By My Hands (22 page)

“R.G., I thought that might be you. Everything
okay?”

“Perfect as always,” R.G. replied glibly. “How about
you? Are you going to be your usual captivating self?”

“There shouldn’t be any complaints,” he said with a
grin. The two men walked up the stage and stood behind the pulpit.
“How long have we been doing this now? Nine years?”

“Almost.”

“I still can’t get used to it. Thousands of people
will gather here to hear me.” Isaiah gazed around the cavernous
structure. “It’s a long way from those tent revivals we did in the
South.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Tell me, R.G., what are a couple of old southern
boys doing with an office in L.A. and traveling all over the
world?”

R.G. shrugged his narrow shoulders, “Making money,
of course.”

Isaiah thought about that. R.G. was the practical
one of the two, his unbridled frankness bothered him. Isaiah had
not started off to be a charlatan and didn’t consider himself one
now. He had entered seminary with the goal of pastoring a small
country church somewhere. When had he changed?

Perhaps it was the spectral image of three coffins
that haunted him. One coffin so tiny, so incongruous. Three coffins
that visited his mind daily, that robbed him of any spontaneous
joy.

“Paul!” A rough hand shook him. “You’re doing it
again. Come on, man, snap out of it.”

“Sorry R.G. I . . . I was thinking.”

“Are you taking your medication?”

“Of course. But enough of that, we’ve got work to
do. Tell me about the press coverage.”

As the two men walked through the dimly lit hall,
R.G. spoke of the press coverage, the music program, the timing,
and the expected monetary results.

Tuesday, March 24, 1992; 7:50
P.M.

AT 7:50 P.M. ADAM pulled his car into the hospital’s
back parking lot. He told himself that he had chosen the rear
emergency room entrance because parking was easier, and he didn’t
mind the longer walk, but he wondered if his real motivation wasn’t
to avoid the mass of the ill camped at the front entrance. He
especially feared seeing the crooked little boy. Once again he felt
ashamed.

Entering the hospital, Adam decided to walk to the
fourth floor office wing. Since Rachel hadn’t told him where to
meet her, he thought that might be a good place to start.

Adam had just turned down the office corridor when
he noticed a large piece of paper with his name in red letters
taped to a door: “Adam, please meet me in room 602. If I’m not
there, wait for me. Rachel.”

The sixth floor was reserved for cancer patients.
Returning to the stairway, Adam climbed the additional two floors.
Pausing outside the hospital room, Adam looked at his watch: it was
exactly 8. Thinking that Rachel might be waiting inside for him, he
quietly entered the room. There was only one patient in the small
cubicle but no sign of Rachel.

Adam felt uncomfortable. Although he had been in
hospital rooms hundreds of times, it was always to visit members of
his church. Here he was alone with a man he had never met who was
suffering from some form of cancer.

Adam drew closer and noticed that one of the IV bags
contained a solution of morphine. Adam felt the man was dying.
Minutes passed like hours as Adam watched the slow, shallow
breathing of the man

Feeling compelled to do something, Adam stepped
closer to the figure on the bed. His minister’s compassion welled
up within him. The sight of the patient’s thin frame and shallow
breathing tugged at his soul. Adam often admired doctors: at least
they could do something—medicate, operate, treat. They could
immediately see the results of their efforts—even if the results
were bad. All Adam could do was speak encouraging words and
pray.

To be sure, prayer was important, but it often
seemed so passive. At times he envied those who believed in faith
healing. Often he wished he could simply lay hands on the sick as
Jesus and the apostles had done and see the disease evaporate. He
had even fantasized about the lame walking and the blind seeing as
a result of his prayers. It wasn’t that Adam lacked faith; there
was no doubt that God could heal. It was that Adam had never seen
it occur at the request of a person.

Perhaps I’m just afraid, Adam thought, afraid that
if I prayed for a miraculous healing and it didn’t happen I would
feel embarrassed—embarrassed for me and for God.

But he was alone now. What would it hurt to try?
After all, he had seen David Lorayne not only come back from a coma
but be miraculously healed of his illness and surgery. Maybe God
was doing something new now. Maybe Adam had been drawn into this
because God Himself was beginning a new work in Adam’s life.

