“I’m coming,” said Randall grumpily. “I want it noted for the record that this family is now following the advice of a thirteen-year-old girl!”
“That’s not true,” said Lily. “We all want to do it. Randall, please help us. Please don’t be trouble at this time.”
They went out en masse, moving through the shadowy hall. Mona had never liked this elevator. It was too small, too dusty, too old and too powerful and it went too fast. She followed the two old men inside, helping Fielding to the one chair in the corner, a small wooden antique chair with a cane seat. Then she pulled shut the door, clanged the gate and pressed the button. She put her hand on Fielding’s shoulder. “Remember, it stops with a jolt.”
There came the slamming halt as predicted.
“Damn thing,” muttered Fielding. “Typical of Stella, to get an elevator strong enough to take people to the top of the American Bank.”
“There is no more American Bank,” said Randall.
“Well, you know what I mean,” said Fielding. “Don’t be short-tempered with me. This isn’t my idea. I think it’s ridiculous. Why don’t we go out to Metairie and try to raise Gifford from the dead?”
Mona helped Fielding to stand and position his cane. “The American Bank used to be the tallest building in New Orleans,” he said to Mona.
“I know,” she answered. She hadn’t known, but that was the best way to stop that line of conversation cold.
When they came into the master bedroom, the others were already assembled. Michael was with them, standing with arms folded in the far corner looking down at Rowan’s unchanged face.
The blessed candles were burning on the bedside table nearest the door. The Virgin was there. Probably Aunt Bea did this, thought Mona-these candles, this Virgin with her bowed head, white veil, tiny plaster hands outstretched. Gifford certainly would have done it, if she had been around.
No one said a word. Finally Mona spoke.
“I think the nurses need to go out.”
“Well, just what are you going to do in here,” said the younger nurse crossly, a sallow woman with blond hair parted in the middle beneath her stiff starched cap. She was nunlike in her sterility and cleanliness. She glanced at the older nurse, a dark-faced black woman who spoke not a word.
“We’re going to lay hands on her and try to heal her,” said Paige Mayfair. “It probably won’t do any good, but we all have this gift. We are going to try.”
“I don’t know if you should do this!” said the young nurse distrustfully.
But then the older black woman shook her head negatively, and gestured to let it all go by.
“Go on out, both of you,” said Michael in a quiet commanding voice.
The nurses left.
Mona closed the door.
“It’s so strange,” said Lily. “This is like being from a family of great musicians, yet not knowing how to read music, not even knowing how to carry a tune.”
Only Paige Mayfair seemed unembarrassed, the one from away, the one who hadn’t grown up in the shadow of First Street, hearing people answer each other’s thoughts as easily as each other’s words.
Paige laid her small leather pocketbook on the floor, and came to the bed. “Turn out the lights, except for the candles.”
“That’s nonsense,” said Fielding.
“I prefer it that way,” said Paige. “I prefer that there will be no distractions.” Then she looked down at Rowan, studying her slowly from her smooth forehead down to the feet poking straight up beneath the sheet. Paige’s face looked sad, deliberately sad and thoughtful.
“This is useless,” said Fielding. He was obviously finding it difficult to remain standing.
Mona tugged him over closer to the bed. “Here, lean on the mattress,” she said, trying not to be impatient. “I’ve got your arm. Lay your hand on her. One hand will do it.”
“No, both hands, please,” said Paige.
“Absolute idiocy!” said Fielding.
The others closed in around the bed. Michael stepped back but then Lily gestured that he must join them too. They all laid their hands on Rowan, Fielding tilting forward at a precarious angle, his labored breathing audible, a little cough collecting in his wattled throat.
Mona felt Rowan’s soft pale arm. She had laid her fingers right on the bruises. What had caused them? Had he grabbed Rowan and shaken her? You could almost see the marks of the fingers. Mona laid her own fingers on top of the marks.
“Heal, Rowan,” said Randall in a deep decisive voice.
Finally the disgruntled murmur came from Fielding. “Heal, child, if the power is within you. Heal. Heal. Heal.”
When Mona opened her eyes again she saw that, Michael was crying. He was holding Rowan’s right hand tight in both of his. He was whispering the word along with all of them. Mona closed her eyes and said it again.
“Come on, Rowan! Heal!”
Moments passed as they remained there. Moments passed in which this or that one whispered, or stirred, or clasped the flesh more tightly or patted it. Lily laid her hand on Rowan’s forehead. Michael bent to kiss Rowan’s head.
It was Paige finally who said that they had done what they could do.
“Has she had the Last Sacraments?” asked Fielding.
“Yes, at the hospital, before the surgery,” said Lauren. “But she is not going to die. She is holding steady. She is in a deep coma. And she could go on like that for days.”
Michael had turned his back on the assembly. Silently, they slipped out of the room.
In the living room, Lauren and Lily poured the coffee. Mona set out the sugar and the cream. It was still pitch-dark outside, wintry, still.
The great clock chimed five. Paige looked at it, as if startled. And then dropped her eyes.
“What do you think?” asked Randall. “She’s not dying,” said Paige. “But there is absolutely no response. At least none that I could feel.”
“None,” said Lily.
“Well, we tried it,” said Mona. “That’s the important thing. We tried.”
She went out of the double parlor into the hallway. For a moment she thought she saw Michael at the top of the stairs. But it was just the nurse passing. The house creaked and rustled as it always did. She hurried up, deliberately on tiptoe, trying not to play the stairs like musical keys.
The bedside lamp had been lighted again. The candle flames were lost in the brash yellow illumination.
Mona wiped her eyes and took Rowan’s hand. Her own hand was snaking. “Heal, Rowan!” she said. “Heal, Rowan! Heal! You’re not dying, Rowan! Heal!”
Michael put his arms around her, kissed her cheek.
She didn’t turn away. “Heal, Rowan,” she said. I’m sorry I did it with him. I’m sorry. “Heal, please,” she whispered, “what good is it all…the heritage, the money, any of it…if we can’t…if we can’t heal?”
It must have been six-thirty when Mona made the resolve. There would be a Mayfair Medical. It would happen just as Rowan had planned.
Mona had taken a wool blanket with her out under the oak tree, before the guest house, and she was sitting there on the dry blanket, watching the morning shimmer in the wetness around her, the fresh light green leaves of the bananas, the crinkled elephant ears, the ginger lilies, the green moss on the bricks. The sky was violet now just as it might be at sunset, something she witnessed far more often than dawn.
A guard slept in a straight-backed chair at the garden gate. Another walked back and forth on the other side
