by BJ Hoff
Besides, in the absence of a mother, both Sara and her brother, Gordie, had come to accept Ginger’s influence in matters of discipline. Consequently, Ginger’s involvement in their lives, while one of love and nurturing, was also necessarily one of authority.
In Nora Kavanagh, however, Sara had at last discovered the kind of friendship other women her age seemed to take for granted. Nora had gradually relaxed enough to laugh in Sara’s presence, even to share a secret now and then. More recently, they had gone on numerous Christmas shopping expeditions together. Sara had even managed to coax her new friend into accompanying her to mission bazaars at the church and on her bi-weekly visits to Grandmother Platt—“Grandy Clare.”
Grandy Clare had taken to pressing at least one gift—some small frippery or knickknack—upon the two of them at the end of each visit. Wide-eyed, Nora would balance Grandy’s gift on her lap with the greatest of care all the way home as if it were a priceless, irreplaceable treasure.
Wonderfully free of pretension, Nora had an almost childlike appreciation of the smallest things that never failed to delight Sara. In spite of her widowhood and the tragedy of her life, she had somehow retained an air of girlish innocence about her that Sara suspected would never quite fade. Younger by more than seven years, Sara invariably felt herself to be the older.
Leaning wearily back in the rocker, Sara reflected on the past few days. Daniel was getting better. His skin was still blotched, and he was terribly weak from days of fever and lack of nourishment, but yesterday he’d begun to sit up for brief periods of time, had even walked around the room once or twice on wobbly legs. With the wonderful resiliency of the young, he was already taking soft food at regular intervals and showing every sign of a speedy recovery.
Sara’s gaze returned to the hospital bed. She bit her lip in apprehension at the sight of Nora’s small, still form, flanked by Evan and Michael Burke. For two days Nora had been like this, motionless and deathly quiet, except for an infrequent whimper or an abrupt cry of pain. While the scarlet rash that marred her pale skin was not so angry or pervasive as Daniel’s had been, her fever remained dangerously high—high enough that Nicholas Grafton had warned them of the likelihood of convulsions. He made no attempt to disguise his concern about the dropsy that had set in during the afternoon, leaving Nora’s face and extremities severely bloated.
After another brief examination late in the evening, he had drawn Sara to one side, warning, “She couldn’t be much worse and still be alive. Her kidneys aren’t functioning as they should, and it’s putting enormous strain on her heart. I think we’d best hospitalize her right away.”
Stunned and frightened, Sara had hurried from the cottage and gone in search of her father and Evan. Now, hours later, she sat wringing her handkerchief into a thin rope, waiting, praying for some improvement in Nora’s condition. For one of the few times in her life, she felt afraid and utterly helpless.
A shadow fell across her vision, and she looked up. Michael Burke was standing in front of her. Lately, his features seemed set in a permanent frown. He had taken to passing a hand over his chest in a distracted gesture that made Sara wonder if the gunshot wound he’d received months before was still plaguing him.
“Did the doctor say how long it might be before he comes back?” he asked, putting a fist to his mouth to stifle a yawn.
Sara shook her head. “Just that he had a baby to deliver. I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can.”
He gave a vague nod, saying nothing.
The lines around his eyes had deepened with fatigue, Sara noticed, just as his normally light brogue had thickened. The poor man had neither slept nor shaved in two days; he hadn’t been home since learning of Nora’s illness. He looked drawn and worried and terribly sad.
He walked away, returning to his bedside vigil without another word. Watching the slump to his shoulders, Sara could not help but wonder if the ordeal of the last two days was not forcing the widowed policeman to relive the agony of his wife’s death.
Eileen Burke had died of cancer years before, when Tierney was still a small boy—a prolonged, agonizing death, according to Nora. Had Michael waited beside her bed, as he now waited beside Nora’s?
What excruciating pain it must be for such a man—a man accustomed to rescuing and taking care of others, a man who seemed to live most of his life from a position of power and authority—to simply stand by and look on as the one he loved most in the world slipped away, beyond his reach.