Moving closer to the patient, Adam laid his right
hand on the man’s forehead and took one of the man’s hands in his
left hand. The patient did not respond to the touch. Closing his
eyes, Adam cleared his thoughts. He imagined himself standing
before a huge throne on which God sat. In hushed tones, he prayed,
“My Heavenly Father, I acknowledge that You are the God of the
universe, and that nothing is beyond Your reach. I come before You
praying for this man whose name I do not know, but I do know that
he needs You. Grant now this miracle.”

Opening his eyes slowly, Adam gazed at the figure on
the bed. His stomach churning with emotion he said in a soft,
rhythmic tone, “In the name of the risen Lord and Savior Jesus
Christ, be heal—”

Suddenly the room was filled with the bright light
from the hallway. A silhouetted figure stood in the doorway.

“Will you please come with me, Reverend Bridger?”
The voice was polite but unmistakably resolute.

“Who are you?” Adam’s heart raced.

“My name is Mr. Sanchez, Reverend. I’m in charge of
hospital security. Our hospital administrator is very interested in
speaking to you.” The door had closed behind Sanchez allowing Adam
a clearer view of him. What Adam saw was a Hispanic man who was one
or two inches taller than he. He had wavy, brown hair and a neatly
trimmed mustache. It was difficult to be sure, but Adam suspected
that under the three-piece suit was a well-muscled body.

“I was to meet Dr. Rachel Tremaine here.” Adam
wondered what to do next.

“She is waiting for you too.” Sanchez moved to
Adam’s side and took his left arm in a firm grip. “Now, if you’ll
please come with me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’m sure your questions will be answered if you’ll
just accompany me.” Obediently, Adam released the patient’s hand
and let Sanchez lead him from the room.

Tuesday, March 24, 1992; 8:15
P.M.

“I DON’T BELIEVE THIS!” Adam spat out his words
bitterly. “You mean to tell me that you set me up? That this was
all a scheme so that you could watch me?”

Dr. Evan Morgan studied the irate minister. “If you
will sit down, our time together will proceed much more
smoothly.”

Seated around the conference table with Dr. Morgan
were Bill Sanchez and Rachel Tremaine who sat quietly and stared at
the table.

“How much do you have to do with this, Rachel?” Adam
sounded more hurt than angry. Rachel didn’t respond.

“She was doing as I asked, Reverend,” Morgan said
firmly. “Now, please sit down.”

Adam raised his hands in resignation and seated
himself. “I would very much appreciate some answers,” he said,
holding his anger in check.

Morgan blew a cloud of blue smoke into the air.

“I’m glad to hear that, Reverend.” Morgan smiled.
“That means we have something in common. You see, we want some
answers too. For example, why are you here tonight?”

“You know the answer to that as well as I. I’m here
at the invitation of Dr. Tremaine.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Yes.” Adam had decided to phrase his answer
carefully. He was already at a disadvantage and he knew it. They
had succeeded in angering him and his anger was clouding his mind.
There were things he wanted to know, and to get that information
he’d have to calm down.

“You’ve come to our hospital on other occasions,
haven’t you?” Morgan continued.

“Ministers often visit their members when those
members are hospitalized.” Adam’s voice was now controlled.

“I think there’s more. In fact, I think there’s more
to you than meets the eye. Wouldn’t you like to tell us about
it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do,” Morgan said coldly.

“Then you’re wrong.”

Morgan set his pipe down and then folded his hands
behind his head. “Reverend Bridger, we here at the hospital have
had a difficult time of late. Some unusual events have happened,
events that have been inaccurately reported in the media. I think
you have a key role in these events. In fact, I think you are at
the hub of our troubles. I would appreciate it if you would give us
more than short, glib answers.”

Adam’s anger swelled again but determined not to
lose control. “Let’s have an understanding here. I am here at my
own sufferance. You have no authority to hold me or, for that
matter, to question me. I must also remind you that you do not
constitute a court of law. I will answer only those questions I
choose to, and I will answer only if I wish.”

