The Shadow of Your Smile

22

Stunned at what Olivia Morrow had told her, Monica put down the phone and sat at the desk in her small private office, her mind jumping.

Does she mean what she told me, that she knew Daddy’s birth parents? She sounds old, and even feeble. Maybe she’s confused? But if she did know them and could tell me who they were, it would be so wonderful. Dad spent his life longing to discover the truth about his background. He said he wouldn’t care if his blood relatives had been drunks or cheats, just to learn who they were would be enough.

Maybe tomorrow by this time I’ll know, she thought. I wonder if I have any cousins or extended family? I’d love that…

Monica pushed back her desk chair and stood up. I wish I didn’t have to go and testify at that beatification hearing tomorrow. Dad was a devout Catholic and I know my mother was, too. I remember the three of us in church every Sunday, as regular as clockwork. I’m of the generation that drifted away from it, although I do go to Mass sometimes. Dad said they had made it too easy for all of us. “You guys have the idea that if you want to go out on a rowboat and pray on Sunday mornings, that will be just fine,” he told me. “Well, it’s not fine.”

Ryan Jenner had promised to stop by and look at the Michael O’Keefe file at seven o’clock. It was seven now. That thought made Monica hurry into the small staff bathroom and look in the mirror. Other than a touch of lip gloss and a dab of powder, she never wore makeup during the day. But now she found herself opening the cabinet and reaching for foundation and mascara.

It’s been another long day, she thought. It’s time to give my face a little pickup. After she applied the foundation, she decided she might as well go for it, and added a light eye shadow. Then remembering Ryan’s remark about liking to see her hair loose, she pulled out the pins holding it up.

This is ridiculous, she told herself. He’s coming to look at Michael O’Keefe’s medical history and MRIs and CAT scans, and I’m letting myself get all done up for him. But he is nice.

Over the weekend she had savored the memory of the evening at Ryan’s apartment. She acknowledged to herself that she had always admired him in his role as surgeon, but she had never imagined how warm and charming he could be on a personal level. I barely knew him in Georgetown, she thought. He was in his last year when I was just starting med school. He always looked so serious.

At twenty after seven the doorbell rang. “I’m so sorry,” Ryan began when she opened the office door.

“That was my line at your apartment on Friday,” Monica interrupted. “Come on in. I have everything I want to show you ready. I know you said that you’re on the way to the theatre.”

She had placed the Michael O’Keefe files on a table in her waiting room. The children’s books that were normally there were stacked in the corner. Jenner glanced at them. “When I was a kid, Dr. Seuss was my favorite author,” he said. “How about you?”

“High on the list,” Monica agreed. “How could he not be?” As Jenner sat down and reached for the file, she pulled up a chair across the table from him and watched as he reached in his pocket for his glasses.

She studied his face as he began to read the MRIs and CAT scans. The grave expression that came over it as he held up one after another of them was exactly what she expected to see. Finally he laid them down and looked at her. “Monica, this child had incurable brain cancer that ought to have resulted in his death within twelve months. Are you telling me he is still alive?”

“Those MRIs and scans were taken four years ago. I had just opened my practice here, so as you can imagine I was pretty nervous. Michael was four years old then. He had started having seizures and the parents thought they were looking at epilepsy. But you can see what I found. Now look at the other file. It has diagnostic tests that have been taken of Michael in the past three years. Incidentally he’s a great kid, a top student, and the captain of his Little League team.”

His eyebrows raised, Jenner opened the second file, studied its contents, went through them one by one again, and finally laid them down. He looked at Monica for a long moment before speaking.

“Do you see any possibility of spontaneous remission?” Monica asked.

“None. Absolutely impossible,” Jenner said firmly.

Monica nodded. “Be careful. You might end up on a witness list for this beatification process.”

Ryan Jenner stood up. “If they want another opinion I’ll be glad to give it to them. From everything I have learned and seen as a doctor and a surgeon, if these records are truly those of Michael O’Keefe, that child should not be alive. Now I’d better get going. A certain young lady is going to get very unhappy if I’m not at the theatre by curtain time.”

On Wednesday morning, after a considerable debate with herself, Monica told Nan that she had called Olivia Morrow and was going to visit her when she returned from testifying at the Bishop’s Office in Metuchen, New Jersey.

“Does she know your grandmother?” Nan asked breathlessly.

Monica hesitated, then carefully chose her words. “She claims she does but I will say from the sound of Ms. Morrow’s voice, I get the impression that she’s quite old. I’m reserving judgment until I meet her.”

Why didn’t I tell Nan that Olivia Morrow claims she knew both my birth grandparents? she asked herself later that afternoon as she got into her six-year-old car for the drive to New Jersey. It’s because I’m sure that would be too good to be true. And if she did know them and can tell me about them, I will start to believe in miracles, she thought as she inched through the traffic on Fourteenth Street heading for the Lincoln Tunnel.

One hour later she was parking her car in front of the building that was the office of the Bishop of Metuchen. Wishing she was a thousand miles away, she stopped at the reception desk in the spacious lobby. She introduced herself and said, “I have an appointment with Monsignor Joseph Kelly.”

The receptionist smiled. “Monsignor is expecting you, Doctor. He’s on the second floor, room 1024.”

As she turned, Monica could see there was a chapel to the left. Is that where the formal beatification ceremony takes place? she wondered. Over the weekend she had read up on the process. It seems almost medieval, she thought. If what I read is correct, Monsignor Kelly is the Episcopal Delegate, who actually runs the investigation. Two other people will be with him when I’m questioned. One is the Promotor of Justice, whose job it is to make sure there are no phony miracles. They used to call him the Devil’s Advocate. The other person will be the Notary in the Inquiry. I guess her job is to record my testimony. And I gather I have to start by taking an oath to tell the truth.

