Each time I stepped into the hospital, I nourished my soul, all the while wondering why I hadn’t been walking through that same door for years. And each day was different.
I met a ten-year-old girl suffering from an inoperable brain tumor who wore a rainbow-colored clown’s wig given to her by one of the Shriner’s. “If people are going to stare, then let’s give them something to look at,” she told me.
I’d never felt so much pride in the strength of another person’s spirit.
The very next day, I passed a small boy who was crying. “Please, Mommy,” he begged, “don’t let me die.”
I felt my knees start to give and caught myself.
Nurse Pynaker came out of the room and looked at me. “He’s not ready,” she whispered.
“I guess not. I’m fifty-seven and I’m not even ready.”
“Age doesn’t matter,” she said, “The soul knows when it’s time.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was a random Thursday morning when I stepped into a little girl’s radiant smile. She was sitting at the end of the day room, playing with a doll. When she saw me, her big blue eyes lit up. I could feel my heart melt. The shading on her scalp told me she’d once had dark hair. The paleness of her skin told me her life was fading too. I approached and extended my hand. “I’m Don,” I said. “And what’s your name, beautiful?”
“Sophia,” she said and put down her doll to shake my hand. We sat for a few moments when she turned to me. “I have cancer,” she said.
“Me, too.”
“Mine is called Lymphoma.”
I nodded.
“Are you scared?” she asked.
I hesitated, unsure of how I should answer; whether or not I should be honest. But she saved me by putting her hand in mine.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she promised. Her eyes were penetrating and wise beyond their years. “We’re not alone, ever…none of us.” She had a sense of her own power and shared it selflessly.
I had no choice but to believe and fall in love with my new friend, Sophia.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
As knowledge is power, I conducted my usual research and discovered that Sophia was fighting a vicious monster. Lymphoma – sometimes referred to as blood cancer – was either categorized as Hodgkins or non-Hodgkins. In Sophia’s case, the cancer cells were most prominent in her marrow before spilling over into her blood where it quickly spread to the lymph nodes. Though non-Hodgkins Lymphoma was the sixth most common cancer in the United States, at Sophia’s age, she’d had a one in one hundred thousand chance of getting it. And she’d hit the lottery. What luck.
After a few visits, Sophia confided in me. “The only thing that bothers me is that I’ve lost my hair,” she said, the sorrow in her voice apparent. “It used to be curly, you know.”
I nodded, feeling a pang of guilt. I’d never received chemo or radiation treatments, so my brown locks were still intact. I made my decision right then and there. I haven’t been bald since serving in Vietnam, so it might even feel good, I figured.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Just as I finished the job and unplugged the clippers, Bella and Riley stepped into the bathroom. Riley shook her head. “You really are a beautiful man, Dad,” she said, her eyes misting over.
I shook my head. “I’m not sure about that, but I do have a beautiful daughter.”
Bella stepped up, rubbed my head a few times and then kissed it.
“And a beautiful wife,” I added.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The following day, Sophia watched me walk into the day room, but didn’t say a word. I approached her and smiled. “You didn’t know it was me?” I asked.
She nodded. “I’d recognize you anywhere,” she squealed, her eyes sparkling. “But what did you do?”
I winked. “It’s only hair, right? Who needs it?”
She jumped into my arms for a hug.
“Looks like we’ll both save money on shampoo,” I told her, trying not to cry.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
While still at the mercy of my own death sentence, for some of the finest days of my life, I visited with Sophia whenever I could. Most of the time, we didn’t talk. We just held hands. Though I hoped I was helping her, I knew better. The healing power of her touch was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
I contacted my lady friend at the Make a Wish Foundation and told her Sophia’s story. I had no idea I’d called too late.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was a Wednesday evening, just past dusk, and though I didn’t realize it, Sophia and I were about to speak for the very last time.
“If you had one wish that could come true, what would it be?” she asked.
