Before I Wake (36 page)

She lifted Sherry's hand with the tender care I remembered her using when she bathed Sherry as a baby, cradled her wrist as she turned her palm and laid it gently on the soft skin of her belly. She closed her eyes and held Sherry's hand there for the space of several breaths, tears running in rivulets down her cheeks.

After she laid Sherry's arm back down and tucked her under her blankets, she threw herself into my arms, and we cried there in the pool of golden light surrounding our daughter.

Before turning off the light, we each kissed Sherry on the forehead. So fragile. It was as if she was only sleeping, as if she might open her eyes at any moment.

“Good night, sweetie,” I whispered, taking in the floral scent of her. “Sweet dreams.”

I walked Karen to the foot of the stairs. “I'll be right up,” I said. “I just want to check the doors and windows.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not really,” I said. No secrets between us. Not anymore. “But I will be.”

“Do you want me to wait for you?”

I shook my head. “I'll be right up.”

She laid her hand over mine. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She walked back upstairs in the darkness as I methodically checked the front and back doors, as I double-checked that the windows were locked. The snow was coming down heavier, a thin crust now covering the ground.

I was about to let the curtain fall back into place when I saw the figure under the streetlight, silhouetted in the falling snow. He was pudgy, in a too-large coat that nearly dragged on the ground. The smoke from his cigar pooled upward with the snow. Another man, taller, broad across the shoulders in a blue ski jacket, followed him. Then another, similarly ill-kempt,
then another, and another all walking past the house. The last man, huge and gangly, stared into the yard as he passed. He looked almost like the false Father Peter's assistant, but I couldn't quite see him in the dim light, and he disappeared into the dark before I could be sure. In the end, more than a dozen men passed. Street people, I thought. Rousted from somewhere they had been sleeping, searching for another resting place out of the cold.

It occurred to me to call after them, to invite them in, to give them shelter for the duration of the storm, but by the time the thought had fully formed, they had gone, slipping from the pool of the streetlight back into the shadows.

I made my way silently up the stairs, past the closed door of Sherry's old room, through which I could hear the snoring priest, and into the bedroom. Gently draping my robe over the chair, I slid into bed and pressed myself against Karen.

She moaned a little as my cool body came into contact with her warmth. “Where did you go?” she asked slowly, in a drawl that was more asleep than awake.

“I was checking the windows and doors.”

“Mmm. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Hey, listen…It's snowing harder now.”

“Sherry'll like that,” she replied drowsily. “Maybe we'll go for a walk in the morning, make angels.”

I thought that I had cried myself out downstairs, but hot tears coursed down my cheeks, spilling into her hair. I wished for sleep. I wished that I could meet Karen wherever she was, in that world where our daughter was whole, where in the morning they would be making snow angels in the yard.

 

The Price of Miracles

December 27

 

FATHER PETER SHAUGHNESSY

I was awakened by a soft tapping at the door. “Father Peter?” asked a male voice.

At first, I didn't recognize the tiny bed, the animal-print wallpaper, the mobile slowly spinning above my head. Then it all returned to me. “Yes, Simon,” I answered. “I'm awake.”

“Do you prefer coffee or tea?”

I had fallen asleep with the window open a crack, and the air was cold on my face, but I was very comfortable under the weight of Sherilyn's quilt. “Coffee, please, Simon,” I answered. “I'll be right down.”

His footfalls faded as I swung my legs out of the bed. Something was different from the day before, something subtle. The air seemed brighter, cleaner.

Snow had fallen overnight, blanketing the yard in several inches of thick, heavy white. Snow was still falling, large wet flakes the size of silver dollars, plummeting, rather than drifting, toward the ground. The street was unplowed, bisected by a single set of tire ruts, the sidewalk marred only by a few sets of footprints.

I dressed quickly, checking my watch as I put it on. It was just before nine. I was not accustomed to sleeping in.

Simon was sitting at the kitchen table reading the local paper. He looked up as I came into the room. “Well, I don't think we're off to a very auspicious start for you,” he said.

“I'm sorry?”

Karen was bustling around the kitchen, and I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself.

She waved me to the chair across from Simon, setting a cup
of coffee on the place mat in front of it. “Simon's worried that with the snow we won't have many people out today.” She gestured toward the chair again. “Go ahead, sit. Did you look outside? Ruth and Stephen already called to say they wouldn't be able to make it in.”

