In quiet contemplation, Martha closed her eyes thinking of Cass, wishing her to be strong and for the Holy Spirit to watch over her. She found consolation and support within the walls of this simple church, felt her prayers were being listened to and that God was considering her requests. If that was faith, she supposed she was blessed with it. She had always felt close to the spirit, close to God and was unafraid to ask things of him, challenge him. Now she was asking for the child, words of prayer filling her mind in the silence.
She heard footsteps, and turning around spotted Father Eugene. She would have liked him to join her, to have told him about Cass, and for both of them to pray for her together. The priest, recognizing her, stopped for an instant, before turning his face away and collecting a book he’d left up near the lectern, disappearing inside the safety of the sacristy.
The day dragged on, Martha’s thoughts constantly with Cass. She found herself barely able to concentrate all afternoon and was abrupt with Mary Rose when she collected her from piano lessons.
‘You OK, Mom?’ asked her teenage daughter perceptively.
She kept waiting for the phone to ring back home, and almost whacked Patrick when he tried to phone one of his football team-mates to discuss arrangements for the following Saturday’s game.
‘Get off the phone, Patrick, you know I’m waiting on news of someone.’
A look of bewilderment crossed his broad face and Martha knew her son had no comprehension of her involvement with people he considered just strangers.
Thoughts of the child haunted and disturbed her, in a strange irrational way that made her question her ability and the powerful call to healing. There was still no word by midnight and she paced the floor of her home wondering what she should do. Her repeated calls to the hospital had elicited zero information.
‘For God’s sake, will you relax and calm down,’ Mike implored her.
‘I can’t,’ she admitted. ‘I just can’t! I can’t put her out of mind. You should see her, she’s so sick.’
Her husband was a good and kind man; all right, maybe a little too wrapped up in his career and work, but he was a good father and had always been there for her and the kids.
‘Mike, imagine if one of . . .’
‘I’m not going to imagine, Martha. I don’t want to do that, and if you have any sense you’ll stop thinking of her too and concentrate on our kids. Patrick told me you almost bit his head off today when he tried to check if he was playing in Saturday’s football team.’
‘Oh Mike, I didn’t mean it. Patrick knows that.’
She moved towards her husband, wanting to make things right between them, and was hurt when he turned away and began to read the newspaper, the conversation ended.
She couldn’t sleep and stayed up late watching an old Hollywood musical on the TV. When she came upstairs, her husband rolled to one side of their bed, anger and confusion radiating from the hunched curve of his neck and spine as he turned away from her. Instead of undressing and lying warm beside him, Martha took a heavy sweater from her drawer and her purse. Beth hadn’t bothered to phone and since there was no reply from her home phone number, it meant she was still likely to be at the hospital. Surely the operation was over by now.
Getting into her car and switching on the headlights, she pulled out onto the road and drove up on to the Mass Turnpike, her instinct leading her towards Children’s Hospital. The road was quiet as it was after midnight and listening to David Gray, she tried to keep herself awake.
The night receptionist was reading the newspaper when Martha enquired about Cass, and he directed her to the nurses’ station on the third floor. Martha, feeling a knot of anxiety in her stomach, had only just got out of the elevator when she spotted Beth Armstrong. She looked utterly worn out and wretched.
‘How is she?’ she asked, rushing over to Beth, noticing the red-rimmed eyes.
‘She didn’t have it, Martha! She didn’t have the operation,’ sobbed Beth, grabbing hold of her jacket and beginning to weep. ‘That bastard! Dr Rourke, the anaesthetist, said she’d a slight chest infection and it was too risky to go ahead with the transplant. He cancelled the operation. Stopped her getting it!’
‘What!’
‘What harm would it have done? They could have pumped her up with antibiotics.’
‘Oh, Beth, I don’t believe it! I’m so sorry.’
Beth Armstrong was at breaking point.
‘Tom took the boys home. My mother’s staying the night and he’ll come straight back.’
