The Miracle (56 page)

Liz had come fully alert again, pencil in hand. "Listen, Edith, that's a real story, now you've got a real one. It's something unusual, different, something I can really write. Give it all to me."

"No," said Edith, "not if you're going to write it. I'm a failure, and I don't want it written about."

"Listen, Edith, I've simply got to know what happened to you this week and what's going to happen."

"I'm not telling you if you're going to write it."

"Please, Edith."

"No."

"Goddammit," swore Liz, clapping her notepad shut with finality, "there goes another one. Three fat zeroes for today. C'est la guerre." She considered Edith once more, poor bereft miracleless woman, and she felt a wave of compassion for her. "Okay, okay," Liz soothed her, "no story. I won't write it, I promise you, but I'd still like to know what happened."

Edith pulled herself together. "You won't write it? You promise?"

Liz put down her pencil, and put her hands in her lap below the tabletop. "See, no hands."

"What?"

"An American expression. Go ahead, Edith. I'm listening."

"Well, it all started after Dr. Paul Kleinberg came here to Lourdes from Paris to examine me—"

In a subdued wail of a voice, Edith Moore recounted the miserable saga of her downfall. She omitted nothing she could remember. She recounted the examinations by Dr. Kleinberg and his verdict given to Reggie and then herself. She spoke of the new surgery, the genetic engineering, that Dr. Kleinberg had told her about. It was all fine, the surgery that might save her life. But if she lost her miracle woman status, then all else was lost to Reggie and herself.

Edith went on and on, pouring it out to Liz. The effort to compromise Dr. Kleinberg by getting him to arrange for the surgical cure, but still validate her as miraculously cured. The refusal by Dr. Kleinberg to

undertake the falsehood on his own, agreeing not to contradict her miracle cure story if someone high up in the church went along with it. And so, Edith continued, winding down her sad saga, in desperation she had revealed all to a priest, maybe Father Ruland himself, in the confessional, and asked him if he would collaborate with the doctor in the small deception concerning her cure. But the priest had refused to cooperate.

"He told me," Edith concluded, "that as long as I was cured by surgery, I could no longer be a miracle woman. The only way such a person could ever be declared a miracle woman was if she saw the appearance of the Virgin Mary at the grotto just like Bernadette. The priest said that person, too, would be a miracle woman, a real one."

Listening closely, Liz had wrinkled her brow, was blinking her eyes. "And -- what did you say to that?"

"Why, what was there to say? I couldn't say a thing. I just left the confessional, and gave up, and, yes, said I'd have the surgery anyway. But it doesn't mean much to me, not much of anything. Because I won't be what I needed to be."

"Whoa there, wait a minute," said Liz again. "Let me get this straight. A priest told you that not just miraculously cured women were miracle women—but any woman who saw the return of the Virgin Mary, she'd be a miracle woman for life, also?"

"Yes, the biggest kind of miracle woman."

Dummy, Liz thought, you dummy. "Edith," she said softly, "suppose you were the one to see the Virgin Mary in the grotto today. Then you'd be a miracle woman again."

"Why, yes I would," Edith admitted haltingly. "But what good is all that? Suppose I don't see Her—I probably won't be the one to see the Virgin—and if I don't see Her . . ."

Liz leaned forward, closer to Edith, glaring at her, and she whispered fiercely, "Edith—"

"Yes?"

"see Her."

Edith stared back at Liz, kept staring at her as she pushed herself to her feet.

She sought the restaurant door, cast Liz one last frightened glance, and then trying to run, limping and running, she plunged out the door and away.

Liz remained seated for many minutes in silence, in thought, and finally she ordered another Scotch, whether as a celebration or a suicide she did not know.

Twenty minutes later, Reggie came frantically into the room.

"Miss Finch, where's my wife? They're phoning from the hospital. She told you about the surgery— f I can see she told you. I suspected she would. Anyway, they need her at the hospital. They want to go ahead with the surgery now instead of tonight. Where's Edith?"

"She left here some time ago," said Liz. "Maybe she went to the hospital. But my guess is the grotto would be a better place to look. Come on, let's go down there together and see if we can find her."

The three of them were sitting, unrelaxed and nervous, in the special visitor's waiting cubicle on the same floor as the surgical room. To Liz Finch the cubicle had a unique smell, as if medically scrubbed and overly clean.