The likelihood that he had passed this way before, through this shadowed valley of despair, made Sara want to weep aloud for him. She ached for his pain, longed to comfort him. As she silently grieved for Nora’s agony, so did she also grieve for Michael Burke’s.
Hands clenched behind his back, Michael stood beside the hospital bed, across from Whittaker. Other than a tacit acknowledgment of the other’s presence, neither had made any attempt to engage in conversation since Nora’s admission to the hospital. They talked with Sara Farmington and the nurses. They spoke with the doctor. But to each other, they offered no more than a brief nod or a shake of the head as they stood watching Nora’s agony in silence, powerless to help.
With Eileen, he had waited alone….
Tierney had been too young, too much the child, to suffer more than brief intervals of the sickroom. Even at the end, as Eileen finally slipped away, Michael had stood by her bed alone until it was over.
Her agony had gone on for months. Months of watching the cancer destroy her womanhood as it stripped her of her dignity, her youthful beauty, her will to live. To Michael, it had seemed like forever.
He had done everything he knew to keep her with him, had urged her to fight long past the time when she had the strength to fight. When she finally gave up, he attempted to ward off the Grim Reaper for her. Eileen had even attempted a weak joke, about what kind of foolish disease was it, that would dare to go head-on with Michael Burke.
But she had known—they had both known—who would ultimately win the battle. At the last, she had wanted to die, had murmured that he should let her go, should quit fighting the inevitable and release her to the peace of death.
He had fled the room, shutting himself inside the supply closet across the hall, cramming a towel against his mouth to muffle the explosive cries of his rage and anguish. When he returned to the room, Eileen scarcely knew he was there. Minutes later, she was gone.
Never before, and never since, had Michael known such anger as he knew during the last hours of her suffering. Anger at the demon-disease, at the impotent doctors, at God—but mostly anger at his own unfamiliar helplessness.
Now, feeling his throat tighten with unshed tears, he drew a shaky breath and straightened his shoulders. For an instant his gaze met and held Evan Whittaker’s. Seeing his own despair mirrored in the Englishman’s eyes, Michael clenched his hands even more tightly behind his back and looked away.
With a force of will he had mastered during the time of Eileen’s illness, he put aside the image of his wife’s tormented face, her pain-wracked, wasted body, the sound of her voice crying his name.
At last he turned back to Nora. Nora was still alive. As far as he could tell, she was not dying. At least she seemed no worse than she’d been when they brought her to the hospital. There was still hope for Nora.
The beginning of a prayer rose in Michael’s heart, and he closed his eyes to let his spirit give it voice.
Evan supposed he shouldn’t be surprised to realize that Michael Burke was praying. The man was a Christian, after all. Why wouldn’t he pray, especially at a time such as this?
Still, it did surprise him, perhaps because the brawny Irish policeman always appeared to be so self-assured, so confident—as if he had any and all situations under control.
For his own part, Evan had been praying most of the evening. Indeed it seemed he had not stopped praying for days, what with Daniel’s ordeal with this dread disease, and now Nora’s.
The boy had be
en extremely ill—frighteningly ill. But Nora was much, much worse. Dr. Grafton’s insistence that she be hospitalized at such a late hour indicated with a chilling certainty just how critical her condition must be.
For the first two hours after her admission, the private room had been alive with frowning nurses and two grim-visaged doctors, in addition to Nicholas Grafton. That Lewis Farmington had wielded his considerable influence, Evan had no doubt. An Irish immigrant on her own would not be afforded a private room, even if by some miracle there had been money to pay. But a private room and the finest in medical attention?
Only a Lewis Farmington could arrange that.
Evan could not help but wonder about the dangerously ill immigrants who had no Lewis Farmington to do battle for them. For them, there would be no hospital room, no doctor—not even a place of refuge or shelter from the cold.
