A Song for Issy Bradley (9 page)

She waits outside the door to Issy’s room for a moment. Maybe she doesn’t
know
. Maybe she lacks faith, maybe she’s wrong and there is hope; where there is life there is hope—people say that, don’t they? She pushes the door open, hears the song of the machines and she knows, as surely as if she has plucked the knowledge from a tree and eaten it. She can feel it in her throat, where it congregates
in a lump she can hardly swallow around. She sits down and Julie hands her a tissue. She wipes her eyes with one hand and strokes Issy’s motionless head with the other. She brushes the tilt of Issy’s jaw, cups the curve of her cheek, follows the swirl of her ear, and she knows.

S
HE KNOWS WHEN
Ian finally arrives, smiling at everyone, wearing his
I’m here now
face, bustling past her grief like Superman in a Burton suit. He puts an arm around her and, aware Julie is watching, she stands very still and tries not to mind.

“What’s going on, then?” he asks, as if he’s about to be called upon to remove a splinter or apply a Band-Aid, absolutely confident of making everything better, eager to jump in and rescue Issy with his priesthood power. Julie starts to explain and he nods as if he is capable of changing things, as if he’s about to undo a curse like the good fairy at Aurora’s christening. But there’s nothing he can do, and his not knowing makes him ridiculous.

“Everything’s going to be all right.” He squeezes her shoulder and she wonders if he has heard a word that’s been said. “I’m going to give her a blessing.”

He straightens his tie, he means business: Let’s get this show on the road, let’s sort this problem out. Does he really think he can fix everything? Has he always been so unimaginative and stupid? He reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out Issy’s glasses and his car keys. He puts the glasses down on the bed.

“For when she’s feeling better, so she doesn’t strain her eyes,” he says.

He unscrews the lid of the vial of consecrated oil that dangles from the key ring and dabs a few drops onto his fingertips before wiping them across Issy’s forehead. He closes his eyes and places his hands on her head, where they rest like a crown.

“Isabel Rachael Bradley, by the authority of the Holy Melchizedek priesthood which I hold, I anoint your head with this consecrated
oil which has been set apart for the blessing of the sick. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

He opens his eyes and glances at Claire.

“Amen,” she says.

She watches him close his eyes again. He stands silently and she knows he is listening for the Spirit, waiting for inspiration and guidance, and she aches for him. Once he has taken the time to listen, knowledge will puncture his optimism. He will finish the blessing, sink into the chair beside the bed, remove his jacket, loosen his tie, and they will share the anguish of knowing.

“Isabel Rachael Bradley, by the authority of the Holy Melchizedek priesthood which I hold, I lay my hands upon your head, seal this anointing, and pronounce upon you a blessing. Your Heavenly Father is mindful of you at this difficult time. He loves you and wants to bless you. Your family also loves you very much. Now is not the time for you to return to your Heavenly Father; there is still work for you to do in mortality. You have been blessed with a special mother whom your Heavenly Father loves and, according to her great faith, I bless you to be healed …”

He keeps talking but Claire can’t keep up with his words, she can’t catch them, they’re flying past her ears like tiny birds, fluttering to the open door and out into the hospital corridor. He has made Issy’s recovery contingent on her faith and she doesn’t know how she will ever forgive him.

D
R
. S
ABZWARI SAYS
it will be easier to talk in the Parents’ Lounge. They sit down and Ian smiles at the doctor, as if he believes he can encourage her to deliver good news.

“I’m afraid Isabel’s not responding to treatment.”

Ian’s smile slips. “It’s early days, isn’t it?”

“We haven’t been able to stabilize her, Mr. Bradley. Her condition’s worsening. Her brain tissue is swollen and we’re beginning to observe focal seizures. We need to think about what’s best for Isabel.”

“I think it’s best to give her more time.” He looks to Claire for support. “Give her a chance to turn the corner.”

“Mr. Bradley, the septicemia is progressing and—”

“You see children on television who’ve had their fingers and toes amputated—whole legs, hands, even arms—don’t you?”

