A Treasury of Christmas Miracles (11 page)

Ann nodded, but she could feel a tension throughout her body. The road seemed especially slippery, despite the fact that Brian
was driving in a low gear.

Just as the highway became steep, Brian shifted into yet a lower gear just to be sure they wouldn’t lose traction. Suddenly
the back of the Suburban began fishtailing across the road, swinging from one side of the highway to the other. Brian struggled
to correct the truck’s steering, but as he turned the wheel, he could feel that it was having no effect on the tires. Suddenly
he knew what had happened. The vehicle was in a slide with the tires completely detached from the road.

At that instant the Suburban swung sharply toward oncoming traffic, sending the vehicle spinning in a complete circle.

“Oh, God!” Ann screamed, grabbing on to the dashboard. “In the name of God, please stop!”

The Suburban stopped spinning and began a fast sideways slide toward the cliff that buttressed the edge of the highway. If
the vehicle slid off the road, Brian and Ann knew they would probably be killed since the fall would send them several hundred
feet down the hill along rough terrain.

“God, please help us!” Ann screamed again. But deep in her heart she knew they were traveling far too fast and she felt certain
that they were going over the edge.

Then, just before the drop-off, the Suburban slammed to a sudden stop. Kiley had taken off her seat belt and the harsh jolt
sent the child flying across the car into the window.

For a moment there was silence.

Brian looked at his wife in shock, not believing that they had avoided going over the edge of the highway. He was amazed that
they were alive.

“Girls, are you okay?” he asked, turning around.

“Yes, Daddy,” came a small voice. “I hit my head, but I’m okay.”

Relieved, Brian stared at his wife once more. “We must have hit a tree stump or a boulder or something,” he said.

“Maybe a guardrail,” Ann added.

Still shaky from the closeness of what could have been a deadly car accident, Brian climbed out of the vehicle. He walked
around it to the front. There was nothing in between the Suburban and the sheer drop.

“Ann, come here!” Brian said loudly. “Come see this!” Ann opened her door and slid carefully onto the small space between
the vehicle and the side of the cliff. “What did we hit?” she asked.

“That’s just it. We didn’t hit anything. There’s not a rock or a piece of wood, no guardrail. Nothing. The truck just stopped
for no reason at all.”

Ann examined the edge of the road and saw that Brian was right. The vehicle had been sliding at more than ten miles per hour
and had suddenly stopped for no explainable reason. Together they looked down the jagged, rocky mountainside and shuddered
at the thought of what might have happened.

“Ann, it’s like the hand of God just reached out and stopped us from going over the mountainside.”

Quietly Ann remembered her desperate plea for God to help them. She reached over and circled her arms around her husband’s
waist, resting her head on his chest. “With all my heart I believe you’re right. We were stopped by the hand of God. It must
have been a miracle. A Christmas miracle.”

B
ack then there was no way for anyone in the Cannucci family to know how special that summer of 1939 would become. It started
out like any other and would have been uneventful for the Cannucci children if it weren’t for Maria Fiona. While their mother
tended to household duties, eleven-year-old Sara Cannucci was put in charge of keeping her little brother, Tony, occupied.

One morning soon after summer started Sara was playing with Tony outside the house in New Jersey, where their family rented
the upstairs, when Maria walked past with a bag of groceries. Maria and her husband had no children yet, but that morning
Sara noticed that Maria was pregnant.

“Hey,” she called out. “Want some help?”

Maria stopped and smiled at the young girl. She had married into the Fiona family, and not long after they had decided to
turn the upstairs floor of their trilevel house into an apartment the Cannucci family had become their tenants. Not until
after the families had shared the house for several months did they realize that their ancestors had lived in the same Sicilian
village in Italy many years earlier.

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” the senior Cannucci would tell his children. “Our families were together back then and we’re
together now. There must be a reason for that.”

Now, as Maria looked at the young Cannucci children, she welcomed their help. After all, they were practically family.

“Sure, Sara, I’d love the help.” Maria set down her bag and watched Sara take her brother’s hand and scramble to pick up the
bag. The children trailed behind as Maria entered her apartment.

“Why don’t you set them there,” Maria said, pointing to a small kitchen table. Then she looked at the blond-haired boy peeking
out from behind his big sister’s skirt.

“Well, hi there, Tony,” she said. Looking at Sara, she smiled warmly. “Would you two like to stay for some cookies and maybe
I could bring out some paper and colorful pencils?”

