by Carys Bray
“For when she’s feeling better, so she doesn’t strain her eyes,” he says.
He unscrews the lid of the vial of consecrated oil that dangles from the key ring and dabs a few drops onto his fingertips before wiping them across Issy’s forehead. He closes his eyes and places his hands on her head, where they rest like a crown.
“Isabel Rachael Bradley, by the authority of the Holy Melchizedek priesthood which I hold, I anoint your head with this consecrated oil which has been set apart for the blessing of the sick. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”
He opens his eyes and glances at Claire.
“Amen,” she says.
She watches him close his eyes again. He stands silently and she knows he is listening for the Spirit, waiting for inspiration and guidance, and she aches for him. Once he has taken the time to listen, knowledge will puncture his optimism. He will finish the blessing, sink into the chair beside the bed, remove his jacket, loosen his tie, and they will share the anguish of knowing.
“Isabel Rachael Bradley, by the authority of the Holy Melchizedek priesthood which I hold, I lay my hands upon your head, seal this anointing, and pronounce upon you a blessing. Your Heavenly Father is mindful of you at this difficult time. He loves you and wants to bless you. Your family also loves you very much. Now is not the time for you to return to your Heavenly Father; there is still work for you to do in mortality. You have been blessed with a special mother whom your Heavenly Father loves and, according to her great faith, I bless you to be healed …”
He keeps talking but Claire can’t keep up with his words, she can’t catch them, they’re flying past her ears like tiny birds, fluttering to the open door and out into the hospital corridor. He has made Issy’s recovery contingent on her faith and she doesn’t know how she will ever forgive him.
DR. SABZWARI SAYS it will be easier to talk in the Parents’ Lounge. They sit down and Ian smiles at the doctor, as if he believes he can encourage her to deliver good news.
“I’m afraid Isabel’s not responding to treatment.”
Ian’s smile slips. “It’s early days, isn’t it?”
“We haven’t been able to stabilize her, Mr. Bradley. Her condition’s worsening. Her brain tissue is swollen and we’re beginning to observe focal seizures. We need to think about what’s best for Isabel.”
“I think it’s best to give her more time.” He looks to Claire for support. “Give her a chance to turn the corner.”
“Mr. Bradley, the septicemia is progressing and—”
“You see children on television who’ve had their fingers and toes amputated—whole legs, hands, even arms—don’t you?”
“Yes, you do.” Dr. Sabzwari says it so kindly and regretfully that Claire knows she is going to follow up with something awful. “But you almost never see children at this stage of the disease make a recovery. Isabel’s blood pressure is low, which means there’s poor blood flow to her major organs, and poor blood flow to the brain causes brain damage. I think we’re approaching the stage where we need to talk about what happens next.”
Claire looks from Dr. Sabzwari to Ian. “Do you think … do you think we could talk about this in the morning?” she asks. “Our other children, we need to talk to them, they should be here …”
Ian grabs her hand and squeezes hard and she realizes he thinks she’s prevaricating, holding out for a miracle too.
“Of course. We’ll review things in the morning. Are you both staying tonight?”
“I’ll sit with Issy for a while so Claire can have a break and get something to eat. Then I’ll go home and get the children to bed. I’ll bring them in the morning and hopefully …”
“It’s good that one of you will get some rest. If there’s any change during the night, we’ll call you immediately, Mr. Bradley.”
“I’m sure you won’t need to,” he says.
OTHER, BETTER MOTHERS would be able to fight the soporific, twilight hospital and stay awake. It’s like Jesus’s last night on Earth, when he asked the disciples to tarry with him and they kept falling asleep even though he needed the company of the people he loved. “Could you not watch with me one hour?” he asked.
Every year when Ian tells the story of Jesus’s death in the special Easter Family Home Evening, Claire thinks the disciples are awful for sleeping and yet here she is, tumbling into deep, several-second pools of it every time she blinks. She would have made a poor disciple and she is an even poorer mother.