I nodded from the chair. “It's still really coming down. I don't think you have to worry, though. I think people will come through…well, snow or high water.”

Karen smiled.

By the time I had eaten some fruit and cereal for breakfast, there was a line of about ten people waiting in the front yard, pressed against the house under the eaves.

“Should we just send them home?” Karen asked.

Simon shook his head. “No,” he said. “We can't do that. We can't just send them home after they've come through the snow.”

“We can't just leave them outside either.”

“No,” he stretched the word out as he shook his head. “There probably won't be that many people today. We can have them wait in the family room.” He glanced at me. “Father Peter will be with Sherry, so you and I can trade off. Whoever's looking after the people in the family room can check the front every so often in case more arrive. How does that sound?”

So Karen and I stood in the living-room doorway as Simon showed the pilgrims into the house. They left their wet coats and shoes in the foyer. A few of them craned their necks, trying to look past us to see Sherry, but most of them just followed Simon, their eyes on the floor in front of them. They all seemed to be both optimistic and embarrassed, as if they were ashamed at being forced to seek out such help, but unable or unwilling to not take the risk. I had seen it before.

Karen had already taken care of Sherry's needs: she had been fed and her diaper and bedding were clean, her hair was combed back and she was wearing a clean gown in pink flannel. Karen very carefully pulled back the covers, folding them near Sherry's waist, as I sat down in the chair nearest the
window, opening my notebook onto my lap and taking my pen from my pocket.

“So this is what you do?” Karen asked as I was organizing myself. Leaning behind the chair, she plugged in the lights and the dark Christmas tree in the corner burst into life.

“I'm sorry?”

“Your job. It's to go around, collect evidence, disprove reports of miracles.” Her tone was maybe a little critical, but mostly curious.

“Or to prove them.”

“Does that happen often?” she asked, turning the rod for the blinds, the bright, clear winter light spilling through the sheers into the room.

“That I get a chance to prove that a miracle has actually happened?”

She nodded.

“Very rarely.”

“I didn't think so,” she said.

I shook my head. “No, it's not like that. Most families, most people put into a situation like you're in with Sherry, don't handle it nearly so well. There's an impulse to pull away, to run from what a lot of people consider such a huge responsibility, such an overwhelming obligation. Very few people open their lives to the needy. We wish more did.

“And of course,” I continued. “The other Father Peter does everything in his power to encourage people to turn away. Or to run. Many times I've had reports of miracles—of healings or visitations—and by the time I arrive at the scene, the family has moved, leaving no forwarding address.”

“I don't think we could do that,” she said. “Just turn our backs.”

“But you can see the temptation?”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“I still don't like the word
miracle,
though,” she said. “It just smells to much like church to me. Too much incense and candle wax.”

I was smiling at her, about to respond, when I noticed the figure in the doorway behind her. “Hello,” I said. I didn't recognize him from the group of pilgrims we had escorted to the family room.

“Did Simon send you in already?” Karen asked.

The man stayed silent. He was in his mid-twenties, not overly tall, wearing faded, dirty jeans, battered sneakers and a burgundy sweatshirt. His face was mostly hidden in the shadow of the hood. His right hand was tucked into the front pocket of the sweatshirt, and he stood hunched over, as if in pain.

“You can see me,” he finally said.

Karen took a step toward him and I rose to my feet, setting my notebook and pen on the chair. “Did Simon get your information?” she asked.

“No,” he said, his voice gruff, his tone like that of someone surprised at being spoken to. “I came to see Sherry.”

“Well, you have to sign in…” Karen started.

“I knocked at the door,” the man explained. “No one answered.”

“I guess we didn't hear,” Karen answered.

He turned toward Sherry.

Karen put herself between the man and her daughter.

“Can I see her?” he asked. His voice had dropped to a whisper.

With his left hand, he fumbled with his hood and pulled it off. He had the disheveled look of someone who had been living on the street for a while—tangled shoulder-length hair, uncombed for what looked like weeks, a long, tangled beard—but the right side of his face was a raw burn, fresh and oozing. His right eye was swollen shut from the wound, which extended down his neck.

He was completely focused on Sherry, and he didn't even seem to notice our attention. He looked at her with a deep anguish that radiated from him in waves.

