by Alton Gansky
“What makes you say that?”
“Because there has been another healing at the hospital, and this one is as unbelievable as the rest.”
Twenty-Three
Saturday, March 28, 1992; 8:45 P.M.
ALTHOUGH THE DRIVE TO Kingston Memorial Hospital was less than twenty minutes long, it seemed like hours to Adam for two reasons. First, he wanted to quiz Rachel about the telephone conversation, but, because of the short time she spent on the phone, there would be very little to tell; the second was Rachel’s driving style. On the way to dinner, Adam discovered the “thrill” of riding with Rachel, but then she had been playful; now she drove with a tense compulsion, weaving in and out of traffic, accelerating where she could and slowing abruptly when she had to. He wanted to say, “If you’re not careful, we’ll be sitting in the lobby of your hospital asking people if they’re the Healer,” but thought better of it.
The tires squealed on the macadam as Rachel abruptly brought the car to a stop in the physician’s parking lot. Rachel exited the car quickly and marched toward the hospital. Adam had to run a few steps to catch up with her. They entered the hospital through the back entrance and immediately went to the staff elevator. Adam wondered if the lobby was still packed with the infirm, or if they all had gone to Paul Isaiah’s service.
Adam looked at Rachel. Her face was marred with a frown, her jaw set tight, and her eyes fixed. She was obviously deep in thought.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Adam said, hoping to lighten the moment.
“I’m not in the mood for clichés,” Rachel replied brusquely.
When the elevator reached the third floor, Adam and Rachel quickly stepped into the long pale white corridor. Rachel led the way in a quick and determined march through a passageway and into a doughnut-shaped corridor with the nursing station and supply rooms in the middle. Rachel stopped at room 314. Looking inside, Adam could see several white-coated doctors and Dr. Evan Morgan. Ah, the Grand Inquisitor.
Rachel and Adam stepped into the room. As they entered, Dr. Morgan shot Adam a disapproving glance but said nothing.
“I got here as soon as I could,” Rachel said.
“I would like to introduce you to Michele Gowan,” Morgan said. “Michele has the whole hospital excited, don’t you Michele?”
Michele, who was seated on the edge of her bed, responded with a smile. Her face was radiant with joy and she would occasionally giggle.
“You know Dr. Patton and Dr. Levine, don’t you?” Morgan asked Rachel.
“We’ve met at a few meetings,” Rachel replied.
“Dr. Patton is Michele’s neurologist, and Dr. Levine works in the ER.”
Rachel exchanged handshakes.
“Let me fill you in, Dr. Tremaine,” Morgan said. “Dr. Patton, you’ll let me know if I get any of this wrong, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Patton said.
Adam wondered whom Morgan was trying to impress with the display of social niceties.
Morgan read mechanically from the chart: “Michele Gowan is a twenty-three-year-old white female whose major medical difficulties have involved her advanced state of cerebral palsy which she developed at birth for unspecified reasons. She was admitted to the hospital through the emergency room this evening at 6:30 with a head injury she received when her mechanized wheelchair tipped over on the drive of her parents’ home. Michele hit her head on the bumper of her parents’ car. She presented with an eight centimeter laceration that was treated in the ER. X-rays revealed a slight fracture of the left parietal skull bone. She was admitted overnight for observation.”
Adam was dumbfounded. The description Morgan was reading couldn’t be the young woman on the bed. Adam had seen several individuals with cerebral palsy and knew that they were able to exercise only minimal control over their bodies. Only through great concentration and patience could some of the lesser afflicted feed themselves or pick up a book. This woman showed no signs of brain damage.
“For twenty-three years,” Morgan continued, “Michele has lacked sufficient neural-muscular control to feed herself, dress herself, or communicate verbally. She has spent most of her life in a wheelchair. As you can see, something has happened to Michele.”
“Something wonderful,” Michele said jubilantly.
“Dr. Patton,” Morgan said, “if you would, please.”
