Ties That Bind. Marie Bostwick
hesitated before following the others through the door. Sensing a presence, I looked down the hall to see a man with gray hair and black-rimmed glasses who was taking off a blood-spattered lab coat while the nurse in the cranberry sweater stood behind, holding out a clean one, guiding his arms into the left sleeve, then the right, before nodding her head toward me, toward me and the door of the room I dreaded to enter.
12
Philippa
I stood with my back against a pistachio-colored wall, taking a moment to catch my breath while Margot and her parents were in one of the administrative offices, filling out paperwork. My cell phone went off, vibrating in my pocket and making me jump. Looking down at the screen, I was happy to see the words “Mom and Dad.”
Mom was on the kitchen phone and Dad on the bedroom extension. They’d called to wish me merry Christmas and get the reviews on my sermon, but I didn’t want to talk about that. The only thing on my mind was the Matthews family.
“It was so awful. She was alive when the ambulance arrived, but there was nothing they could do. Apparently, the car skidded off the road and over an embankment. It was a back road, not very well traveled. They think she was trying to take a shortcut so she’d get there faster. There’s no way of knowing for sure how long the car was down there before someone noticed the broken guardrail and stopped to investigate. Could have been hours. Anyway, by the time they found her …”
“Oh, that poor family,” my mother murmured. “To lose a child and a grandchild …”
“No,” I corrected her. “Only Mari was killed. The granddaughter is alive. At least for now. The doctor didn’t offer much hope of her surviving the night.”
“Have they seen her yet?”
“She’s in intensive care. They have strict rules about visitors. I don’t suppose it makes any difference. She’s unconscious.”
“Even unconscious people are sometimes aware of the presence of others,” my father said. “If the worst happens, it would be a great comfort to the family to see her now. At least they’d have the memory of seeing their granddaughter alive, and knowing she died surrounded by people who love her.
“Encourage the doctors to let them see her, Pippa,” he continued, using his pet name for me. “A minister can have a lot of influence inside the walls of a hospital.”
“True,” I said, remembering how a quick flash of my white collar got Margot and her folks past the security desk. “I’ll do that. But I feel at such a loss. Acing three sections of systematic theology does not prepare you for something like this. I feel like I’m flying by the seat of my pants here ….”
“Get used to it. The feeling never really goes away. Just don’t try to come up with any words of wisdom,” my father cautioned. “That’s the last thing they need or are prepared to hear right now. Just be there for this family. That’s all for now. Later, things will get more complicated. Death, especially of an adult child, always comes with baggage. But you can do this, Pippa. If not, God wouldn’t have put you there.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Call and give us an update when you can. In the meantime, we’ll be praying.”
I heard the sound of urgent footsteps coming down the corridor and looked up to see the nurse in the cranberry sweater, Polly, coming toward me. “Hey, I have to go, but I’ll call you later. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” they chorused. I ended the call just as Polly reached me, a little out of breath.
“Father Clarkson …” She stopped herself and shook her head. “Sorry, I’m Catholic. Your collar keeps throwing me. Reverend Clarkson, I think you’d better come down to the office.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“I don’t know. A policeman came looking for the Matthews family. He’s talking to them right now. I just thought you might want to be there.”
13
Margot
How long did my sister lie dying at the bottom of that snowy ravine, shivering as the snowflakes, softly treacherous, fell on the car, covering the evidence of her peril in a shroud of white while, only miles away, everyone walked on eggshells as Dad chewed his ice and called her inconsiderate and irresponsible and I hid out in the kitchen, thinking the same thing? How long? Minutes? Hours?
Olivia knows, but she can’t tell me. Her tiny body is small and still under the white hospital sheet. Her thin chest rises and falls with the mechanical regularity of a metronome, the pace of her breathing dictated by the ventilator.
She barely knows me. I’m not even sure she knows my voice, and I don’t want to distress her, cause her to wonder, even in a twilight moment of semiconsciousness, why a stranger is in her room, so I say nothing. Careful not to disturb the needles, I hold her hand, hoping she’ll think I am Mari and rest easier, believing her mother is at her bedside. If she wakes, though the doctors continue to tell me there is little chance that she will, someone will have to tell her what happened. Me, I suppose. I can count on my fingers the number of times I’ve been in the same room with my niece. Even so, I’m responsible for her now.
I don’t know how much time elapsed between the moment Mari’s car skidded off the road and help arrived, but it was time enough for my sister to realize the seriousness of the situation, to confront the reality of death, and in a lurching and painful scrawl, to scratch out a note leaving her child to me, a note that went unnoticed until the battered body of Mari’s car was dragged up the embankment and the tow truck driver notified the police of his discovery.
When they told me about the note and what it said, I didn’t know what to think, or say, or do. I heard the words, but couldn’t respond to them, as if I, too, were trapped in some twilight sleep, unable to move, or believe, or understand why this was happening.
Is this my fault?
I wanted a child desperately. But not like this. Not in exchange for my sister’s life. Not a child I am afraid to love, a child who will be mine only for an hour, a day, or two, who will slip away without recognizing my voice or seeing my face, and whose death will burn a brand of guilt into my heart forever.
I didn’t mean it to turn out like this.
I want to wake up. I want to wind back the clock to yesterday and beyond, to find the moment where everything went so wrong, before the arguments and accusations, the jealousy and judgments, the thoughtless words, the icy patches, the skidding tires, the fall, the silence, the sirens, and the silence again, the terrible, terrible silence that will never be broken now.
I want to wake up. I want everyone to wake up.
14
Philippa
I’ve only been in New Bern for a week, but I’m on a first-name basis with much of the hospital staff. Cheryl was working the security desk when I arrived. When I reached into my purse in search of my driver’s license, she waved me off.
“Don’t need it, Reverend,” she said and pulled a laminated tag out of her desk drawer. “My supervisor said to make you a permanent I.D. badge. Now you won’t have to waste time talking to me anymore.”
“Thanks,” I said, slipping the chain with the badge hanging from it around my neck. “But I don’t consider talking with you a waste of time. How’s your family?”
Her face lit up. “Great! Rich got called back for a second interview. Thanks for praying, Reverend. We sure could use the income.”
“When’s the interview?”
“Thursday at two.”
I pulled a notebook out of my purse, the one I use to keep track of people’s prayer requests, and jotted down the information. “Thursday. Two o’clock. I’ll be