Full of Grace

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  I saw Father John’s jaw twitch, which told me he was trying to figure out what to say, knowing this was a deadly situation.

  “And what is the next step?”

  “He gets another MRI soon and they watch him very carefully for the next two years.”

  “And I assume he’s happy with his doctors?”

  “Well, Michael is actually a doctor at the medical university, so he knows who to go to, but yes, he’s pleased with them. Very much so. At least, so far!” I chuckled a little. “Gallows humor.”

  “Right, good one! Well, let’s hope he stays healthy and lives to be an old man with grandchildren bouncing on his knee.”

  That remark gave me pause, and thinking I had nothing to lose, I said, “Father, can I ask you a question?”

  “Fire away.”

  “What is the Church’s position on in vitro fertilization or artificial insemination?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  He smiled warmly and it appeared that he might give me some ammunition I could use if I had to take on the Russos and the Vatican over the coming holiday.

  “Well, first, there’s the greater issue. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Sure, that would be great.”

  He rang for his housekeeper and asked her to make a fresh pot and to see if maybe there wasn’t a cookie or two to be found.

  “This time of day I always need a little something to keep me going. I have the rosary society tonight and I need my energy!”

  I nodded and he continued.

  “We’re talking about a married couple that wants a child and their inability, for whatever reason, to conceive a child. Am I correct?”

  “Yes. Let’s assume they are Catholic, too.”

  “Okay. Well, a child conceived in marriage is a gift from God, not a piece of property like a new car. The Church also teaches that husbands and wives have the right to give themselves to each other, and that in and by that marital act, they may receive the gift of a new life.”

  “That’s pretty archaic, don’t you think?”

  “No, why?”

  “Because modern medicine can give families children.”

  Father John had a good chuckle. The coffee arrived with a plate of Pepperidge Farm Milanos.

  The coffee looked murderous, so I said, “A little milk, please? Thanks,” I said to his housekeeper, who poured for both of us and then left the room.

  “Grace, this is a complicated matter and the answer you would get today would very much depend on whom you asked and what the details were of the case. Each couple has their own unique set of complicated issues. I guess my question to you is this. Of all the many things you could ask a priest, why ask this particular question?”

  “Good question, and I guess you have me on the ropes, a little bit anyway.” I saw that the words I spoke seemed to be more thoughtful when I was in Father John’s company. I didn’t want to play gotcha! with this man. I wanted to have an intelligent discussion about the ethics of living and the Church’s position on the mix of faith and science. Besides, I had a sneaking suspicion that he could beat me at gotcha! any day of the week.

  “Well?” he said, and took a cookie.

  “How much time do you have?” I asked, and smiled at him.

  “Until seven-thirty tonight and then the rest of my life.”

  “Well, here it is, then.”

  I told him about my family and how I had grown up in an Italian Catholic parish in Bloomfield, New Jersey. We talked about Nonna and how she claimed to see Nonno all the time, how they drove me crazy and decorated my room from Catholic.com.

  He laughed. “She really might see her dead husband. Who knows?”

  “Well, she does manage to make extremely reliable predictions after one of his visitations. And she says she inherited this ability from her mother, and that when she dies, my mother will get the curse, and when she goes, guess who’s next?”

  He cleared his throat with no small amount of skepticism. “Then, Grace, it is conceivable that during my lifetime you will inherit this blessing or curse of second sight.”

  “Maybe, but I think it’s a bunch of bull.”

  “You’ll let me know?”

  “Yeah, we’ll stay in touch. Anyway, then there’s my father…”

  We talked about Big Al and the way he discounted my mother’s opinions and made her feel like a servant and how I had always suspected that he ran around on her because he was such a horrible flirt. That was one reason why I wasn’t so excited about marriage. Then I told him that my parents didn’t even want to know Michael.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s Irish?”

  He threw his cupped hands up and fanned them toward his shoulders as if to say, Come on, we both know there’s more.

  “Okay, but if I come clean with you, I don’t want any judgmental, you know, attitude from your side of the cookie dish, okay?” That was about as delicately as I had ever said anything to anyone and I was rather proud of myself. I took two cookies as a reward and he smiled as if he already knew my thoughts.

  “We live together.”

  His elbows were on the arms of the chairs, his fingers looped together, he was leaning slightly forward, and he was waiting for the rest.

  “He’s not exactly a practicing Catholic and in his career he does embryonic stem-cell research.” The second part of that revelation sped out at about eighty miles an hour.

  Father John burst out laughing and clapped his hands, which was pretty much the same reaction I’d had from my brother Frank.

  “Whoo-hoo!” he said. “You’re a pip, Grace!”

  “A pip. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” I laughed, too.

  “More?”

  “Yeah, one last thing…” I told him about the frozen sperm and his face became more solemn.

  “Listen, Grace, here’s the thing. At the end of life on this earth, we are all accountable to God. In many situations, we have to make decisions based on our conscience and don’t have the opportunity or even the thought to run haywire and consult a member of the clergy before we act. A clear conscience is of utmost importance. The trick is not to rationalize your decisions knowing they displease God.”

  “I agree with that. And I think our ability to rationalize anything is pretty scary.”

