30 Pieces of a Novel

The Miracle

HE LOOKS AT the postcard she must have written last night before she came to bed; her handwriting’s changed from what it used to be a year ago — now it’s squiggly like the old often write and most of it in block letters and in places the ink’s weak and parts of some of the letters are missing and he can hardly read it — and he thinks, Oh, God, if only I had the power to just say, “May she be well again, poof!” and she was well from then on.

There’s a thump against their bedroom door, the door swings out into the living room, she struggles out of the bedroom pushing her wheeled walker, one shoulder so much lower than the other that her shirt and bra strap have fallen off it, and says, “Back from taking the kids?” and he nods and is about to tell her what their younger daughter said on the way to the camp bus pickup spot when she starts teetering, one of her stiff legs shaking, and he rushes to her, holds her steady till he’s sure she’s not going to fall and her leg’s stopped shaking, pulls her shirt and bra strap onto her shoulder, and says, “Why don’t you use the wheelchair more? it’s safer,” and she says, “The bathroom door’s almost too narrow to get through, sometimes; you don’t remember when I got stuck between it?” and he says, “The time when I—?” and she says yes and he says, “Then I’ve the answer,” and waves his hand over her head and says, “Heal, I say let thee be healed,” and she says, “What are you doing? This is no joke, my condition, and I have to get to the toilet,” and he says, “I know … wait, or don’t wait, I can do it while you’re walking, and it could work, and I’ll skip the ‘thee’ and say ‘you.’ But you’ve tried everything else, haven’t you? Acupuncture, macrobiotics, chemotherapy, various other drugs the doctors have given you … what have I forgot?” and she says, “Don’t rub it in,” and he says, “Massage, physical therapy, bee-bite therapy for just a few stings, not equine therapy, was it called? for you were afraid of getting on a horse … swim therapy you’re doing now, and I know there have been a few others over the years. But faith, miracle, an out-and-out act of God or whatever it is but done through the intermediaryship of your husband, Gould, son of Victor who’s son of Abe?” and she says, “Listen, you want me to pish right on the floor here and you’ll have to clean it up? Let me pass,” and he says, mock reverently, “By all that be holy, let this babe not only pass but be healed — at least let her walk again, I mean it, and on her own; this is serious, now, I’m not joking; please make her healed, my wife, Sally, let her be healed,” and looks at her, for his eyes were closed while he said the last part, and she snaps her head as if just awakened from something, she seems transformed — her face, the way her body’s no longer bent over and slumped to the side and straining but is now standing straight — and she says, “What”—startled—“what happened? I feel different, what did you do?” and lets go of one side of the walker, and he says, “Watch it!” and she says, “Watch what?” and doesn’t totter and lets go of the other handle and is standing on her own, something he hasn’t seen her do in three to four years and he doesn’t know how far back it was when he saw her stand like this for even this long, and pushes the walker away—“Wait, not so fast”—and she says, “I’m telling you, something’s happened, what you did worked, I feel totally different: strong, balanced, my legs not stiff but functioning normally again, I’m almost sure of it; I feel they can do everything they once did,” and he says, “No, please, don’t take any chances, what I did was just kidding around, as you said, but serious kidding, expressing my deepest hopes for you and that sort of thing, but I’ve no power like that, nobody does, nor am I an intermediary for any powers, all that stuff is malarky, bull crap,” and she says, “Watch,” and walks. One step, then another, and he says, “Hey, how’d you do that?” and she says, “It was only after what you did, and said, that I could; I had nothing to do with it,” and he says, “I can’t believe what I’m seeing, goddamn, two steps — by God, let’s dance,” and grabs her waist, and she says, “Hold it, I’m not used to it yet, I don’t think,” and he says, “The two-step, we’re going to dance it to celebrate those steps, you know how long it’s been since I’ve wanted to do it — not ‘want’ but could do it?” and takes her in his arms, spins her around, she spins with him; he doesn’t have to spin her, he finds, and he says, “The tango, that’ll be the best proof yet — big steps,” and puts his forehead against hers, gets them both into the opening