By My Hands (11 page)

Her mind shifted to other scenes: the policemen
administering CPR; the ride to the hospital with the paramedics
still pumping Irwin’s chest; even the cracking of his bones as the
force of the CPR flailed his rib cage. Then there was the official
announcement of what she already knew: Irwin was dead. The bullet
had pierced his aorta causing internal bleeding.

An emergency room doctor had wrapped her knee and
suggested that she keep ice on it. The wrapping now lay in a heap
next to the shower. She barely noticed the pain in her knee; a
greater pain ruled the moment.

The police had been gentle and kind. Apparently
Sergeant Reedly was running interference for her. She had expected
to be grilled about her actions that led to Irwin’s death, but a
police lieutenant asked just the most basic questions. She was
released and Sergeant Reedly drove her home.

It was over now. There would be more questions by
the police but no trial, since the gunman had been killed. The
police would file reports, and the news media would tell the story.
The news media . . .
she
was the news media. What would she
do now? For the first time in her professional life she didn’t want
to report a story. Perhaps that was because for the first time in
her life
she
was
the story. But the story would be
reported by every newspaper and news show in the area including her
own.

It was odd that no one had contacted her. The
station had a radio scanner that monitored all frequencies used by
police and fire departments. Surely someone had heard about the
shooting. They may have shown up at the scene, but she left in the
ambulance with Irwin and would have been gone when they arrived.
Still, someone would have tried to contact her.

There would be messages on the answering machine.
She considered stopping the shower to retrieve her messages, but
chose instead to remain in the warm blanket of water. The truth was
that she didn’t want to speak to anyone. She had always thought the
story was the most important thing, but now isolation seemed far
more valuable. There would be time later to talk, but now was the
time to search for oblivion; mindless, emotionless oblivion.

Monday, March 9, 1992; 6:45
A.M.

“GOOD MORNING, REVEREND BRIDGER.”

Adam turned to see a tall, lanky young man wearing a
white doctor’s smock enter his room.

“That depends,” Adam said, offering a cautious
smile.

“Don’t tell me,” the young man said. “It depends on
whether you get to go home today. Right?”

“On the money.”

“Well, be nice to me then because I’m the one who
gets to make that decision.” He smiled as he read Adam’s chart.
“Let’s see, you’ve been off antibiotics for a while and still
maintained a normal temperature; that’s good, considering that
little infection you had.”

“Little infection? It kept me several days longer
than I wanted.”

“Yes, little infection. Occasionally, people whose
appendixes burst spend time in ICU. At least you were spared that.
Your chart looks good. How do you feel?”

“Fine, actually. Some tenderness, and my back hurts
from spending too much time in bed.”

“The tenderness is normal. After all, we did cut you
open to get that mess cleaned up.”

“Excuse me for asking, but who are you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Dr. Fredrickson, an intern here.
Normally, Dr. Tremaine would do this, but she’s been reassigned to
some special duties.”

“Special duties?” Adam felt some relief at not
having to match wits with his surgeon.

“I can’t be sure. I’m just an intern. But my guess
is that it has something to do with that.” He pointed at the
television mounted on the wall opposite Adam. The screen showed the
front of the hospital with a massive crowd gathered around the
entrance. Police were stationed across the front of the
building.

“What’s going on?” Adam asked.

“You haven’t been watching the news?” Dr.
Fredrickson said. “No.”

“Strange things, my friend, strange things.”
Fredrickson paused, as if weighing the ethical implications of
discussing hospital matters with a layman. “I’ll let the media fill
you in. In the meantime, let me have one last look at that
incision, and then I’ll start the discharge papers.”

“Great.”

“Do you need to call someone to take you home?” The
doctor asked as he pulled the dressing back.

“A friend is picking me up later today.”

Fredrickson replaced the bandage, stood straight.
“You can go home today.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

The intern chuckled, “I thought as much. The nurses
will be in to change the dressing again and give you some
literature to read. They will also schedule you for a follow-up
visit.”

“Will Dr. Tremaine be doing the follow-up?”

Fredrickson shrugged and left the room.

