Full of Grace (29 page)

“Call us! Holy Mother!”

Michael and I looked at each other. More than anything, we wanted to believe his cancer had vanished. What if it really had?

We called Papenburg and left a message with his service to arrange another MRI as soon as possible and let him think Michael was a nut job. I already knew that the doctor was going to tell Michael he needed more radiation. But how stunning would it be to compare a new MRI to the most recent one Papenburg had called about and see that the cancer had disappeared? If it had.

That night, after dinner, the show and a lot of tequila, Michael got philosophical.

“Why would Mary single me out to save? In the eyes of the Church, I am a fornicating sinner who does stem-cell research and completely unworthy for any recognition, much less this. That is, if it’s true that I am okay.”

“Well, maybe in Mary’s eyes you aren’t. Maybe she sees you going on to do great things. Maybe she wants you to live for another reason. I don’t know. I just know I hope it’s all true.”

“
You
want it to be true? How do you think I feel?”

“I think you feel perfect.”

Dr. Christian Papenburg was a practical man. He dutifully returned Michael’s call and listened to what Michael had to say. He became intrigued and then very curious.

“I’ve heard of this sort of thing, but I’ve never been a witness to it myself.”

“Well, let’s hope those two priests are correct.”

“Like an electrical shock to the body, you say?”

“Yes. It was like nothing else I have ever felt.”

“Well, when can you be here? Let’s get to the bottom of this immediately.”

The next day, we left our fingernails in the tarmac of the airport in Mexico City. We dreaded knowing the truth as much as we couldn’t wait to find out. The flight was long, but to us time had stopped. It could’ve been an hour or it could’ve taken a day. But the next thing I knew we were falling into our bed and we were scheduled to see Papenburg the next morning.

I waited in the outer office while Michael went through the MRI and finally it was over. Papenburg’s radiologist had agreed to read it right then. We went out for coffee to help Michael shake off the sedative he had been given for the procedure. I was holding my breath, but my sleepy Michael was guardedly confident. He wasn’t making a lot of sense to me as he spoke and I wrote it off to the drugs.

“This is going to change us, Grace. You’ll see. Everything is going to change.”

“Yes, sweetheart. I know it will.”

“Our whole world is going to change.”

“Of course it will. Now drink up!”

I patted the back of his hand and said a prayer. (Yes, I said a prayer!) I just asked God if it was okay if I came back to the Church if Michael was healed. And then I asked God what we should do with our lives if Michael was healed. In fact, I had a lot of questions.

When we returned to Papenburg’s office at four that afternoon, we were ushered straight inside by a smiling nurse.

“I’ve never seen anything like it in my entire career,” Papenburg said, grinning from ear to ear, which did a lot to put us immediately at ease and in a mood of anticipatory celebration. “I made the radiologist go over it three times.”

“What?” we said.

“It’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone. As in
G-O-N-E.
”

“Oh, my God,” Michael said in a quiet voice. We fell into each other’s arms and began to weep tears of joy. Tears of thanks. Tears of humility.

“Precisely,” Papenburg said, choking on his own tears, “because there is no earthly explanation.”

W
e left Papenburg’s office on a natural high that was so high it was almost frightening.

“I’m never using a curse word again!” I said as I got in the car and slammed the door.

“Me either!”

“And I’m never talking shit about that bitch Marianne again!”

“Um, you just cursed.”

“Right! I take it back!”

“And, Grace?”

“What?”

“We’re going back to church.”

“The Catholic Church?”

“You got it. You and me. We’re going to get ourselves back into church every Sunday and we’re gonna start a foundation to raise money to send really sick kids to Mexico City. Or Lourdes or Fatima or wherever they want to go when there’s no hope left.”

“Michael, spontaneous cures happen to Protestants, too. A foundation’s good. But maybe you want to consider the Catholic membership thing a little more.”