Liz sat hunched in a chair, chain-smoking, and from time to time fixing her attention on Amanda and Reggie propped more stiffly on the divan on the other side of the cofTee table. Some hospital boy in a white jacket had served them all coffee a while ago. Except for one taste of her cup—French coffee, ugh—Liz had left her coffee untouched. Amanda drank distractedly, flipping the pages of a French fashion magazine, apparently paying them little heed yet trying to take her mind off what might be happening to Ken in the operating room. Reggie numbly drank his coffee, between puffs of his cigar, and appeared deeply distraught, fearful, constantly searching off through the doorway into the hall, waiting for some hopeftil word, some good word on his Edith. It occurred to Liz as it had not before that this crude promoter, for all his bluff, might have a heart, might be hurting, and that he truly loved his old girl on the surgical table down the hall.

Liz squeezed her eyes to make out the hands on her wristwatch, the kind of watch that looks great but that you can rarely read. She was barely able to read the time now, but once she did, she calculated that they had already been watchftilly waiting here exactly four hours and fourteen minutes, fast becoming an eternity.

Each of them, Liz realized, had so much at stake, so very much, on those cuttings and implantings down the hall. Reggie and Amanda, in this terrible holding pattern, had their mates and their own lives on the line. Maybe Liz had less at stake, but it was a considerable hope and by some means it was her life, too. Why Liz's life was at stake could not so easily be defined, but her hope involved what she and Reggie had found when they had hastened out of the restaurant to the grotto to learn if Reggie's ex-miracle woman was there.

Liz's memory spun backward to her arrival at the grotto with Reggie. There had been a mass of people, a great press of people, this being the last and eighth day of the time span the Virgin Mary had

allocated for her reappearance. It had been difficult to find Edith in this crowd of religious fanatics. But after a few minutes they had found her, and Liz had been oddly relieved that Edith was there.

Liz had not been able to banish from her mind what had happened next. Edith had been found on her knees, rigid, not many yards from the edge of the grotto, gazing glassily upward at the statue of the Virgin in the niche. Reggie had tapped his wife on the shoulder, and started to speak to her, informing her that she was expected at the hospital and must leave now. But Edith had shown no reaction whatsoever. She had been as unresponsive as if carved out of stone. Reggie had continued to implore her to leave, but had received no acknowledgment that she heard him. When Reggie, in his desperation, had looked to Liz for help, she had pushed forward to assist him. But one glance told Liz that Edith was in some kind of catatonic state, in a trance at least, and would be difficult to move by ordinary means. Terrified by his wife's condition, Reggie had dashed off toward the bathhouses to seek help. In a few minutes he had returned with two sturdy older Frenchmen, both veteran brancardiers, one of them carrying a stretcher. They had lifted Edith off the ground like a baby, with some trouble had straightened her out on the stretcher, and had carried her to the domain ambulance which had sped her to the hospital.

Liz and Reggie had followed in a taxi, Liz wondering, Reggie worrying, all the way. In the hospital they had been shown to the waiting room, there to find Amanda already present.

After ten minutes, that angel in white uniform, Esther, had materialized to soothe Reggie.

"Is she all right? Can she be operated on now?" Reggie had begged to know.

Esther had reassured him. "Mrs. Moore was in a self-hypnotic state, but she came out of it when we brought her in. Dr. Duval examined her and found all her vital signs normal. He pronounced her quite ready for surgery, and she is being prepped this minute and will be wheeled into surgery the instant they are through with Mr. Clayton. Please sit down and try to keep calm. I should have word for you, Mr. Moore, and you, Mrs. Clayton in—well, I can't say exactly—perhaps in three or four hours. Just know your loved ones are in the best of hands."

That had been four hours or so ago, and by now four hours and fourteen minutes had passed, without a word from surgery.

They waited and they waited, the three of them, in the cramped room filled with the haze of smoke and the hanging suspense.

Suddenly, the attention of all three was drawn to the open door-

way. For a fourth person was in the waiting room. It was that other white lady this Reappearance Time. It was Dr. Kleinberg's nurse, Esther, once more.

And there was a broad smile on the nurse's face.

"Dr. Kleinberg will be here any moment," she announced. "I'm sorry I could not leave his side earher, but now that the surgeries are over, he did not want to lose a moment to have you informed—you Mrs. Clayton, you Mr. Moore—that the operations and implants by Dr. Duval are concluded and promise to be a wonderful success. No complications whatsoever. Both patients are resting comfortably. Dr. Duval foresees a complete recovery for each."

