Before I Wake (30 page)

The tug of the thread through the tight skin of my forehead made me feel like I was going to vomit.

“You're doing fine,” Stephen muttered in what had to be automatic reassurance. I didn't feel fine.

“Just a couple more.”

“So do you travel everywhere with a needle and thread, doctor?” I asked him. I hoped that it sounded like a joke—I meant it as a joke.

“What did you think I was around here for, my good looks?”

I smiled, with some difficulty. “No, I think that's my job description.”

He finished up, snipping the thread, and took a long look at me. “You may need to find some other employment, at least for a while.” As he repacked his bag, he said, “It's quick and dirty. You'll need to get it looked at. Maybe a cosmetic surgeon.”

“Thanks, Stephen,” I said.

“Are you okay with these?” Karen asked. She held up a pair of white cotton socks.

I nodded and bent over to slide them on.

“Do you want me to?” Karen offered.

I shook my head, then reconsidered. “Please.”

She was careful, but I had to close my eyes against a sudden dizziness.

“Are you okay?” Stephen asked.

“Woozy.”

“Take it nice and slow.”

I nodded. “I'll be fine.” I took a deep, cleansing breath and opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was the concern on Karen's face. “I'll be fine,” I said, to her alone.

She tried to smile.

“Is Sherry…?”

“She's okay. A few cuts, but just minor ones. Stephen checked her over.”

“That's good.”

I looked up at Stephen and Ruth behind Karen.

“You all should get back to work, though,” I said. “No need to worry about me.”

“No,” Karen said. “We can't. Sherry's room is a disaster.”

“But what about the pilgrims?”

“Simon, we have to think about ourselves, about Sherry. It's not safe.”

“That's what he wants,” I said. “That's what he's wanted from the beginning.”

“He's still out there,” Ruth said. “Watching the house. Most of his people ran when you got hit, but he stayed.”

Bracing myself against the table, I stood up.

“What are you doing?” Karen asked.

“I'm going out there,” I said, walking slowly out of the kitchen.

“What?”

My feet were throbbing, and the walls seemed to inhale and exhale around me. “I'm going out there,” I repeated. “We can't just let him—”

“What if they start up again?”

I stopped in the foyer to force my feet into my shoes. I was shocked to see the smears of blood on the floor, and a small pool of congealing red near the front door. My blood, staining the cold tiles of my home.

Karen was staring at the blood. I couldn't read her expression.

“I have to,” I said. “If we just let this go, then…” I didn't know how to finish, so I just opened the door.

“Wait,” Karen said. She was putting on her shoes, and pulling a jacket down from the hook. Her face was hard, determined.

I thought of telling her to stay in the house, that it was too dangerous. But I realized I wanted her to come with me, I wanted us to be together. I needed her strength and her fierce determination.

I held the door for her.

KAREN

The air was crystalline and cold, the silence so profound it felt like the world might shatter with a single word. It was still early; there were no reporters or television vans on the street.

Father Peter looked as if he was expecting us. Alone on the sidewalk, he played with his coin and didn't move as we crossed the lawn past the pilgrims who followed us with their eyes.

“You look terrible,” Father Peter said to Simon with mock concern.

“I have you to thank for that, don't I?” Simon asked.

“Me? I threw no stones. But this is what happens when you put your family directly in harm's way.”

Simon ignored the comment.

“I want to tell you what's going to happen next.” Simon took a deep breath. “In a few minutes, Karen and I are going to go back into the house, and while I clean up the blood and the broken glass and fix the window, Karen is going to invite these people”—he gestured at the pilgrims—“in to see our daughter.”

He took a step toward Father Peter. The priest stepped back.

“And that's what we'll do every day. If you or your friends spray-paint obscenities on our walls, we'll scrub them off, and the people will come. If you break our windows, we'll fix them, and the people will come. If you hurt us, we'll wash off the blood, slap on some bandages and the people will come.” He
pulled his hair back with one hand to show the priest the gash with its row of stitches. “Do you see this? That's what we'll do. Every day. Any wound you inflict, we'll stitch up. We're not going to stop, no matter what you do. This work is too important. Too many lives are at stake.”

I stepped forward, lending Simon whatever strength I could.