“I know that. But, nope. My miracle happened in a Catholic church and that’s what we’re doing. And the foundation’s going to have a Web
site where we can collect stories about other people’s miracles because they can give sick kids hope.”

“Michael! You’re serious?” I looked at him and he shot me a glance. “You
are
serious! Do you know what this means?”

“Yep!”

“It means we have to go to confession! It means we can’t…we shouldn’t…I mean, just how far down this straight and narrow path do you intend to pull me?”

“I don’t know. We gotta talk about all that stuff. Call Father John’s cell right now!”

“He doesn’t have a cell! But he got back late last night. I’ll call the rectory.”

I left a message for him and was certain he would call as soon as he could.

Then Michael and I started laughing and realized we were deliriously happy. We actually had a future before us and we moved in to a kind of euphoria. We were as happy as the day we realized we were in love—no, happier. When it came to changing your mood, there was nothing like thinking it was all over and then getting another chance.

As soon as we got home, I called my parents. They were so overwhelmed by the news, they burst into tears.

“
God Almighty! Thank you!
I’ve got the heebie-jeebies here,” Dad said. “I’m so happy for you, son!”

“Thanks, Mr. Russo! We are understandably thrilled out of our minds!”

“So are we!” Mom said. “I’m going to church tomorrow to offer a thanksgiving Mass for you, Michael.”

“Thanks, Mrs. R!”

“And I’m going to make you a chocolate coconut cake tonight!”

“Thanks, Mrs. R!”

Dad went on to say he would save his best whiskey for Michael so they could share a drink and go over the story again, just the two of them, man-to-man. By the time we hung up with them, we were both ready to sleep for twelve hours.

Then my cell phone rang. It was Father John.

“Father? You will not believe what I am going to tell you.”

“Yes, I will. I can hear it in your voice! Congratulations! I am absolutely thrilled for both of you, but obviously, especially for Michael. It’s a stunning miracle.”

“How can we thank you?”

“I’m not the one you two should thank, Miss Grace, and I think you know what I am talking about.”

“I do, Father, and we should discuss this. Michael says he thinks we should get back in the Church. You know, go to confession and the whole nine yards.”

“Grace, my door is always open. But hear your confession? Let me know in advance so I can pack lunch! Ha!”

“Oh, brother,” I said, and groaned. “Here, Michael wants to talk to you, too.”

“Good. That’s good. But why don’t you both come by this weekend? Say Sunday morning at eleven?”

“You mean, come to Mass?”

“Yeah, something like that. We can have coffee afterward, if you’d like.”

“That’s sounds great. Here’s Michael.”

It was not meant to be because when I picked up the house phone, I heard the broken dial-tone signal that meant there was a message. It was from Nonna. I called her back.

This time she whispered. “You’re coming for your father’s birthday dinner, aren’t you? And you’re bringing Michael, aren’t you?”

“When is it?”

“I’m cooking! I haven’t cooked since I fell on your mother’s wet floor.”

“Well, wonderful. You’re the world’s greatest cook, Nonna.” I thought that she would blame my mother for all of eternity.

“Thank you. We’re celebrating it this Saturday night. I need you to get the roast beef for me from that nice Italian butcher down there—what’s his name?”

“The Real New York Butcher, Nonna. He’s Bill. You want me to bring bread?”

“Two loaves, and if he’s got fresh moot-za-rell…”

I made a list of what she wanted. Michael had stepped outside to talk to Father John on the cell and came back inside after he hung up.

“Call him back, hon. Tell him we’re going to be in Hilton Head. It’s Big Al’s birthday party that they’re having a week early. Ask him for a rain check.”

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna wash my face.”

“Go ahead.”

I went upstairs to the bathroom and rubbed a cold washcloth all over my face. It felt so good. Then I looked at myself in the mirror and thought,
Girl? What have you got now? You got your smart sassy self an obligation to the Blessed Mother herself. How are you going to handle that?

“I’ll get help. I’ll ask Father John what to do,” I said to my reflection.