position, and shoots a leg out and she does too, and they keep shooting their legs out together doing the tango till they get to the end of the room, swivel around, and in the same position do the same steps back, and he says, “This is almost I-don’t-know-what,” and she says, “It’s more than that — it’s miraculous, but I still have to pee,” and walks into the bathroom, door stays open as it always did when she went in with the walker or wheelchair, grabs the toilet-chair arms he installed, then says, “What am I doing? I don’t need these,” and lets go of them and pees, gets up, wipes herself—“Look at me, wiping while standing, something I never do anymore … I want to do all the things I haven’t done since I really got hit with the disease,” and goes into the bedroom and gets a shirt with buttons and puts it on and buttons it up, puts her sneakers on and ties the laces, goes outside and walks around the house and then into the field and picks lots of wildflowers and brings them back and gets on her knees in the kitchen and pulls out a vase deep in back of the cabinet under the sink and sticks the flowers in and fills the vase with water, then says, “I want to do some gardening, not have you or the kids do it all for me,” and goes outside and crouches by the flower bed that lines the front of the house and pulls up weeds, waters the plants, snaps off a flower, and sticks it in her hair; when it falls out she catches it with one hand and sticks it back, says, “See that? When I caught it I didn’t smash it with my hands. I want a real workout now,” and does warm-up exercises and then runs down their road, probably all the way to the main road and on it; anyway, she comes back in a half hour with the mail—“Got it all myself, even opened one of the envelopes to me without tearing the flap to shreds … but I’ll read it later. Who cares about mail now? I’m sweating like crazy and want to shower, but without holding on to the grab bars and sitting in the tub with the hand spray,” and goes into the house and showers standing up; he watches what little he can see of her where she didn’t pull the shower curtain closed and then undresses and steps under the shower with her, and she says, “Please, grateful as I am for what you did before and what you’ve done the last few years, covering for me with the kids, et cetera, this could be dangerous, two of us in a slippery tub. It’d be ridiculous for it all to end now with a terrific fall. But more than that, I just want to shower the first time like this by myself,” and he steps out, she soaps and rinses herself several more times and then shampoos—“Whee, this is fun and I feel so cool”—and gets out, dries herself, and dresses—“Now I want to try reading without glasses, since my awful eyesight was brought on by the disease too”—and opens a book—“I can read as well as I used to, I think”—sits down at her desk and types and says, “It’s no strain, fingers feel free and flexible, and I can type with more than one finger at a time, though I’m a little rusty at it …. I’m going to get some work done while I can, in two hours do what I couldn’t in ten, or even twenty,” and works a few hours, takes a break to make them lunch and eat, and after she works at her desk another hour she stands and says, “Oh, brother, my lower back aches but I’m sure this time only from typing so long and hard. This is great. I don’t know what you did or how you did it, Gould, but you certainly did,” and starts stretching till her fingers touch their opposite toes, and he says, “As a reward, other than for seeing you like this … ahem, ahem, excuse me, but just as a reward for all I’ve done — a single one?” and she looks up and sees his expression and says, “Oh, that,” and points to him and says, “You got it, anything you want within reason. I’m as curious as you to see how it goes, besides, of course, which would be nothing new for me, wanting to. But first let me wash the dishes, now that I can reach inside the basin, and clean the house and also see what the kids’ room looks like, as I’ve never been upstairs in the four summers we’ve rented this place,” and does all that and other things and then says, “Okay, I’m ready, and I worked so hard I had to take another shower,” and they get on their bed, he doesn’t have to pry her knees apart to get her legs open, she moves around agilely, jumps over him, jumps back, gets on top, and then turns them over so she’s below, later says, “Did I miss moving around like that and all the exuberance that goes along with it? You betcha. And to think I can do it like that, if all goes well or stays put, again and again and again,” and they fall asleep.

