how?
’Til next time,
V
July 21
My mother told me that over the last few months Dad has been seeking the Divine, “like a wilting flower thirsting for rainwater,”
is how she put it. He reads the Bible and watches the TV preachers, and even called once and asked their “prayer buddies”
to pray with him, to pray for him. I interpreted this more as an act of desperation than true religious conversion, but I
wasn’t about to tell my mother that.
She has been researching Medjugorje. Apparently, there are special prayers for healing the sick, and these must each be recited
seven times: The Creed, The Lord’s Prayer, the Hail Mary, and Glory Be. (I know the Lord’s Prayer, but as for the rest, I’m
clueless. My mother has printed them out for each of us but my father already has them memorized.) He will need to fast on
bread and water, and when we meet up with our priest, my father will be anointed with some kind of holy oil. Supposedly it’s
critical to get the right priest for the job because not all have the “gift of healing.” They say that only priests who pray
with forbearance and firm belief will have God’s ear. I only hope that’s the kind I’ve hired.
I’m still incredulous, but I’m beginning to feel inspired. Maybe there really is hope for my father.
’Til next time,
V
July 22
At 5 A.M. I roused Pete and we took a cab to my mother’s house. I asked the driver to wait outside. “We’ll be just a minute,” I told
him.
“No problem. Take your time. I’ve got my breakfast here,” he said, pulling an Egg McMuffin out of a McDonald’s bag. I had
no appetite.
My mother met me on the porch. She was wearing her coat and gloves. “Your father isn’t doing very well.”
I stepped over the two small suitcases at the door. Pete scrambled down to the basement to explore my father’s old armoire.
It was filled with pads and markers and assorted office supplies, playing cards and books about the Korean War. He could spend
all day down there and never come up for a snack.
My father was sitting on the couch, laboring to breathe. His stocking feet looked so small and frail. He managed a smile.
“Valerie,” he whispered.
“It all happened so suddenly,” my mother said, her hands fluttering like moths. “He was up and about yesterday.
“It’s time to go, Dad,” I told him. “The driver’s waiting outside.” My father sat passively as I gently pulled on his hat
and wrapped the scarf around his neck. I could feel his sharp shoulder blades through his baggy beige fisherman’s sweater.
His skin was translucent and his eyes were an entirely new color, not the green I’d rememberedbut the softest blue-gray, the color of the summer sky at dawn. Even as I buttoned up his jacket, I knew we weren’t going
anywhere.
“Tell me about the Blessed Virgin,” he said. “Tell me about miracles. His voice was wispy as smoke. His mouth sagged open
and he gasped for air like a fish in a bucket.
I put his cold, bony hand in mine. His eyes were closed. I glanced at the driver through the picture window. He pointed to
his wristwatch and raised his eyebrows.
“Mom, tell the cabdriver he can leave.” I reached into my bag and grabbed a twenty. “Just give him this.”
“What are you talking about?” my mother demanded. “You can’t send the driver away! We need him! We’ve got to get to the airport!”
“Let him leave, Mom. We won’t be going to the airport. We’re not going anywhere.”
“But Teresa. We have to meet Teresa at the airport. Get his shoes on and let’s get out of here.”
My father gripped my hand. “You were a beautiful baby,” he said, gasping, and I felt a great sadness roll up into my throat.
I didn’t want to cry. My mother stood immobilized in the corner of the room, her knuckle between her teeth.
“I don’t know why you made me send the driver away, Val, I really don’t. We’re going to miss the plane.”
“My sweet
’Til next time,
V
July 21
My mother told me that over the last few months Dad has been seeking the Divine, “like a wilting flower thirsting for rainwater,”
is how she put it. He reads the Bible and watches the TV preachers, and even called once and asked their “prayer buddies”
to pray with him, to pray for him. I interpreted this more as an act of desperation than true religious conversion, but I
wasn’t about to tell my mother that.
She has been researching Medjugorje. Apparently, there are special prayers for healing the sick, and these must each be recited
seven times: The Creed, The Lord’s Prayer, the Hail Mary, and Glory Be. (I know the Lord’s Prayer, but as for the rest, I’m
clueless. My mother has printed them out for each of us but my father already has them memorized.) He will need to fast on
bread and water, and when we meet up with our priest, my father will be anointed with some kind of holy oil. Supposedly it’s
critical to get the right priest for the job because not all have the “gift of healing.” They say that only priests who pray
with forbearance and firm belief will have God’s ear. I only hope that’s the kind I’ve hired.
I’m still incredulous, but I’m beginning to feel inspired. Maybe there really is hope for my father.
’Til next time,
V
July 22
At 5 A.M. I roused Pete and we took a cab to my mother’s house. I asked the driver to wait outside. “We’ll be just a minute,” I told
him.
“No problem. Take your time. I’ve got my breakfast here,” he said, pulling an Egg McMuffin out of a McDonald’s bag. I had
no appetite.
My mother met me on the porch. She was wearing her coat and gloves. “Your father isn’t doing very well.”
I stepped over the two small suitcases at the door. Pete scrambled down to the basement to explore my father’s old armoire.
It was filled with pads and markers and assorted office supplies, playing cards and books about the Korean War. He could spend
all day down there and never come up for a snack.
My father was sitting on the couch, laboring to breathe. His stocking feet looked so small and frail. He managed a smile.
“Valerie,” he whispered.
“It all happened so suddenly,” my mother said, her hands fluttering like moths. “He was up and about yesterday.
“It’s time to go, Dad,” I told him. “The driver’s waiting outside.” My father sat passively as I gently pulled on his hat
and wrapped the scarf around his neck. I could feel his sharp shoulder blades through his baggy beige fisherman’s sweater.
His skin was translucent and his eyes were an entirely new color, not the green I’d rememberedbut the softest blue-gray, the color of the summer sky at dawn. Even as I buttoned up his jacket, I knew we weren’t going
anywhere.
“Tell me about the Blessed Virgin,” he said. “Tell me about miracles. His voice was wispy as smoke. His mouth sagged open
and he gasped for air like a fish in a bucket.
I put his cold, bony hand in mine. His eyes were closed. I glanced at the driver through the picture window. He pointed to
his wristwatch and raised his eyebrows.
“Mom, tell the cabdriver he can leave.” I reached into my bag and grabbed a twenty. “Just give him this.”
“What are you talking about?” my mother demanded. “You can’t send the driver away! We need him! We’ve got to get to the airport!”
“Let him leave, Mom. We won’t be going to the airport. We’re not going anywhere.”
“But Teresa. We have to meet Teresa at the airport. Get his shoes on and let’s get out of here.”
My father gripped my hand. “You were a beautiful baby,” he said, gasping, and I felt a great sadness roll up into my throat.
I didn’t want to cry. My mother stood immobilized in the corner of the room, her knuckle between her teeth.
“I don’t know why you made me send the driver away, Val, I really don’t. We’re going to miss the plane.”
“My sweet
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