“He said, No problem. Give your family my best. Family comes first. And could he give you a letter to take to your father to thank him again for the hotel rooms?”

“Of course.”

I was becoming a delivery service.

The phone rang an hour later. It was Father John again.

“Everyone has been calling me and calling me. Even the bishop. Needless to say, they all want to talk to Michael. Maybe we could arrange something with his doctor to have a little dinner? I didn’t think of it until after we hung up.”

“I think Michael would enjoy that. Hold on. I’ll get him.”

I called Frank and Regina next.

“I heard! Connie and Big Al called,” Regina said. “Hang on, I gotta turn down the television.” I could hear her yelling in the background.
“Don’t eat that, Paulie! It’s for your dinner!”
She picked the phone up again. “Hang on. I’m gonna take this in my bedroom, where I can hear myself think.” I waited a few more minutes. She picked up her extension, put her hand over it and yelled back to her kids to hang up the other phone. Finally, there was a click and she said, “Where were we?”

“Kids making you crazy?”

“You have no idea. Now give me every single solitary little detail. I
am so thrilled for you and Michael, you just don’t know. And your brother, too. He’s been like, ‘You don’t know, this is the only time I ever saw my kid sister in love, and if he dies she’s gonna be devastated! Oh, my God! Now he’s cured! I can’t believe it!’” She related all this information in a singsong voice that reminded me of gossiping in my high-school locker room about who said what to whom. “You two must be flipping out!”

“Completely. I mean, you have to understand that Michael didn’t ask for a miracle. He just got it. Sort of like catching the flu.”

“What are you saying? You mean, you knew he had this recurrence and he suspected it and neither one of you were on your freaking knees in the church?”

“Yep. Them’s the facts, ma’am. We were standing there like a couple of gringos and
kaboom!
”

“Well, I hope like hell you’re on them now!”

“I have a kneeler reserved at St. Mary’s.”

“Good idea, kiddo. You want a lightning bolt to come out of the blue and fry your behinds?”

“What can I tell you? I mean, it’s the most fantastic thing that has ever happened. Although, I must say, we both recognize that there’s a responsibility that comes along with a gift like this.”

“You’re right.”

“Michael wants to set up a foundation…”

I told her the plan and she said, “That is a truly excellent idea. Truly excellent.”

And before I went to bed, despite the hour, I called Bomze.

“No, I’m not sleeping yet. Is everything all right?”

“Better than all right, Bomze.” I told him the entire story and he gasped and gasped. Then he laughed and called out for his wife. “Darling! Do we have any champagne on ice?”

“Anyway, Bomze, you’re the guy who got this train in motion and there is no possible way we could ever thank you enough or repay you.”

“That’s true! Oh! Grace! We are thrilled. Just thrilled. Tell Michael I have a lawyer who will set up his foundation pro bono.”

“Bomze? You are one in ten million. Thanks.”

I could have just been happy that Michael was going to live. But every night after Papenburg gave us the good news, I would lie in bed, think about it and try in my heart to understand what the heavens expected from a woman like me.

Finally, I came to the conclusion that Michael was right. We needed to make it right with God.

Saturday morning Michael and I were in the car with the letter from Father John, eight pounds of roast beef, two loaves of bread, two balls of fresh mozzarella and a pair of summer pajamas wrapped up for my father’s gift. Michael was bringing him a book.

“Dale Brown actually signed it for him. It’s a first edition, of course, but do you think he’ll like it?”

“Are you kidding? He adores military thrillers!”

For the rest of the drive, it seemed like all we talked about was Michael’s miraculous cure and, most important, how to handle it.

Michael was right again. Our world had changed forever.

When we arrived at my parents’ house, we went in through the front door. After all, it wasn’t a national holiday, but I was with Michael. He was company. Only family used the garage.

Mom came to the door, took one look at Michael, burst out crying and hid her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry. I’m so happy for you, Michael. I’m just so happy.”

