Before I Wake (37 page)

The wound seemed to recede as she drew her hand away. At first, her fingers left faint streaks of unblemished skin behind them, but the whiteness spread quickly, the livid red skin healing at her touch. Within seconds, there was no trace of the burn on Denton's face, and I imagined the cool balm of her touch traveling down his arm and chest, leaving new, clear skin behind.

“I knew you'd come,” she said softly. “I was waiting for you.” He smiled gratefully before bowing his head to her, almost touching his forehead to the white sheet.

She took a long look around the room, her gaze lingering on her parents. It was impossible to read her expression: I want to call it beatific, but there was a hint of resolve there, as well as a touch of sadness.

She knew.

Sherry lowered her hand gently to the crown of Henry Denton's head, slowly enough that we could watch his tangled hair give under its weight.

I think that we all realized what was happening at the same moment. Karen gasped, “Sherry?” as Simon raised his hand as if trying to stop her, but none of us were able to interfere, none of us knowing, or even able to guess at, the consequences of what we were witnessing.

Sherry knew.

“It's all right, Henry.” As her fingers touched his head, her eyelids slowly lowered.

It was like an electrical current passed through them both, as if when she touched him, when she told him it was all right, a circuit was completed.

A single spasm passed first through Henry Denton, who crumpled to the carpet.

Then the girl's back arched, and a force seemed to push her parents away from her. At that moment, I felt a pulse thrum through me, the pressure of a sound too low to hear. The light dimmed as the breath rushed out of me and the force brought me to my knees. I struggled for a moment, but the next breath I drew was as sweet as the air after a summer storm.

The light grew bright again, and Sherry sagged, motionless, onto her bed.

For a moment, the silence seemed deeper than that of an empty church. I felt connected to the world. I could feel Simon and Karen on the bed, and I knew that the pilgrims down the hall were on their knees with me. I could hear the falling of the snowflakes in the cold white light outside the
window. It sounded like the dryness of wings, the gentle pressure of a final breath. The air filled with the smell of lilies.

“Sherry?” Karen choked, her voice raw and desperate, struggling toward her daughter.

Before I even touched the cool skin of Sherry's throat, I knew it was too late. Her chest wasn't rising; there was no pulse under my fingers.

“Sherry?” Karen whispered, her voice breaking into sobs as she pulled her daughter into her arms. She slumped onto the bed holding the girl close, pressing her face into her hair, cradling her head as she wept. Simon took them both into his arms, and they held one another in the white glow of the room, their daughter still between them.

Neither of them seemed to notice the expression of peace and serenity—of release and comfort—the little girl wore. Nor did they notice, then, that the body of Henry Daniel Denton had disappeared from the room, leaving no trace. It was as if he had never even crossed the threshold.

 

File # 5485.2
Barrett, Sherilyn Amber
—Final Report (excerpt)—
Father Peter Shaughnessy
April 24, 1997

 

…It is appropriate that I am completing and submitting this report today, a year to the day since the accident that injured three-year-old Sherilyn Amber Barrett and initiated the strange series of events in Victoria, British Columbia, that culminated with her death on the morning of December 27, 1996.

I have spent the four months since her death both working on this investigation and assisting the Barrett family, and their friends, in dealing with Sherilyn's death.

You will find, attached, testimony from more than 150 people who witnessed Sherilyn Barrett's healing powers, including petitioners and their medical practitioners, who testify to the complete recovery and remission of those who came in contact with Sherilyn. I will solicit further testimony from these witnesses at the first and fifth anniversaries of their contact, as is the norm in these cases.

Of the twelve people waiting in the Barrett home that morning, we have received reports of seven full recoveries; I am awaiting replies from the remaining petitioners. By mid-January, the Barretts were receiving letters and reports of recoveries from as far away as Toronto, Halifax and the American South. These people had all written to Sherilyn; their letters of petition were found at her bedside, still sealed.

Pilgrims continue to wait at the Barrett home even now, months later, their numbers having
increased after Sherilyn's death. Some of them also report spontaneous recoveries, although such incidents are less common.

I do not know how to make sense of the things I have seen, nor what meaning to ascribe to those events in which I was a participant, however minor.

I have delayed completing this report, hoping that time would provide me with the clarity and distance to help me to understand the events I witnessed and to recount them objectively. Time has not, however, accorded me understanding or distance. I find that I cannot be objective where Sherilyn Barrett is concerned: I owe her too much.

I would like to attach to this report a more personal concern. I have discussed this with my confessor, and have decided that, although personal of nature, this note should form part of the official record.

In August of 1996, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer, which had metastasized. The doctors informed me that it would likely be terminal within a year, and I determined that I would resign my position on December 31, 1996. The inquiry into the miracles attributed to Sherilyn Barrett was to be my last.

Following the events of December 27, however, the cancer disappeared. As of last week, I have been in complete remission for four months. My doctors are “cautiously optimistic,” and will monitor my situation. I, however, am certain: I was cured by Sherilyn Barrett on the morning of December 27.

 

April 24, 1997

 

I go with them to visit the grave. They can't see me. They have no idea I'm here. But I want to be with them. It's been one year since the accident, and I want to be with them, today of all days.

I follow behind them through the parking lot, through the gate and along the winding pathways.

They're holding hands, and they walk slowly, not saying anything.

They stop at the side of the grave, and he hugs her to his shoulder. They still don't speak. They just look at the grave with its small white stone, and the pile of flowers and letters and stuffed animals that people have left.

