Heather Graham by Angel's Touch Page A

down at her. Christ with blond hair and blue eyes, very Anglo, though even now, Mary Claire was convinced that Christ, when he had come to earth, born to Mary, must have been very dark, and in that darkness, far more beautiful—with deep, soulful eyes—than he had ever been portrayed by gentile artists.
    Well, she was about to find out. Find out if he was the Son of Man, God’s gift to the world. Find out if there was a God, if there was a heaven, an afterlife, a power…
    Panic seized her. How had she failed to believe? How strange death could be! She lay here now, with no strength in her arms. She could see, but could scarcely move her head. Oh, yes, she could see! The painting of Christ, the intravenous bottle that dripped morphine into her bloodstream—oh, why wouldn’t that damned morphine kick in, knock her out cold, let her escape this agony of fear? She wanted to ask for more; she couldn’t quite manage to do so. She wanted death to come quickly at one second, fought it the next. Each minute, each second, was agony.
    So slow…
    She looked across the room to where Father William sat, so dear a man, so deeply engrossed in prayer. He prayed for her so studiously, so intently. Poor man, poor foolish man! He prayed for a woman who had suddenly lost all faith, all belief…
    Because though she had changed, she hadn’t changed. She could see her own image in the silver-plated water pitcher at her side, a gift from her nephew when she had come here. She was crinkled, wrinkled, and old.
    But not inside! Inside, she was young. No wrinkles marred her face. She was the energetic little woman with the beautiful smile and dazzling eyes who had galvanized summer corps of CCD students into work forces in the worst jungles of Mexico and South America. She had fought the sin of vanity once she had actually taken her vows, because even into her later forties and fifties, she had been a handsome woman. But it wasn’t her beauty she remembered now; it was her energy. It remained in her soul. She wondered fervently why God—if He did exist—had allowed people to age so pathetically on the outside, while they never seemed to realize it inside, never saw themselves in the mind’s eye as the pathetic, dried-up, and worthless beings they had become?
    Because there was no God!
    Had there been a God, little children, in wretched villages with no running water, wouldn’t have died as skin and bone corpses with big bloated bellies. She wouldn’t have seen so many little ones maimed—armless, legless, footless—blown to bits. They looked back at her as she tried to help them, silently begging to know why ? Before, she’d had the answers. God’s will. Rewards for suffering came in heaven, and God welcomed His children as His little lambs; they would find welcome, peace, freedom from pain.
    Freedom from pain.
    She would be free…
    She didn’t want to die.
    She was terrified of dying…
    She would do anything in the world to stop death. Whether she closed or opened her eyes, she could see too clearly. How damned funny. Just about everything on her had rotted. But she had fantastic vision. Eyes opened, eyes closed.
    Eyes opened, she saw the truth. She was a pathetic old woman used up and useless and dying.
    Eyes closed. The wrinkles were gone. She was young inside. And beautiful still. And she could not die, could not die …
    Terror seized her. Filled limbs that should have been numb with death.
    She was so afraid she wanted to cry out. To scream. To reach for a hand to hold. To shout and deny what was happening. To cry and blubber and shriek out that she was afraid. If she could only believe again, enough to pray. She didn’t want to ruin the pride and grace of her life with such a cowardly demise. If only…
    She started suddenly, eyes opened as she looked around the room.
    She’d heard a voice. Not Father William’s well-known tones. A different pitch. One she didn’t know.
    Mary, I am coming!
    There was no one with her. No