancient trees that shaded the park by the tomb, Amanda found herself weeping. “Just a minute.”

  She searched her purse for a tissue. She wiped her eyes and glanced around, shamed by her public spectacle. She could see two people seated in their own private spaces on a pair of benches. Neither of them seemed aware of her.

  “Talk to me, Amanda.”

  “When I wrote the prayer and placed it in the Wailing Wall, I prayed for a healing. I didn’t know what exactly that meant until now.”

  Chris was the one who went quiet. Finally he said, “Will you do something for me?”

  “Anything,” she replied, and meant it with all her heart.

  “I want you to write another prayer and put it in the Wall. For me. For us.”

  “I didn’t bring a pen with me.”

  “I think you’ll remember. Write this.” His voice crumpled momentarily. He coughed, took a pair of puffing breaths, and said, “O Lord our God, restore the heart and the joy of our marriage. Amen.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Amanda saw Emily off at the airport and waved her through the security checkpoint. She did not stop waving until the older woman had passed through customs. On the bus down from Jerusalem, Amanda had feared she would become swamped with lonely feelings of vulnerability. But it was not like that at all. Instead, she felt a sober certainty that she was doing the right thing, no matter how wildly bizarre it might appear to someone else. Once back in Jerusalem, she returned to the bus station and found someone willing to take her by the hand and lead her to the bus headed to Bet Jola. The locals’ brusqueness did not disturb her at all. She settled into the day’s third bus and found herself looking forward to seeing Rochele again.

  Then it hit her.

  Amanda cried aloud, “She has jaundice!”

  The woman seated next to her was so stout she spilled over the seat and pressed tight against Amanda. The woman swiveled as much as the bus’s confines permitted and squinted at her. Amanda could not help exclaiming, “The baby is jaundiced. I should have realized it instantly. But it’s been so long since I’ve seen a jaundiced baby, I didn’t even think of it.”

  Another woman leaned toward her from across the aisle and spoke in English, “You are having a problem?”

  “I was. I did. Yesterday I was asked to look at a baby who has been ill since birth.” Amanda wanted to sing, shout her joy to the sky. “But I didn’t even realize what I was looking at until now.”

  The woman translated swiftly. The bus was filled to the brim, all seats taken and four soldiers sitting on their packs in the central aisle. Every face was watching them now as the woman asked, “You are a doctor?”

  “A maternity nurse. I specialize in crisis care.”

  This, too, was translated. “So you are able t
o see what the Israeli doctors have not?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. And that’s the point.”

  “Please?”

  “I started by asking the wrong questions. Which is what they did. Maybe. It’s just hit me now. I need to start by assuming everything has been done absolutely right. And if this is true, then what could be logically overlooked?”

  Heads up and down the bus were watching them as the woman translated. “Jaundice is not such a rare thing.”

  “Jaundice is not the problem. It’s just another symptom. And this child has so many. The doctors probably thought the jaundice was the result of an autoimmune disease, which is what I assumed the girl has.”

  “How old is she, this girl?”

  “Two years.”

  “She has been sick long?”

  “Since birth.”

  As soon as the woman across the aisle had translated, the other passengers moaned a soft chorus. Even the bus driver was watching her now through the rearview mirror. “Where does she live?”

  “Bet Jola.”

  This resulted in a rapid discussion that was carried along by a dozen voices, including that of the stout woman seated next to her. The self-appointed translator said, “This child’s parents, they are immigrants?”

  “From Tunisia. The father has died. The mother works as a cleaner.”

  The woman sniffed her way through the translation. This time the bus driver waved his hand to punctuate his angry tirade. The woman said, “The doctors who treat this child will be working for a free clinic. They will be very tired. Very . . . what is the word?”

  “Stressed. Overworked. Carrying enormous caseloads.”

  “Impatient, yes. So they see this child over and over, and now they dismiss the woman. They tell her with their faces and their manner, this child, she is going to die.”

  “That is not going to happen.”

  The woman was clearly very pleased with Amanda’s response. “You are certain you know what is wrong with this little one?”

  “No, of course not.” Amanda hesitated, then added, “But I would bet money I’m right. If I were a betting person. Which I’m not.”