“Come on now, Mrs. R! Let me give you a hug.”

“Hi, Mom.”

Michael took my mom in his arms and hugged her for a few minutes until she stopped gushing and regained her composure.

“I feel better now,” she said, and then sniffed. “Put Michael’s things in Frank’s room, Grace. Come, Michael, let me get you some coffee. Is that the roast beef? Here, I can take that. Did you eat breakfast? Or do you want a sandwich? It’s almost noon…”

“Hello?”

Michael Higgins, the Irish baby butcher from hell, had achieved sainthood with the Russos, during his lifetime.

I giggled, shook my head and took Michael’s bag to Frank’s room, stopping for a moment to scan the relics of my brother’s childhood. There were
Star Wars
posters on the wall and all of his favorite books on the shelves. There were soccer trophies, debate-team trophies and something of which our brother Nicky could only dream: a state-champion trophy for the chess club at Rutgers. There was a picture of Frank from each graduation and a picture of him with Nonno taken on an Easter Sunday when he was maybe three years old. I picked it up. Frank was sitting on Nonno’s knee and next to them was our dog, Butchie. Frank’s little chubby hands held an Easter basket filled with candy and a stuffed duck. He was perfectly adorable.

Our mother was such a romantic. Frank was married with nearly grown children and yet my mother had moved his room from New Jersey to here intact, just as she had moved mine. Home was home and she wanted us to know it was always waiting. And I did know that, although I knew I would never live there and Frank wouldn’t either. Nicky might. Nicky and that dimwit of his might inherit it someday when Connie and Al went to…went to, well? Heaven. If admission to heaven was based on lifelong devotion and other things like generosity, they would surely be rushed right inside.

I dropped my bag in my room, dug out Father John’s letter, the Mexican rosaries, holy water, statue and holy cards and joined Michael and my mother in the kitchen. Nonna was there stirring her gravy and pasta hung from everywhere.

“Hey, Nonna. How are you? It’s good to see you.”

“
Ciao, bella.
Come and give me a kiss. I’m so tired I could lie down and die. I’ve been cooking for three days and I’ve been talking to your miracle man.”

“Great! He sure is that.” I kissed Nonna’s cheek and slipped her rosary into the pocket of her apron. I said to Mom, “Where’s Dad and Nicky?”

“What did you bring your poor old mother? Nothing? They’ll be back soon. They went to the car wash. And to get gas.”

“Nope,” I said. “This is a letter for Dad. And I brought a statue for the house and a rosary for you, too. And put this water on any aches and
pains, Nonna. It might help.” Then I handed all the things I was holding to my mom.

She unwrapped the tissue from around the statue and sat it on the counter.

“Is it blessed?”

“Of
course
it’s blessed,” I said. “What do you think? That I’d bring you some hunk of carved wood with no soul? After what we’ve been through?”

Mom actually giggled. “You know, Michael, my mother and I are just itching to hear everything that happened to you, but if you tell us now, you’ll have to tell it all over again when Al and Nicky get here. So give us the short version because I can’t stand the wait.”

Michael was eating an overstuffed ham sandwich and drinking coffee. He wiped his mouth and sat back in his chair.

“It was incredible, Mrs. R. Grace and I were taken down to the altar by this priest friend of Grace’s who she was traveling with…”

“The one from St. Mary’s?” Mom said.

How many priests did I know?

“Yeah, that’s the one. Can I have a sandwich, too?” I said.

“Sure, help yourself. The ham’s in the hydrator and the bread’s in the bread box. Now continue, Michael.”

You may surmise that Mom wasn’t making me a sandwich. Usually she and Nonna commandeered the entire kitchen. “Aren’t you afraid I might cut myself with the knife?”

They were all seated at the table now and completely ignored me except to say, “Shush!”

I put the cutting board on the counter, got what I wanted from the refrigerator and started making something to eat.