‘Maybe they can operate on Cass tomorrow or the day after?’
‘They sent it to Texas! A boy there about two years older than Cass, heart’s a perfect match for him too.’
Beth began to shake from top to toe, Martha holding her in her arms. ‘That’s her chance gone! She’s not going to get another chance like that again. Not ever. There’s just not enough signed-up donors.’
‘You don’t know that! You can’t say that for sure, Beth.’
‘I do know that,’ she said huskily. ‘I fucking do.’
Martha held Beth in her arms. The other woman clung to her as if she was a life saver, letting tears of anger and disappointment fall. Tom Armstrong eventually took over from her on his return. Martha said goodnight to the both of them, and taking a quick peek at the sleeping child through the glass panel on her room door, decided it was time she was back in her own bed. The temperature was well below freezing and the snow ploughs were out on the streets as she left the car park.
Chapter Twenty-six
CASS WENT HOME on a freezing December morning, the staff from the cardiac floor of Children’s Hospital hugging her warmly and wishing her well, before she disappeared into the elevator with her parents.
‘You take care, honey!’ Nurse Peterson called from the station as they all said their goodbyes.
Beth Armstrong stood at the entrance waiting for Tom to bring their Voyager to the front parking bay. There had been a fresh snowfall overnight and the weather forecasters were predicting a blizzard by the weekend. It was far too cold for Cass, coming from the constant maintained heat of the hospital to the chill vagaries of New England’s winter. The child was only getting over her chest infection and was still weak.
A shiver of fear and panic ran through Beth at the thought of the cold piercing the armour of the fur-lined parka and heavy knitted hat and gloves and fleece-lined jog pants she’d made Cass put on. She longed to turn the wheelchair around and race back up to the protection of the familiar hospital room, but one look at the animated expression in her daughter’s eyes was enough to make her accept the agreed decision to return home. At least Cass was back up top of the transplant list and they had a pager that would let them know as soon as a suitable donor heart became available.
‘Mom, there’s Dad! I see the car!’ Cass shouted. ‘We’re going home.’
Martha had driven up and down two streets searching for the Armstrongs’ home. She should have brought a map with her: she was unfamiliar with this part of Boston, and in the snow everything seemed to look the same. There was no one about as it was much too cold for that and she peered through the windscreen looking for the street sign or turn for Thousand Oaks Drive. She admonished herself for her stupidity, as she must have driven by it at least twice. Beth and Tom Armstrong’s house was in the middle of a row of similar two-storey bay-windowed wooden homes that clung together side by side. Some more dilapidated than others, theirs had been painted a pale blue that had faded with the weather. The porch was bedecked with coloured lights, and a small Christmas tree covered with angels and bells. A red-painted wooden Santa stood among the unswept leaves and weeds and rotting seed heads of the neglected flowerbed.
Martha rang the doorbell and waited for a response. In the distance she could hear a television and the echo of footsteps on a wooden floor as a boy of about twelve or thirteen came and let her in. He had the same hair colouring as his sister and a similar way of speaking.
‘I’m Billy, Cass’s older brother. You’re welcome.’
His face was long and sensitive looking as if he had already been exposed to more sadness in his life than most boys his age.
‘Dad!’ he shouted. ‘She’s here.’
Tom Armstrong came out to welcome Martha with a small boy tugging and pulling at his jeans.
‘Sorry to meet you like this, Martha,’ he joked, ‘but this young fellow here and I are having a bear wrestling match and I’m supposed to be a grizzly of the worst kind.’ Curious, his five-year-old son desisted for a few minutes as he sneaked a look at her. He was a small plump version of his father and shook Martha’s hand politely when introduced.
‘Hello, Jay,’ she smiled. ‘Where’s Cass?’ she enquired, noting the serious look that filled Tom’s face as he passed Jay over to his brother and led her upstairs.
‘Beth had to go out for a while, so I’m minding the kids.’