  “Exactly!” he said, and pointed a knowing finger at me. “Let’s tackle just a couple of these issues. Stem-cell research? Science will find a way to make stem cells without cloning. I follow this field because I have a great interest in it.”

  “Me, too. Well, sort of. Michael’s mother is in the final stages of Alzheimer’s and I think Michael would’ve given everything he has to be a part of a team that could’ve cured it or got closer to a cure. Or even just, I don’t know, improved the quality of the last days of her life.”

  “Alzheimer’s is a cruel customer,” he said. “But back to alternative ways of conceiving children…I think the Church’s major area of concern has always been that children are begotten not made. Is it right to make children in a laboratory setting just because we can? Well, all the great thinkers of the Church have examined this question and have sanctioned two procedures. But the methods of those therapies are so close to the ones you asked about that I think it almost becomes moral and ethical nitpicking to say that one is fine and the other is not. Does this make sense to you?”

  This time I was the one on the edge of my seat. “You have no idea how much sense you make. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I agree with every word you said. Listen, are you available for Thanksgiving?”

  “Oh, thank you, but I—”

  “No! Of course you have plans! But I was just thinking how much I would love to have this conversation at my parents’ table with you at my side.”

  “Don’t you think your parents would be a little shocked if you brought home a priest?”

  “Yeah, just a little. Ha!” I stood to go. “Thank you for the chat, the cookies and the coffee.
And the tape. I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving, Father.”

  He walked me to the door. “Happy Thanksgiving to you and Michael, Grace, and to your family also. I’ll say a prayer for Michael’s mother, too.”

  “Thanks, Father. Prayer can’t hurt and it might do some good. Who knows?”

  “I have the feeling that you will, Grace. You will.”

  Oh, whatever, I thought, and in the next instant had second thoughts about my cynicism. I shouldn’t discount Father John’s prayers. I had been pleasantly surprised to hear that the Church had grappled with the issues. I always thought they just said no to everything. But the current conclusion on conception wasn’t the only point. The weighing of the morality and ethics was just as important. Father John only barely represented the Church I had grown up in. The Church I had known was the one that Nonna had known. Who died and made her the pope? Maybe I didn’t know the Church at all. Maybe Michael didn’t either.

  I walked home in the late-afternoon drizzle, stopping at Harris Teeter for a turkey breast and the other things I needed to make our small Thanksgiving-eve dinner. The dark side of me had a fleeting thought that Michael was being a martyr to insist on spending the day with his mother. But just that morning Michael said he thought he had worn me out from all his illness and he wanted me to go enjoy the holiday with my family. I had not seen them in some time.

  “Seriously, Grace. I think a couple of days with them would do you a lot of good. I’m just going to go out to Summerville and see what I can do for my mother.”

  “But I really don’t mind telling my family I can’t come for Thursday. I can drive over on Saturday and spend the night.”

  “That’s not right. Look, your brother and his whole family are coming, and if they can, so can you. What do you think I would give to have some other relatives around here? A lot. Go! You’ll enjoy it!”

  I said, “Enjoy being with that whole crazy crew?”

  “Sorry,” he said with a sly smile.

  “I’m not sure anyone ever really enjoys family holidays.”

  “Sorry,” he said again, and chuckled.

  “Sure, you laugh. Go ahead. Look, you tolerate the crazies—Nonna. You try to keep the egomaniacs on the other side of the room—that would be Nicky and Marianne. You seek out the ones you really want to talk to—and that’s Frank and Regina. But enjoy?”

  “No, huh?”

  “Are you serious? At Connie and Big Al’s table? It’s kind of like climbing Mount Everest. You’re glad you survived it, but you would never recommend it to a friend.”

  “I’m sure. By the way,” Michael said, “Larry volunteered to shuttle me back and forth to Summerville so we don’t have to worry about me driving alone.”

  “Good, sweetheart, but you know Papenburg said that there’s no real medical reason you can’t drive.”

  “I’ll start driving again, Grace,” he said. “I just want to feel ready and I’m not ready yet.”

  “Well then, don’t. I don’t think anybody should drive who doesn’t feel comfortable behind the wheel. Don’t worry about it.”

  I was going to Hilton Head to please Michael and making this early Thanksgiving dinner to please myself.

  That afternoon, when Michael arrived at home, the turkey was in the oven and almost done. Between the gravy and the roasting meat, the creamy corn pudding I had made and the lingering aroma of onions and celery, the house smelled wonderful. One whiff and he was immediately in a good mood.

  The table was set with little pumpkins and gourds and fall-colored candles. The cloth was deep red, the napkins were rust, and the plates were gold. A little trip to Williams-Sonoma and I had a molded glass turkey to hold my cranberry sauce and seasoned focaccia croutons for the stuffing. The house, the table—it looked terrific and smelled like heaven, even if I said so myself.

  “Hey! My woman!” Michael said. “Look what I brought us.”

  He gave me a sloppy, noisy kiss, a grope here and there and handed me a shopping bag.

  “Somebody’s in a good mood. Thanks! What’s this?” I unwrapped two hand-carved painted wooden Pilgrims and a little turkey. “Michael! They’re precious!” I put them on the table and suddenly it was Thanksgiving.

