By My Hands (16 page)

“Very clear,” Aretha said. Rachel noticed the woman
looked shell-shocked.

Morgan spun on his heels, leaving the two women
alone.

Monday, March 23, 1992; 12:30
A.M.

ADAM SPENT A RESTLESS NIGHT. His mind rehashed the
day’s events through surrealistic reenactments. A grotesque little
boy with a twisted body chased him through the hallways of the
church. The faster Adam tried to run, the slower he went. Around
every corner and behind every pew were the mournful faces and
twisted bodies of people screaming in pain and crying, “Help us,
Pastor. Help us. Don’t leave us alone.”

When Adam awoke, he was sitting straight up in bed,
his breathing labored, and his body coated with sweat.

Monday, March 23, 1992; 6:30
A.M.

MONDAY WAS ADAM’S USUAL day off. He liked to sleep
in, catch up on household chores, watch old movies, and read. This
Monday, however, was different; the haunting dreams had plagued him
all night. He was restless, his mind racing, unable to pause even
for a moment. What had happened to David Lorayne? It was wonderful
that he had suddenly—“miraculously”—come out of the coma, but was
it truly a miracle? If so, how could he know? Why was the nursing
staff acting so strangely? And why were the pitiful people still in
the lobby? Adam had exited with the family through the front doors,
and the mass of ill were still there, looking hopefully at him and
everyone who traversed the lobby. They left to a chorus of cries,
“Are you the Healer?”

It took Adam a long time to get ready for the day.
Each step of preparation, from selecting the clothes he would wear
that day to showering, was interrupted by thought.

What occurred to David Lorayne was indeed
remarkable, but surely others had come out of comas before. Why
would the nurses be so amazed? And why did they all but push him
and the family out the door? If Adam understood anything, he
understood people, and the nurses were acting like soldiers who had
been given specific and urgent orders. No, Adam decided, there was
more here than met the eye.

The Healer aspect must be related. But how? Adam
closed his eyes. He had a keen and highly disciplined mind that
could concentrate on a single issue for hours if necessary. When he
concentrated, the world dissolved around him. He had been known,
while in a high state of deliberation, not to hear the telephone
ringing. Slowly, Adam’s mind severed the bonds of distraction and
centered on last night’s events.

What do I know? Adam asked himself. I know that
David should be in a coma, but he’s not. Thank God. I know that the
nurses seemed more than surprised, they seemed astounded. I know
that a variety of desperate people are looking for someone they
call the Healer. But that’s all I know.

Things might have been easier for Adam had he not
been emotionally involved. If it hadn’t been one of his members so
close to death and now so full of life, and if that bent little boy
had not reached in and left his fingerprints on Adam’s soul, then
he might be able to look at the matter more analytically. That was
not the case, however. He showered until the water ran cold trying
to unsort the churning cauldron of his emotions. The child’s face
haunted him. Who was the Healer, and did he have anything to do
with David Lorayne?

“PRISCILLA?” THE ELECTRONIC VOICE ASKED.

“What?” The curt reply was muffled by the feather
pillow over her head.

“Wake up, will you?”

“Who is this, and why are you calling me at . . .”
She opened one eye and looked at the red numerals on her radio
alarm “. . . at 6:30 in the morning?”

“It’s Pham Ho. Now cart it out of bed.”

“Are you insane?” Priscilla asked abruptly.

“There’s been another healing.”

Priscilla suddenly sat up. “When? Where? Who?”

“Are you awake yet?”

“Don’t toy with me, Pham. Just let me have the
info.” She snatched a pencil and a pad of paper from the drawer of
her nightstand.

“Last night at Kingston Memorial Hospital, a guy
named David Lorayne came out of an anesthesia-induced coma. Word
has it that the guy’s incision is gone too.” '

“What do you mean gone?”

“Gone. Disappeared. Just as if he had never had
surgery.”

“How did you find out about this?”

“One of the nurses in ICU is a big fan of yours.” He
laughed. “I promised her you’d take her to dinner.”

“Okay, but the station is going to pay for it.” She
struggled to hold the phone to her ear and write on the pad while
still reclined in bed. “What’s her name?”

“She said she’d let us know later. She’s afraid for
her job.”