Amanda had lost her poise and was weeping as she staggered to her feet and ran across the room to throw her arms around Esther. Reggie was right behind, gripping the nurse's hand fervently and hoarsely voicing his thanks.

After Esther had settled them down, she peered back into the hall and added, "I can see Dr. Kleinberg on his way here. He'll have more to tell you."

Esther disappeared, only to be replaced by a weary Dr. Kleinberg, his surgical mask dangling from his neck.

He offered a tired smile, but a smile all the same, and he said to Amanda and Reggie, "You heard the news from Esther. ITie surgery on both patients looks like a complete success, and the gene-replacement implsmts were made with perfection." He directed himself to Amanda now. "Dr. Duval asked me to quote him as stating that you and Mr. Ken Clayton will be on that delayed honeymoon in no more than a month or two from now."

As Amanda once more wept tears of joy. Dr. Kleinberg faced Reggie, signaling for Liz to join him, and Liz sprang to her feet and was beside him immediately. "This is for both of you," Dr. Kleinberg said, "but for Reggie first. As I was able to tell Amanda that the operation and implant on Ken promised to be a success, I can tell you the very same about your Edith. She should be healthy, and able to return to normal activity in two months, perhaps less."

As Reggie, sniffting, began to thank him. Dr. Kleinberg held up his hand. "There is more about Edith, and this is for you, too. Miss Finch. After Edith's incision was sutured, and after she came out from under the anesthetic, an unexpected and really extraordinary thing happened. She opened her eyes and tried to speak to us—Dr. Duval and I were there together—and finally she did speak to us in whispers, but words that were clear and articulate—she said. Tell Reggie—tell him I saw the Virgin Mary in the grotto before I came here—I saw Her plainly.

just as Bernadette had described Her—She reappeared above me and She spoke to me—She promised I would be healed and said that I should know that science is compatible with faith and, well and --' When Dr. Duval begged Edith not to speak anymore, to rest, she visibly shook her head on the table, and said weakly but clearly, 'No, there is more. Tell Liz Finch -- be sure to tell her, too, that the Blessed Virgin reappeared to me—tell her I'm a miracle woman again, and. Dr. Klein-berg, tell her all I've said, and yes, tell Liz thanks, many thanks.' " Dr. Kleinberg threw up his hands. "There you have Edith's entire message. Extraordinary, isn't it, her having seen the Virgin? And rather enigmatic. Miss Finch, the last of her message to you." Dr. Kleinberg gave Liz a quizzical look. "Now what on earth would she have to thank you for?"

But Liz knew.

"I'm the one who should thank her," Liz sang out happily. "Be sure to tell her that when she awakens again."

And Liz spun around and was running up the hospital hall as fast as her legs could carry her.

In Paris . . .

Bill Trask, in his glassed-in API managing editor's office above the Rue des Italiens, concentrating on the copy piled on one side of his desk, was distracted by the jangling of the telephone at his elbow and absently picked up the receiver.

The call was from Liz Finch in Lourdes.

"You've got a story?" Trask repeated. "Let me turn on the tape."

"A good one, Bill. I think the one you wanted."

"Hope so."

"The Virgin Mary kept her word to Bernadette. The Blessed Virgin, as the Church refers to her, materialized at the holy grotto, as an apparition, and one person saw her, a middle-aged British woman from London. A woman named Edith Moore, a married woman. The Virgin and Mrs. Moore even had a brief conversation."

"Authentic?"

"As much as any previous visions that have been accepted by the Church. This Mrs. Moore is no fruitcake. She's the solid-citizen type."

"And she saw the reappearance of the Virgin Mary? Great. Just what the doctor ordered."

"The doctor, yeah," said Liz. "But there's more, and that's what makes the story better."

"Go on."

"Three years ago this Mrs. Moore became very sick, and found out

she had cancer, sarcoma of the hip. The medicos gave her up. She was an on-again, off-again Catholic, so clutching for a straw, she went to Lourdes for a cure. First time here—prayers at the grotto, drinking the spring water, taking curative baths, marching in the torchlight procession—nothing worked. So she came back here the next year, and on her last day after a bath she was instantly cured. She went through the medical routine, went the ecclesiastical route, and was coming nearer and nearer to being officially declared miraculously cured. A big honor, being on the roster, a miracle woman. Then something went wrong. Far as I can find out, it's never happened like this before."