The hair on my arms stood erect. I’d just contacted Make a Wish for her and I never did believe in coincidences. I thought for a second and said, “On the day I stand before God…that He’ll smile at me,” I answered. “What if you had one wish that could come true, what would it be?” I reciprocated.
She looked into my eyes and without hesitation said, “That your wish will come true.”
I almost chuckled until I saw she was serious. We sat there holding hands for a long time – or at least a long time for us.
Finally, she asked, “Do you doubt that God will smile at you?”
“I’ve done some things in my life I’m not proud of,” I admitted.
“But God forgives everything, right?”
“I guess that depends on which path you take in life.”
She shrugged. “But how can there be a wrong path…as long as you’re trying to get home to Him?”
I looked at her, but had no answer. Such wisdom for a little girl…
She yawned twice and I summoned the nurse to help her back to her room.
“Sweet dreams,” she told me, as I left for the night.
“Sweet dreams, beautiful. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said and kissed her tiny forehead. I’ll never forget the miracle in her smile.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In all my fifty-seven years, Sophia’s funeral was the cruelest experience I’d ever endured – and from the pain in Bella’s eyes, she clearly felt the same.
The Rockin' Chair
Memories are the ultimate contradiction. They can warm us on our coldest days – or they can freeze a loved one out of our lives forever. The McCarthy family has a trove of warm memories. Of innocent first kisses. Of sumptuous family meals. Of wondrous lessons learned at the foot of a rocking chair. But they also have had their share of icy ones. Of words that can never be unsaid. Of choices that can never be unmade. Of actions that can never be undone.
Following the death of his beloved wife, John McCarthy – Grandpa John – calls his family back home. It is time for them to face the memories they have made, both warm and cold. Only then can they move beyond them and into the future.
A rich portrait of a family at a crossroad, The Rockin’ Chair is Steven Manchester’s most heartfelt and emotionally engaging novel to date. If family matters to you, it is a story you must read.
*
When my first son, Evan, was born, it amazed me how he and my father hit it off. Unlike my dad’s tough approach with me and my brothers, he was gentle with my son. And to Evan, the old man walked on water. The entire thing got me thinking about the responsibilities and expectations of a father versus a grandfather, and how the roles can be at such polar opposites.
In The Rockin’ Chair—arguably one of my favorite tear jerkers—I created Grampa John, a compassionate farmer in the spirit of my late grandfather. I then created Hank, his estranged son, whose memories are not as rose-colored as his father’s. The rest—bitter feelings and things said that shouldn’t have been said—play out in a sequence of scenes that most fathers and sons can relate to.
Grampa John decides that before he can join his wife, Alice, in eternal rest, he must tend to a few final chores and heal his family. One by one, he guides his grand
children through their healing process with the strength of his wisdom and unconditional love. And then he gets to Hank. As the clock ticks fast, John wonders if there’s enough time to prove that love has always existed when it has been masked for an entire lifetime.
The Rockin’ Chair—like our attitudes, either good or bad—is a legacy to be passed down from one generation to the next.
The novel’s excerpt brings the reader into the family’s great pain—the funeral of their beloved wife and mother, Alice. John is beside himself with grief until he feels a familiar nudge in the back. When he looks up, he sees his family—in all their brokenness—for the first time since his wife’s death.
The preacher had just finished his sermon when John drops to both knees and speaks to his wife. “I see now, squaw. Seems I still got some chores that need tendin’ to.” He places his lips to the frozen casket and kisses her. “You’re right, as usual. There’s some mendin’ to be done. So leave the porch light on for me and I’ll be along when I’m through.” Standing slowly, he straightens out his back and steels himself for the chores ahead of him. I still got a few more miles to go, he decides. And it looks like I’ll be travelin’ all the way to hell to reclaim these kids. It’s time to take them back from the evils of society.
*
It was a bitterly cold Saturday morning when friends from far and wide came to pay their respects. Everyone who knew Alice adored her and equally loved her grieving husband. The McCarthy’s tiny field of granite was filled with mourners. As the preacher spoke, an eerie silence filled the frozen air.