“Understandable. I don’t think that Morgan would
think twice about canning her if he finds out. Anything else?”

“A camera crew will be there in an hour. So go and
make yourself pretty.”

Priscilla hung up without comment.

Monday, March 23, 1992; 12:00
P.M.

THE REPORT MADE THE NOON NEWS. Those watching saw
Priscilla, every red hair perfectly in place, standing by a
hospital bed quizzing David Lorayne. What they did not see was a
nurse frantically attempting to prevent their entry. Nor did they
see the nurse calling for security. The total interview lasted less
than five minutes before an elderly man in a blue security uniform
appeared. He emptied the room quickly with the simple announcement,
“The police will be here in five minutes.”

Although dramatic, the report lacked substance and
that frustrated Priscilla. David Lorayne remembered nothing. She
had hoped for more. A phone call to Dr. Morgan for comment gained
only the expected threat of a lawsuit. Priscilla had the
satisfaction of ending the report with several soul-shaking shots
of the crowds of sick and dying in the lobby.

But what was going on? Could the hospital be doing
some form of bizarre experiment? Or was there really someone or
something performing miracles? One thing was for sure, the reporter
who found out could win an Emmy.

Monday, March 23, 1992; 12:30
P.M.

“ISN’T IT WONDERFUL, PASTOR?” Ann’s joy was easily
transmitted over the phone. “All our prayers have been
answered.”

“Have they said when David can go home?”

“Today,” she said gleefully. “Michael and I were
just about to leave when you called.”

“Would you mind if I met you there? I would very
much like to see David again.”

“Of course, Pastor. If it weren’t for your prayers,
David would still be in ICU.”

Adam disliked such comments. There were always those
in the church who thought that a pastor’s prayers were more potent.
That somehow he had been given a special dispensation of grace that
required God to listen a little more closely, and act a little more
quickly. He referred to this as the “witch-doctor syndrome.” The
pastor was viewed as the ancient witch doctor who healed with magic
words and potions.

“I think you’re giving me too much credit. God can
heal without me.”

“You’re too modest, Pastor. We’ll see you at the
hospital. Don’t be late. I want to get David home just as soon as
possible.”

Monday, March 23, 1992; 1:30
P.M.

THE NOON NEWS REPORT sent another wave of ill
crashing in on the hospital. The massive crowd of infirm had
spilled out of the lobby and onto the concrete plaza. They sat on
lacquered wood benches and concrete planters. Some reclined on the
small grass areas that decorated the hospital grounds. Those
sentenced to life in wheelchairs had gathered together under the
shade of a large tree. Children who should have been full of
vitality sat motionless. Some leaned against weary mothers and
fathers.

Adam moved quickly through the crowd. His desire to
avoid their pain shamed him, but nothing, not his ministry, not
seminary, not graduate school, had prepared him for such exposure
to suffering. Such scenes had always been confined to the pages of
news magazines.

“Are you the Healer?” someone cried.

Adam moved quickly to the entry door and then
stopped. Leaning against a concrete block wall was a young woman
with long, blond hair. In her lap was “the boy,” his twisted body
motionless as he slept. A deep well of emotion stirred within Adam.
He turned and walked through the lobby doors.

The elevator took him to the fifth floor where he
found the Lorayne family gathered in the hall outside ICU. David
was dressed in jeans and a sport shirt and was sitting comfortably
in a wheelchair. Michael stood behind the chair, a nurse next to
him. Adam did not recognize her. She was not one of the ICU nurses
he had seen the night before, but then he realized that they would
have gone home hours ago. A woman dressed in a doctor’s smock had
her back to him and was speaking with the family.

“Pastor,” David exclaimed, “you didn’t have to come
down here.”

“It is my pleasure, David. How are you feeling?”

“Great. I don’t think I could stand it if I felt any
better.” Although Adam had known David for years, he had never
known him to exhibit such energy. He bubbled.

“Pastor,” Ann said, “I would like you to meet—”

“Dr. Rachel Tremaine,” Adam interjected as he
extended his hand in greeting. “It’s good to see you again.”

Rachel shook his hand. “Reverend Bridger,” she said
dryly. “Oh, I see you two have met,” Ann said.

