Their home was inundated with local and long-distance phone calls; the callers would break down at the sound of her voice, confiding recently disgnosed illnesses and long battles with disease, telling of children who might never grow to adulthood, heavy crosses these unknown soldiers carried. Aware of their fears and quest for hope and answers, Martha listened and spoke softly to them, making it clear that she could not possibly offer healing over the phone and recommending that perhaps they should talk to a counsellor in their area who might be able to help. Some were happy enough simply to have shared their problem, insisting that they had faith in her and believing they felt a little better already; others cursed her for wasting their time. Then there were the other calls, threatening and abusive, ranting and hurling insults, sly voices whispering, making her sick as these so called Bible-quoting, God-fearing Christians shouted and screamed abuse down the line at her and her family.
‘Filthy slut!’
‘Whore of the Devil!’
‘Blasphemer!’
‘Daughter of Satan! Sent to do his work!’
Furious, Mike had got on to the phone company and immediately demanded a new, unlisted number.
‘You might want to give those stupid people the time of day but the kids and I certainly don’t! This is our home,’ he argued, ‘and I’m not having Alice or the rest of the kids subjected to these calls. They don’t need to listen to this kind of stuff.’
Martha, mightily relieved by her husband’s protective action, gladly agreed that their new number was only to be distributed to close family and friends.
Then the letters came. At first a few stuffed in their blue-painted mailbox, bold handwriting, gentle curves, neat work-processed anonymous stationery, floral patterned and scented envelopes, vellum and rich parchment. But following the articles and interviews and word of mouth, more and more letters arrived, till Nolan their mailman was scarcely able to lift them and had to make special delivery arrangements.
‘Wow, look at all the mail you got!’ chorused her kids as they rushed to help her open them as if they were birthday cards. Martha had to stop them when she found Alice kneeling in the breakfast room weeping over a letter from a teenage boy telling her of his mother’s terminal illness.
Mostly she attended to the mail when the rest of them were out of the house or at school. The writers opened their hearts to her as if they were best friends. She pored over the letters, touched by the words and photos, deeply moved by the courage and spirit of those lives affected by the tragedy of illness and pain. One young woman, Teresa, had been out of school for three years, suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome, and now almost bed-bound had begun to write poetry; Martha was amazed by the power of her verse. They were the sad letters, and often made her cry, but it was the letters from those devoid of hope, depressed and despondent, dependent on alcohol and drugs and whose very spirit was lost to them, that affected her most. She worried about those men, women and children, knowing they were the ones who needed help, who hungered for the spirit to raise them up and renew them. Some she wrote back to, others she called. Half afraid, she traced the photographic outline of some of their features and tried to transmit healing, asking the Holy Spirit to send them light in their darkness.
Many still came to the house in Mill Street in search of miracles, with immense faith and belief that she, a stranger, could somehow do what others had failed to do and heal them.
Patrick and Mary Rose and Alice were approached too. Martha was angry that her children were being dragged into something that was not their concern. One day Mary Rose broke down when an elderly man asked her to lay her hands on his stomach; the child sobbed hysterically for an hour when she got home.
‘It’s all right, pet, I don’t think he meant anything bad by it, honest I don’t,’ Martha reassured her.
Mike exploded with anger when he got in from work and accused her of being totally irresponsible.
‘Martha, I work darned hard in the Institute all day and I’ll be damned if I come home to these lunatics and crackpots who seem to think they have some God-given right to intrude on our home and family. Let them fuck up their own lives if they want but tell them to keep out of mine!’
‘Calm down!’ she pleaded.
‘You think you’re some kind of bloody great earth mother that can heal the world, while the rest of us here at home can suffer! Well I’ll tell you, I’m getting fed up of all these people in our lives. At the rate things are going if we want any privacy we’ll have to sell this house and move somewhere else.’
‘I don’t want to move to another house!’ bawled Alice, tears running down her face.
‘Well, I’m not staying here to have my family threatened by a bunch of weirdos,’ Mike said, storming out of the room.
‘Don’t mind Dad, Alice,’ explained Martha, trying to console her youngest daughter. ‘He doesn’t mean it.’
Mike’s temper and stubbornness had always got the better of him, his tendency to fly off the handle ensuring he never stayed long enough to argue a thing through and listen to anyone else’s perspective. He’d been the exact same when they were dating.
‘But Dad’s right. He’s just trying to protect you and the rest of us,’ added Patrick, taking his father’s side. Martha realized that perhaps she was out of touch with how her children and husband were feeling.
Not wanting any more arguments and feeling stressed as hell she decided to put on her trainers and jacket and go out and get a bit of fresh air, giving all of them time to cool down before she began to prepare dinner. Walking along the familiar neighbourhood paths she had to admit that the faults were as much hers as Mike’s, and that neither of them were being exactly fair to the other. Something they would have to rectify if they wanted a happy marriage.
Chapter Nineteen
MARTHA STUDIED THE map of New England in her car, hoping that she had taken the correct exit off Route 84 to get her to West Hartford. She had driven almost a hundred and fifty miles to visit a thirty-two-year-old mother of three who had a large inoperable tumour on her spine. Thea Warrington had already undergone massive chemotherapy and radium treatment over the past few months but seemingly all to no avail. It was her husband Erik who had contacted Martha, deluging her with letters and phone calls and even a video of his family until she had finally agreed to come and see her.