“Including your own, Mr. Barrett,” the priest whispered. “Do you think it was an accident that you were struck by a bottle this morning?” His eyes were bright, unblinking. “Do you actually believe that God didn't guide the hand of him who threw it?

“One such as yourself,” he hissed, “ignorant of the Lord's work, of the teachings of the faith, can perhaps be forgiven for not understanding. Perhaps someone who has chosen to ignore those teachings,” his eyes flicked to me, “might tell you what happens to those who oppose the Lord's work.”

He waited a long moment.

“They burn, Mr. Barrett. They drown. The Lord drowned a whole world when it displeased him. He burned cities full of sinners. Are you willing to burn for something in which you do not even believe, Mr. Barrett? Are you willing to consign your daughter to the flames?”

He folded his hands piously in front of him. “I'll let you go back to your work, as I go back to mine.”

He turned and walked away down the sidewalk. He didn't look back.

Simon swayed on his feet. “I think,” he said, his face white as chalk. “I think I need to sit down.”

SIMON

“You should see a doctor.”

“What?” I lifted my head from the pillow as Karen sat next to me on the bed.

Our bed.

“I did see a doctor.” Moving made my head swim, and I lay back down.

“You've been out all day. Stephen actually checked on you a couple of times.”

“All day?” I struggled to sit up. The effort set off fireworks behind my eyes. “What time is it?”

“About 4:30. Everyone's gone home,” Karen answered.

“Oh, shit, Karen, I'm sorry. I only meant to lie down for a second.”

She smiled and put her hand on my leg. “You've been through a lot.”

“How did everything go?”

“It went fine. It took us a while to clean up the mess, so we didn't start letting people in until noon.”

“How's Sherry?”

She stopped rubbing my leg. “She's fine,” she said, then paused. “But something strange has happened. Can you make it down the stairs to see her?”

I followed her with tentative steps, trying to figure out if there was any way I could walk to avoid the cuts on my feet. I couldn't find any, but it wasn't as painful as I had feared.

Sherry was back in her own bed.

“You got the window fixed already?”

She shrugged. “I called, some guys came, the window got fixed. But that's not what I wanted to show you. Here….”

I couldn't see what Karen wanted me to see. Sherry looked like she always did, her lips parted in sleep, her breathing regular, her cheeks smooth.

I glanced sharply at Karen. She nodded.

Not trusting what I was seeing, I traced my daughter's cheeks with the tips of my fingers. Perfectly smooth.

“She was—”

“Yes.”

Before I had stepped onto the porch, my daughter's face had been cut in a dozen places. And now…

“When did this happen?”

She was about to answer when the doorbell rang. She glanced up sharply, and I knew exactly what she was feeling.

But it was Jamie, standing on the front porch with an older woman and a bearded man with a camera. “Karen, Simon, this is…Listen, this is Amy Moore. She's a medical consultant for the
Globe and Mail.
And Don Neale, a photographer who is working with us today.”

“Working with us? Jamie, what's this about?”

Jamie reached forward and squeezed Karen's upper arm. “Over the last week or so I've been doing some follow-ups with some of the people who have been coming to see Sherry. I didn't want to say anything until I had it nailed.”

Karen said, “You'd better come in.”

Jamie kept talking, “I've spent the last two days interviewing doctors to confirm what people were telling me. I'm working on a story for the Monday paper, and I'm wondering if you'd like to comment”—she reached into her folio and extracted several file folders—“on these reports from five doctors confirming spontaneous remissions and inexplicable recoveries in patients who have been to see Sherry in the last ten days?”

 

The Globe and Mail
Monday, December 23, 1996
Spontaneous Healing
Sick, dying go into remission after
paying visits to comatose girl
~Jamie Keller, special to
The Globe and Mail~

 

Doctors in Victoria, B.C., confirmed late last week that five patients with chronic or terminal conditions who visited four-year-old Sherilyn Barrett, comatose since a car accident last spring, have demonstrated clear and remarkable recoveries.

“Of course I'm not going to use the word miracle,” said oncologist James Gibson, who spoke to
The Globe and Mail
with the permission of his patient Tanya Ross. “What is clear is that there has been a remarkable spontaneous remission that I am at a loss to explain.”

