The Healer, page 22
“My apartment is just up the street,” she told Chris. “You can come with me while I change. Then we’ll go from there.”
Chris cleared his throat. “If it’s that close, I’d rather wait here, if you don’t mind. I need some time to . . . to think before we do this.”
She smiled in a way that melted his heart. “I’ll be right back then,” she said, exiting her office.
Chris closed her door and turned off the lights. Kneeling with his back to the window, he clasped the Dial in his hands and bowed his head. He wasn’t accustomed to praying, but thankfully, it didn’t feel hypocritical. He knew this was what he was supposed to be doing. The biggest problem was that he wasn’t sure what to say. If anything, he knew he should ask for God’s guidance and companionship. There was no way he could do this by himself. Nor did he want to.
He knelt for some time, aware time was passing but not really concerned about it. He cleared his mind and awaited inspiration. It didn’t take long—and he couldn’t help but smile at the warmth washing through him.
He softly cleared his throat and whispered, “Nobly, thru white fog, hath you led me to this calling. I still don’t know why, but I trust in you. Lord, I ask that you lead me now. Through faith thy will be done. Amen.”
Chapter 46
Chris sat for some time just waiting. He couldn’t imagine what was taking Kathryn so long. He perused her bookshelf again, looking for anything out of the ordinary—and found it. On the bottom tier, far right, sat a King James Bible. He smiled, not surprised that she owned one, but that it would be in her office. He opened to the book of St. Luke—the only Gospel not written by an Apostle, Llewellyn had said. Maybe Chris could relate to this guy.
He began reading. The words had a familiar timbre. Chapter two was the Christmas story. Childhood memories flooded his mind, warming his heart. He continued reading. The stories were strangely recognizable. He’d rarely paid attention in Sunday school, but something must have sunk in. Then one story in particular stood out. Llewellyn had referenced it. Jesus was being thronged by the masses. A woman with a blood disorder touched the hem of his garment to be healed. And she was. Instantly. Jesus hadn’t said a blessing or a prayer, hadn’t commanded her to be whole, hadn’t really done anything except be there. But he felt virtue—power, according to the priest—flow from him. Jesus turned to the woman and said her faith had made her whole. Her faith.
Perhaps that was the answer Chris had been seeking. He didn’t need any magic words, any holy recitation. He simply had to believe he had the gift—which he did. If the person receiving the healing also had faith, then it would happen.
He was almost through the first half of Luke when he heard a noise in the hallway.
The doorknob turned, and the door opened. “Chris. Is everything all right?”
“Sure. I was just reading.”
Kathryn entered wearing a tan, button-down blouse untucked over shapely blue jeans. A wide leather belt around her midriff emphasized her trim figure. Her makeup and hair were flawless.
“Wow. You look gorgeous,” he said through a wide smile.
A blush danced across her cheeks. “Thank you. Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem,” he said, following her out of the room.
The storm had all but passed, leaving a day promised with plenty of sunshine. Only a few wispy clouds now dotted the horizon in all directions. Chris took it as a good sign.
“So what were you reading?” Kathryn asked after turning onto the highway to Ettington.
“The King James Bible.”
She flashed him a questioning glance. “Really? Why?”
He shrugged. “Seemed appropriate.”
“Huh. So what’s a history professor’s take on the Bible?”
Chris snorted. “You know, if you’d asked me that question last week, I’d have given you my pat answer: It’s a handpicked history compiled by a pagan-worshiping dictator trying to appease the Christian masses.”
“Really?”
“Yep. The Council at Nicaea, 325 AD. Emperor Constantine? It was then they created the Bible from various epistles and journals. And therein lies a major red flag. You see, the trouble with most histories is that they’re written by the victors. You can’t help but have some bias. And Constantine made sure the Bible said only what he wanted it to say.”
“Truly? Um, okay. And now what do you think?”