“The Lord blessed each of our lives with the gift of knowing and loving Alice. Now, He has taken her home to be with Him. Those who remember her, who loved her, walk with heavy hearts today, but we must also remember that Alice has been freed from the heavy chains of this world. She now walks with the Lord and shall dwell peacefully within His house for all eternity. Until the day we meet again…”
The preacher’s kind words were carried on the icy wind and John listened carefully to each one. Amidst them, a thousand memories reminded him of why he felt such loss. A thousand more reminded him of the void which now filled the desolate chambers of his heart. He stood rigid, conscious not to sway, and nearly snickered when the pastor mentioned “forgiveness.”
While John fought back the tears that burned to be free, the preacher’s drone drifted and became distant. John tried comforting himself with his own thoughts, but the ache in his heart was worse than anything he’d ever imagined. I’m nothin’ without Alice by my side, he thought, and the pain made him want to join her.
The preacher continued to talk above the sniffles. John glanced down at the scarred earth where friends had dug the hole. Beside his parents, Alice’s pine casket was about to be committed. A roll of old burlap covered the hole, while a mound of dirt mixed with snow sat behind them. Interrupting his own prayer, John questioned the Lord. Why ain’t there another hole dug beside her, Father? It don’t make no sense. It ain’t natural for Alice to be layin’ here alone.
John understood the cycles of life and had always been as comfortable with death as he was with life, but putting Alice in the ground alone was a tough one. I got no purpose walkin’ this earth without my wife matchin’ every step. God, how I wish I was layin’ right there beside her in our eternal bed. He became entranced in the fantasy.
Shoulder-to-shoulder, Hank, Elle, Evan and Tara stood across the casket from the old man. In his most difficult hour, Grampa John needed to stand alone and they respected him for it.
Elle rubbed Hank’s back, comforting her husband and ignoring her own pain. She loved Alice, too. In fact, for years, she loved her like her own mother. Then, when the illness took hold and caused the kind woman to live more in the past than the present, Elle loved her like one of her own children. Either way, the depth of the love never changed. At the end, though—just before Alice passed on—Elle prayed for closure. Realizing the harshness of such hopes, she wanted an end to everyone’s suffering once and for all. It had nothing to do with loving her mother-in-law any less. It had to do with peace. Mercifully, the Lord finally answered her prayers.
Denying herself the permission to mourn just yet, she continued to rub Hank’s back and whisper things in his ear that only he could hear. There will be time for me to cry later, she decided.
Hank stared at the beautifully carved casket and played the same reel of his mother over-and-over in his mind: He remembered watching her slave away for years in the house. She washed clothes by hand, hung them out and warned Hank, “You best stay clear.” Most of the time, he minded her. She canned vegetables, never stopped cooking and was usually busy working on one of her quilts. She was non-stop. Her routine was no easier than Pa’s, only she was being monitored by the ghosts that watched from frames on the parlor walls.
She was also in charge of haircuts, and what a treat they were. If Hank didn’t squirm and fuss, she’d rinse out the bowl when she was through hacking him up and fill it with a few scoops of cherry Jell-O. Hank loved rubbing the new fuzz at the back of his head, as he sucked the sweet slime through his teeth.
Ma was also the self-appointed boss of hygiene. Every Saturday, for sure, and sometimes once during the week—depending on how much dirt had accumulated—she’d draw him a bath. Hank loved that old porcelain tub. It was like climbing into a swimming pool, with lion’s claws holding up its weight. Ma would leave him be for awhile, then call out, “Cover up your privates. I’m comin’ in.” With strong hands, she’d wash his hair, all the while complaining, “I swear there’s more water on the floor than in the tub!”