“You about ready, Partner?” Dick Slay was standing
behind Adam’s wheelchair.

“I’ve been ready for a couple of days.” Adam was
dressed in a loose-fitting jogging suit and leaning forward.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to do that?” The
discharge nurse asked.

“Nope,” Dick replied with a grin. “I’ve been waiting
to push him around for a long time. This isn’t what I had in mind,
but it’ll have to do.”

“Well, I’ll see you to the car,” the nurse said.

“Home, James,” Adam said, “and don’t spare the
horses.”

“Lucky for you we’re going out the back way,” Dick
said. “At least you won’t have to deal with the crowds.”

“Somebody needs to explain that to me,” Adam said.
“I feel a little out of touch.”

“I’ll explain it on the way home, Pastor. Unless our
nurse here would like to tell us what we’re not hearing on the
news.”

“All I know is what I watch on television,” the
nurse said.

It took less than ten minutes for Adam to be ushered
out of the hospital and into the back seat of the blue Chrysler
minivan.

“Hi, Pastor,” Chloe said from her front passenger
seat. “Is there something I can do to make you comfortable?”

“No, I’m fine, Chloe. Thanks anyway.”

“Do you want to lie down on the seat back there?”
she asked. “I brought some pillows, to—”

“Leave the poor man alone,” Dick said. “If you’re
not careful, you’ll mother him to death.”

“I’m only trying to help,” Chloe said.

“And I deeply appreciate it,” Adam replied, as he
slid to the middle of the seat. “You’re one in a million. Dick
doesn’t deserve you.”

“That’s what I keep telling him.” Chloe smiled at
Dick. The two had been happily married for twenty-seven years.
Outsiders might misread their quips and brusque manner, but their
friends knew that no two people were more married or more in
love.

The small van pulled from its curbside spot and
drove through the parking lot, through a temporary gate and out
toward the frontage street. Adam looked out his window as they
passed the front entrance. Uniformed guards were stationed along
the curb to keep the crowd of people off the macadam parking area.
Several hundred people milled around on the grass in front of the
hospital. Adam guessed that a few dozen more were inside the
lobby.

“What’s going on?” Adam asked.

“It’s been all over the news and you haven’t heard?”
Dick said. “No. I didn’t watch television or read a paper. I did
see some of the images on the news this morning, but I was being
examined by a doctor so I didn’t hear the story. I guess I’m out of
touch.”

“Healings,” Dick replied. “Strange healings.”

“Healings? What do you mean ‘healings’?”

“So far two people, a girl with third-degree burns
and a man with terminal cancer. Both expected to die.”

“You mean, they’re going to make it?”

“Oh, no, Pastor,” Chloe said. “They were healed. No
more burns and no more cancer.”

Adam studied Chloe for a moment. She was a large
woman standing three inches taller than Adam and weighing a good
thirty pounds more. Her premature gray hair, something she blamed
on living with Dick and rearing three boys, gave her a soft,
matronly look. Her mind was sharp and her wit keen. She could give
and take good-natured barbs with the best of them. She was the
epitome of good nature and was helpful to those in need. One thing
to which she wasn’t prone was exaggeration.

“Let me get this right. One person was healed of a
terminal disease and the other—a burn victim—is no longer
burned?”

“That’s right,” Dick said. “But I think it was the
other way around.”

“No,” Chloe said, “it was the man with cancer, then
the girl with the burns.”

“Nah,” Dick said, “you got it backwards.”

“I’m sure I’m right.”

Adam shook his head and said, “It doesn’t matter.
All those people standing outside are there because they think they
might be healed?”

“That’s right,” Dick said.

“Incredible.”

“What? You don’t believe in miracles, Pastor?”

“Of course I believe in miracles. It just seems . .
. unusual.”

“It’s certainly that,” Dick replied.