Ignoring the elevator, she walked up the carpeted stairs. The door of Monsignor Kelly’s office was open. He caught her eye and waved her in with a genial smile. “Dr. Farrell, come in. Thank you so much for joining us.” As he spoke he sprang up and hurried around his desk to shake her hand.

Monica found herself immediately drawn to him. He was a man in his late sixties with dark hair only moderately sprinkled with gray, a rangy build, and intense blue eyes.

As she had expected, there were two other people in the sitting area of the large office. One, a younger priest, was introduced as Monsignor David Fell. He was a slight man in his early forties with a boyish face. The other, perhaps ten years older than Monsignor Fell, was a tall woman with short, curly hair. She was introduced as Laura Shearing. Monica was sure she was the Notary.

Monsignor Kelly invited Monica to sit down. He thanked her again for coming, then asked, “Do you know anything about Sister Catherine?”

“Certainly not personally. I was aware of the fact that she was the foundress of seven children’s hospitals, so as a pediatrician I have great respect for her,” Monica said, suddenly more comfortable that this was not going to be an inquisition about her belief or lack of belief in miracles. “I’m aware that she was a Franciscan nun and her hospitals individually had a target of treating patients with a specific disability, much the way St. Jude Hospital was founded by Danny Thomas to treat children with cancer.”

“That is exactly right,” Kelly agreed. “And after her death thirty-three years ago there were many people who believed she had been a saint living among us. We are specifically investigating the healing of the O’Keefe child, but countless parents wrote or called this diocese to say that she seemed to have special healing powers in the sense that many gravely ill children turned the corner after being in her presence.” Monsignor Kelly looked at Monsignor Fell. “Why don’t you take over, David?”

David Fell’s quick smile brightened his solemn demeanor. “Dr. Farrell, let me give you a brief background of someone whose cause is presently being studied in Rome. Terence Cooke was the Cardinal-Archbishop of New York. He died about twenty-five years ago. Have you ever heard of him?”

“Yes I have. My father loved New York,” Monica said. “After my mother died, when I was ten years old, he and I would come down to Manhattan and spend weekends going to the theatre and visiting museums. We never missed the Cardinal’s Masses at St. Patrick’s on Sunday morning. I remember seeing Cardinal O’Connor there. I know that was after Cardinal Cooke died.”

Fell nodded. “He was a man who was loved by countless people. To know him was to feel blessed to be in his presence. After Cardinal Cooke’s passing thousands of people wrote letters about him to the archdiocese, about his goodness, his kindness, and how he had affected their lives. One of those letters you might be interested to know came from President and Nancy Reagan.”

“They weren’t Catholic,” Monica said.

“Many of the letters were from people who are not Catholic, and they were people from all walks of life. It is not generally known that when he was shot, President Reagan was much closer to death than had been released to the public. Michael Deaver, President Reagan’s chief of staff, asked him if he would like to speak to a spiritual advisor. The president wanted Cardinal Cooke flown to Washington and he spent two and a half hours at Reagan’s bedside.”

Fell continued. “The investigation into the cause of Cardinal Cooke has been an ongoing process for many years. Over twenty-two thousand documents, meaning letters as well as verbal testimony and his own writings, have been examined. Like Sister Catherine, he is credited with the miracle of saving the life of a dying child.”

“You have to understand where I am coming from,” Monica said, carefully choosing her words. “It is not that I don’t believe in the possibility of divine intervention, but as a doctor I continue to look for other reasons why this child, Michael O’Keefe, had spontaneous remission. I’ll give you an example. A person with dissociative identity disorder, multiple personality as it used to be called, may be able to sing like a lark in one personality, and be tone deaf in another. We have examples of some of those people who require eyeglasses in one identity and have twenty-twenty vision in another identity. As a scientist I am still looking for an explanation for the remission or cure of Michael O’Keefe’s cancerous brain tumor.”

“When you were contacted by us, you did readily acknowledge Michael’s mother’s response when you told her and his father that he was terminally ill?”

“After urging Mr. and Mrs. O’Keefe to seek other opinions from qualified specialists, I begged them not to subject Michael to fake promises of a cure. I said I was sure the doctors in Cincinnati would verify my diagnosis, and after that they should take Michael home and enjoy him for the year that he would live.”

“And how did the parents respond?”

“Michael’s father almost collapsed. His mother looked at me and said, ‘My son is not going to die. I am going to begin a crusade of prayer to Sister Catherine and he will get well.’ ”

Monsignors Fell and Kelly exchanged glances. “Dr. Farrell, we need to take your testimony under oath and then we can let you go,” Monsignor Kelly said. “What you have said is crucially important to this proceeding.”

“I’ll be happy to testify under oath,” Monica said quietly. Isn’t it funny, she reflected. The Hippocratic oath is the only one I’ve ever taken. Words from Hippocrates’ Precepts ran through her mind… “for some patients, though conscious that their condition is perilous, recover their health simply through their contentment with the goodness of the physician.”

I wonder if, after all, Michael O’Keefe recovered not because of the goodness of the physician, meaning me, but because of the intervention of a deceased Franciscan nun, Sister Catherine, who spent her life caring for disabled children? Michael’s mother had absolute confidence that Sister Catherine would not suffer her to lose her only child.

It was a thought that stayed with Monica as she repeated her testimony under sacred oath.