Full of Grace

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Thanks, Mrs. R!”

  “And I’m going to make you a chocolate coconut cake tonight!”

  “Thanks, Mrs. R!”

  Dad went on to say he would save his best whiskey for Michael so they could share a drink and go over the story again, just the two of them, man-to-man. By the time we hung up with them, we were both ready to sleep for twelve hours.

  Then my cell phone rang. It was Father John.

  “Father? You will not believe what I am going to tell you.”

  “Yes, I will. I can hear it in your voice! Congratulations! I am absolutely thrilled for both of you, but obviously, especially for Michael. It’s a stunning miracle.”

  “How can we thank you?”

  “I’m not the one you two should thank, Miss Grace, and I think you know what I am talking about.”

  “I do, Father, and we should discuss this. Michael says he thinks we should get back in the Church. You know, go to confession and the whole nine yards.”

  “Grace, my door is always open. But hear your confession? Let me know in advance so I can pack lunch! Ha!”

  “Oh, brother,” I said, and groaned. “Here, Michael wants to talk to you, too.”

  “Good. That’s good. But why don’t you both come by this weekend? Say Sunday morning at eleven?”

  “You mean, come to Mass?”

  “Yeah, something like that. We can have coffee afterward, if you’d like.”

  “That’s sounds great. Here’s Michael.”

  It was not meant to be because when I picked up the house phone, I heard the broken dial-tone signal that meant there was a message. It was from Nonna. I called her back.

  This time she whispered. “You’re coming for your father’s birthday dinner, aren’t you? And you’re bringing Michael, aren’t you?”

  “When is it?”

  “I’m cooking! I haven’t cooked since I fell on your mother’s wet floor.”

  “Well, wonderful. You’re the world’s greatest cook, Nonna.” I thought that she would blame my mother for all of eternity.

  “Thank you. We’re celebrating it this Saturday night. I need you to get the roast beef for me from that nice Italian butcher down there—what’s his name?”

  “The Real New York Butcher, Nonna. He’s Bill. You want me to bring bread?”

  “Two loaves, and if he’s got fresh moot-za-rell…”

  I made a list of what she wanted. Michael had stepped outside to talk to Father John on the cell and came back inside after he hung up.

  “Call him back, hon. Tell him we’re going to be in Hilton Head. It’s Big Al’s birthday party that they’re having a week early. Ask him for a rain check.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m gonna wash my face.”

  “Go ahead.”

  I went upstairs to the bathroom and rubbed a cold washcloth all over my face. It felt so good. Then I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, Girl? What have you got now? You got your smart sassy self an obligation to the Blessed Mother herself. How are you going to handle that?

  “I’ll get help. I’ll ask Father John what to do,” I said to my reflection.

  “He said, No problem. Give your family my best. Family comes first. And could he give you a letter to take to your father to thank him again for the hotel rooms?”

  “Of course.”

  I was becoming a delivery service.

  The phone rang an hour later. It was Father John again.

  “Everyone has been calling me and calling me. Even the bishop. Needless to say, they all want to talk to Michael. Maybe we could arrange something with his doctor to have a little dinner? I didn’t think of it until after we hung up.”

  “I think Michael would enjoy that. Hold on. I’ll get him.”

  I called Frank and Regina next.

  “I heard! Connie and Big Al called,” Regina said. “Hang on, I gotta turn down the television.” I could hear her yelling in the background. “Don’t eat that, Paulie! It’s for your dinner!” She picked the phone up again. “Hang on. I’m gonna take this in my bedroom, where I can hear myself think.” I waited a few more minutes. She picked up her extension, put her hand over it and yelled back to her kids to hang up the other phone. Finally, there was a click and she said, “Where were we?”

  “Kids making you crazy?”

  “You have no idea. Now give me every single solitary little detail. I am so thrilled for you and Michael, you just don’t know. And your brother, too. He’s been like, ‘You don’t know, this is the only time I ever saw my kid sister in love, and if he dies she’s gonna be devastated! Oh, my God! Now he’s cured! I can’t believe it!’” She related all this information in a singsong voice that reminded me of gossiping in my high-school locker room about who said what to whom. “You two must be flipping out!”