“Yes, you do.” Dr. Sabzwari says it so kindly and regretfully that Claire knows she is going to follow up with something awful. “But you almost never see children at this stage of the disease make a recovery. Isabel’s blood pressure is low, which means there’s poor blood flow to her major organs, and poor blood flow to the brain causes brain damage. I think we’re approaching the stage where we need to talk about what happens next.”

Claire looks from Dr. Sabzwari to Ian. “Do you think … do you think we could talk about this in the morning?” she asks. “Our other children, we need to talk to them, they should be here …”

Ian grabs her hand and squeezes hard and she realizes he thinks she’s prevaricating, holding out for a miracle too.

“Of course. We’ll review things in the morning. Are you both staying tonight?”

“I’ll sit with Issy for a while so Claire can have a break and get something to eat. Then I’ll go home and get the children to bed. I’ll bring them in the morning and hopefully …”

“It’s good that one of you will get some rest. If there’s any change during the night, we’ll call you immediately, Mr. Bradley.”

“I’m sure you won’t need to,” he says.

O
THER
,
BETTER MOTHERS
would be able to fight the soporific, twilight hospital and stay awake. It’s like Jesus’s last night on Earth, when he asked the disciples to tarry with him and they kept falling asleep even though he needed the company of the people he loved. “Could you not watch with me one hour?” he asked.

Every year when Ian tells the story of Jesus’s death in the special Easter Family Home Evening, Claire thinks the disciples are awful for sleeping and yet here she is, tumbling into deep, several-second
pools of it every time she blinks. She would have made a poor disciple and she is an even poorer mother.

Issy’s urine output is minimal and she is filling up with fluid as her kidneys fail. Her fingers are bunched like dark grapes and she’s so immobile it’s hard to imagine she went to school yesterday.

Claire stands and leans over the bars of the bed to rest her head on the corner of the pillow. She can smell skin and baby shampoo. She fills her nose with the lovely smell and then she sits again, resting her head against the bars. As she tries to breathe the fragrance into memory she closes her eyes and loses her battle with sleep.

T
HE CHILDREN SIT
with Issy while Dr. Sabzwari talks in the Parents’ Lounge. Claire wonders how long the doctor’s shifts are and whether she has been home at all.

“So where are we up to?” Ian is wearing his suit again because it’s Sunday. He looks anxious, but hopeful.

“We reviewed Isabel this morning on the ward round and we also discussed her at some length as a team. I’m afraid—”

“I saw some stories on the Internet last night about children who’ve come back from this, miraculous stories—there’s no other way to describe them. There was one little girl who’d had her arms and legs amputated, but she was absolutely fine, doing well. She looked lovely and she had these little plastic legs with red shoes on.”

“Mr. Bradley, I—”

“And I thought—those shoes, those little red shoes, Issy would like them.”

“Ian, you’re making it worse.”

“I think if there’s just the smallest chance, just one percent … could you, could you … 
take
her legs? Would it make a difference?”

“Isabel’s brain activity is sporadic, which means her brain has been damaged.” Dr. Sabzwari nods her head slowly like yesterday and Claire nods back to signal understanding.

“We don’t believe she is going to regain consciousness,” she continues. “I’m so sorry. If we stop ventilation, she’ll pass away, peacefully.”

“Can we wait—I mean, can we just have a little longer?” Ian loosens his tie and fumbles in his jacket pockets for his little box of tablets. He pops one into his mouth and chews quickly. When he’s finished, he takes a breath and holds it between puffed cheeks. Claire hears the air hiss as it escapes; she places her hand on his thigh and he covers it with one of his own, cold and slick—under his armor of faith, he’s scared. She edges closer, slides her hand out from under his and puts her arm around his shoulder.

“I think the children need some more time with Issy,” he says.

He knows. Claire feels him buckle; the dip of his shoulders marks the retreat of his certainty and she is relieved and terrified.

“Of course, Mr. Bradley.”

“I’d like some time with her. And Claire would, wouldn’t you? Oh, don’t cry, come on, you’ve been so brave, come on—can we have a little more time, please?”