Issy’s urine output is minimal and she is filling up with fluid as her kidneys fail. Her fingers are bunched like dark grapes and she’s so immobile it’s hard to imagine she went to school yesterday.
Claire stands and leans over the bars of the bed to rest her head on the corner of the pillow. She can smell skin and baby shampoo. She fills her nose with the lovely smell and then she sits again, resting her head against the bars. As she tries to breathe the fragrance into memory she closes her eyes and loses her battle with sleep.
THE CHILDREN SIT with Issy while Dr. Sabzwari talks in the Parents’ Lounge. Claire wonders how long the doctor’s shifts are and whether she has been home at all.
“So where are we up to?” Ian is wearing his suit again because it’s Sunday. He looks anxious, but hopeful.
“We reviewed Isabel this morning on the ward round and we also discussed her at some length as a team. I’m afraid—”
“I saw some stories on the Internet last night about children who’ve come back from this, miraculous stories—there’s no other way to describe them. There was one little girl who’d had her arms and legs amputated, but she was absolutely fine, doing well. She looked lovely and she had these little plastic legs with red shoes on.”
“Mr. Bradley, I—”
“And I thought—those shoes, those little red shoes, Issy would like them.”
“Ian, you’re making it worse.”
“I think if there’s just the smallest chance, just one percent … could you, could you … take her legs? Would it make a difference?”
“Isabel’s brain activity is sporadic, which means her brain has been damaged.” Dr. Sabzwari nods her head slowly like yesterday and Claire nods back to signal understanding.
“We don’t believe she is going to regain consciousness,” she continues. “I’m so sorry. If we stop ventilation, she’ll pass away, peacefully.”
“Can we wait—I mean, can we just have a little longer?” Ian loosens his tie and fumbles in his jacket pockets for his little box of tablets. He pops one into his mouth and chews quickly. When he’s finished, he takes a breath and holds it between puffed cheeks. Claire hears the air hiss as it escapes; she places her hand on his thigh and he covers it with one of his own, cold and slick—under his armor of faith, he’s scared. She edges closer, slides her hand out from under his and puts her arm around his shoulder.
“I think the children need some more time with Issy,” he says.
He knows. Claire feels him buckle; the dip of his shoulders marks the retreat of his certainty and she is relieved and terrified.
“Of course, Mr. Bradley.”
“I’d like some time with her. And Claire would, wouldn’t you? Oh, don’t cry, come on, you’ve been so brave, come on—can we have a little more time, please?”
“Of course.”
WHEN THEY’VE DETACHED the tubes, they place Issy in Claire’s lap. Ian and the children huddle around the chair and Issy is surrounded by love. She is warm and malleable and Claire is certain that tiny particles of her are still creeping along the sluggish current of blood, hiding in parts of the brain that haven’t yet been evacuated.
There is no discernible moment of death; she stops imperceptibly, like the clock in the Parents’ Lounge, and Claire tightens her grip, she doesn’t know how to give her up and leave her behind, how to sign the forms that will give permission for all sorts of unthinkable things to happen.
Ian bends to kiss Issy’s forehead. The children are tear-streaked and stricken; he wrap
s his arms around them.
“OK, everyone,” he says. “OK. It’s OK, it’s OK. We’ll be OK, won’t we?” They nod; Alma wipes his face with the bottom of his T-shirt, and Jacob allows Zipporah’s hug.
“We’ll be OK,” Ian says, to her this time, and she nods like the children because there’s nothing else to do.
– 7 –
Happy Is the Man Who Has Put His Trust in the Lord
Ian leans back in his chair and chews the end of his pen. The Family Home Evening Resource Book, the Book of Mormon, and the Bible lie open on the dining-room table and pages of handwritten notes fan the spaces among the books. It’s his role as head of the family to make sense of things. Tonight, during Family Home Evening, he will provide the antidote to grief by reiterating that death is not the end. He stops chewing on the pen lid to underline a note he has scribbled on one of the scattered pages: We do not mourn as those without hope. Hope—he draws a circle around the word and the squeak of the pen’s fiber tip makes him doubly aware of the quiet.