“You…You're burned,” Karen said, her voice dropping. She stepped toward him, raising her hand.

“Your arm too,” she said, not releasing his gaze. “And here.” She traced her fingers along the right side of her body, mirroring him. Her eyes were wide, and her face brightened, as if something suddenly made sense to her.

He nodded, slowly.

“You were here,” she whispered. “Two nights ago. You stopped the man with the bomb. You got burned.” She reached out, almost touching his face. “You saved us.”

He turned back to Sherry on the bed.

“Simon,” she called, not quite shouting, but loud enough to be heard.

“I just want to see her,” he said quietly, stopping inches from Karen, craning his neck. “I
need
to see her.”

“Simon,” she called again.

I stepped forward. “Listen, if we can—”

“What's wrong?” All three of us turned to face Simon, outlined in the doorway.

Her face was tight with uncertainty, and she didn't move from her position between the man and her daughter. “This is…this is the man from the other night—”

Simon was looking at the man. “It's you,” he said, stepping toward him. His jaw was set, his face hard. The man seemed confused.

“He wants—”

“You don't recognize him?”

“What?”

“I'm not,” he sputtered as Simon took hold of his left arm and turned him toward Karen. “I just came to see—”

Karen looked at him, trying to see past the beard, the burns.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn't see your daughter.”

He glanced between the two of them, then his gaze stopped on Karen. “I didn't see Sherry,” he repeated. “I came, I came to say I'm—”

“It is you, isn't it?” Karen asked.

Their eyes locked. “Yes,” he whispered.

Before she could speak, he stepped forward again. “I've been…I wanted to come. I wanted to see Sherry. I came to say I was sorry.”

Simon shook his head. “You can't just—”

“I'm glad you came, Henry,” came a voice from behind us.

The tiny, high voice seemed to echo through the room, and we all turned to face the small bed where Sherilyn Barrett had spoken.

She was sitting up, staring at us. Her eyes were curiously dark against her pale skin.

“Oh, God, Sherry,” Karen gasped, stumbling toward the bed.

Everything seemed to slow down in the moment that Karen pulled her daughter into her arms, squeezing her and rocking gently in place. Sherry's arms were around her neck, and after a moment her fingers began to toy with her mother's hair.

“Oh, Sherry.” Karen couldn't stop her tears, but the sob, when it bubbled up, sounded like laughter. “Sherry.”

“Don't cry, Mommy,” Sherry whispered into her neck. “It's all right.”

Karen pulled away from her a little so she could make eye contact when she told her, “No, honey, it's just…Mommy's so happy.” She cradled one of her daughter's cheeks, letting her fingers linger.

“I know,” Sherry said, touching her mother's cheek in return. Her fingers came away wet with tears.

Simon stared, his eyes wide, mouth gaping before his hand covered the lower half of his face, hiding a sob. He fell toward the bed, taking his family into his arms.

His eyes met Karen's as he buried his face in Sherry's hair, breathing her in. Both of their smiles seemed caught somewhere between ecstasy and despair.

“I love you, baby,” he whispered into his daughter's ear.

She squirmed at the tickle of his breath.

“I love you too, Daddy,” she said. “Can you sing me a song?”

“Anything,” he said, meeting Karen's eyes again. Her hand found his on Sherry's lap, and they clutched at one another. “Anything you want.”

“I like that one about the mockingbird.”

As the Barretts huddled together, Henry Denton took several halting steps to the edge of the bed and crouched there, clutching the covers in his hands.

Sherry looked down at him, and her parents exchanged a glance over her head.

The tiny girl, pale and small, lifted her gaze from the broken man before her and turned back to her parents. “Call her Lily,” she said. “I'd like it if you called her Lily.”

Karen made a sound that was somewhere between a sharp laugh and a sob, and tightened her hand around Simon's.

“Henry,” Sherry said, as though he and she were the only people in the room. She leaned toward him.

He lifted his head. “I'm sorry,” he said to Sherry, not flinching from her wide, dark gaze. “I came to ask your…” His face was streaked and stained with tears, his open eye filled with confusion and fear that seemed to melt away as she raised her hand to him.

With the lightest of touches, she drew her fingertips across the twisted red flesh on his face. She smiled. “No more ouches.”