Evan had seen for himself what became of the homeless, destitute immigrant who had no “people in the city”—no friends to provide haven or hope. Twice now he had visited the abysmal Five Points slum district with Pastor Dalton. He had looked into the eyes of the homeless, the ill, and the dying, and found himself devastated by the anguish and utter hopelessness that looked back at him.
He could only wonder at the courage and the vision of a man like Jess Dalton, who dared to think he could actually make a difference amid such an ocean of misery. During his last visit to Five Points, Evan had felt a stirring in his spirit that later, in the comfortable warmth of the Farmington cottage, had seemed to strengthen to a challenge. And he had known then, with no small amount of apprehension that God was confronting him, forcing him to face his feelings of horror and outrage—and asking him what he was willing to do to make a difference.
Until Daniel had come down with this awful illness, his intention had been to talk with Jess Dalton after Christmas about what he might do to help in the work of the Five Points mission. Now, he could not think beyond this room, this night—and Nora.
Shaky with exhaustion and at the edge of despair, Evan rubbed first one temple, then the other. He’d had one of his headaches most of the evening, vicious enough to make him sick to his stomach. No longer able to stand, he eased himself down on the chair beside the bed. Sara Farmington was seated in the only other chair in the room, a rickety wooden rocker near the door.
Michael Burke gave him a cursory look, then glanced away. Evan sighed, too weary to consider the Irish policeman’s feelings about his being here. If Burke thought he’d stepped out of his place, well, then, let him. The man had no claim on Nora. At least not yet.
Unless Nora herself should tell him to leave, Evan would remain. The truth was, he was afraid to leave. Afraid she might simply…slip away.
He lost his breath at the thought. Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallowed hard. Did it show a lack of trust on his part, this obsessive need to stand guard over her? Was it his own fear or the Lord’s urging that he continue to do battle for her in prayer?
Or…was it the fact that he loved her beyond all reason, that he could not bear the thought of being anywhere but close to her?
A breeze fanned the room when the door suddenly opened. Everyone turned to look as Pastor Dalton entered.
It seemed to Evan that whenever the tall, ruddy-faced pastor walked into a room, it somehow grew a bit brighter. It was almost as if the man wore a mantle of hope over his broad, sturdy shoulders.
No matter the circumstances, Jess Dalton had a way of bringing light to his surroundings. Even Michael Burke’s bleak gaze warmed somewhat at the sight of the big pastor.
Dalton had visited both Daniel and Nora numerous times during their illness, but Evan would have not expected him to call at the hospital at so late an hour. If Lewis Farmington had sent for the pastor, perhaps Nora’s condition was even worse than he feared. Evan tried to push the sickening thought out of his mind as the clergyman greeted Sara Farmington, then approached Nora’s bed. “Any change?” he asked, including both Evan and Michael Burke in his nod of greeting.
The policeman shook his head. “They gave her more laudanum. She’s been sleeping…a long time.”
Evan stood. As always, he felt both dwarfed by Dalton’s size and cheered by his presence.
The pastor’s eyes went to Nora, and his soft blue gaze filled with compassion. “She has suffered a great deal—and in so many ways. My wife would say that Nora’s life has been one of heavy sorrow.”
As he spoke, he moved closer to the bed and clasped Nora’s thin hand in his. The ghost of a sad smile went over his features as he continued to hold her hand and gaze down at her.
Finally he released her hand. Looking first at Evan, then toward the foot of the bed where Michael Burke was standing, he said, “You men look exhausted. I don’t suppose I could convince either of you to get some rest?”
Burke merely shook his head.
“N-Not…yet,” Evan murmured.
The pastor nodded, then gestured for Sara Farmington to join them. “Let’s pray together,” he said simply, motioning that they should join hands with him.
It was left for Evan to clasp the large, strong hand of Michael Burke as the four of them gathered round Nora’s bed.
“Father, you know the love for Nora Kavanagh that abides in the hearts gathered here in this room,” Dalton began. “Help us to remember, though, that Nora is Your child, that You love her more than we can even imagine. Lord, we pray with faith in that love, with total trust in the goodness and the wisdom of that love.”