“Now I’m not so cynical. There’s some interesting verbiage in there. I’m seeing things I never knew about. I’m not talking about being born again or seeing a bright light or anything,” he said, flicking away an imaginary rebuttal. “It’s more like, before, I was reading with an expectation of holier-than-thou biased historical fiction. But looking at it as containing accurate history and being crammed with hidden spiritual truths—kind of like the hidden message you helped me decipher—then all sorts of lessons can be learned. So yeah, it’s historical, but it’s also spiritual, educational, and . . .”
“And?”
“Instructional?” He glanced at her, as if seeking approval. “But not in a how-to, DIY kind of way, you know? More of a ‘this is simply how it is’ manner of speech. So even though it was compiled by man, the Lord definitely had His hand in it.”
She considered his words with a tilt of her head. After a minute, she gave a quick nod. “Okay,” was all she said. But her tone held little enthusiasm.
Chris knew she was wrestling with many of the same issues he was. They were both highly educated people. Their secular learning had basically done away with the need for religious influences. The “wise men” of the day had sequestered God to the realm of legends. And yet, there was definitely still a need for Him in the world.
Chris sighed deeply, knowing that his personal need for God would soon be put to the test.
Chapter 47
An hour later, they pulled up to a small whitewashed house in the suburbs. The tiny yard was prim and orderly but in need of some attention. A moss- and lichen-dappled field-stone fence surrounded the parcel. Perennials bloomed in random beds; hummingbirds flitted from flower to flower. Life surrounded the old home; but to Chris, a sense of barrenness permeated the scene.
Kathryn led him up the short walk and into the house. A middle-aged nurse sat reading a paperback on the living room sofa. She looked up in surprise. “Oh. Good afternoon, Dr. Ingledew,” she said, standing. “I’m so glad you came today.”
“Hi, Beatrix. How is Mom?”
Despondency clouded the nurse’s face. “Not so good, I’m afraid. As I mentioned yesterday, her organs seem to be shutting down. I’m so very sorry.”
Kathryn nodded. Chris could tell she was struggling to remain professional and stoic, but he sensed debilitating sorrow emanating from body language and face.
“This is Dr. Pendragon, from the United States,” Kathryn offered.
“Pleased to meet you,” Chris said, extending his hand to the nurse.
Beatrix was of average build and health for a middle-aged woman, but her tired eyes bespoke years of serving the terminally ill. He could tell she liked being a nurse, liked helping people, but it was taking its toll on her.
“The pleasure is mine, Doctor.”
“Is Mom awake?” Kathryn asked.
“She was up for her morning medicines, but she’s sleeping now.”
Kathryn removed her coat and tossed it on a chair. Chris did the same.
“Can I make you some tea?” the nurse asked pleasantly.
“That would be excellent. Thank you, Beatrix. We’ll just pop in and check on her, okay?”
Beatrix gave a slight nod before scooting into the kitchen.
Chris followed Kathryn into a small bedroom. Her mother lay motionless on a hospital bed. With her head slightly raised, the seventy-year-old was hooked to an IV drip and a med-stats monitor. Chris saw a definite family resemblance to Kathryn—their bone structure was identical—but Mrs. Ingledew was painfully frail and gaunt. Her cancer had taken everything but her life, and that was clearly next on the list.
Kathryn drew a stuttering breath and wiped at her cheeks. Even though she’d spent her life around the infirm and injured, she clearly had difficulty seeing her own mother in such a weakened state.
“She looks serene,” Chris whispered.
“It’s the drugs,” Kathryn said flatly. She checked the stats on the monitors and read the chart notes. “She’s losing kidney function. I don’t know if it’s the cancer or if her body is just giving up.” Her voice was dry and strained.
Chris felt a welling compassion for both women. The woman on the bed looked very close to death. Chris guessed it was probably the machines keeping her alive. He stepped to the bed and touched her hand.
“What’s her name?” he asked tenderly.
“Lona—short for Moelona. Moelona Jones was the penname of Elizabeth Mary Jones, a Welsh children’s novelist that my grandmother adored.”
“I see.”