Patton was an unlikely looking doctor; his hair was brown and shoulder length, making him look more like a 1970s college student. “As can be readily seen, Michele no longer exhibits the phenotypic characteristics of cerebral palsy. Let me demonstrate.” Patton reached into his doctor’s smock and brought out a small notepad. Without saying anything, he tossed it to Michele, who adroitly caught it and then playfully threw it back. Patton missed his catch. “As you can see, her eye-hand coordination is normal. Apparently better than mine.” Then he addressed Michele, “Would you stand for us, please.”
Michele obediently slid off the bed. Once on her feet she paced up and down the room effortlessly and then struck a model’s pose. She was obviously relishing her newfound freedom. No longer was she an active, healthy mind trapped in a disobedient body. She was truly free, a freedom that only one like her could appreciate.
“Michele,” Rachel said, as Michele took her place on the bed, “how do you explain what’s happened to you?”
“I don’t know,” Michele said sweetly. “All I know is that I fell asleep—probably from the pain killer—and when I awoke, I was like this.”
“You don’t remember anything or anyone?” Rachel asked. “No. But I do remember feeling very warm right before I woke up.” Michele smiled again. “But I’m okay now.”
Rachel was exasperated. “You mean to say that you went to sleep with cerebral palsy and woke up normal?”
“Exactly. And look, Doctor,” Michele said, pointing to the left side of her head, “the place where I hit my head is all healed up.” Rachel stepped closer and examined the spot where Dr. Levine treated the wound. There was no sign of a gash, scar, or even stitches. There was absolutely no evidence that there had ever been a wound.
Morgan turned to Dr. Levine, a short, dark-skinned man known as one of the best trauma doctors in the field. “Dr. Levine, do you have anything further to add?”
“Actually, no.” Levine looked shaken. “To tell the truth, I’m still having trouble believing this is the woman I worked on a few hours ago. Not only has she gained motor control, but her muscles which had atrophied over the years are full and firm. In the emergency room, she couldn’t speak clearly enough for me to understand what she was saying. Now, if it weren’t for the shaved spot on her head, I’d say that someone was playing a trick on me.”
“Has anyone called my parents?” Michele asked. “I’d really like to see them.”
“As a matter of fact, we called them just a short while ago.” Morgan said smiled. “They’ll be here soon, I’m sure.”
Turning to the others, Morgan asked, “What now?”
“I would like to run some tests—actually, a whole lot of tests,” Patton said. “I want to compare the results with tests I’ve run on her earlier. I’ve got to tell you, this is one for the books.”
“Do you think anyone will believe it?” Morgan asked.
“Right now, Dr. Morgan,” Patton said, “I’m not sure I believe it.”
“When will I be able to go home?” Michele asked.
“I’ll schedule the tests for tomorrow, Michele,” Patton said. “I don’t see why you can’t go home after that.”
“No!” Adam interjected.
“Excuse me?” Patton said. Morgan stared angrily at Adam.
Adam said, “If I could have a word with you privately, I can explain.”
“Well,” Morgan said, “we’ve bothered this young lady all we need to. Her parents will be here soon, and I’m sure they will have a lot to talk about.”
Dr. Morgan led the group into the corridor and to the nurses station. “Gloria,” he said t
o a nurse as she rose from her desk to meet him, “the patient in room 314 is not to be disturbed. I want you to notify all your nurses that you are the only one to go into that room with the exception of Dr. Patton, Dr. Tremaine, myself, and her parents. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Doctor,” she replied timidly.
“I also don’t want anyone talking about this, understood? Whoever leaks this to the outside, especially to the media, had better have another job waiting.”
“Yes, Doctor, I’ll see to it.”
Adam was amazed at Morgan’s Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation. In Michele’s room he was the epitome of decorum; outside the room he was a martinet.
Morgan led the group to the elevators which took them to his office on the eighth floor. Once inside, Morgan turned quickly on Dr. Tremaine.
“What’s he doing here?” he demanded, indicating Adam with a motion of his head.