  “Completely. I mean, you have to understand that Michael didn’t ask for a miracle. He just got it. Sort of like catching the flu.”

  “What are you saying? You mean, you knew he had this recurrence and he suspected it and neither one of you were on your freaking knees in the church?”

  “Yep. Them’s the facts, ma’am. We were standing there like a couple of gringos and kaboom!”

  “Well, I hope like hell you’re on them now!”

  “I have a kneeler reserved at St. Mary’s.”

  “Good idea, kiddo. You want a lightning bolt to come out of the blue and fry your behinds?”

  “What can I tell you? I mean, it’s the most fantastic thing that has ever happened. Although, I must say, we both recognize that there’s a responsibility that comes along with a gift like this.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Michael wants to set up a foundation…”

  I told her the plan and she said, “That is a truly excellent idea. Truly excellent.”

  And before I went to bed, despite the hour, I called Bomze.

  “No, I’m not sleeping yet. Is everything all right?”

  “Better than all right, Bomze.” I told him the entire story and he gasped and gasped. Then he laughed and called out for his wife. “Darling! Do we have any champagne on ice?”

  “Anyway, Bomze, you’re the guy who got this train in motion and there is no possible way we could ever thank you enough or repay you.”

  “That’s true! Oh! Grace! We are thrilled. Just thrilled. Tell Michael I have a lawyer who will set up his foundation pro bono.”

  “Bomze? You are one in ten million. Thanks.”

  I could have just been happy that Michael was going to live. But every night after Papenburg gave us the good news, I would lie in bed, think about it and try in my heart to understand what the heavens expected from a woman like me.

  Finally, I came to the conclusion that Michael was right. We needed to make it right with God.

  Saturday morning Michael and I were in the car with the letter from Father John, eight pounds of roast beef, two loaves of bread, two balls of fresh mozzarella and a pair of summer pajamas wrapped up for my father’s gift. Michael was bringing him a book.

  “Dale Brown actually signed it for him. It’s a first edition, of course, but do you think he’ll like it?”

  “Are you kidding? He adores military thrillers!”

  For the rest of the drive, it seemed like all we talked about was Michael’s miraculous cure and, most important, how to handle it.

  Michael was right again. Our world had changed forever.

  When we arrived at my parents’ house, we went in through the front door. After all, it wasn’t a national holiday, but I was with Michael. He was company. Only family used the garage.

  Mom came to the door, took one look at Michael, burst out crying and hid her face in her hands.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so happy for you, Michael. I’m just so happy.”

  “Come on now, Mrs. R! Let me give you a hug.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Michael took my mom in his arms and hugged her for a few minutes until she stopped gushing and r
egained her composure.

  “I feel better now,” she said, and then sniffed. “Put Michael’s things in Frank’s room, Grace. Come, Michael, let me get you some coffee. Is that the roast beef? Here, I can take that. Did you eat breakfast? Or do you want a sandwich? It’s almost noon…”

  “Hello?”

  Michael Higgins, the Irish baby butcher from hell, had achieved sainthood with the Russos, during his lifetime.

  I giggled, shook my head and took Michael’s bag to Frank’s room, stopping for a moment to scan the relics of my brother’s childhood. There were Star Wars posters on the wall and all of his favorite books on the shelves. There were soccer trophies, debate-team trophies and something of which our brother Nicky could only dream: a state-champion trophy for the chess club at Rutgers. There was a picture of Frank from each graduation and a picture of him with Nonno taken on an Easter Sunday when he was maybe three years old. I picked it up. Frank was sitting on Nonno’s knee and next to them was our dog, Butchie. Frank’s little chubby hands held an Easter basket filled with candy and a stuffed duck. He was perfectly adorable.