“Dr. Tremaine was the surgeon who did my
appendectomy.” Then he spoke to Rachel, “I didn’t know you were the
one who operated on David.”

Rachel said nothing.

“She’s doing some kind of research,” David said.
“You know, about my healing. Listen, how long are we going to stand
around here? I want to go home.”

Since your doctor Has released you,” Rachel said,
“you can go home anytime. I only wish I could persuade you to let
me run some more tests.”

“Not a chance, Doc.” David was emphatic. “I feel
great. I’ve been healed, and I’ve had all I can take of hospitals.
You’ve poked, prodded, and X-rayed. Now I’m ready to go home.”

Rachel was insistent. “Perhaps your pastor could
influence your—”

“No way,” David replied before Adam could speak.
“Don’t get me wrong. I think the world of him, but I want out of
this place. I want to be with my family.”

Adam looked at Rachel and shrugged. “If I thought it
would do any good, Doctor, I’d try, but it looks as if his mind is
made up. Is there any danger in his going home?”

“If there were we wouldn’t have released him.”
Rachel’s disappointment was obvious. “If I can’t persuade you to
remain, perhaps I can impose on Reverend Bridger. I would like to
ask him a few questions.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Can we go now?” David asked. “I want to get out of
this wheelchair.”

“They won’t let him walk out.” Michael said. “Afraid
he’ll fall down or something.”

“I’ll check in on you later, David.” Adam patted him
on the shoulder. Michael began pushing his father toward the
elevator, followed by Ann and the nurse.

“Would you follow me, Reverend?” Rachel turned and
made her way down the corridor. Adam obediently followed.

Rachel led Adam to the staff elevators and punched
the button. In the elevator Adam took a moment to examine his
guide. She had changed little from the last time he had seen her a
few weeks ago. Her diminutive size seemed incongruous with her
disposition. Although he would not call her beautiful, she was
attractive. Her cream complexion was handsomely augmented by her
short, coal black hair. She wore no makeup. Her clothing was
plain—simple tan slacks and white blouse.

The elevator doors opened at the second floor and
Rachel led Adam down another hall and through a door to the
doctors’ lounge.

“Please sit down,” Rachel said, motioning to one of
the easy chairs. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

Rachel poured herself a cup, took a sip, and set it
on the table. “I would like to ask you some questions.”

“I have some questions, also. So perhaps we can help
each other.”

“Agreed. My first question, Reverend, is this: How
long have you known . . .”

“Just a minute please.” Adam raised his hands
halting her mid-sentence. “First things first. If we are to
continue, you must agree to call me Adam, or if you must insist on
a formal title, then call me Pastor, but Reverend has to go.”

“I prefer to keep this on a professional level.” Her
words had a coolness about them.

“I do too. I’m simply saying that I would be more
comfortable without the adjectival title.”

“I don’t understand.”

“
Reverend
is more a description than a title.
It is a social contrivance meant to identify a person as a
religious leader. Although, like you, I have an earned doctorate,
neither Doctor nor Reverend describes what I do and, therefore, I
prefer not to use them. The term
pastor,
which means
‘shepherd,’ does describe what I do. Formal titles are usually
unnecessary and sometimes get in the way.”

“I wasn’t aware that your profession required
doctoral-level work.”

“It doesn’t. In fact, some pastors have little or no
college. In the early days of our country that was necessary,
especially in pioneer areas. It was difficult to get trained clergy
in the frontier. So the churches selected men from within their
ranks who showed unusual biblical insight to be their pastors.
Today, however, most ministers attend college and seminary. In
fact, in terms of hours of education, I have spent more hours in
school than many medical doctors.”

Rachel seemed to take offense. “You are aware that
our education extends three years beyond college and then there’s
specialized training.”

“I am aware of that. And I do not mean to diminish
that work. But many doctors think of ministers as ignorant shamans.
In reality, the average minister has the traditional four years of
college, followed by three years of graduate-level work in
seminary. But whereas your three years of medical school led to a
doctoral degree, the three years of seminary leads to a master’s
degree—a Master of Divinity, to be exact. The Ph.D., or for some
schools a Th.D.—that is, Doctor of Theology— is about three years
of graduate work beyond that.”