The Queen of Sleepy Eye (25 page)

“Thank you for coming,” she said repeatedly while H gathered three chairs and lined them along the wall outside Feather's room.

“I don't know how long she was lying there,” Butter said, pressing her palms against her eyes. “She didn't come up from the henhouse for dinner, so I sent the twins down to get her. They came running back, crying and saying that Feather had fallen asleep, and they couldn't wake her up. I thought the worst. I grabbed Straw's ax and told the boys to stay with Vernon and Lamb, but they'd already left the cabin to run back to Feather. I didn't know where Straw was. I carried Lamb on my back. Thank goodness Vernon was strapped in the sling. He'd been so fussy.” She stilled her trembling lips with her fingers. “Amy,” she whispered, “I thought she was dead.”

“When I got to the henhouse, Frog and Mule were patting her arms and whispering her name, saying ‘Wake up, Feather. Wake up.' I can't remember another time in their whole lives that they whispered anything. I checked her pulse right away. It was strong, thank heaven. I think that's when I started breathing again.” Butter lowered her voice. “She messed herself. That's when I knew she'd had another seizure, only worse. She could have aspirated that vomit into her lungs, and we would have lost her.”

Butter covered her face with her hands. Her breaths tremored. I laid my arm across her shaking shoulders and let my own tears fall. Next to me, H sniffed loudly. Butter used a waded tissue to wipe her tears. “Straw had the car. I sent the boys to Henry's Orchard. They have a phone. I sat with Feather. The chickens clucked softly around
us like they knew she was in trouble. Spartacus stood watch at the door. The whole time we waited for the ambulance, I worried about the cost of another visit to the emergency room, and there my daughter, my firstborn, lay in her vomit and urine.”

She pushed her hair away from her face. “This isn't what I signed up for. It's one thing for Straw and me to impoverish ourselves to live off the land, but our children deserve medical care, don't they?”

I nodded, but Butter didn't need or want my approval.

She spoke faster. “I called my mother. She asked me what I wanted to do. Did I want money? Did I want to bring the children home to Chapel Hill? She was so good about it, and I hadn't called or written her in over a year.

“I didn't have an answer for her. Asking for help felt like giving up, but really, that doesn't matter as much as it used to. Straw won't like it that I called, but with the hospital bills and the medication and doctor's visits Feather will need, I can't see how we can keep the homestead. We were just barely paying the mortgage as it was. It's crazy. Two people with masters degrees having trouble scraping together a hundred and seventy-five dollars every month.” Butter swiped at her tears. “I have to get myself together, make some decisions, do what's best for the kids.”

Butter stood, stretched. “My mother did something she's never done before. She prayed for us right over the phone. She asked God to bless us and provide for our every need. I started bawling, told her I'd denied God, that He wouldn't be interested in helping us. She says Paul, or was it Peter? I know his name started with a
P.
Anyway, she says this guy denied Jesus, but God chose him to do amazing things. I don't know. Maybe we should have thought this through better. I've been bone tired since the day we got here. I think I'm too tired to think anymore.”

“I'll stay with Feather,” I said. “There's a waiting room down the hall. H and I passed it coming in. There's a soft couch in there. I don't think anyone would mind if you rested awhile.”

“Amy—”

“We'll come get you the moment she wakes up.”

“They said she would sleep for a long time.”

“I'll sit inside the room, and H will come to get you. She'll never be alone.”

“Okay then.” She carried Vernon and pulled Lamb along as he clung to the hem of her skirt. She'd only taken a few steps before she stopped and turned back with her brows pressed into a question.

“She'll never be alone,” I said.

Butter smiled weakly. “Thank you.” Her words were as heavy as stones.

The flicker of the television lit the curtain between Feather and the other patient in the room. H carried a chair to Feather's bed. I sat and stroked Feather's hair, but my fingers kept getting stuck, so I stopped.

“Do you want me to call your mom?” asked H. “We might be here for a long time.”

I checked the clock on the wall. “She's still at the movies.”

“How about Mrs. Clancy?”

I'd broken two cardinal rules visiting Feather in the hospital that night: I'd left the phone unattended at the funeral home and hadn't notified Charles about Mr. Kiddoo's demise. She'd understand about Charles being unavailable, but being away from the phone meant missed opportunities to make money.

