you’re not God. A deity, yes, but hardly cocreator of the universe. If you stood outside Brigantine Mall chanting “Let there be light,” a few neon tubes might blink on inside K mart, but heaven would gain no stars. God’s children did not do galaxies. They did not invent species, stop time, or eliminate evil with a snap of their divine fingers. Jesus cured lepers, you often note, Jesus did not cure leprosy. Your powers have bounds, your obligations limits.
A cuttlefish drifts by, its tentacles undulating in sleepy, antique rhythms.
People are always asking, does God exist? Of course she does. The real question: what is she like? What sort of God stuffs her only daughter into a bell jar like so much pickled herring and dumps her on the earth with no clues to her mission? What sort of God continues to ignore that same daughter even after she cures a blind boy exactly as instructed? Seven whole years since the Timothy miracle, and while nobody has taken you away, no mothers have shown up either.
You will never forget the night you confessed. “Three summers ago I did something really bad. I gave a kid eyes.”
“You what? ” your father moaned, his jaw dropping open.
“God wanted me to, I thought.”
“ She made you do it? Has she been talking to you?”
“It was just an idea I got. Please don’t slap me.”
He did not slap you. He said, firmly, “We’ll get this out of your system once and for all,” and hustled you into the Saab.
“Get what out of my system?”
“You’ll see.” He drove you over the bridge into Atlantic City.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll find out.”
“Where?”
“To visit my friend from the fire station.”
Pop’s fire station buddies, you knew, used to draw out his blood for your ectogenesis machine. “Mr. Balthazar? Mr. Caspar?”
“Herb Melchior. So how did it feel, fixing that boy?”
I think I had an orgasm, you wanted to say. “Pretty good.”
“I thought I could trust you.”
“You can trust me.”
He pulled into the parking lot at Atlantic City Memorial Hospital. Mr. Melchior, you remembered, had lung cancer.
Pop was calmer now. “We’ll leave if you want.”
You were supposed to say yes, let’s leave, but his remark about trust had really pissed you. “No.”
The two of you rode the elevator six flights to the cancer ward. You marched past the nurses’ station, entered the hellish corridor. Trench warfare, you decided, the view behind the lines—orderlies bustling about, victims gasping on gurneys, IV bottles drooping like disembodied organs. Pain prospered everywhere, seeping through the walls, darkening the air like swarms of hornets. “Why me?” a young, spindly black man asked quite distinctly as his mother guided him toward the visitors’ lounge. “Why can’t I get warm?” He tightened his bathrobe around his tubular chest.
“Pop, this is mean.”
“I know. I love you.” He led you to Room 618. “Ready to start?”
You steadied yourself on the open jamb. Beyond, two cancer-ridden men trembled atop their beds.
“As long as we’re here, we can also try Herb’s roommate,” said Pop. “Hodgkin’s disease.” Heart stuttering, stomach quaking, you took a small step backward. “And then, of course, there’s Room Six Nineteen. And Six Twenty. And Six Twenty-one. On Saturday we’ll drive to Philadelphia—lots of hospitals. Next week we’ll do New York.”
“New York?” You were adrift on an iceberg, rudderless, freezing.
“Then Washington, Baltimore, Cleveland, Atlanta. You didn’t make the world, Julie. It’s not your responsibility to clean it up.”
Another reverse step. “But—”
Seizing your hand, Pop guided you into the visitors’ lounge. The black man’s mother had swathed him in a blanket; together they shivered and wept. “Honey, you’ve got a choice.” Your father and you flopped down on the death-scented Naugahyde. Hairless patients stared at the walls. “Take the high road, and
A cuttlefish drifts by, its tentacles undulating in sleepy, antique rhythms.
People are always asking, does God exist? Of course she does. The real question: what is she like? What sort of God stuffs her only daughter into a bell jar like so much pickled herring and dumps her on the earth with no clues to her mission? What sort of God continues to ignore that same daughter even after she cures a blind boy exactly as instructed? Seven whole years since the Timothy miracle, and while nobody has taken you away, no mothers have shown up either.
You will never forget the night you confessed. “Three summers ago I did something really bad. I gave a kid eyes.”
“You what? ” your father moaned, his jaw dropping open.
“God wanted me to, I thought.”
“ She made you do it? Has she been talking to you?”
“It was just an idea I got. Please don’t slap me.”
He did not slap you. He said, firmly, “We’ll get this out of your system once and for all,” and hustled you into the Saab.
“Get what out of my system?”
“You’ll see.” He drove you over the bridge into Atlantic City.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll find out.”
“Where?”
“To visit my friend from the fire station.”
Pop’s fire station buddies, you knew, used to draw out his blood for your ectogenesis machine. “Mr. Balthazar? Mr. Caspar?”
“Herb Melchior. So how did it feel, fixing that boy?”
I think I had an orgasm, you wanted to say. “Pretty good.”
“I thought I could trust you.”
“You can trust me.”
He pulled into the parking lot at Atlantic City Memorial Hospital. Mr. Melchior, you remembered, had lung cancer.
Pop was calmer now. “We’ll leave if you want.”
You were supposed to say yes, let’s leave, but his remark about trust had really pissed you. “No.”
The two of you rode the elevator six flights to the cancer ward. You marched past the nurses’ station, entered the hellish corridor. Trench warfare, you decided, the view behind the lines—orderlies bustling about, victims gasping on gurneys, IV bottles drooping like disembodied organs. Pain prospered everywhere, seeping through the walls, darkening the air like swarms of hornets. “Why me?” a young, spindly black man asked quite distinctly as his mother guided him toward the visitors’ lounge. “Why can’t I get warm?” He tightened his bathrobe around his tubular chest.
“Pop, this is mean.”
“I know. I love you.” He led you to Room 618. “Ready to start?”
You steadied yourself on the open jamb. Beyond, two cancer-ridden men trembled atop their beds.
“As long as we’re here, we can also try Herb’s roommate,” said Pop. “Hodgkin’s disease.” Heart stuttering, stomach quaking, you took a small step backward. “And then, of course, there’s Room Six Nineteen. And Six Twenty. And Six Twenty-one. On Saturday we’ll drive to Philadelphia—lots of hospitals. Next week we’ll do New York.”
“New York?” You were adrift on an iceberg, rudderless, freezing.
“Then Washington, Baltimore, Cleveland, Atlanta. You didn’t make the world, Julie. It’s not your responsibility to clean it up.”
Another reverse step. “But—”
Seizing your hand, Pop guided you into the visitors’ lounge. The black man’s mother had swathed him in a blanket; together they shivered and wept. “Honey, you’ve got a choice.” Your father and you flopped down on the death-scented Naugahyde. Hairless patients stared at the walls. “Take the high road, and
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