Miriam's Well

by Lois Ruby

  “You’re getting EAR-itating, Adam. Go down and stuff your face in the cafeteria while I’m gone. I’ll meet you there.”

  The laughter evaporated in the scan room, where everything was cold and mechanical. I climbed onto the table, feeling a slight stab in my back from those stiff muscles. Another day of sit-ups ought to take care of that. I lay immobile on the table, with just a thin gown on, shivering not just from the chill of the morguelike room, but from an unwelcome fear that stole into me. I prayed and chased it away. I was sure that nothing would show up on the bone scan. The longer Adam and I had been together, the more sure I had become. True, I knew that nothing could be hidden from the penetrating eye of the scanner, which would aim for my weak spots as surely as the nozzle of a rifle. But Brother James had said, “Remember, Jesus goes with you as your rock and your savior. Lean on that rock. Have faith in that savior.” And I believed. I prayed silently while the huge drum hung above me and moved over my head, keeping me in its line of vision every second. It clicked steadily, reporting whatever it spotted in its cross hairs. The drum moved down over my neck, my shoulders, my chest, up and down each arm, taunting me as it got closer and closer to the target.

  Click, click, the steady rat-a-tat-tat gave the word to the screen, as the machine moved down my left side to my toes, then up my right leg. And then the clicking picked up its pace, like a Geiger counter that’s found uranium, and I willed myself to look up at the screen. There was a patch, the size of a marble, and black as the midnight sky.

  What would I say to Adam, who was waiting for good news in the cafeteria? If I told him the bare truth, he would say that I’d lost valuable treatment time, that my prayers had been wasted, like the better part of an apple tossed in the trash; that Jesus had just plain let me down.

  But he didn’t know. He didn’t know that I’d eased up on my prayers since witnessing in church and during the days I’d felt so good. Sometimes you only ask for things when you need them and only make promises for earthly rewards. I was ashamed that I hadn’t been fair to Jesus. I resolved to pray with more dedication. I would be entirely faithful, and Jesus would heal me, as He had before.

  And then, while I was dressing in the women’s locker room, I had a frightening thought. What if Jesus were mad at me because of Adam, because in my heart of hearts, in the deep of my night, I dared to think “love” about someone who did not love Jesus? But He didn’t hold grudges. He was telling me, with this knot in my bones, that He was giving me another chance. Finally, it was clear to me that I had to do two things: I had to pray constantly for my healing, pray with the spirit and pray with the mind, as Brother James had always told me to do; and I had to bring Jesus and Adam together.

  And so, I told Adam, when I was done with the bone scan, that everything had tested out perfectly.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Told by Adam

  Who did she think she was fooling, telling me everything was okay? The doctors gave the news to my father, and he told me. He figured I already knew, and because I didn’t, I was even madder.

  “So, are you happy now?” I shouted, pacing back and forth in our family room. “Your brilliant prediction’s come true. What are you giving her, six months?”

  “Sit down, Adam,” my mother said quietly. “It’s unfair, I know, but it’s not your father’s fault.”

  “Oh, really? He’s the one who’s making sure the doctors can’t get to Miriam.”

  “I am not, Adam. What I am trying to do is preserve freedom of religion and, secondarily, family rights as guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution.” He flipped to the back of a book on his desk. “The First Amendment, in the Bill of Rights, states, in part, ‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.’ Then Article Ten says, ‘The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.’ To the people, Adam. To Miriam’s family.”

  “Oh, great! Miriam can die and rot in the ground, but all you care about is the First Amendment. I’ve heard First Amendment, Tenth Amendment, like chapters and verses of the Bible, all my life. I hate your stupid Bill of Rights, Dad, got that?”

  “Stop pacing, Adam, you’re driving me nuts,” my mother said. I sank into a chair. “Better. It’s all right, you can take your anger and frustration out on the American Constitution. It’s held up more than two hundred years. It’ll probably survive your attack.”