“I saw a news report that implied that Reverend Paul Isaiah, who was speaking at the Sports Arena, was the Healer.” Rachel was unshaken by Morgan’s tone. Adam found himself admiring her composure. “I thought it worthy of investigation. Since church and theology are far from my forte, I asked Reverend Bridger to be my consultant. We were at the meeting when I was paged.”
“All right, Bridger,” Morgan said, spitting out his words. “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say. Just why shouldn’t we release that girl?”
“Because if word gets out that she has been healed, then she very well may be kidnapped, like the others.”
“Kidnapped?” Morgan said.
“It was in my report to you,” Rachel said. “The Langfords, the Haileys, and the Loraynes are all missing—not only the person healed, but the entire immediate family. I’m afraid Reverend Bridger is right.”
“But she is in danger only if word gets out,” Morgan remarked. “Word won’t get out.”
“How can you be so sure?” Adam asked. “Word got out about the others. The news media is already snooping around, and if anyone can find someone to talk, they will. We’re not dealing with hospital gossip here; we’re dealing with a woman who has been healed in an unmistakable way. Word is going to get out.”
“I can’t be responsible for everything that goes on outside this hospital.” Morgan was indignant.
“No, but you can be responsible for Michele,” Adam said. “Just do your best to keep her here or secretly transferred somewhere else. You can provide security for her.”
Morgan thought for a moment then said to Patton, “Is there any medical reason to keep her here after you run your tests?”
“Only if the tests reveal a problem,” Patton responded. “But from the looks of her, I doubt they will.”
“Then,” Morgan said sternly, “release her whenever she wants to go. I doubt that we have any legal grounds for holding her.” Turning to Adam, he said, “I’m sorry, Reverend, but that is the way it will be. Now I think we all have plenty of work to do—especially you, Dr. Tremaine. I want some answers and I want them soon.”
With his anger barely under control, Adam left Morgan’s office. Rachel followed close behind.
“What are you going to do now?” Rachel asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never met such a cold-hearted man. He doesn’t care about the people in the hospital, just the hospital.”
“I won’t argue with that,” Rachel said. “But doing something foolish won’t help. Why don’t you let me buy you some coffee and drive you home?”
“All right,” Adam replied with a grin. “But you have to promise not to keep me out too late. After all, I do have a sermon to preach tomorrow.”
The two exited the hospital in silence, their minds on the events of the night.
A SHORT DISTANCE AWAY, hidden by the dim light, a man sat in a car and watched as Adam and Rachel drove away. After making a notation in a small notebook, he dropped his car into gear and drove out of the parking lot.
TWENTY-FOUR
Saturday, March 28, 1992; 9:50 P.M.
THE BRIGHT LIGHT ILLUMINATED the night, causing many in the crowd to instinctively close their eyes. One woman, her bright-red hair shining under the rays of the small artificial sun, stared at the three-inch glass lens just under the beam.
“This is Priscilla Simms speaking to you live. I’m standing just outside the Sports Arena where a short while ago the Reverend Paul Isaiah finished an animated service. Over 14,000 people attended tonight’s service, many of them hoping for a healing. Just yesterday at a press conference, Reverend Isaiah refused to deny persistent rumors that he is the mysterious Healer who has haunted the corridors of Kingston Memorial Hospital, leaving in his wake several incredible stories.
“Take, for example, the events surrounding David Lorayne—an event that many are describing as miraculous. Mr. Lorayne lay in his hospital bed in a deep coma. Many believed he would die. Then, inexplicably, an unidentified individual entered his ICU room. When he left, David Lorayne was well.
“Or consider Lisa Hailey, a seventeen-year-old high school student whose third-degree burns left her barely clinging to life. Lisa Hailey went to sleep horribly scarred and awoke completely healed.
“Our investigation has shown that prior to these events, a Bill Langford was healed of terminal cancer. Instead of dying, he was made whole.
“But, as if these events were not strange enough, each of these people and their immediate families have disappeared. Police are investigating but state they have little evidence to go on.