The drive to his apartment passed quickly for Adam;
his mind was engaged in what he had been told. He had never seen or
experienced a miracle, but that didn’t shake his belief. In fact,
he
had
to believe in miracles, not because he was told to,
but because of his belief in God. By definition God was both
omnipotent and omniscient, which meant that He possessed both the
power and the knowledge to perform miracles. The Bible, of course,
was filled with miracles executed by God, Old Testament prophets,
Christ, and the apostles. Despite his intellectual belief, Adam
felt a sense of disquiet about what he had been told. Would God
perform miracles in secret, leaving a mystery behind? Would He send
His emissary stealthily to walk the halls of a hospital? No, God
always performed miracles to draw attention to the message-giver;
and since, at least so far, there was no message, then these events
must have some rational explanation instead of supernatural.

“We’re here,” Chloe said jovially.

“I hope you kept your promise,” Adam said to
Dick.

“What promise is that?”

“The one where you agreed not to make a big fuss,”
Adam said sternly.

“Hmm. I don’t recall a promise like that,” Dick
said, pretending to look puzzled.

“They’re not going to yell ‘Surprise’ when I walk
in, are they?”

“What ‘they’?” Dick exited the vehicle and jogged
around to open Adam’s door. “I think you worry too much.”

“They teach us to worry in seminary. They teach us
to be especially worried about devious deacons.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t have any of
those.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Chloe said nothing and kept her silence masked
behind a smirk. “You’re part of this, aren’t you, Chloe?”

“I’m just a simple housewife, Pastor.”

‘Chloe, I know you to be many things, but simple
isn’t one of them.” Together the three walked to Adam’s apartment.
The walk proved to be a challenge for Adam; he winded easily and
each step caused his tender abdomen to ache. At the door, he pulled
his keys from his pocket, opened the door, and braced himself for
the “Welcome home” cheer from the church members.

When the door opened, he was greeted with silence.
There were no cheers, no “Welcome home,” and no hidden church
members. To his surprise, Adam felt a twinge of disappointment. “So
you did keep your promise, then,” Adam said, making his way across
the living room.

“Well, sorta,” Dick replied. Then, facing the
kitchen area he yelled, “Ladies, look who’s home.”

Rounding the wall that separated the kitchen from
the dining nook came Adam’s secretary, Fannie Meyers, and the
president of the Ladies Mission Auxiliary, Mrs. Bachelder. Fannie,
a cheerful, slightly rotund woman in her fifties, rounded the
corner in a near trot, her face beaming.

Mrs. Beatrice Bachelder was the antithesis of
Fannie. Tall, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, she was a
serious woman who viewed her role in life and in the church with
the gravity of an overworked undertaker. Where Fannie was quick to
laugh, Mrs. Bachelder rarely smiled.

Oh, Pastor,” Fannie said jubilantly, “I can’t tell
you how good it is to see you. We’ve missed you at the church.”

Thanks, Fannie. I missed you too.” Adam leaned over
and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And I even missed the office. I
hope you brought me some work.”

“There’ll be none of that now,” Mrs. Bachelder said.
“Deacon Slay said that you should have your rest and I agree
wholeheartedly. You are our pastor, and it’s our job to take care
of you.”

“I only meant —” Adam started.

“No, I’ll not hear of it,” Mrs. Bachelder crossed
her arms as though preparing for a fight. Even at seventy Adam felt
that she could take on half the church and not even scrape a
knuckle.

“Well, maybe just the mail.”

“That’s all been taken care of,” Mrs. Bachelder
said. “We have everything under control. You won’t have to do
anything but rest for the next two weeks.”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to function long before—”

“We insist on you resting. We want you back in
tiptop shape. The pastor’s role is a demanding one, you know.”

Adam looked at Dick who merely offered a wry grin
and shrug. “Now to make sure you rest,” Mrs. Bachelder continued,
“we of the Ladies Mission Auxiliary have stocked your pantry and
refrigerator with sufficient staples for breakfast and lunch. We
have been careful to choose foods that require a minimum of
preparation. Then for dinner one of our ladies will bring you a
hot, nutritious meal.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bachelder, but there’s no
need—”

“Oh, of course there is. It’s our Christian duty.
You wouldn’t deprive us of that, now would you?”

“No, of course not, Mrs. Bachelder, I only
meant—”