The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(107)

10

I pushed my father’s wheelchair from the baths back into the stone portico to look for Mickie and my mother among the crowd. I remember that, at that moment, I felt light, as if a great weight had been lifted from my heart, and I had been liberated to see the world through a new pair of eyes and with a clarity that until that moment had eluded me. I felt sympathy and compassion for David Bateman and Sister Beatrice, and for every other person who had bullied, ignored, stared at, or made fun of me.

And I forgave them.

But that wasn’t even the strangest part. The strangest part was that I realized that by forgiving them all, I had forgiven myself.

My father spotted my mother and pointed the direction through the crowd. When my mother saw us, she gave a short wave. Then she stood. Mickie held her arm as my mother walked toward us, looking as radiant as I felt. I was dumbstruck, and, yet, at the same time, I felt as though we were tethered together, my mother and I, bound by some invisible force drawing her to me. As she neared, her eyes widened and her gaze shifted above my head and slightly to the left, a gaze so intense that I turned to see what she was considering, but I only saw the stone ceiling. When I turned back, Mickie gave me a slight “I don’t know” shrug, confirming that she, too, noticed my mother’s gaze.

After another moment, my mother lowered her eyes, a huge smile emblazoned on her face as she continued forward. Reaching me, she held out a closed fist and handed me her rosary.

Then she collapsed in my arms.





11

My mother’s vital signs stabilized when we got her back on the plane, but she continued to drift in and out of consciousness. One of the oncology nurses told me my mother was exhausted, and her body was without resources to recuperate. She also told me that her liver and kidney functions were declining. She did not tell me what I already knew. This was the end.

As my mother slept, my father lay in his hospital bed, holding her hand. The mask that had become his face continued to imprison his emotions. Only the tears that streamed down his face revealed his agony.

At two in the morning, somewhere over the Atlantic, I suggested Mickie get a couple of hours’ sleep. No sooner had she left, but my mother softly said my name. I checked the machines monitoring her vital signs. Her liver functions had worsened; her pulse had slowed. Her breathing was labored. I kissed her forehead and caressed her hair. Even then it remained soft as silk.

“It’s okay, Mom,” I whispered. “You don’t have to fight so hard. If you want to go see the Blessed Mother, you can go. I’ll take care of Dad. I promise. I’ll take good care of him.”

And she opened her eyes.

“Were you playing possum with me?” I asked.

She smiled. “Don’t cry.”

But I couldn’t help it. In so many ways, I remained a child, in need of someone to care for me. That person had been my mother all my life. I feared losing her. I feared not having her near me, not having her around, a part of my life, a part of Fernando’s life, if I was so lucky as to be approved. Mostly, though, I knew that I would miss her something fierce.

“I’m going to miss you, Mom.”

She pointed to my chest. “I’ll be right here. You felt it, didn’t you?”

I had. “It won’t be the same.”

“She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?”

I thought she was speaking of Mickie, but then, uncertain, I asked, “Who, Mom?”

“The Blessed Mother,” she said. “You saw her, too, outside the baths.” And I realized why my mother’s gaze had shifted when she approached me in the grotto. Had she actually seen the Blessed Mother of Jesus Christ? I don’t know. What I know is her gaze was so intense and so focused at that moment that I am convinced she saw something. And if she says she saw the Blessed Mother, I’ll go to my own grave supporting her belief, as she had so ardently believed in me.

My mother took a deep breath, and I was certain it would be her last.

“Mom—”

She exhaled, took another shallow breath. “Do you know what I prayed for in the baths?”

I shook my head.

“For a miracle.”

“I wish it was so,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “I wish it was so.”

“For you,” she said.

“For me?”

“The miracle of Lourdes is acceptance, Sam. I asked God to help you to understand and to accept yourself.” And I thought again of that moment at the baths when I had forgiven so many who had bullied me and, in so doing, I had forgiven myself. Could it have been my mother’s prayer? Could it have been her final act as my mother to once again take care of me?

“Come close,” she said. “I want to see the eyes that looked up at me the moment you were born.” She touched my cheek. “My baby,” she whispered. “When you were born, I thanked the Blessed Mother for making you extraordinary.”

“You were always there to take care of me,” I said.

“Everything happens for a reason, Samuel. Never forget that. Have faith in God’s will.”

Then she closed her eyes.

They would be the last words she ever spoke to me.





12

My mother did not regain consciousness, but she also did not die on the plane or during the transport back to her house. She was too stubborn. She once told me she wanted to die in her own bed, with the man she loved beside her. She got her wish.