  Dad said calmly, “But it will not hold up if people do not struggle to keep it alive in cases like this. I realize you can’t understand this just now, but preserving collective civil rights has got to be more important than one unfortunate Miriam Pelham.”

  “Well, Sam, maybe it’s a little harsh to imply that the girl’s life isn’t important.”

  My father’s head snapped up from his papers. “The girl’s life is vitally important. If we win, we lose. God, Abby, how did I ever get into this business? I should have been a chicken farmer.”

  “You could still get out of it,” I retorted.

  “Don’t think I haven’t considered it every day since it began,” Dad said. “Every day. But I just can’t leave the case. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry isn’t enough.”

  “I’ll get some cookies,” my mother offered.

  “Cookies, Abby? Now?”

  “Mint deluxe brownies. I have some in the freezer. Listen, boys, I come from a long line of women who pacify their men with food. Indulge me.” She left me alone with my father, who was suddenly a stranger to me, and neither of us spoke. I studied the dirt under my nails, my shoelaces, a headline on a page in the Newsweek magazine at my feet. My father caught me looking at the magazine.

  “His top aide has resigned, did you see?”

  “Whose?”

  “It doesn’t matter whose. What matters is that you and I can have some mutual respect for each other over this Pelham case.”

  “You mean, I can respect you.”

  “It’s important to me.”

  “Well, it’s hard for me to be as coldly analytical as you are, Dad. I like the girl.”

  “I like her, too,” he said, with a deep sigh. “We’ll pray it all comes out well, whatever the hell that means.”

  “Yeah, well, I never really learned how to pray. She does it just like breathing.”

  “So you’ll start with a deep breath.”

  “Wow, is it ever heating up,” Diana said. “It’s almost too big for Wichita.” It’s all we ever talked about, now that Miriam was back in the hospital. Somehow, Miriam’s health had become Diana’s personal cause. Her Bahamas tan hadn’t faded at all since she’d been back. She was golden brown and more beautiful than ever. In Nassau she’d picked up a flowery basket purse, nearly large enough to be a suitcase, and she had it stuffed full of newspaper articles on Miriam, interview notes, reprints from medical journals, and a paperback Bible she’d highlighted in yellow.

  We sat on a stone bench having lunch outside Eisenhower. Diana paraded papers under my nose. “Dr. Simon Greenwood, of M.D. Anderson Tumor Institute in Houston, says that the particular form of cancer that Miriam has, localized in the pelvic bone and growing at the rate of …”

  A wave of nausea dizzied me. “Could we just eat?”

  “Oh, sure.” She stuffed all the papers into her basket. “I’m ruining your appetite. I’m sorry, Adam.” She leaned forward and took a bite of my baloney sandwich, leaving her lipstick on my Wonder Bread. “It could use Grey Poupon,” she announced, like a TV gourmet cook. She wore a knockout red and purple and orange sweater that I’d never seen before and that she filled to distraction. I pictured the sweater on Miriam, and it didn’t translate well. The sleeves would be too long, the shoulders too broad, the colors too flashy. Now Diana propped her feet up on the bench and pulled the sweater over the mountain of her knees. “The thing is, Adam, this is a time bomb right in our community. Journalists from all
over the country have their eye on us. Doesn’t that titilate you just a little?”

  “Not really.”

  Diana pouted. “Nothing does, anymore. Are we still boyfriend and girlfriend, or did someone forget to mention that it was over? That would be rotten for my ego, Adam, because I’ve never actually been dumped before.”

  “I’m not dumping you.”

  “Then what’s the deal?”

  “I’m just preoccupied, I guess.”

  “Twenty-four hours a day? How do you have time to shower? You haven’t phoned me in nine days; I’ve been calling you. And in case you didn’t notice, we never made it to the Thanksgiving dance.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Oh, but I’m giving you another chance,” Diana said, raking her long, bright pink nails down my chest. “But only because I’m crazy enough to be crazy about you.” Her fingers slipped in between two buttons of my shirt, and when she touched my skin, I shivered.

  “That’s better.” She leaned forward and kissed my ear.