“You, our faithful viewers, may recall how KGOT-TV’s own news director, Irwin Baker, was cruelly gunned down outside the Haileys’ home. Police are still investigating.
“Despite the disappearances and Irwin Baker’s murder, the baffling and miraculous healings have led many of San Diego’s ill to leave their hospitals and homes to wait for the Healer’s return to Kingston Memorial Hospital. Because of the hospital’s limited vacancies, many have begun sleeping in the hospital’s lobby and corridors. Tonight, many of them are here.”
The camera slowly panned across the crowd around Priscilla; the pathetic, pleading faces of crippled and diseased children were carried via satellite link to tens of thousands of homes in San Diego County. The camera paused on one particularly poignant group composed of several teenagers in wheelchairs or on crutches. Many in the crowd began tearful pleas for the Healer.
“They came tonight hoping for a miracle—a miracle that didn’t happen. They came with their palsies, their pains, and their fears. Now they leave just as they came.
“At this point no one can say for certain whether Paul Isaiah is the Healer. If he is, then one must ask, where is he now?
“This is Priscilla Simms for KGOT-TV at the San Diego Sports Arena.”
The cameraman clicked off his spotlight. It took a moment for Priscilla’s eyes to adjust to the night.
“You were kind of hard on him, weren’t you?” the cameraman asked.
“I was hard,” she replied angrily, her words short. “He led me to believe that he was the Healer. I went on the air and stated as much. People believed me. I wasn’t nearly as hard as I wanted to be.”
“I thought you were concerned about these poor folks.” He motioned to the crowd.
“Don’t turn into a moralist on me, Frank. The best thing I can do for these people is report the truth.” Priscilla walked to the white KGOT equipment van and sat in the front passenger seat. “Come on, I want to get out of here.”
Saturday, March 28, 1992; 11:45 P.M.
“SO?” RACHEL ASKED.
“So, what?” Adam responded.
“You’ve been staring out that window ever since we got in the car. I want to know what you’re thinking.”
Adam grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I tend to do that when I have a lot on my mind. I was just wondering what to do about Michele Gowan.”
“What can you do? You’ve already called the police and informed them that she may be in danger. Other than that, there’s nothing more to do.
”
Adam said nothing and turned his gaze out the window again.
“You are an enigma,” Rachel said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so full of contradictions.”
“Contradictions?” Adam replied, puzzled.
“Well, maybe contradictions is too strong a term. What I mean to say is that you are full of life. You’re fun, intelligent, and tender; qualities that are too often missing in men. Yet, you’re so intense. Adam, you can’t save the world. There will always be people who get hurt by other people. Unfortunately, these things have happened to those for whom you feel somehow responsible, but driving yourself to emotional exhaustion isn’t going to help; and neither is taking on a whole new set of worries about Michele Gowan.”
“Do I detect a small chink in that stoic medical persona?” Adam asked, grinning.
“I’m just concerned, Adam.”
Adam stared with appreciative eyes at Rachel. By most standards, she might be considered plain. Her intelligence might have frightened some men, but Adam found it exhilarating. It hadn’t taken him long to see past the critical and hard shell she used to shield herself from something—a past hurt or a present fear. Strip away the artificial veneer, and a woman of true beauty and rare substance would emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon.
Adam,” Rachel repeated. “Are you listening to me?”
“What? Oh, sorry. I was daydreaming.”
At 11:45 at night? What could you possibly be daydreaming about?”
“You,” Adam said softly. Rachel cut her eyes away. “I’m sorry, I’ve embarrassed you.”
“Don’t be silly,” Rachel responded quickly. “Doctors don’t get embarrassed.”
Adam wanted to tell her what he felt. He wanted to share his attraction, his appreciation. Somehow, he couldn’t, not yet. Especially since he wasn’t quite sure what he felt himself. And most of all, he was aware of her lack of faith. He could pursue nothing between them as long as she refused to consider her need of Christ as her Lord.