Other doctors confirmed…

 

LEO

“It was supposed to be over,” Father Peter said, looking at the newspaper again.

We were in the van in the alley by the church. We weren't going yet, but I had the motor running so the heater would work.

“It's too soon,” he said. “I thought I had enough time—”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but he looked angry. Angrier than I had ever seen him.

“Spontaneous remissions. How can that be? How did it get this far, Leo? From where do they draw their strength?”

“From hell,” I said, without even thinking about it. I looked at him to see if I was right.

He was smiling at me. “Of course,” he said. “Of course. That's it. And we know what the righteous do with devils like this, don't we, Leo?”

“We fight them,” I said. I tried to remember what he had said at one of the meetings. “We bring the light of the Lord, the flaming sword—”

My watch beeped. “We should go,” I said. “It's almost ten o'clock.”

“And we can't be late,” Father Peter said. “Not today. There will be too many questions. From this.” He rattled the newspaper. “Those weak of faith and limited of vision will be doubting—”

“Like Thomas.”

“Like Thomas. But not you. You're one of us, aren't you, Leo? One of the righteous. The pure of heart. No doubts, no reservations.”

I nodded and stepped on the gas.

“And what do the righteous do, Leo? They fight and they keep fighting. Even when the battle seems lost. Even when the devils seem to have won. They fight until they drop.”

I nodded. I didn't know exactly what he meant, but I knew that I would keep fighting. I would never give up.

“This will be the last day, Leo. The last day at the house, I promise you that. This story says that they're shutting down for the holidays, that after today they won't allow anyone in to see Sherilyn until the twenty-seventh.

“That gives us three days, Leo. Three days to ensure that they never reopen that house. Three days to bring the wrath of almighty God down on that house of sinners.”

When I looked over at him, he was smiling.

 

Christmas

 

KAREN

The telephone on the bedside table rang well before seven, but I was already awake. I don't think I had slept at all, just watched the red digital numbers on the clock change.

I already knew who it was. “Hello?”

There was some whispered shushing and laughter, and I smiled. I could picture what was happening on the other end of the line. “We wish you a merry Christmas,” came the massed voices of my family, two time zones away. “We wish you a merry Christmas…”

I could see them all, tatty sweaters and unbrushed hair, clustered around the telephone in the kitchen, the living room a blizzard of torn paper and candy-crazed children. My family did this every Christmas: called all of the relations who couldn't be home. When we were teenagers, my brother Barry and I had started calling it the Cunningham Tubercular Choir. Nobody in my family could carry a tune; Simon's rudimentary folksinging had really stood out.

Simon.

“And a Happy New Year!” The song dissolved into a round of cheering and shouted Merry Christmases before Mom claimed the receiver for herself. “Merry Christmas, honey. And Merry Christmas to our Sherry too.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom.” Tears filled my eyes despite myself. “Is everybody there?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Everybody and their dog.” I could see her sitting at the table. She would have brought out the Christmas dishes for the holidays, and the table would be covered with a red cloth, a little the worse for wear after
Christmas Eve dinner. “I wish I was with you in Victoria, though.”

“You'll be here next week.”

“But it must be so hard for you—”

“I know how important it is for everyone to be home for Christmas, Mom. We're fine.”

“I just worry about you, that's all.”

“So who's there?”

She let me change the subject. “Well, Chris finally brought that Heather girl he's been seeing.”

“And how's that?”

“She seems very nice. A bit quiet. He's wandering around like he just won the lottery, though.”

I could imagine. “Did Stan's kids come?”

“They're with their mom. He'll pick them up at the bus in time for dinner.”

“That's good.” I snuggled deeper under the blankets.

She waited a moment. “And how are you?”

“Just waking up,” I lied.

“You shouldn't lie to your mother.”

I smiled.

“You could never sleep on Christmas Eve. I hardly think you'd start this year.”

“I used to listen to you and Dad putting the presents out. Arguing. Remember that year you guys had to put together that air-hockey table for Stevie?” My room had been right above the living room, and I heard every word of the argument.

There was a burst of crying in the background. “That's Franny,” my mother said. “She's a bit overwhelmed.”