“Of course.”

W
HEN THEY
’
VE DETACHED
the tubes, they place Issy in Claire’s lap. Ian and the children huddle around the chair and Issy is surrounded by love. She is warm and malleable and Claire is certain that tiny particles of
her
are still creeping along the sluggish current of blood, hiding in parts of the brain that haven’t yet been evacuated.

There is no discernible moment of death; she stops imperceptibly, like the clock in the Parents’ Lounge, and Claire tightens her grip, she doesn’t know how to give her up and leave her behind, how to sign the forms that will give permission for all sorts of unthinkable things to happen.

Ian bends to kiss Issy’s forehead. The children are tear-streaked and stricken; he wraps his arms around them.

“OK, everyone,” he says. “OK. It’s OK, it’s OK. We’ll be OK, won’t we?” They nod; Alma wipes his face with the bottom of his T-shirt, and Jacob allows Zipporah’s hug.

“We’ll be OK,” Ian says, to her this time, and she nods like the children because there’s nothing else to do.

Ian leans back in his chair and chews the end of his pen. The
Family Home Evening Resource Book
, the Book of Mormon, and the Bible lie open on the dining-room table and pages of handwritten notes fan the spaces among the books. It’s his role as head of the family to make sense of things. Tonight, during Family Home Evening, he will provide the antidote to grief by reiterating that death is not the end. He stops chewing on the pen lid to underline a note he has scribbled on one of the scattered pages: We do not mourn as those without hope. Hope—he draws a circle around the word and the squeak of the pen’s fiber tip makes him doubly aware of the quiet.

It has been a peaceful day. Doors have closed gently and the hours have been interspersed with whispers and sighs, with artless strokes of arms and shoulders. The shock seems to have sunk right down into the children’s feet; they have forgone their usual clomping and chosen instead to pad down the stairs and creep along the corridors. The atmosphere has been so reverent that the house almost feels like the Temple. Eternity will be just like this, but without the sorrow.

Claire has spent most of the day upstairs. When he woke, Ian made her a list:

At first Claire disagreed about school. She wanted everyone home, a whole week off. He argued for company and distraction, for facing everyone as soon as possible and keeping busy; she understood in the end.

He sat on the end of the bed and watched while she dialed the first number, but when she realized he was planning to listen in, she cut the connection and asked him to leave the room. She said it would be easier if he wasn’t there. He didn’t disagree; after yesterday, he was relieved not to be involved.

When they got back from the hospital, he switched off the car engine and sagged in his seat, unable to recall a single moment of the journey. He couldn’t remember whether anyone had spoken, what route he had taken, nothing. It was as if they’d been teleported home.

He didn’t do his impersonation of Brigham Young; his throat was too tight to say, “This is the place.” And the others were similarly immobilized. No one wanted to be the first to unclip their seat belt; they all waited, even Jacob, each reluctant to cross the threshold of the house for the first time without Issy.

Once inside, they huddled in the kitchen while Claire made hot chocolate and Ian warmed his icy-shocked hands on the hot mug.
She’s not here
—he swallowed and the hurt faded somewhat, and then—
she’s not here
—it started again and his whole chest hurt.

He rinsed the mugs while Claire put the children to bed. He thought about phoning his mum and dad and it was then it dawned on him: He didn’t have a number, just an email address. He dried his hands and switched on the computer. He Googled the Mission President’s details and it took only a few minutes for him to discover
a phone number. He dialed it before he’d had a proper think about what he was going to say.

“Hello, um, President Tanner. My name’s Ian Bradley, and um, my parents are serving in your mission and I—I need their phone number.”

“Elder and Sister Bradley? They’re a wonderful couple. Did you serve a mission, Brother Bradley?”

“Yes, I—”

“That’s wonderful. Where did you serve?”

“London.”

“If your parents haven’t given you their number, perhaps it’s because they’ve decided to follow Mission rules like the younger missionaries—home can be so distracting. I’d be more than happy to relay a message for you.”

“I’d like to talk to them myself.”

“Brother Bradley—”