  Our mother was such a romantic. Frank was married with nearly grown children and yet my mother had moved his room from New Jersey to here intact, just as she had moved mine. Home was home and she wanted us to know it was always waiting. And I did know that, although I knew I would never live there and Frank wouldn’t either. Nicky might. Nicky and that dimwit of his might inherit it someday when Connie and Al went to…went to, well? Heaven. If admission to heaven was based on lifelong devotion and other things like generosity, they would surely be rushed right inside.

  I dropped my bag in my room, dug out Father John’s letter, the Mexican rosaries, holy water, statue and holy cards and joined Michael and my mother in the kitchen. Nonna was there stirring her gravy and pasta hung from everywhere.

  “Hey, Nonna. How are you? It’s good to see you.”

  “Ciao, bella. Come and give me a kiss. I’m so tired I could lie down and die. I’ve been cooking for three days and I’ve been talking to your miracle man.”

  “Great! He sure is that.” I kissed Nonna’s cheek and slipped her rosary into the pocket of her apron. I said to Mom, “Where’s Dad and Nicky?”

  “What did you bring your poor old mother? Nothing? They’ll be back soon. They went to the car wash. And to get gas.”

  “Nope,” I said. “This is a letter for Dad. And I brought a statue for the house and a rosary for you, too. And put this water on any aches and pains, Nonna. It might help.” Then I handed all the things I was holding to my mom.

  She unwrapped the tissue from around the statue and sat it on the counter.

  “Is it blessed?”

  “Of course it’s blessed,” I said. “What do you think? That I’d bring you some hunk of carved wood with no soul? After what we’ve been through?”

  Mom actually giggled. “You know, Michael, my mother and I are just itching to hear everything that happened to you, but if you tell us now, you’ll have to tell it all over again when Al and Nicky get here. So give us the short version because I can’t stand the wait.”

  Michael was eating an overstuffed ham sandwich and drinking coffee. He wiped his mouth and sat back in his chair.

  “It was incredible, Mrs. R. Grace and I were taken down to the altar by this priest friend of Grace’s who she was traveling with…”

  “The one from St. Mary’s?” Mom said.

  How many priests did I know?

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Can I have a sandwich, too?” I said.

  “Sure, help yourself. The ham’s in the hydrator and the bread’s in the bread box. Now continue, Michael.”

  You may surmise that Mom wasn’t making me a sandwich. Usually she and Nonna commandeered the entire kitchen. “Aren’t you afraid I might cut myself with the knife?”

  They were all seated at the table now and completely ignored me except to say, “Shush!”

  I put the cutting board on the counter, got what I wanted from the refrigerator and started making something to eat.

  “So anyway, Father John and his friend, another priest named Father Mirenda—”

  “Monsignor,” I said, and slathered the bread with mustard.

  “Right,” Michael said. “They were explaining the story of Juan Diego to us and the whole drama of life in the sixteenth century with Montezuma and Cortés, and suddenly I felt this jolt of like, I don’t know, an electrical current? It just went all through me and my ears were buzzing like crazy and then it was over. The whole thing only lasted less than a minute. Then I felt like I was going to faint. So they all made me sit down for a few minutes, and when I stood up, I felt fine. Perfect, in fact.”

  “But you knew something was wrong again before you went to Mexico, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, I knew my cancer was growing back. I had every symptom. That’s why I had been back to my doctor and had another MRI. But I hadn’t told Grace because I didn’t have the results.”

  “But the doctor had called the house for Michael and his voice was very grim,” I said as I cut my sandwich in half. “I knew exactly what he wasn’t telling me.”

  “So when you got home from Mexico, you went back to the doctor and had another MRI?” Mom said.

  “Yep,” Michael said, “but I knew I was cured. I just knew it.”

  “Gesù Cristo! Miracolo!” Nonna said, making the sign of the cross. “Praise God!”

  I giggled and sat down next to them with my sandwich and a napkin.

  “Use a plate, sweetheart!” Mom said. “So then what?”

  I ignored her and took a bite. Then she reached over and took the other half.

  “I’m starving,” she said.

  “Well, the MRI before Mexico showed regrowth of the glioblastoma and the new MRI showed nothing, as though I’d never had anything. New brain. New, improved brain.”