As they walked up the staircase, Martha noted the enormous collection of family photos displayed on the walls. Cass was always a small white face in the middle of them.
‘That’s when we all went to Florida two years ago, before Cass got really sick,’ Tom confided.
‘How is she?’
‘Tired, weak I guess, but to me she seems happier, more her old self now she’s back home with the boys. She’s been asking a lot for you.’
Martha touched his arm. Tom Armstrong was a kind, generous man who loved his daughter more than any words could express, and she was glad they were getting this time together.
‘How’s Beth?’ she prodded gently.
‘Well, you know Beth, always flapping and fussing about. She makes poor Doc Cantrell call every day to check Cass, instead of just leaving the poor kid be.’
‘She’s just concerned, that’s all.’
Martha took a deep breath as she followed Tom into the child’s room. It was decorated in pink with pale pink gingham curtains and a coverlet to match. Scatter cushions in various prints with stars and hearts and daisies were flung on the small chair beside the bed, and straight away Martha’s eyes were drawn to the small pale figure lying against the pillows.
‘Martha!’ Cass called the minute she saw her. Both of them hugged each other tight. Martha had to mask the surprise she felt noticing how much paler and weaker the child looked at home in her normal surroundings. All her drips and drains and equipment were gone, leaving her looking small and very vulnerable.
‘How you doing, Cass? Is it good to be home?’
‘You don’t have to ask that!’ she joked. ‘I’m sick of hospitals and doctors and nurses. I know they were all trying to be nice to me but another few weeks of that place and I’d have gone crazy. Honest, I would have.’
‘There’s no place like home, I guess. I remember when my son Patrick was about four he had his tonsils out. He must have been the most troublesome kid they’d ever had on the children’s floor. He would not stay in bed for them and was running round the place creating mayhem though he was meant to rest quiet after his surgery. In the end Mike and I got a call begging us to come pick him up. The minute he crossed the door of home he relaxed and spent about two days crashed on the couch with his blanket over him. He was small but he knew well where he wanted to be.’
‘That’s all I wanted too, Martha, to be home here in my room, not stuck in some stupid hospital. If I’m going to die I want to die here at home.’
Martha heard the words that Cass spoke so matter-of-factly and tried not to show any reaction. She wasn’t about to protest and pretend that such an event was not on the cards when in her heart she knew well how important it was for the child to begin to think of such things.
‘You have a beautiful room, Cass. My girls would be dead jealous if they saw it.’
‘My dad did it up last year when I was in the hospital. He painted it and sanded the floor and built those shelves for my books and stuff. He’s real handy and he and my mom surprised me. He said it’s a princess room, because I’m his princess.’
Martha had to look away and pretend she was studying a pile of games stacked in the corner, so as to avoid Cass picking up on the overwhelming emotions she was feeling. She had to get a grip on herself if she was going to be of any use to the child. ‘And how can I help you? Are you in any pain or discomfort?’ she asked.
‘Just a little,’ she admitted in a small voice. ‘Sometimes when I breathe in it hurts me and I’m almost afraid to do it, and here on my side it’s kind of sore.’
‘Would you like me to try and ease it for you? To see if I can help any?’
‘Please, Martha, yes please!’
Martha took off her jacket, as it was warm in the room. She rubbed her hands together and walked forward till she was standing over Cass. The child’s attention was fully on her as Martha laid her hands on her. Cass’s chest seemed cold, her heartbeat irregular, too fast, her lungs not inflating fully, her ribs aching and sore. Martha wanted to try and steady her, make the tissues in her lungs less irritated, soothe them so as the air could circulate more freely.
‘Try and breathe slow and steadily, that’s it! Good girl.’
She kept her hands on the rising chest, letting the heat from her hands flow into the child, praying all the time, asking for life and energy to be restored to her. When she was finished she squeezed her hand and Martha could detect a glisten of a tear in the child’s eye.