“Yeah.”

“And how is our little Sherry?”

I shifted in the bed. “I haven't been down yet,” I confessed. “She was fine at midnight.”

“Was Santa Claus good to her?”

I had to close my eyes and squeeze my face tight to keep from bursting into tears.

“Yes,” I managed to say.

“I lit a candle for her last night.”

“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it.

“I lit one for you too.” She was silent for a long moment, waiting for me to say something. “I wish I could be there for you.”

“Don't worry about us,” I said, a little glad that she was worrying.

“I just don't like the idea of you being alone on Christmas. It doesn't seem right.”

“We'll be all right. I decorated the tree yesterday, and I rented
It's a Wonderful Life
to watch this afternoon. Simon's coming for dinner.” I tried to slip that in so she wouldn't notice.

She didn't say anything for several seconds. Then, “That's interesting.”

“Let's leave it alone, Mom.”

“He ran out on you and Sherry when you needed him most, and you're inviting him for Christmas dinner?”

“Mom.”

“Karen, I know you're lonely but this, this is—”

“Mom.”

“I won't say anything. You know me. I know how to keep my peace.”

I did know her, and braced myself.

“I just think it's a big mistake. I don't know why you haven't been in contact with a lawyer—”

“Jesus, Mom.”

“Language, Karen,” she scolded. “Not another word. Not from me.” A distant crash claimed her attention. “Listen to that. The kids are wanting some breakfast and have started to take the dogs hostage. I should go. Give me a call a bit later when you're up and about. Give a kiss to Sherry.”

“I will.”

“I love you, Karen.”

“I love you too, Mom,”

We both hung up without saying good-bye, like always. My relationship with my mother was an ongoing telephone conversation.

SIMON

I stopped on the front porch with my key in my hand. I'm not sure why, but it didn't feel right to let myself in today.

I rang the doorbell, and stood up straight, shifting the weight of the bag in my hand.

Karen opened the door quickly, as if she had been waiting. “Hi,” she said, smiling almost shyly. She was wearing a light gray dress that seemed to float around her, touching her curves, falling to her knees. Her cheeks were pink—was she blushing?—and she was wearing lipstick. There was perfume in the air.

“Hi,” I said, like an idiot. “You look lovely.”

Her cheeks got pinker. “Thank you,” she said. “You made it through okay?” She gestured toward the sidewalk.

“It was fine. All they're doing today is reading the Bible to each other.”

“Maybe the article in Monday's paper took some of the wind out of their sails.” She stepped back from the door. “Come on in,” she said. “You must be freezing.”

For a long moment I felt like all of this was new, that I had never been in this house, that I was meeting this beautiful woman for the first time. The night seemed portentous, full of promise.

“You brought presents,” she said.

“Ho ho ho,” I slipped off my shoes and hung my coat.

“You look,” she started awkwardly. “I meant to say before, you look nice too.”

I smiled, not sure of how to respond.

“And how's your head?”

I swept the hair back from my forehead. I knew what she was seeing—I had stared at it long enough in the mirror. Where a few days before there had been a jagged split, roughly stitched, now there was only the faintest white line.

I hadn't even noticed the change until I woke up in my hotel room the morning after the attack and started to peel the dressing from my feet. The bandages were stiff with blood, but underneath my feet were entirely healed: not a trace of the cuts remained.

A quick glance in the scratched mirror confirmed my suspicion. The wound on my forehead had vanished as well, leaving behind only a thin line and, on the pillow, a smear of blood and a length of black thread, still knotted from Stephen's stitches.

Karen surprised me by touching my forehead, running her fingers lightly over the skin.

“Does that hurt?”

Her touch was so sudden, so unexpected, I could barely speak. “No, not at all. It's…”

“Healed,” she finished for me. “I don't even think it's going to scar.”

I shook my head. “No, I don't think so either.”

She sighed and shook her head.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asked, changing the subject. “There's mulled wine.”

I could smell the spices.

“I'd love some. Do you need a hand?”

She shook her head and touched my arm as if to stop me from following her. “I'll be right back. You go say Merry Christmas to your daughter.”

I could still feel her touch after she turned away.