“The kids,” he says, waking up, and she says, “Time to get them? Won’t they be surprised, or who knows. I’ll go with you,” and he says, “Bus is supposed to arrive at four but usually gets there around three-forty-five and I don’t want them waiting in the sun, so I’ll have to ask you to hurry,” and they dress quickly, get in the van, no wheelchair or walker or motor cart in back—“I think it’s safe to, I don’t feel any imminent relapse”—they drive to town, bus is pulling in when they get there, she runs to the bus as the girls are getting off, and they say, “Mommy … hi,” and she hugs them and says, “Both of you have a good time today?” and Fanny says, “We went on a field trip to Fort Knox. The counselors tried to scare us but they couldn’t,” and she says, “Scare you how?” and Fanny says, “The fort has all these secret tunnels and passageways from olden days, and Chauncy — he’s the theater counselor — leaped out on us one time, but we were expecting it,” and she says, “Josie, you have fun too?” and Josephine says, “It was all right. Fanny didn’t like me being with her; she said she had her own friends to go around the fort with and I should get mine — Mommy, you’re walking, you’re standing, you ran to us! Fanny, Daddy!” and she says, “Ah, you noticed,” and Fanny says, “Yes, I did too. What happened, a new pill? Is it only for today and maybe tonight — another experiment — or in the morning?” and she says, “Nothing like that. Your daddy waved his hand over my head like a wand and said some magic or religious or miracle-making words. We didn’t think anything would happen. We both thought he was joking, or he did — I thought he was playing a mean trick on me, fooling around about an illness which all the doctors thought I’d never recover from…. I never wanted to tell you that. I always wanted to give you the hope I’d be normal again, but they all said I wouldn’t unless some new drug worked, when bingo! no drug. It hit, it worked, I started walking, first one step, two, and on and on, doing all the things I once used to; just walking beside your father rather than have him push me in the chair. Sitting in it or riding the cart alongside any of you I was so much shorter that I felt like your kid sister,” and Josephine says, “I never saw you walk before without help,” and he says, “You sure you want to discuss this in the hot sun?” and she says, “Sure we do, because it’s so unusual, my standing and talking to my girls anyplace, hot or not,” and he says, “I meant especially you, Sally, for you know how the heat can affect your disease,” and she says, “It’s not doing anything to me now but making me feel good, so who cares if we get sweaty and a little burned,” and Fanny says to Josephine, “You have too seen Mommy walk without help before, you just don’t remember it. When you were one; that’s when her condition first started,” and Josephine says, “So I’m right, it doesn’t count if I was too young to remember it, isn’t that true, Mommy?” and she says, “I forgot one thing. I should call my doctor in New York and then my parents. Or my parents first; they’ll be delirious,” and she calls from a pay phone. Then they drive to their favorite town on the peninsula to browse around and go to an expensive restaurant for dinner, champagne, soda for the kids, “Cola, even,” he says; “it’s a special day and we’re celebrating.” Home, she shows the girls how she can climb up and down the stairs, plays a board game on the floor with them, wants to give them a bath, and Fanny says she’s too old to take one with her sister or be given one by her mother. “But it’s something I haven’t done for so long, so let me this one time,” she says. Bathes them, gets them to bed, reads a book of northern myths from where he left off last night, comes downstairs and washes up and gets in bed with him and says, “I don’t feel at all stiff or in pain and no spasticity or anything like that. Just falling asleep with my feet not twisted or freezing and nothing hurting is the most wonderful thing on earth,” and he says, “I only hope tomorrow and every day after it’ll stay like this, though why shouldn’t it? — and oh, what’d the doctor say? I forgot to ask you,” and she says, “That he never, through drugs or anything else, read or heard of or saw a remission as quick and total as mine, but that with my kind of disease he’d made a vow never to rule out anything,” and he says, “So, a hundred thousand to one, we’ll say, or a million to one, maybe, but it can happen. A complete reversal in a single minute, and my waving and incantatory words and everything — if it wasn’t a miracle from God, that is — might have set something off. Oh, I don’t know, the psychological affecting the physical somehow. Or maybe it was about to happen anyway from one or many of the things you’ve done the last few years to try to make it happen or at least start it to, and it was just a coincidence it did when I did all those presto-healo things. Or, as I said, it was ready and waiting for that one psychological thrust to lift off — no?” and she says, “You got me, and Dr. Baritz says he doesn’t know either. But I’m exhausted from all my activities and the excitement of today, so good night, sweetheart,” and kisses him and turns over on her side with her back to him; he snuggles into her, holds her breasts with one hand as he almost always does when they fall asleep, with or without making love, hears her murmuring, and says, “You praying?” and she says, “What do you think? I’m not a praying person but I’m going to open myself to anything and give it all I have so that this good thing continues,” and he says, “I’ll pray too,” and to himself in the dark he says, “Dear God, I haven’t prayed to You for years, maybe forty years, even longer, except once when one of the kids was very sick, and I truthfully then felt it was the medicines that brought her around, but please let Sally stay this way, without her illness, thank You, thank You, thank You,” and feels himself falling asleep.