He could still see her sneaking dinner up to his room when he was punished, never thinking any less of him for misbehaving; and the wedding ring—from her own finger—that she gave Elle at the breakfast table the morning after he and Elle had eloped. He would never forget the way she always found time to talk, or better yet—to listen; and the ways in which she showered his children with love. The list went on and so did the invisible projector in his head.
Hank struggled to stop it, but the movie kept playing and the emotions he fought to contain finally overwhelmed him. As Elle rubbed his back, telling him, “It’s okay, hon, let it out,” the dam burst wide open. Hank’s whimpers could be heard above them all. Although he was bawling like a child, his embarrassment was suddenly replaced by another truth. This was not a physical pain that he felt. It was his heart and it was breaking. It didn’t matter that he was weeping in front of people. It don’t matter what anyone thinks, he thought. There was great freedom in it.
Hank looked across the casket and noticed his father standing strong. “Pa’s mask is still set in place,” he mumbled under his breath. As Elle leaned in to hear what her husband was trying to say, he added, “I ain’t ever been no match for him, but it don’t matter no more.” For the first time, Hank felt sorry for his father.
Evan listened to his father’s labored sighs and childish sobs. Like a contagious disease passed on by the wind, to his surprise he could feel the man’s pain. With all the resentment he held toward his father, his heart still bled for him. Looking to his side, it amazed him how pain could be such a cohesive bond in bringing people closer together. The bottom line was—they were family. Beyond their differences and hard feelings, they shared a common love and the pain that came from losing it. He’d always thought of his father as being lazy—in a fearful sort of way. Now, he just felt bad for him. Evan realized that his love for his father was stronger than his own pride. He placed his hand upon his pa’s trembling shoulder. Allowing his own tears loose, his mind suddenly flashed Carley’s smiling face. His body shuttered at the unexpected picture, as he realized that the woman he thought was his soul mate had already become nothing more than a bad memory.
Tara huddled against her brother. As the pastor spoke, her thoughts jumped from Lila to Bryce to the possible reasons Georgey didn’t make it to the funeral. Her mind was everywhere and she felt a wave of anxiety wash ov
er her. Her life was in complete shambles, but looking around she discovered that Evan had been right. She wasn’t alone. There was pain etched into every face. All I want is a drink, she thought. Her body craved it terribly. She looked across the casket and noticed Grampa John’s mouth moving. He’s whispering something to Grandma, she realized. That was it. She lost it.
Trapped in his own bitterness, anger and sorrow, John stared at his wife’s coffin. Suddenly, Alice’s bony finger nudged him hard in the back, causing goose bumps to cover his body. It’s her touch, he knew. I’d never miss it. The strong smell of lilac wafted in the air. She’s tryin’ to tell me somethin’.
As if he’d been blinded for days, his eyes reached across the casket and rested upon his family. He gasped at the sight of them. Quickly studying each face, for the first time he could see the pain—and it wasn’t only from grieving the loss of Alice. The entire family was broken. He could feel it as plain as Alice’s message on his back. They were all slumped over from the weight of the cross they each carried. How could I have been so blind? he thought, kicking himself for missing it. If there had been a second hole, he would have endured his own grief and buried their pain instead. His concern had already shifted.
John continued to study their eyes. It was clear. The very fabric of their lives had become stained and tattered. The look on the two young ones only confirmed John’s beliefs of the world beyond the mountains. Like a cruel dream grinder, it’s chewed ‘em up and spit ‘em out.
Their parents weren’t in any better shape. Hank could barely stand, while Elle neglected her own needs—as usual—and tended to him. John felt Hank’s pain and cringed over the doubts of being able to heal the one who needed it most. He shook his head. The quilt that Alice spent so many years on is unravelin’ at the seams, he thought. No wonder she kept pokin’ me until I opened my eyes. While she struggled so hard to remember her own life, her family was all fightin’ to forget their own. He felt one more nudge in the back and grinned. “I know, Alice. I know,” he said aloud. Others glanced nervously at the outburst. John’s grin scared them more.
The Thursday Night Club Page 9