Coming from the family she did, Christmas was a big deal for Karen, so I wasn't surprised to see that she had rearranged
the room, sliding the couch over and moving the chairs to clear the corner where we always put the Christmas tree. It was a beautiful tree, almost brushing the ceiling, filling the room with a fresh smell of pine. There was a poinsettia on the coffee table, and along the windowsill Karen had placed pictures of Sherry with the Santa Claus from the mall. You could see her grow from year to year, until the pictures stopped.

And there she was, still in the middle of it all.

“Hey, pretty girl.” I crouched at the side of her bed, setting my bag on the floor so I could smooth the hair away from her forehead. “How are you doing?” Karen had dressed her in a white flannel nightie with reindeer and snowmen playing along the front. “Merry Christmas, baby. I've got some presents in here for you.” I pulled packages out of the bag and set them on the bed next to her. “We'll open them a little later.”

I stacked the other gifts I'd bought under the tree. I was still looking at it when Karen came back with the warm wine in Christmas mugs.

Strings of white lights flashed slowly from deep within the dark branches, all hung with familiar ornaments. I fingered one, a Renaissance snowflake that we had bought at gift shop at the Met in New York one year. “Nice tree,” I said.

“Thanks.” She sat down on the couch and I sat down next to her.

We fell silent, looking at Sherry, looking at the tree, looking down at our mugs. Neither of us knew what to say. Was she feeling as strange, as pleasantly confused, as I was?

“This is very good,” I finally ventured, after another sip of the wine.

“Are you hungry? We can eat whenever you like. I just need half an hour or forty-five minutes' notice. Are you hungry now?” The words spilled from her.

“A little,” I confessed. “What's for dinner?”

“Whatever you like. Young's is delivering until eight.”

She let the words hang in the air with a strange expression of vulnerability, waiting to see how I would react.

The first Christmas Karen and I had spent on our own in Victoria, rather than making the frantic flight to visit her family—our annual Guilt Trip, as we had come to call them, separate bedrooms and family singalongs—we had ordered Chinese, rounding it off with a couple of bottles of wine and a night of lovemaking under the tree. The dinner had become a Christmas tradition, the way some families go to church.

I smiled. “Do you want me to call?”

Her tension seemed to break. She shook her head and got up. “No, I'll call.” As she left the room, she turned back. “You can pay.” She grinned at me.

My heart was beating almost in time with the blinking of the lights.

LEO

Father Peter told me to meet him in the church basement after Mother went to bed. He told me that he would leave the side door open for me.

I bought two turkey dinners from the grocery store, and Mother heated them up in the oven after Mass. She said the blessing. I didn't say anything when she asked God to watch over that “precious little girl.” I just smiled at her and said “Amen.” Loose lips sink ships.

I closed the side door behind me. It took me a second to see him in the dark. “Merry Christmas, Father.”

He grunted. “Christmas.”

“Don't you like Christmas? It's the birthday of Jesus.”

“We don't have time to talk about that. We need to talk about what comes next. Our holy mission.”

Of course. Our mission.

“I need your advice.”

I smiled. He wanted my advice. “All right.”

His teeth were shiny in the candlelight. “I knew I could rely on you, Leo,” he said. “I knew that from the first time I saw you. Do you know what tomorrow is?”

I was sure I knew the answer. “Boxing Day?”

He shook his head. “Saint Stephen's Day. Do you know the story of Saint Stephen?”

I knew that it was one of the churches in town, but I didn't want to make any more stupid mistakes, so I didn't answer.

“Saint Stephen was the first Christian martyr. The first of us to be killed for the truth, the first to die in the service of God.”

I nodded as if I knew that already.

“We've tried to stop them, haven't we, Leo? We've tried every other means. But now, these big-city newspapers are spreading the lies too! We need to stop them, Leo. We need to stop the Barretts before they can spread their poison any further. We need to find someone to take the next step in this battle, Leo. We need to find someone who is willing to follow in Saint Stephen's footsteps.”

I listened very carefully.

“Think back to the meetings, Leo. Was there anyone you noticed who looked like they might be brave enough to take on this fight against the darkness?”

I tried to think of all the people who had come to the church, but the only face I could see in my head was the man who tried to hide, who didn't pray.