As always, the pastor’s gentle voice belied his intimidating size. “We understand that it is Your right to heal or not to heal, Father. But often, when you don’t heal, we either doubt the quality of our faith or the reality of Your mercy.” Dalton paused, then went on. “Remind us of the truth, that Your sovereign will does not depend upon our faith, nor can Your mercy ever be understood by our finite minds. Our part is to trust Your mercy and acknowledge Your right to fulfill Your purposes—in Your own way, in Your own time. Surely we can do that much, Father. Surely we can trust the mercy…and the love…of a Lord who would die for us. Surely we can trust the Lord of the Cross….”
As Dalton prayed, the pain in Evan’s heart slowly gave way to a warm, renewing peace. For the first time since the ugly disease had felled Nora, he was able to unreservedly surrender her to the Lord’s mercy…to His perfect love.
For just an instant, he was even able to smile a little to himself at the irony of his hand, almost frail by comparison, clasped securely in the hard strength of Michael Burke’s.
At the same time a dear, familiar hymn began to swell inside his spirit. On a long-ago golden autumn day, he had gone to South Place Chapel in London to worship. There he had heard, for the first time, a sweet and splendid hymn that had slipped into his heart and remained there ever since, like a gentle, shining gift of faith.
Never had the words sounded quite as clearly in his soul, never had they meant quite as much, as they did now.
“Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee, E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me….”
Until the others joined their own voices, one at a time, with his, Evan had not realized that he’d begun to sing aloud. For a moment he was embarrassed. Yet he went on, the voices around him rising and growing stronger with his.
As Jess Dalton prayed, and as the hymn rose sweetly over Nora’s hospital bed, Evan did think he could sense a gathering of angels in the room and a Fatherly embrace around them all.
27
Nora’s Dream
When sleep, sorrow’s tomb with her flowery wand sealing,
The soft pall of silence o’er Life’s battle flings,
Then glimpses of Eden in visions revealing,
O’ershadow our rest with your sheltering wings….
RICHARD D’ALTON WILLIAMS (1822–1862)
Long past midnight, Jess Dalton trudged heavily upstairs. He had his hand on the doorknob of the master bedroom before remembering that it was temporarily occupied by
Arthur Jackson. Quietly he turned, then tiptoed down the hall to the guest room.
He stopped just inside the door. Kerry was curled up beneath a quilt in the enormous upholstered rocking chair by the window. She looked childlike, and troubled.
“Kerry? Whatever are you doing up so late, love?”
“Waiting for you. I couldn’t sleep.”
Shrugging out of his suit coat, Jess crossed the room. “And why can’t you sleep?” Lifting her, he took her place in the rocker, then settled her snugly onto his lap.
As she often did, she replied to his question with one of her own. “How did you find the Kavanagh lad, Jess? And Nora?”
He hesitated, reluctant to distress her at such a late hour.
“Nora is worse, isn’t she?” Kerry persisted.
Jess drew a deep, weary sigh, nodding. “Daniel is better. Much improved, in fact. But Nora—Nora isn’t doing very well as yet.”
Kerry nodded as if she’d known what he was going to say. “I had almost dozed off,” she said, “but all of a sudden didn’t I find myself wide awake? And with a fierce need to be praying for Nora Kavanagh.”
Jess was accustomed to this sort of unpredictable behavior from his wife. Over the years, he had come to recognize her uncommon sensitivity to the urging of God’s Spirit. He had learned to trust and respect what others might have deemed “coincidence.”
He kissed her lightly on the cheek, gathering her more closely against him. “Nora needs all of us praying for her tonight,” he said quietly. “In fact, I’m going back to the hospital. I only came home to leave a note in case you awakened, so you wouldn’t worry.”
Drawing back, Kerry frowned at him. “But, Jess, you’ve been up since dawn! Couldn’t you just rest a few hours?”
“No,” he said slowly, sorely tempted. “I think I’d best go back.”