Secretly, she’d been dreading the visit and expected dealing with the cancer victim to be harrowing. Instead she had met one of the most intensely peaceful and joyous African-American women she had ever been privileged to be introduced to.
Thea, despite the ravages of her illness, greeted her with a warm smile which showed off her beautiful eyes and bone structure. Her grace and charm were endearing and it was clear she was adored by Erik and their three young sons. They had a striking modern home with tall glass windows about two miles out from the town centre surrounded by the most amazing landscaped gardens.
‘I’m a landscaper,’ said Thea proudly. ‘Erik and I have our own business.’
Martha felt an immediate bond with her and although she had expected Thea’s life force to be low and weak she was surprised by its balance and strength.
‘The doctors tell Erik that I am going to die soon but, Martha, I don’t feel it! I don’t believe it! The Lord is good. He would want me to raise those three fine boys he sent me, live to watch them grow and get through school, I know that. The Lord is merciful, that I am sure of.’
Martha was amazed by Thea’s faith and lack of anger, and by her incredible willpower. From the minute she laid her hands on her she could sense Thea’s resolve to stay on this earth. She was grounded with a love of the soil and nature, which was probably due in some part to her calling as a gardener. The mass of the tumour was large and complex and Martha found she had to focus strongly on its congealed heavy structure as she sent healing to it, with Thea’s own energy equally concentrated during the session. Her hand grew hot, vibrating as if filled with a pulsing energy as
she tried to dry it out, draw off the fluid-saturated tissue and shrink it, pull it away from the cord and nerves it was damaging and negate its ability to spread.
‘That sure feels good,’ murmured Thea as she worked.
Passing her hands along the rest of Thea’s body she could sense an incredible balance, and despite or maybe because of all her medical treatment there was very little spread and few hot spots she could detect.
At the end of the healing she joined Erik and Thea for lunch served in a bright wooden kitchen, with floor to ceiling windows which looked out over their acres of garden.
‘It’s stunning! I can’t believe the range of planting and colours and shapes you’ve got,’ she said admiringly as she took in a bed swathed in a variety of blues and mauves, flame-coloured grasses setting alight a dark corner. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘I know it’s our business, but it’s a labour of love,’ admitted Erik.
‘Have you and your husband got a nice garden?’ enquired Thea.
‘I’m afraid I’m not much of a gardener,’ lamented Martha, ‘and I’m so busy it’s been very neglected of late.’
‘Gardens need time,’ suggested Erik. ‘They don’t like being rushed and need a whole heap of coaxing. Every season brings its own work.’
‘This place of ours is just coming into its own now, after five years’ hard work. Now there’s winter roses and heathers and pansies for colour, last flowerings likely before the first snow falls, but you should have seen it at the height of summer. Paradise – so pretty and the scents that came from that border I’ve created outside the window! Why, it’s just glorious! Erik built it for me on a height so that I can still work on it from my wheelchair as I’m not prepared to give up the pleasures of weeding.’
Martha thought of her own overgrown back yard, where weeds rambled and propagated unchallenged.
‘I hate weeding,’ she laughed. ‘I’m much too lazy.’
Thea was tired, drowsy after the session, and as Martha had a long drive back to Boston the two women eventually agreed to say goodbye.
‘I’ll have a nap when you’re gone, Martha, that way I’ll be awake when the boys get in from school.’ Thea smiled, squeezing her hand. ‘Erik and my boys are all that matter to me right now.’
Martha tried to hold back on the emotions she herself was experiencing as she kissed her forehead.
‘You take care of yourself, Thea.’
‘Will you pray for me?’
‘Of course I will,’ she agreed. ‘And you keep after the Lord for what you want. I think he listens to you.’
Erik Warrington had a selection of tall plants and small pots set out on the step near her car. He insisted she take them, and spread a sheet of plastic in the trunk before loading them into the back of the Volvo.
‘Oh, thank you, Erik, that’s so kind of you.’
‘Some you can leave in the big pots till next spring, just keep them watered, and the rest, why you can plant them out right now.’
‘I’m not much good with plants,’ she warned him.
‘These will grow,’ he promised. ‘Thea seeded and grew all of them from cuttings herself. Her green fingers seem to make everything grow.’
He stood in front of her, a strong stocky man, his face filled with concern for his wife. ‘I don’t want to lose her,’ he blurted out, trying to control himself.
Martha touched his arm.
‘I can’t make any promises,’ she said. ‘You know I can’t, but Thea is strong, and her body and mind and soul are joined in fighting this illness. She has faith and such a strong belief. I know what the doctors say, but sometimes they are wrong.’
‘Sometimes there are miracles,’ he insisted, staring at her. ‘Sometimes!’
‘God is good,’ agreed Martha. ‘And I pray he’ll be good to her, to both of you.’
Back on the highway she couldn’t get Thea out of her mind, asking herself why in heaven’s name she was getting herself emotionally involved with someone else, when already so many were dependent on her. Yet thinking of Thea she knew that despite the poor prognosis of her illness Martha had felt during the healing a very definite sense of hope for the mother of three.