It has been a peaceful day. Doors have closed gently and the hours have been interspersed with whispers and sighs, with artless strokes of arms and shoulders. The shock seems to have sunk right down into the children’s feet; they have forgone their usual clomping and chosen instead to pad down the stairs and creep along the corridors. The atmosphere has been so reverent that the house almost feels like the Temple. Eternity will be just like this, but without the sorrow.
Claire has spent most of the day upstairs. When he woke, Ian made her a list:
People to call
GP—antibiotics
President Carmichael
Brother Stevens
Brother and Sister Campbell
Sister Anderson
Schools—back tomorrow but off for funeral—Monday?
Funeral director—home visit?
At first Claire disagreed about school. She wanted everyone home, a whole week off. He argued for company and distraction, for facing everyone as soon as possible and keeping busy; she understood in the end.
He sat on the end of the bed and watched while she dialed the first number, but when she realized he was planning to listen in, she cut the connection and asked him to leave the room. She said it would be easier if he wasn’t there. He didn’t disagree; after yesterday, he was relieved not to be involved.
When they got back from the hospital, he switched off the car engine and sagged in his seat, unable to recall a single moment of the journey. He couldn’t remember whether anyone had spoken, what route he had taken, nothing. It was as if they’d been teleported home.
He didn’t do his impersonation of Brigham Young; his throat was too tight to say, “This is the place.” And the others were similarly immobilized. No one wanted to be the first to unclip their seat belt; they all waited, even Jacob, each reluctant to cross the threshold of the house for the first time without Issy.
Once inside, they huddled in the kitchen while Claire made hot chocolate and Ian warmed his icy-shocked hands on the hot mug. She’s not here—he swallowed and the hurt faded somewhat, and then—she’s not here—it started again and his whole chest hurt.
He rinsed the mugs while Claire put the children to bed. He thought about phoning his mum and dad and it was then it dawned on him: He didn’t have a number, just an email address. He dried his hands and switched on the computer. He Googled the Mission President’s details and it took only a few minutes for him to discover a phone number. He dialed it before he’d had a proper think about what he was going to say.
“Hello, um, President Tanner. My name’s Ian Bradley, and um, my parents are serving in your mission and I—I need their phone number.”
“Elder and Sister Bradley? They’re a wonderful couple. Did you serve a mission, Brother Bradley?”
“Yes, I—”
“That’s wonderful. Where did you serve?”
“London.”
“If your parents haven’t given you their number, perhaps it’s because they’ve decided to follow Mission rules like the younger missionaries—home can be so distracting. I’d be more than happy to relay a message for you.”
“I’d like to talk to them myself.”
“Brother Bradley—”
“It’s Bishop Bradley, I’m a bishop. And this is important, so I’d appreciate it if you could give me their number.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Bishop. If you just hang on a moment, I’ll find it for you. I’m sure you understand—I didn’t want to spoil things for your mum and dad. Is everything OK?”
Ian tried to reply but when he opened his mouth he was ambushed by tears. He attempted to speak through them, but his voice split and he couldn’t make any words.
“Are you still there, Bishop Bradley?”
He tried again and made a series of indecipherable whimpers. There was something about saying that was infinitely worse than knowing.
“Are you OK?”
“I, oh … oh, I …”
“If you can just tell me what’s happened, I’ll speak to your parents for you, Bishop Bradley. I’ll do it straight away, I promise. Take a deep breath. Is someone there with you?”
“Oh … I … oh …”
He couldn’t. Something in his chest had wound and wound during the past twenty-four hours, and it was finally working loose as he tried to put everything into words.
Claire must have caught the sounds. He heard her feet on the stairs and watched as she hurried into the dining room to take the phone away from him.