I started to stand, but H stopped me with a hand to my shoulder. “I'll call.”

If that wasn't taking a bullet for a friend, I didn't know what was.

* * *

FEATHER'S EYELASHES FLUTTERED, and her irises danced under the pale skin of her eyelids. I held my breath, but her breathing never faltered, and she slid back into tranquil sleep. Feather's roommate shouted at the television when a contestant on
The $10,000
Pyramid
answered too slowly. I wanted to tell the woman to lower her voice, but who knew what I'd find on the other side of that curtain? Instead, I watched Feather sleep.

Lord. Please, please, please heal her.

I knew in that moment what I had to do.

Pastor Ted opened his Bible to the fifth chapter of James.

“I know this verse well.”

I scooted to the edge of the chair. “So you'll call the elders?”

“Let's take a minute to look at the verse more closely.”

Uh-oh.

He read to me. “‘Is anyone
among
you sick? Let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord.'”

He took off his glasses and rubbed the red dents on his nose. “You shouldn't be embarrassed, Amy. This is a common error made when reading Scripture out of context. James—and here
James
is the Lord's brother, although some suggest the author is the
apostle
James, but I disagree. James the apostle was martyred in the Year of Our Lord forty-four. James, the brother, actually the half-brother of Jesus, wrote this letter to Jewish believers scattered by intense persecution by the Romans, and this is an important distinction because the author asks ‘if any
among
you are sick.' This implies
that he is speaking specifically to the church, not the population in general, and certainly not the Romans.”

“Feather's not a Roman. She's a little girl who's expecting the elders because I told her they would come.”

Pastor Ted closed his Bible and straightened his stapler and tape dispenser to be perfectly parallel. He avoided eye contact by looking at the pipes on the ceiling of his basement office.

“Will you come?” I asked.

He looked at me briefly before his eyes found something less threatening to look at over my shoulder. “Amy, there are things you know nothing about, difficult adult situations that create tough choices.”

“Is this about Feather coming to hear me sing?”

“Only partly. The church is tenuous at best. Key people—”

“The people with money?”

“Yes, but they keep the work of God ongoing. Without them—”

“So you won't come?”

“I can't. I'm sorry.”

* * *

FEATHER JUMPED OUT of the hospital bed to greet me. In her wake a stack of library books hit the floor.

“Keep it down, will ya? My soap's on,” her roommate demanded, pressing the volume button of the remote. The mountainous woman ate from a bag of potato chips resting on her stomach, so she missed Feather sticking her tongue out at her.

Feather bent to help me pick up the books. Every last one of them was about chickens.
Is there that much to know?

Feather climbed back onto the bed. She spoke rapidly, her gestures barely able to keep up with her. “I was afraid you wouldn't get here in
time. Butter called her mom. I guess she's my grandma. That's what she wants us to call her, even though her name is Julia. Not only that, but she wants us to move to North Carolina. Butter showed me on a map. The Atlantic Ocean is right there. Butter says there's lots of room to play, but I can't take the hens. And Straw isn't coming with us; he says the homestead just needs more time. I want to stay, but Butter says that's not going to happen. What she means is that I'm the whole reason we're leaving. She just won't say it. She says she's tired of living in poverty, and Straw's as stubborn as an old mule and won't give up. She can't force him to do what he don't want to do, except that's what she's doing to me.” Feather's eyes filled with tears. “Sure as anything, Straw will make chicken and dumplings the minute we leave. When will those darn old elders get here?”

I set a grocery bag filled with the oils I'd collected from the house and garage on Feather's bedside tray. “The elders couldn't come today. They're all scheduled up to pray for other people, so they sent me.”

Feather's roommate, a woman with the disposition of a wounded badger, dropped her jaw. I drew the curtain between the beds, praying silently,
Father, forgive me for lying. Don't hold my sin against
Feather.

“I wasn't sure what kind of oil to use, so I'm offering you a choice.” I set the bottles and cans in front of her. “We've got good ol' vegetable oil, some WD-40—people use it to stop things from squeaking, like doors and stuff.”