  “And look what else I got,” he said, and held up another bag.

  “Dom Pérignon? Wow! What are we celebrating? Did you win the lottery?”

  “Wise guy. I’ll tell you in a minute,” he said, and took the bottle to the sink to pop the cork. I handed him two champagne glasses; he filled them and handed one to me. He raised his and said, “To us, Grace! I was thinking today. You do so much to make my life happier and better in every single way. I just wanted to say thank you. And that I love you. And—and this is the big and—this is the last holiday we are spending apart from each other. Oh, and one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Happy Thanksgiving, I’m alive.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart. I agree! Big Al and Connie will just have to deal.”

  I filled a plate for Michael and he devoured it. I could see him eyeballing the turkey and everything else on the stove.

  “A little more?”

  “Sure. Just a little. So tell me some more about this priest you met.”

  “Well, it’s just that he’s a very cool guy. He isn’t a priest like the ones I knew growing up—the ones who truly started the Goth movement. I mean, maybe they were cool, too, but they didn’t seem like it to me. Anything’s possible. You want gravy?”

  “Drown me with it. A cool priest? So this guy is getting excommunicated when?”

  “Very funny. Listen, between us, I made the fatal mistake of mentioning to my mom that we froze sperm in case of an emergency and she went a little off-the-wall, as expected, because—”

  “Oh, great.”

  “No, listen to me. This priest, Father John, had no problem with it.”

  “Yeah, as long as they stay in the freezer.”

  “Not so.”

  “Look, Grace, we’ve talked about children and marriage before, but I think I should tell you that I’m still not ready for that kind of commitment.”

  A million thoughts ran through my head.

  “Who’s asking for a commitment?”

  “I love you and you know that.”

  “And I love you, too. Anyway, Father John says he’s not against stem-cell research because he says he thinks that scientists will figure out how to make stem cells without making anything that could ever become an embryo. Did I say that right?”

  “Yeah, oddly enough.” Michael smirked and shook his head. “How does he know about that?”

  “I told you. He’s a smart man.”

  “Well, he reads the paper anyway. Actually, there’s a whole deal in Boston going on right now where they remove the genes from an adult cell, then add the altered cell to an egg. That can’t grow into an embryo, but it can grow stem cells.”

  “Aha! Whatever that means that you said.”

  “No cloned embryo, no ethical problem? Getting the eggs is the problem at this point. But they’ll figure that out pretty soon.”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Naturally I was thinking that I would love to see them figure it out before Michael’s cancer decided to come back and try again to kill him.

  “Well, why don’t you go pack and take a shower and I’ll do the dishes,” he said.

  “You are the perfect man,” I said. “Is there any more champagne?”

  “You can have mine,” he said.

  “Thanks. I’ll just take a sip.” I got up to clear our plates and he grabbed my skirt.

  “What’s on your mind, Mr. Wonderful?”

  “Dessert.”

  “I bought a pumpkin pie?”

  “Hate pumpkin.”

  So he didn’t do the dishes right away. Anyone have a problem with that? No.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  GOBBLE IT UP


  I left a lemon tea cake and a loaf of pumpkin bread on the counter for you to take to the nurses at the nursing home,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”

  From the hinterland of our sheets and blankets came this response: “Okay. Thanks. Love you. Be careful.”

  All the way to Hilton Head I thought about Michael and how relieved I was that his treatments were in our past and not our future. Maybe he really was well. The chemotherapy had worn him to a frazzle, but he was rapidly becoming himself again. The color of his complexion was better, his appetite was normal, and his general, um, stamina was in check. Maybe they really had been able to remove the whole tumor and kill off any leftover cancer cells. God, I hoped so. More than anything.

  If it were possible to heal a terminally ill person based on the strength of sheer will, between my stubbornness and Michael’s submission to the hell days of science and medicine that he had been through, he would never even suffer a hangnail for the rest of his days.

  I was on the outskirts of the island before I knew it, but then I had been doing a lot of daydreaming. It was so funny to be in an almost tropical environment for Thanksgiving. There were palmettos galore on either side of the highway, and as soon as I crossed the bridge onto the island, egrets and great blue herons were everywhere. The marsh grass was turning brown, and if I hadn’t known better, I would have said it was a field of mink. It was beautiful but still foreign. But it was home now because my parents and grandmother were there and it was where we all got together. It would never feel as familiar as Bloomfield, but that said something about the power of childhood to leave its imprint on you forever.

  I remembered Thanksgivings in New Jersey when the weather was cold and I was so little I couldn’t fill my own plate. Nicky and I had existed in our own world of turkeys made from tracings of the outlines of our hands, colored in with crayons and taped on Mom’s walls, and after dinner we fought over the wishbone. At Christmas we covered her living-room windows with angels, reindeer and Santas created with artificial snow, sprayed through stencils. We made paper chains for the tree and potholders for gifts and stole bits of fruitcake soaked in rum and pretended to be drunk. But then I hit puberty, Nicky became a jerk, Frank went to college, and those days were gone forever. And now here we were, years later, still trying to breathe life back into our childhood by getting together and practicing our family’s rituals.