“Our daughter,” he heard her say.
He covered his face with his hands and cried.
“Only four. Meningitis. Yes. Thank you … it’s kind of you. Goodbye.”
There was a clunk as she put the phone down on the dining-room table and then she touched his shoulders.
“Come on, come on.” She stroked him and shushed his sobs. “President Tanner’s going to call your parents,” she said eventually. “He didn’t think you’d be able to manage it. He’ll get them to call us, so you need to stop crying. Come on. Shush.”
He wiped his cheeks and nodded, afraid that if he tried to speak, the inexplicable noises would begin again. She fetched a box of tissues from the kitchen and placed it on his lap. He was blowing his nose when the phone rang. She answered it for him and passed it over.
“Oh, Ian,” his mum said. And that was all it took to make him cry again.
FAMILY HOME EVENING always starts with a song, but Ian forgoes it today in case the singing precipitates tears. He sits in his armchair opposite Claire, and the children take the sofa. The room feels all wrong. There’s an automatic error message going off in his brain—a preset program that keeps count of the children is warning him one of them is missing. Issy’s beanbag is slumped next to the toy box, cast in the dip of her shape. He tries not to look at it. He thinks about the other Church families all over the world who, no matter what has happened during the previous week, will be spending Monday evening at home enjoying gospel discussions and fun. Some people make jokes about Family Home Evening; they say it’s the only fight that begins and ends with a prayer. Ian doesn’t fight with his family and he wouldn’t make jokes about it if he did.
Sheets of handwritten notes mark the correct page in the Family Home Evening Resource Book. The lesson is from the Special Occasion section: “They That Mourn Shall Be Comforted—to be used after a loved one has died.” He asks Jacob to give the opening prayer and then he begins the lesson with an easy question.
“Where are Nana and Granddad?”
“They’re on their mission,” Jacob says. “But Dad, it was my birthday on Saturday so it’s supposed to be my Family Home Evening. We have to look at the pictures of me when I was a baby and sing my favorite songs and everything. That’s what’s supposed to happen.”
“Not this week, Jacob. We’ll do it another day. How long is Nana and Granddad’s mission?”
“One and a half years. So will my Family Home Evening be next week or�
��”
“That’s enough. How much time have Nana and Granddad got left before they come home, Alma?”
“Six months.”
“That’s right. Haven’t the first twelve months gone quickly?”
They all shrug, even Claire, as if it’s something they can’t be bothered to consider, and Ian knows he has to do better.
“I’ve been thinking about Issy, and I think Heavenly Father must have a special job for her to do, a bit like Nana and Granddad’s mission, but in the Spirit World. I’m sad that we haven’t seen Nana and Granddad for a year, and I’m, um, I’m sad that Issy isn’t … that she isn’t … isn’t here. But Nana and Granddad will be home next year. We’ll be so happy to see them, won’t we? And do you know what? Issy’s gone home to live with Heavenly Father and Jesus, and one day, after we’ve finished our work on Earth, we’ll all join her. We’ll be so happy to see her, won’t we? It may seem like a long time, but it will pass quickly, I’m sure—”
“Nana and Granddad aren’t coming home until next year?” Zipporah interrupts. “You mean they aren’t coming for Issy’s funeral?”
“No, they’ve decided it’s best not to.”
“Why?”
“Well, Granddad’s baptizing someone on Sunday afternoon and the funeral will probably be on Monday, so … missionaries don’t just pop back for family occasions, they have to concentrate on missionary work, and when they do that, their families get more blessings.”
Alma coughs in theatrical disagreement and Ian’s fingers tighten into fists.
“It’s easy to be a smart aleck and make fun of things. It takes a lot more effort to trust and have faith.” He glances at Claire for support, but she is looking steadfastly at the carpet. He’d also assumed Mum and Dad would come back for the funeral. Dublin isn’t far away. It would have been easy to organize, but he can’t let it upset him; it’s wrong to dwell on disappointments.