  “No PDA’s,” snapped Coach Ortega, who appeared out of nowhere, on bush patrol. “That’s Public Displays of Affection, kiddos. Save it for Saturday night.”

  Diana pulled back. “Right, Coach,” she said, flirting like crazy.

  Coach Ortega grinned, patting his hard belly. “Hormones,” he muttered, moving on to the next group of offenders.

  “But as I was saying, Adam, things are really heating up. I’m doing this massive, supercomprehensive article for the Vantage, and I think the city paper will even want it. It’s a big, impassioned plea for medical attention for Miriam. I’ve got stats on life expectancy, specs on drug dosage, case histories, the works. I’m talking Pulitzer quality, Adam. I’m blowing this story out of the water.”

  She would, I knew, and I was scared to be around for the tidal wave that would follow. I couldn’t stop her, any more than I could stop Miriam from believing her God would cure her.

  If only I could stop wishing Diana’s fingers were still under my shirt.

  In every class, the same seat, Miriam’s, was vacant, and I think it unnerved some of the teachers. Mrs. Loomis made us all change seats. No one wanted Miriam’s desk, but Mrs. Loomis made up this ridiculous rule that all the front rows had to be filled before the back rows. This really hurt Tyrone Boyles, who made a career of sleeping in the back row on Monday mornings after every football weekend. No one bothered him much, because he was a terrific linebacker and smart enough to get his work done even if he snored through English, and either way he was sure of a juicy scholarship.

  Reluctantly, Bailey Mathews inherited Miriam’s seat. She gave fresh new meaning to the term “hangover” when we were treated to the vision of her jeans pouring over and out of Miriam’s desk chair.

  Just after Thanksgiving, Mrs. Loomis sprang a new surprise on us. “How many of you clever students are going to college?” Since Senior Honors English was an advanced placement class, one hundred percent of us put our hands up.

  “Well, we haven’t failed the future entirely,” the Big Bang said. “Now, how many of you are applying to state colleges?” About nineteen of the twenty-six kids raised their hands, including Brent. Someone nudged Tyrone, who also raised his hand. “So, I’m assuming that the world has not changed radically since last November, and the state colleges are still not requiring tricky essays for admission, correct?”

  “That’s right,” Tyrone said, shaking the sleep out of his eyes.

  “Good morning, Mr. Boyles. Now, may I assume that the rest of you are applying to private colleges?”

  “You may,” said Diana. “And you wouldn’t believe the essays they’re asking for.”

  “Oh, yes, I would,” Mrs. Loomis said, coming out from behind the barricade of her desk. I hoped she would pull one of her most spectacular circus acts, backing herself up to her desk and tempting fate by daring the desk corner to support her. It was our lucky day. She inched back, hoisted one cheek up, then the other, and commandeered the corner of the desk. Between her and Bailey Mathews, you would have thought the entire classroom would tilt to the north. I guess Tyrone, weighing in at 230, balanced the room.

  Mrs. Loomis said, “Those little essays are the topic of our discourse this morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Her legs dangled like giant salamis in the delicatessen. “I want to see your essays,” she thundered.

  Well, this was news, because I hadn’t written any of them yet. My parents convinced me to apply to all these small colleges for underachievers, like Grinnell and Carlton, where you got in on potential, but once you did, you had to try really hard to flunk out. All the essays were due before January 1, and I wasn’t going to worry about them until December 30, at the earliest. But here was Mrs. Loomis taking control of my destiny.

  “You seven, I expect to see all your essays by Monday, December seventeen.”

  “Aw, Mrs. Loomis. Let us turn them in after Christmas,” Arnita whined.

  “Before winter break, ladies and gents. It won’t do you a bit of good if I peruse them after you’ve sent them off to the colleges.” There was a lot of gloating, of course, from the nineteen students who thought they were off the hook. But they’d underestimated the Big Bang. “For the rest of you, I shall be handing out a sheet with six devilishly difficult topics, and you are to write on two of them by next Monday.” She shifted on the desk, and its back left leg wobbled. We expected a real show any minute. But to our disappointment, she slid off the desk and didn’t even seem to notice when it jumped in relief.