He wakes a little before six the next morning, an hour and a half before he’s to wake the girls and two hours before Sally usually gets up, does his exercises, sets the table, makes the kids’ lunches for camp, gets her breakfast in a pan and makes miso soup for her as he does every morning, goes out for a run, showers, reads, has another coffee, wakes the girls—“Sleep well?” he says, and they both say yes — at around eight he hears her stirring, looks in, says, “How ya doing?” and she says, “Fine,” and he brings her a coffee with warm milk, as he also does every morning unless she’s already out of bed and heading for the bathroom or kitchen; a little later he hears her shriek, and he runs in and sees she’s spilled the coffee on the bed, and he says, “What happened, you hurt?” and she says, “Shit, I felt so good getting up that for a moment I thought I was free of this stinking disease, and look at the goddamn mess I made,” and he says, “Don’t worry, I’ll do a wash and hang everything up and the sun’s already so strong it should all be dry by ten,” and she says, “You don’t have to, I can do it in the machines myself,” and he says, “It’s okay, you got plenty of other things to take care of; just move your butt so I can get the sheets off,” and she says, “You don’t have to get angry about it. It wasn’t my fault. My hand started shaking and I couldn’t hold the mug anymore,” and he says, “Who’s blaming you? Just lift yourself a little, that’s all I’m asking. I don’t want it to soak through to the mattress, if it hasn’t already done it,” and she pushes herself up just enough for him to pull the sheets and mattress cover out from under her; he gets the linen off the bed and sticks it in the washer and starts the machine, goes back to the dining room, girls are reading, their breakfasts eaten, and he says, “Anybody want some toast?” and they shake their heads, and a little later he says, “Okay, everybody, we’re going: lunches packed, bathing suits and towels and sunscreen in your bags?” and Fanny says, “Oh, gosh, I forgot my Thermos of water. They never give us enough out there,” and he says, “Get one for Josephine too, if that’s the case,” and she says, “She can do it herself, and I have to get ice out of the tray to put in it,” and he says, “Listen, she’s your sister and younger, and I’m asking you to help me — with so many things to do, I need your help,” and she does it, and he says, “Now let’s go if you want to catch the bus,” and the girls grab their bags and start for the door; he says, “Say goodbye to Mommy, we still have a few seconds,” and Fanny yells, “Goodbye, Mommy!” and Josephine yells, “See you later, Mommy, have a good day!” and he says, “Come on, go in and give her a kiss — she wants to see your faces, not just hear your voices,” and they drop their bags and run into the bedroom and probably kiss her and then come out, grab their bags, and he says, “Your caps, everyone has to wear a cap to protect herself from the sun,” and they put on their caps and get in the car; he drives to the pickup spot and stays there with them till they’re on the bus, on his way home he listens to French language tapes, his big learning project this summer; when he gets back to the house she’s pushing her walker to the bathroom, and he says, “Wait a second, the wash is almost finished, I can hear the last of the last spin cycle,” and just then the machine clicks off and he goes into the bathroom, sticks the sheets, pillowcases, and mattress cover into the laundry basket, and goes outside and hangs them on the line.