finished a second cup of coffee, enjoying the luxury of lingering over it as she read the newspapers that had been delivered to the door.
At ten fifteen, she was in the cathedral, kneeling in a pew toward the front left side of the main altar, the area that her father had always chosen. Yesterday at this time, I was in St. Vincent’s listening to Father Dunlap eulogize Olivia Morrow, then talk about me. No one could help, and I guess no one ever will. I know what I was trying to remember that had to do with Sally, she suddenly recalled: it’s that I told Susan Gannon Sally almost didn’t make it.
It wasn’t by a miracle or the power of prayer that Sally survived. The reason is that the kid who was her babysitter was smart enough to bring her to the hospital in time, and that we had the medicine to save her.
The choir was singing, “I have heard you calling in the night.” I guess I’ve answered enough calls in the night, Monica thought wryly. I went to that beatification hearing, and testified that there had to be some medical reason why Michael O’Keefe is still alive. When Ryan saw the file, he said that there was absolutely no way Michael’s brain tumor wasn’t terminal. Ryan’s a neurosurgeon. I’m not, but I am a good pediatrician. I know perfectly well there are no medical facts that justify Michael’s recovery. Sister Catherine spent her life taking care of disabled children. She opened seven hospitals for them. I’m proud of myself that I was there for Sally, and that I helped Carlos to beat the leukemia.
I took an oath that I was testifying about the case to the best of my ability and knowledge. Am I being stubbornly blind? I need to see Michael. It’s been three years. I want to see him again.
Monica tried to focus on the Mass, but her thoughts kept drifting. The O’Keefes had moved to Mamaroneck from their Manhattan apartment shortly after Michael was diagnosed with brain cancer. It was only when Michael seemed to be fully recovered that they had triumphantly brought him back to her office…
“Go in peace, the Mass is ended,” the Archbishop pronounced.
As Monica left the cathedral, the choir was singing “Joyful, joyful, we adore thee.” She fumbled for her cell phone and dialed information. The O’Keefes’ phone number was listed. She dialed it and the call was picked up on the first ring. “This is Dr. Monica Farrell,” she said, “is this Mrs. O’Keefe?”
“Yes, it is,” a warm voice responded. “It’s nice to hear from you, Doctor.”
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Keefe. I’m calling because I am very anxious to see Michael again. Would you mind if I came up to visit you? I promise I won’t stay long.”
“That’s absolutely fine. We’re home all day. Do you want to come this afternoon?”
“I’d very much like to come this afternoon.”
“Has it anything to do with Sister Catherine’s beatification?”
“It has everything to do with it,” Monica said quietly.
“Then come right up. Will you be driving yourself?”
“Yes.”
“We look forward to seeing you, Dr. Monica. Isn’t it funny that a neurosurgeon, Dr. Ryan Jenner, was here only yesterday afternoon? He also wanted to meet Michael before he speaks to the beatification committee. What a wonderful person he is. I’m sure you must know him?”
Monica felt a stab of pain. “Yes, I do,” she said quietly. “I know him quite well.”
Two hours later, Monica was in Mamaroneck having a sandwich and coffee with Richard and Emily O’Keefe. Michael, their energetic eight-year-old son, had politely visited with Monica and had answered her questions with only a tinge of restlessness. He told her that his favorite sport was baseball, but that in the winter he liked to go skiing with his father. He never, ever felt dizzy, the way he used to when he was real sick.
“His last MRI was only three months ago,” Emily told Monica. “It was absolutely clear. They’ve all been perfect after that first year.” She smiled at her son, who was now fidgeting. “I know. You want to go to Kyle’s. It’s okay, but Dad will walk you over there, and he’ll pick you up later.”
Michael broke into a grin, revealing two missing front teeth. “Thanks, Mom. It’s nice to see you again, Dr. Farrell,” he said. “Mom told me that you really helped me to get better.” He turned and scampered out of the dining room.
Richard O’Keefe got to his feet. “Wait up, Mike,” he called.
After they were gone, Monica protested, “Mrs. O’Keefe, I didn’t help Michael get better.”
“You certainly did. You recognized what it was. You told us straight out to get other consultations, but that he was terminal. That was when I knew I needed to beg for a miracle.”
“Why did you choose to pray to Sister Catherine in particular?”
“My great-aunt was a nurse in one of her hospitals. I remember her telling me when I was a little girl that she had worked with a nun who was like an angel. She told me that you would think every child she held in her arms was her own. She would comfort them and pray over them. My great-aunt was convinced that Sister Catherine had been gifted from God with a special power of healing, that she had an aura about her that words couldn’t describe, and that everyone who was in her presence felt it, too. When you told us that Michael was going to die, my first thought was of Sister Catherine.”
“I remember,” Monica said quietly. “I felt such pity for you because I knew there was just no hope for Michael.”
Emily O’Keefe smiled. “And you still don’t believe in miracles, do you, Monica? In fact, didn’t you come here believing that no matter how well he seems, and no matter how clean his tests, that the tumor could come back someday?”
‘Yes, I did,” Monica said, reluctantly.
“Why can’t you believe in miracles, Monica? What makes you so certain that they don’t happen?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to believe, but as I testified to the beatification committee, I know from my medical training that throughout history events have occurred that seem to be miracles, but in reality they have a scientific explanation that just wasn’t understood at the time.”
“Have any of those events ever included a little boy whose massive and malignant brain tumor completely disappeared?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Monica, Dr. Jenner is one of several respected neurosurgeons who are testifying that there is no medical or scientific explanation for Michael’s recovery. I don’t know whether you realize it, but it will be a long time before the Church itself concludes that this was a miracle. They will follow Michael’s medical status for many years.” Then Emily O’Keefe smiled. “We had pretty much this same conversation yesterday with Dr. Jenner. He told us he believed that in twenty years or fifty years there will still be no scientific explanation for Michael’s cure.”
She reached for Monica’s hand and held it, gently. “Monica, I hope that you don’t think I’m overreaching, but I do very much sense that you are conflicted. And also that you are ready to accept the possibility that Sister Catherine intervened, and that because of her, our only child is with us now.”
59
Esther Chambers devoured the newspapers over the weekend with a combination of shock and disbelief. The fact that Peter Gannon had been arrested for the murder of his former girlfriend seemed to her absolutely incredible. Greg is the one who has a nasty temper, she thought. I’d believe it of him, but never of Peter. And the fact that Peter was the father of a baby girl who was in the hospital, a baby Peter had never seen, sickened her.
Poor little tyke, she thought. Her mother’s dead, her father’s in jail, and if these articles can be believed, none of her mother’s relatives are looking to claim her.
Greg’s public relations firm had issued the statement to the press saying that the family was standing behind Peter and believed he would be vindicated. I hope so, too, Esther thought. Peter spends the foundation money like water, but he’s basically a decent human being. In my wildest dreams I cannot imagine him strangling that woman and stuffing her into a garbage bag.
She deliberately went to work early on Monday to avoid having to face the other employees and hear the gossip that she knew would be sweeping the office. But when she settled at her desk, Esther realized that her hands were trembling. She knew that by now Arthur Saling must have read the warning she had mailed to him. Would Greg