  “Unbelievable,” Mom said. “Just unbelievable! Do you understand what this means? Do you realize that there are hardly any miracles ever in the world? And you, Michael, must be an extraordinary human being to have been chosen by the Blessed Mother to be given such a gift. And we, too, are blessed to know you, to have you in our house, at our table. Has anyone notified the Vatican?”

  “I’ll send them an e-mail,” I said.

  “Don’t be so sassy, Grace. This is dead serious.” Mom went on and on.

  Nonna had tears running down the miniature gutters in her ancient lined face and she was unusually quiet. Probably for the first time in her entire life, she was speechless.

  We heard some rattling around and looked up to see Big Al walking in through the garage, of course. When he got to the kitchen, he immediately grabbed Michael in a massive bear hug.

  “Come here, you!” he boomed. “You know, Michael, if you were wearing a ring, I think I would have to kiss it!”

  He was serious. Had Michael’s stock gone up or what?

  “Where’s Nicky?”

  “He went to get Marianne.”

  Great. I couldn’t wait to see her.

  “Let me look at you, Michael,” Dad said. “Your color is good! You look very good!”

  When my dad gave a diagnosis, nobody had to run for the thesaurus.

  “Let’s you and me have a drink,” Dad said.

  “Sure,” Michael said. “I’m not driving home until tomorrow.”

  I knew my family was going to be thrilled that Michael had been given a miraculous cure, but I’d never seen them so excited. I mean, Nonna was speechless and Big Al practically bowed to Michael. These two small events were unprecedented. And Mom? Well, she was almost apoplectic. With the way they were acting, anyone would’ve thought the pope had just stopped by for a cappuccino.

  How was my Michael coping with all this? His male ego was in check and he seemed more at ease than I would have thought. Adulation from my family was a nice change from the scorn he had known. He seemed to be very flattered by Mom’s opinion that he was a chosen person. Like Moses. I
was hanging with Moses now.

  Wisecracks aside, Michael was highly focused on what they were saying. I wondered what he was thinking and decided he was fascinated that they were reading the event only in a religious context. Michael was having the same thoughts I was. This wasn’t science.

  “Okay, guys, that’s enough for now. We’re here to celebrate Dad’s birthday, remember?” I said.

  “Yes, Grace is right, Mrs. R, let me help you set the table,” Michael said.

  Nonna got up and went over to the stove to continue cooking, and still she didn’t say one word.

  “Nonna,” I said, “what time is George coming?”

  “Che? Che cosa?” Nonna said, not seeming to understand what I asked.

  “George, Nonna, George—when is he coming over?”

  “Oh, later,” Nonna said, and never looked up.

  Everyone’s behavior was odd.

  Nicky arrived with Marianne through the garage door. Marianne was wearing a pearl choker and a lavender sweater set with a gray pleated skirt. I looked down at my torn-up jeans and striped cotton men’s shirt and decided I would always be an Oscar to her Felix. I could not have cared less.

  After a lot of hellos and ohmagawdmichaels! we launched into the cocktail hour. Every time Marianne tried to bring up her wedding plans with anyone, her intended victim would feign an audio processing disorder and turn their attention right back to Michael. Even George, who brought a party-size bottle of Chivas Regal for Dad’s big day, and who under other circumstances would’ve listened politely to Marianne until she wore herself out. But not on that day. Michael’s cure was headline news, and because we were so naive, Michael and I had not even considered the deeply spiritual impact it would have on others. Everyone felt like they had been given a peek at heaven simply to be so close to someone who had been blessed by a bona fide miracle.

  At dinner, George questioned Michael about every aspect of his illness, his experience in Mexico and the two MRIs. George was so moved that his hands shook. He turned to Nonna and spoke.

  “If God is this good, this compassionate, then surely we have nothing to fear.”

  “I’ve never been afraid of God,” Nonna said in a weary voice. “I worried my children might not come home at night or that I might lose a child in a war. But worry about God? No, I can tell you that God doesn’t want us to suffer. He doesn’t want us to ever feel alone.”