‘What is it, Cass?’ she asked, concerned.
‘It’s nothing!’
Cass wiped her nose with the side of her fingers, and sniffed. Martha passed her a tissue from the Winnie the Pooh box on her bedside table. ‘You OK?’ she asked.
‘Yeah!’
If Cass wasn’t willing to talk about what upset or saddened her yet, that was fine by Martha. The young girl had a lot of things to sort out in her head. She might only be ten years old but she had an immense knowledge for one so young and probably had a good idea of the progression of her illness and was likely trying to figure out what the next stages might be.
‘Would you like me to get your dad?’ Martha asked her.
Cass shook her head vigorously. ‘No!’
‘OK. Do you want me to stay or go?’
‘Stay, please.’
Martha sat back and said, ‘Would you like me to read to you or play a game or just chat?’
Cass shrugged. Martha helped to make her more comfortable, whooshing up her pillows and shaking her bedclothes.
‘That any better?’
Cass smiled. ‘A bit.’
She had those full Julia Roberts type lips and when she smiled it seemed to just light up her whole face, making her look almost pretty and well.
‘Tell me about your family, about your kids,’ Cass ordered.
Martha was a little taken aback but she guessed it was normal to be curious. Alice and Patrick had both asked her a few times about the girl that was sick in the hospital. Children were always searching for lines that connected them with one another. She described her son, seeing him from Cass’s point of view, a boy who was strong and healthy and had never really known illness, a boy whose spirit and courage had not yet been tested.
‘He’s a good kid, Cass, an all-rounder as the teachers call him, but he’s not sure where or what he’s going to do when he gets older.’
‘He’s a bit like my older brother Billy. Billy always minded me when we were kids and wouldn’t let anyone touch me.’
‘Mary Rose is . . . well, she’s just Mary Rose. She’s just turned thirteen and is getting to be a teenager.’
‘Is she pretty?’
Martha thought about it. Her daughter was more attractive than pretty, with her dark hair and dark eyes and fair Irish skin. She was like the proverbial duckling who would eventually turn into a swan. Another year and a half and her braces would be gone and the true shape of her figure would be more evident. Hopefully her daughter would grow more comfortable in her own skin and be happy for who she was. At the moment she seemed to
be fighting and railing against everyone and everything and Martha could only stand by and watch powerless.
‘I wish that I had a big sister.’
‘Why?’
‘It would be fun and neat doing things together, makeup and shopping and all that stuff. The boys just go yuk at anything girly.’
‘You’ve got your mom.’
‘I know, but a sister might be nice!’
‘Sisters fight a lot. My girls sometimes kill each other, and argue over the most stupid things. If you heard them . . . it drives me crazy.’
‘I think it would be nice for Mom to have another daughter for when I’m gone, then she mightn’t be so lonely.’
There it was again, another reference to her dying. Martha just held her hand. Cass would talk if she wanted to, if she was ready.
Neither of them spoke for a minute, both staring at each other.
‘I think I’m going to die soon, Martha. Mom and Dad are real upset about it but that’s not going to change it.’
Martha just nodded. It was important for Cass to say what she wanted without insincere platitudes and protestations. If she felt her death was coming, she was probably right.
‘They don’t want to talk about it. They think if we don’t talk about it then it won’t happen. Mom cries at night, sometimes I can hear her, and Dad curses. I hear that too even if I’m not meant to listen to profanity!’
‘They love you, Cass, that’s all!’
‘I know,’ she said wearily.
Martha was filled with an immense sadness. She had not imagined that healing would bring such a sense of impending loss. In only a few short weeks she too had come to love the child and dreaded her leaving them.
‘I’m scared, Martha, scared at leaving Mom and Dad and the boys and this house and all the people and things I know. I don’t want to lie in a box in the ground, it might be dark and awful in there and I’ll be so alone. I don’t want to go there!’
Martha rushed forward to hold her.
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