Feather added, “Straw says a can of WD-40 and a big hammer will fix anything,”

“This is Skin So Soft. Mom puts it in the bathtub when she's getting ready for a date. And these are some bath beads I got for Christmas last year. There's oil in each one. I figure I could cut them open and squeeze the oil out. They smell like lavender.”

Feather pushed the blankets to the foot of the bed and lay with her arms to her side like she was at attention for inspection. “I choose the vegetable oil. You've got lots of that.”

“You don't have to lie down.”

“The nurse on duty this morning is pretty grumpy. I don't want her to get mad about oil on the sheets.”

“I'm just going to dab a little bit on your forehead.”

“Wouldn't it be better to cover my whole body?” She rose to lean on her elbows. “Maybe I should take this stupid gown off.”

“That won't be necessary.”

At my church in Gilbertsville, the pastor had carried a tiny vial of oil in his pocket, always at the ready to anoint and pray for anyone in need. He tipped the vial to coat his thumb with oil. As he prayed, he touched the person on the forehead, right above their nose, and smudged the oil upward. Pastor Frank had about as many degrees as one man can achieve, and some people called him “doctor” until they got to know him better. All I had was a high school diploma.

“You're right. Lay down.” I pushed up the sleeves of her gown to expose her shoulders and poured the oil into a paper cup I'd taken from a bottled-water dispenser. I dipped my finger into the golden oil. “Okay, close your eyes.”

Feather obeyed. The reality of what I was about to do made me pause. If Pastor Ted had been right, I had no business praying for a nonbeliever, Roman or otherwise.

“Feather, do you believe in God?” I asked.

“You do, don't you?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Then I do too.” Feather searched my face, looking for some evidence of faith, no doubt.

“Close your eyes.”

Again, Feather complied and still the prayer wouldn't form in my head. “Feather, do you believe Jesus died for your sins?”

“Did he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Then I believe it.”

Faith wasn't supposed to be this easy. I remembered a Wednesday night prayer meeting when Gladys Humphrey had faced surgery to remove her gall bladder. Sweat had poured down her face as she'd raised her fists to heaven and yelled, “Give me faith, Lord. Give me faith.”

Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like
a child shall not enter it at all.

“I'm going to pray now.” I traced the bony ridges of her shins with an oily finger. “Good Father, my precious friend Feather needs your healing touch.”

Feather opened one eye. “Don't you think he already knows that?”

“Close your eyes.”

“You forgot my feet.”

I dabbed oil on her feet.

“That's better.”

I thought of all the reasons why I wanted God to heal Feather—so she wouldn't have to move away from her hens, so she wouldn't be the brunt of jokes at school, so her parents wouldn't have to surrender their dream to provide her with the medicine she needed, and most importantly, so she wouldn't have to worry when the next seizure would hit her. But I couldn't think of one place in the Bible where a leper said to Jesus, “Hey there, my life and the lives of my family would sure improve if you healed me. It's getting harder and harder to find enough rags to cover my open sores, and I'm so lonely. My
friends are afraid of me.” Jesus never asked a blind man to justify his healing before he spoke the word to restore his sight, and the woman who reached out to touch the hem of his garment, she never uttered a word, not until she was asked. Nope, people asked for healing and Jesus did it.

I painted an oily line down her arms, being careful to cover the backs of her hands, and then I dipped my thumb in the oil and drew it across her forehead, cheeks, and chin. For good measure, I dabbed the tip of her elfin nose. “Jesus, heal Feather just because you can. Amen.”

Feather's eyes popped open. “That's it?”

“That's it.”

“I didn't feel nothing.”

“Most people don't.”

“Shouldn't I thank him or something?”

“Yeah, that would be good.”

Feather sat up, threw back her head, and raised her arms to heaven. “Thanks a lot, God.” She slid out of bed and ran out the door. As she passed the nurse's station, she yelled, “I've been healed! I've been healed!” The nurses laid down charts, hung up telephone receivers without saying good-bye, and followed Feather to the waiting room where Butter rubbed her eyes and Vernon slept.

“We can go home now,” Feather announced. “I'm healed by Jesus.”

Then I knew why the elders of Spruce Street Church were reluctant to pray for people outside the church: They actually expected their prayers to be answered.