“Very well, then,” Morgan said. “Let me summarize.
You, of course, are correct. You were set up. We’ve been watching
you since you drove into the parking lot. Like most hospitals, ours
is equipped with video surveillance of all the areas surrounding
the hospital. A very useful capability, since several times a year
someone attempts to help himself to our pharmacy. In addition to an
outside surveillance system, we have a partial interior system as
well. We even had a specially installed camera in the hospital room
where you were a few minutes ago.”

“So?”

Morgan sighed and leaned forward. “We believe that
you are the so-called Healer.”

Adam’s mind raced back to the patient in the room.
He remembered his own hesitancy about praying for the healing of
the unknown man, thought of his own struggles to believe in
miraculous healing, then laughed—a hard and deep and resonant
laugh. The unexpected laughter stunned the others.

Morgan’s face reddened. “I see no humor in all
this.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Adam said, wiping a tear from
his eye. “I can assure you that I am not your man.”

Morgan stood and paced behind the conference
table.

“Isn’t it true that you parked in the rear lot?”

“Yes. Where did
you
park?” Adam retorted.

“That’s different,” Morgan said angrily. “All staff
park in the rear lot.”

“I parked there so that I wouldn’t have to pass
through the mass of people camped in your lobby.” Adam saw no
reason to bring up the haunting, crooked little boy.

“Isn’t it also true that you entered through the
emergency room and avoided the elevators by using the stairs
instead?”

“True, and for the same reason that I’ve already
given.”

“And when you were alone with the cancer patient,
didn’t you stand over him? Didn’t you touch him?”

“Guilty as charged, Dr. Morgan,” Adam said
sarcastically. “I confess to praying. But please don’t tell the
other ministers. I might not be asked to the next luncheon.”

“Your sarcasm doesn’t help.”

“Oh, doesn’t it? I find it very helpful. And I find
this laughable.”

“Laughable?”

“Certainly. You and your amateur investigators have
accused me of being your Healer, and your only evidence is that I
parked in the wrong lot, took the stairs instead of the elevator,
and prayed for a dying man. I hope you are better at medicine than
detective work.”

Rising from his seat, Adam walked to the door.
Turning to face the others, he said, “Dr. Morgan, Mr. Sanchez, I
want to thank you for the entertaining evening, but I do want you
to understand something, and I want you to understand it very well.
You may think that because I’m a minister I can be used as a
doormat. Well, understand this—if you ever attempt to pull a stunt
like this with me again, I will make sure that the family of the
man in room 602, the AMA, and any medical review board I can think
of will hear of this breach of ethics. And I’ll make sure the news
media hears of it too.”

Dr. Morgan spun on his heals and spat, “Do you think
you can threaten me . . .”

“I just did.”

Morgan’s jaw stiffened and his face turned crimson.
Sanchez remained seated but cast a vicious stare at Adam.

Turning to Rachel, Adam said in a much more somber
tone that conveyed his hurt, “I’m sorry I wasn’t worthy of your
trust.”

AS ADAM LEFT, RACHEL felt tears well up in her
eyes.

Tuesday, March 24, 1992; 8:45
P.M.

“HOW COULD SHE?” Adam said to his car. He squeezed
the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Imaginary
dialogues filled his mind. In each one he masterfully told off the
pompous doctors who had attempted to trap him.

By the time Adam pulled the car into his driveway,
he knew he must do something with his anger. The only thing it
would do would be to destroy his logic and force him into poor
decisions. Yet, denying the emotion was useless.

Adam felt the need for physical exertion, but it was
too soon after his surgery. He would have to settle for something
more pedestrian—a simple walk. Entering the apartment, he changed
into sneakers and a blue jogging suit.

Adam stepped from the apartment into the night air
and saw a full moon in a clear sky surrounded by stars. There was
something therapeutic about a night sky, the Milky Way casting its
band of speckled lights across the heavens. What was it the
astronomers said—a billion galaxies, each with a billion stars?
Somehow the vastness of space made his problems seem less
significant.