He picked up Lona’s hand and held it while gazing at her face. Even pallid and drawn, her face had a certain angelic quality. She looked calm but challenged, like she was waging an inner battle she refused to let surface. That seemed a fair simile.
Chris didn’t know what he was supposed to do at this point, but he trusted it would come to him. Moving more by instinct than logic, he sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes. Still holding Lona’s hand, he tried to clear his mind and sought inspiration. Except for the soft beeping of the monitor, the room was silent. He knew Kathryn was there, watching, but he forced himself to focus on the patient.
After a moment, he felt a strong urge to place his hand on Lona’s head, which he did. He concentrated on this cherished woman and how much her daughter needed her. They were everything to each other. Kathryn loved her mother with all her heart—that was obvious. She was devastated at the prospect of losing her. But for some reason, Chris didn’t feel a prompt to heal her.
He readjusted his hand and tried again. He thought of tissues healing, of tumors shrinking and vanishing, of the laughter and love between mother and daughter. He experienced the bond between them. It was rich, complete, seamless. There was trust and caring . . . and heartache. But he felt no sensation of repair, no indication that the Dial was doing anything other than confirming the love between Kathryn and her mother.
Chris clenched his jaw. He knew he was failing.
Please, God. I sense his woman is an innocent soul. Please let me help her. Through faith, thy will be done.
He reflected back on the healings of Nigel Madsen and Father Llewellyn. What had he done then? What had he thought or said? He remembered feeling intense compassion for each before a sharp pain surged in the area that needed healing. With Nigel, his ankles had throbbed; with Father Llewellyn, his torso seized. Presently, he expected to experience pain in the area of his liver, perhaps some aching across his belly. But there was nothing. He perceived this woman was worthy of healing. She was a victim, an innocent soul afflicted with a grievous malady through no fault of her own. She didn’t deserve to die.
Concentrating, Chris repeatedly centered on the command to “come back.” Was that how she’d recover—by “coming back” to full health?
Come back.
He opened his eyes when he heard Lona take a long, raspy breath, but there’d been no transference of pain, no indication that he’d succeeded.
Kathryn was instantly by her side. “Mum?”
Lona’s eyes fluttered open. She glanced at Chris then fixed her gaze on Kathryn. “My pet,” she wheezed.
“Mum, this is Chris. He’s going to heal you. He’s going to make you all better.” Her voice was strained with desperation.
Lona’s eyes fluttered again. A slight smile spread across her lips. “Oh, my sweet pet. No.”
Tears coursed unrestrained down Kathryn’s cheeks. “Yes, Mum. Please. I don’t know how, but I know he can heal you.” To Chris, she begged, “Please, Chris. Tell her. Tell her about the Dial. Tell her you can heal her.”
Chris didn’t know what to say. The feelings he received were so different from what he’d experienced before. He certainly wasn’t an expert at this, but he knew something here wasn’t right—like he was traveling down a one-way street in the wrong direction. He knew he could do it, but he now wondered if he was supposed to do it.
With a fractional shake of his head, Chris gave Kathryn a sympathetic, heartfelt look of remorse and apology.
“No!” she yelled.
Lona shushed her softly. With her eyes straining to remain open, she turned her head toward her daughter. “It’s all right, pet. Walter is here.”
Chris looked up.
“My dad,” Kathryn forced past a sob.
Seeing his friend so grief-stricken nearly tore Chris’s heart in two. He couldn’t let this happen—if only for her sake. But he couldn’t go against the wishes of the patient either. Or of God.
He bent close to Lona’s head. “Mrs. Ingledew, I believe I can heal you,” Chris explained, “but only if you want me to.”
Without acknowledging him, Lona reached for Kathryn’s hand. It was as if he wasn’t even there. The woman swallowed several times before whispering, “Not heal. Release.”
Kathryn crumpled onto the bed. She held Lona’s hand to her cheek and cried, “No, Mum. He’s going to heal you—aren’t you, Chris?” She was almost yelling the words now, forcing them between gasps and sobs. “He’s going to heal you, and you’re going to live many more years, and we’re going to do so many things togeth—” Her voice broke off. She buried her face in her mother’s chest.