 

Sherilyn Amber Barrett

Beloved daughter, beloved friend

August 1, 1992–December 27, 1996

 

I can't look at it for too long. It makes me too sad. Too sad for them.

It's a beautiful spring day. In this place of death, the world is full of life. You can almost hear it singing, all around. The daffodils are waking up after their long winter naps, and their yellow and white heads dance between the rows of gravestones. The grass is green and bright and damp. Mr. Squirrel will be taking off his winter coat.

It rained last night, but this morning it's warm and the sky is clear and blue and beautiful.

I'm wearing my sky-blue dress, because it matches the sky.

Without letting go of Mommy's hand, Daddy crouches beside the flowers and teddy bears. “Baby,” he chokes, tears
running down his cheeks. His hand shakes as he reaches into his jacket pocket and carefully puts a stone atop the grave marker. “Oh, baby…”

After Daddy stands back up, Mommy crouches carefully. She uses Daddy for balance as she puts a stone of her own on my grave, near a picture of me, gently brushing the white marker with her fingertips the same way she used to tickle my cheeks. As she stands up, her hand goes to the small swelling of her belly, and she turns herself into Daddy's arms.

There were three stones I gave to Mommy before the accident. There were three stones in Mommy's pocket when the truck hit me, three stones on the windowsill of the winter room where the people came to see me, the room where I died. The last stone, I know, is in her pocket again, near her heart, near the heart of their unborn child, the girl they will call Lily.

My sister.

Lily.

For peace.

 

 

Acknowledgments

No novel is born in a vacuum, and while
Before I Wake
is the result of a lot of pre-dawn mornings in a cold study, it also owes much to many people, some over the course of a lifetime. If there is credit to be had, I share it with the following. Blame, though, I'm hoarding for myself.

First, to my family, by birth, divorce, re-marriage and my own marriage. If we are the sum of our earliest experiences, and of those closest to us, I owe much of what I am to you. There are far too many of you to single everyone out; I love you all, and I'll try to thank you all in person.

Considering the nature of this book, however, four women bear special mention: my mother, Helen Eddy, who has been there from the beginning, who bought me my typewriter ribbons and fought battles at my side. Fearsome and proud—just like a mother bear. My stepmother, Sue Wiersema, who has always dreamed the best for me. My mother-in-law, June Dusmann, whose kindness and support gives lie to every bad in-law joke. And Phyllis Eddy, my grandmother, around whom an amazing family, and a grateful community, revolve.

For Mrs. Winstanley, Mrs. Hepnar and Miss Guthrie, as promised all those years ago. And for Ellen Scarff—I wish you were here to see it.

For Peter and Greg, my oldest friends, who were there at the very beginning of what turned into a dream, and then a life—the cigars are waiting. The good ones.

Special thanks to the early readers of this book: your interest and support saw me through some rough times, while your
advice helped this book in immeasurable ways. I made friends through this book (including people I have yet to meet in person). Thanks, then, to Ruth, Matthias, Nathalie, Peter, Mary, Lee, Mel, Samantha, Nikki and everyone else who had an eye out and a hand in.

Thanks to Kevin Patterson for his advice and his medical expertise. Any medical mistakes here are mine; Kevin deserves the credit for anything I got right. If you're experiencing trauma, please call him, not me. I'm not a doctor, and I don't play one on TV.

And special thanks to James Grainger, whose critical acumen and keen judgment are matched only by his knowledge of small Toronto bars, his skill at arm-wrestling and his propensity for finding trouble. In the last few years, I've learned it's always best to have cab fare handy and your address written down somewhere when going out “for a drink” with James.

I am blessed to know (and work for, and with) Mel Bolen and Samantha Holmes. A writer could not ask for better employers, fiercer advocates and stronger supporters. Thank you, so much, for the kindness you have shown me, my work and my family. I live in the best of both worlds thanks to you.

And to Sharman King—thank you for the matchmaking, and the start.

To my fellow travelers in the book trade (a finer bunch of people you'll never meet): I am honored to have spent my adult life in your number.

To my co-workers at Bolen Books (and those in my previous life) I owe a hearty thanks for keeping me down to earth, and suffering my occasional insufferableness. To my fellow booksellers around the province and across the country, I am richer for knowing you. And to my friends and colleagues among the wonderful sales reps in B.C.—why yes, yes I will allow you to buy me a drink. Special kudos to Roni Walker and Trish Kells—my book is in the best of hands.

On the professional side, blessings and thanks to Anne McDermid, the best agent a writer could ask for, and her ever-resourceful and supportive cohorts, past and present. And special thanks to my publicist, Sharon Klein: she's one of the best in the business, and it's a pleasure to work with her.

When a book reaches a certain point, it becomes less a force of inspiration and more an act of collaboration. I raise a glass, therefore, to my editor, Kendall Anderson, whose steady hand is on every page, and who probably didn't realize what she had signed up for; to my publisher, Anne Collins, whose taste and judgment I admired long before it was directed at me; to Marion Garner for her keen eye; and to Louise Dennys, just because.

More than anyone else, though, this book—and my life as a writer—owes everything to my wife, Cori Dusmann. Supportive first reader, fiercest first critic, it is she to and for whom I write. Without her, I hate to even imagine where I would be.

And for Xander, who wasn't born when this novel was, and who is six-going-on-seven years old as it is published, I promise: the next one has sword-fights, some magic and people jumping heroically off cliffs. No hamsters, though.