  Diana raised her hand. “Mrs. Loomis, I have my essay ready for Yale. Would you like to see it tomorrow?”

  “I would be delighted. Perhaps you could read it to the class as an example of how such a thought-provoking essay ought to be researched and written.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Diana said, and we all knew she could.

  I caught up with her after class. “What am I going to turn in? I’m not writing these stupid essays before winter break.”

  “That’s my Adam, always planning ahead. You know what, Adam? You have problems with decision-making. You have problems with commitment. I can’t understand how you even figure out what you’re going to have for lunch.”

  Lately, Diana was always picking scraps with me, but I was in no mood for an argument. “Give me a break. Grinnell wants a thousand words on a significant event that changed the course of history. The only thing I remember about history is that in seventh grade, Mrs. Thorensen had a heart attack during Egypt, and we got that sub who was a shop teacher, and that was the last we ever heard of the Great Pyramids.”

  “Come on, you must have learned something in a year of world history,” Diana said.

  “There was something about Mesopotamia. That’s about it. I remember that, because it’s one of my favorite bands.” I flashed her my most adorable grin.

  “You know, Adam, you’re not as stupid as you pretend to be.”

  “Sure I am.”

  She looked me over more deeply than usual. “Maybe you are. Okay, you can use one of my extra essays. The question for Swarthmore was something like Grinnell’s. You can adapt it.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  She shrugged. “It’s no different from letting you use my car.” We’d come to physics class and were passing Miriam’s empty seat when Diana said, “Let’s say I’m doing it for old time’s sake.”

  The hospital filed a suit against Miriam’s mother, demanding that Miriam be evaluated for aggressive treatment. Judge Bonnell was persuaded by the sheer numbers of doctors and nurses who signed the petition that went with the suit: every doctor on staff, and 92 percent of the nurses and lab techs signed. Miriam had a police guard outside her room again. I was there right after school, and her eyes were ringed with red. I tried to make a stupid joke.

  “What? On top of everything else, you’ve got pink eye?”

  “No,” she replied, in a baby voice. “I read Diana’s article in the Wichita Eagle today. You must reall
y be proud of her.”

  “Listen, I’m not her journalism teacher.” What could I say?

  Miriam obviously decided not to say what was on her mind. “Well then, her journalism teacher should be proud of her. She presents a very persuasive argument.” Miriam’s voice waivered. “But why is she against me? I never did anything to her.”

  Again, what could I say? If I defended Diana, it would look bad, and if I sided with Miriam, it would look worse.

  Miriam quickly composed herself. “Well, we all do what we’re called to do, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Hold my hand, okay?”

  I took her small hand, soft as feathers, and noticed the sensible white half-moons of her nails. There was a Band-Aid at the tip of one finger, maybe where they’d taken blood. She wore a hospital-issue green cotton robe, drab as a prison uniform. They’d taken her shoes and clothes, she said, so she couldn’t escape.

  I had this crazy idea of kidnapping her and taking her to the Bahamas where she would get some color into that pale, pale face. I’d hide her out in a thatched hut with a dirt floor, or in an Indian tent, and I’d surround her and hold her so tight that nothing else could get in to invade her bones.

  “What happens next?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “They don’t tell me. They’re afraid I’ll tell Brother James, and he’ll make a fuss.”

  “You want me to see what I can find out from my father?”

  “If you can. But, I’m not sure you should even come here any more.”

  “Why not?” I lifted her hand to my cheek, and she moved her fingers to my lips, then drew her small hand into a fist.

  “Because I’m just making trouble for you, with Diana.”

  “I’m making my own trouble, Miriam. Let me handle it.” She opened her hand again. I kissed her fingers one by one. “Hey, I’ll bring a puzzle. I don’t know if I can get a guy who cut off his ear or any other appendages, but would you settle for a baseball card puzzle? I’ve got one in the back of my closet. I’ll bring it after school tomorrow, okay?”