Chris felt awkward with his hand still on Lona’s head, but he didn’t lift it. His work was not done. He didn’t know how he knew that; he merely perceived it—but in a way that was set and irrefutable.
Key words blazed crystal clear in his mind. Thy will be done.
That was it. This was God’s will, not his. He knew what he had to do.
“Kathryn,” he said tenderly. “Sometimes healing doesn’t mean curing. Sometimes it means letting go of whatever afflicts us.”
Chris moved his free hand to gently stroke Kathryn’s hair. She was shuddering, taking short gasps of air.
“Kathryn—”
“No!” she snapped, sitting up. “She promised to be here for me. Mother, you promised!”
Chris had never experienced anything like this before. Even with the death of his father, which was undeniably a sad occasion, he’d never felt such a crippling depth of loss. He knew Kathryn was terrified of letting her mother go. He also knew Lona was just as reluctant to leave. Yet at the same time, there was an all-encompassing correctness to what was transpiring. Emotive compassion and love permeated the air. Lona had said her husband was there. Was it their love he was feeling—the love between Lona and Walter Ingledew?
Chris’s voice was surprisingly calm. “Kathryn. Your mother loves you very much. There’s no question about that. But she needs to go.”
“No! You said you’d try to heal her. You said you’d use the Dial and whatever power it holds to cure her.”
“I’m so sorry. But it wouldn’t be right. She’d only suffer more. You wouldn’t want that, and neither does she.”
Kathryn’s mouth continued to move, but no words came out. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face strained and frightened. Denial overpowered her, possessed her. She stood abruptly and stepped back. Bitter anger flashed from her eyes; her clenched fists blanched and trembled.
“You promised you’d try.” Her tone was dark and level, filled with accusation and venom.
“Yes. And I did try. I really did. But it isn’t meant to be.”
She rolled her eyes and let fly an expletive that shocked Chris. “Typical. That’s just so typical of all you religious types. When things don’t go your way, you always fall back on ‘it wasn’t meant to be,’ or ‘it wasn’t God’s will,’” she said scathingly. “What a load of rubbish.”
Lona reached out again. Kathryn rushed to her bed and cradled the frail hand next to her heart. Lona’s lips moved, but only faint wisps escaped. Kathryn leaned in close, as did Chris.
“He’s right. Please, let me go.” Her strained, thin voice sounded like a breath of wind passing through a rusty screen.
“No,” Kathryn wept, again burying her face in her mother’s chest.
Chris said nothing. He knew this was right. It made perfect sense. He was a healer, but this time he was supposed to heal someone from the ignominy and pain of life with cancer. He closed his eyes and thought of the love between Lona and Walter. A voice in his mind softly repeated the words, Go now. You’re free.
“Kathryn, it’s time,” Chris said quietly.
Slowly regaining some composure, Kathryn sat up. She wiped her face repeatedly, swallowed several times, then leaned forward and kissed her mother on the cheek.
“Farewell, Mum. I love you.”
Chris gave a slight nod and whispered, “I release you.”
The tender smile remained on Lona’s face as she issued a long, final sigh.
The monitor immediately flat-lined.
Kathryn stumbled from the room. Chris followed, turning off the lights as he did.
Beatrix came running, but Chris stopped her. “There’s nothing we can do,” he explained.
“But she’s flat-lining. We should resuscitate.”
“No,” Kathryn said from the living room sofa. “It’s time to . . . let her go.”
Her voice sounded stronger, but Chris could tell it was done at a cost. Her willpower was spent. She’d just made the most difficult decision of her life.
“So you’re giving the order not to resuscitate?” Beatrix asked her.
“Yes,” Kathryn rasped with a nod.
The nurse nodded in return, entered the bedroom, and switched off the monitor.
Chris sat beside Kathryn. “I’m so very sorry, Kathryn. I know it doesn’t make sense. Like I said, I still don’t understand it. But it was her time. I don’t know how else to explain it beyond that.”