Her thoughts turned to her own family as she drove home and she realized the love of her husband and children were all that truly mattered to her.
Chapter Twenty
THE THANKSGIVING MASS at St John’s, their parish church, had been packed but she and Mike and the kids had managed to squeeze into a bench up near the front of the crowded Easton congregation. Martha had always found the ritual of the mass with its Old and New Testament readings and gospel, offertory prayers and communion, deeply satisfying. Not just from the spiritual point of view but also from a community one, as the traditional wooden church was mostly filled with their neighbours and people she knew. Glancing around at the heads bent in silent prayer, one could almost hazard a guess as to their needs and intentions. Patrick used to serve mass here along with other boys from his class but at the ripe old age of twelve had refused to do it any more.
Father Eugene Reagan, their ageing parish priest, stepped slowly up to the altar, but his voice and conviction were as strong as ever as he welcomed the parishioners and began the mass. He preached a sermon on charity being its own reward. Patrick and Mary Rose both cast their eyes upwards, bored. At the offertory procession the small kids proudly carried up a range of gifts to the altar, including the large hamper which had been left at the door and would be distributed to needy families in the parish later.
Martha smiled to herself, watching Alice be very self-conscious and holy as she went up to communion with the rest of them. She tried to concentrate on her daughter and ignore the stares of recognition as they filed back down to their seat.
Afterwards they joined the large group outside on the step, chatting to each other. Evie and Frank with their kids Becky and Niall came over to join them. Father Eugene greeted the two men warmly and shook Evie’s hand. Martha was totally ignored.
‘Father Eugene, that was a lovely sermon,’ she started to say, but before she could continue he interrupted her.
‘Mrs McGill, I’m reading very sad things about you, very sad. You seem determined to get yourself involved in something you know nothing about, which is always a dangerous thing.’
‘Dangerous!’ She all but laughed.
‘Yes, I believe so.’
Her cheeks reddened. How dare he! She felt like a small child being admonished and belittled in front of her husband, children and close friends, there on the steps of the church she had just worshipped in.
‘Hey, Evie!’ Embarrassed, Frank Hayes jangled his car keys. ‘I think it’s time we were going, if we want to get something to eat.’
Evie shot her a glance of commiseration. ‘Martha, don’t forget we’ve got supper at Kim’s on Thursday. If you want I’ll pick you up.’
‘That’d be great.’
The priest was clearly annoyed with her and she was not about to let herself be bullied about what she could or could not do by some elderly man, priest or not!
‘Do you wish to speak with me, Father?’ she asked angrily.
‘I do.’ He stiffened.
Mike and the kids decided to make themselves scarce and to go sit in the car. Now that the mass crowd had cleared, Martha was nervous as to what the priest could want with her. As their church donation had been given on time and both she and Mike had helped out at church within the past few months, Martha knew exactly what he wanted to discuss.
‘Yes, Father?’ She tried to appear respectful to this man of God.
‘Martha, I’m worried about you. These things I read in the newspapers and hear on the radio about you are upsetting, especially when we know that none of it is true. So why won’t you come out and deny them and put an end to all this gossip and rumour and talk of miracles?’
‘Don’t you believe in miracles, Father?’
‘Jesus and the holy saints perfor
med miracles, not some Easton housewife with nothing better to do,’ he said, acidly.
‘Father Eugene!’ She gasped, hurt by his tone. ‘I have never claimed to perform miracles, never,’ she insisted. ‘All I do is try to help and heal those that need it.’
A vexed expression crossed his face.
‘You make a mockery of your faith and this church. All this publicity and shenanigans is giving poor innocent people false hope.’
‘Father Reagon, let me assure you my faith is strong, and although I may not have degrees in theology or Bible studies like you, I do believe that I am doing the Lord’s work too. Now if you’ll excuse me, my husband and children are waiting.’
Almost shaking, she walked back to the car, trying to control herself so that the kids didn’t see how upset she had been by the patronizing words of a man who believed his was the only way to connect with the Holy Spirit.
Mad as hell by the time they reached Mike’s parents’ house, Martha realized she could not let the priest’s words mar their family Thanksgiving celebration meal. It was the one day of the year when Pat McGill rolled out the red carpet and invited her son and daughter and their families to a huge meal. Aunt Dot and Uncle Harry, who’d no children, joined them.
The McGills had a beautiful home out near Beaver Brook, a white-painted colonial with a deck out back. The green lawn was perfectly mowed, the hedges clipped, shrubs and bushes pruned hard. The shame of it was that by the end of the week Patricia and Ed McGill would have packed and moved to the small bungalow they owned in Sarasota, Florida. The first snows and cold drove them south like the rest of the snow-birds to the sunshine state. At sixty-five years of age Patricia McGill had decided that she’d had more than enough of the cold, and would no longer contemplate another New England winter. Ed agreed and, packing up his golf clubs, looked forward to a daily round of golf followed by a leisurely swim under constant blue skies. The Thanksgiving meal was an annual farewell to their children and family until they returned after Easter.
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