Sara was thrilled with the idea, and for the rest of the morning the children stayed at the Fiona house visiting with Maria.
Just before they left to go home, Tony walked up to Maria and stared at her protruding stomach. Maria smiled and tentatively
Tony reached up, touching her gently with his pudgy hand.

“Ball?” he asked.

Maria laughed and her cheeks grew red. “No, it’s not a ball. It’s a baby. I have a baby inside my tummy.”

The child’s eyes grew wide. “Baby? Inside you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Maria held his hand and moved it over her taut midsection. “It’s okay to touch it. Maybe you’ll feel my baby kicking.”

Tony left his hand on Maria and continued to stare at her abdomen. “Love baby,” he said softly. “My baby.”

Maria smiled again. “No, sweetie. It’s my baby. But when it’s born you can be his or her friend. Okay?”

Tony seemed satisfied with the answer and nodded. Then he leaned over and kissed Maria’s stomach before skipping away with
his sister.

After that, the children returned every morning, and Maria was happy to have the company. Her husband was a shoemaker, and
she was often lonely while he kept long hours at the shop. She enjoyed visiting with the Cannucci children and was especially
taken by Tony. Each time the boy visited, he was enthralled with Maria’s pregnant body. He would pat Maria’s stomach and stare
at her, even resting his head on her. Sometimes the child would feel the baby kick and he would squeal in delight.

“I don’t understand it,” Sara said, looking strangely at her brother. “Tony has been around other pregnant mothers. We know
many pregnant women, even now, and he never made this sort of fuss over them.”

“Maybe they’re going to be special friends,” Maria said, patting Tony’s golden hair as he laid his head on her stomach.

Tony talked constantly about holding the baby, even though he did not understand how the infant was going to come out of Maria’s
stomach. Then one day Maria went to the hospital, and four days later she returned home with a tiny wrapped bundle in her
arms.

“His name is Sal,” Maria said, stooping low so that Tony could see the baby.

The older child was enthralled by the baby’s tiny hands and feet and the miniature face. “My baby?” he asked Maria once again.

“Your friend, Tony. Baby Sal is your friend.”

Sara smiled as she watched the exchange and wondered what would happen as the years passed, whether Baby Sal and Tony really
would become friends.

But only two months later the Cannucci family moved away to be closer to the butcher shop where Tony Senior worked. For weeks
afterward Tony spoke of Baby Sal and seemed sad that he had moved. But as winter arrived, the child discovered other things
that captured his attention and he forgot about the tiny baby. And the years passed.

Two years after Tony graduated from high school, he enlisted in the Army and was sent to Panama for two years. There he and
his fellow soldiers were exposed to the systemic herbicide Agent Orange, which the Army used as a defoliant in areas where
troops were stationed. Oftentimes Tony and the other young men in his division would get violently ill and have to spend days
in the infirmary. But never was a connection made between the harsh chemical herbicide and their sickness.

In 1958, at age twenty-two, Tony returned to Albany and reestablished himself as a student at New Jersey State University.
He soon earned his teaching credentials and began working in the same neighborhood where he’d grown up. Eventually he married,
had two beautiful children, and gave up teaching for a better salary working with the New Jersey State Labor Department as
a training director.

At about the same time, early in 1970, Tony began feeling ill and losing weight. Several weeks after he first began having
symptoms a doctor confirmed his worst fears. He had hairy cell leukemia, a rare form of lymphoma that was both painful and
deadly.

“Sara, please pray for me,” Tony asked his sister when he told her the news. “I’m not ready to die yet.”

“Ah, Tony.” Sara could hardly believe that her younger brother had cancer. “Of course I’ll pray. I’ll pray for a miracle.”

For nearly a decade Tony was in and out of remission, but then he began worsening. His spleen was surgically removed, and
after the operation the doctor told him he probably did not have long to live.

Determined to beat the odds, Tony changed doctors and in 1979 began seeing a specialist in the field of hematology, Dr. Taylor
Johnson, at a hospital in New Jersey.

“The other doctor wrote me off,” Tony told Dr. Johnson. “Now don’t you go and do that, okay? I’ve got a lot more living to
do.”

Dr. Johnson smiled. “You’re very sick, Tony,” he said. “But I think we can help you here. Besides, I want you to be around
for the big test.”

“The big test?”

“Yes, Tony. Interferon. It’s an experimental drug right now, but it might be just what you need.”

“Well, let’s get it going.”

Dr. Johnson shook his head. “Not yet. It’ll take a few years before it’ll be ready. My job will be to keep you around until
then.”

Tony’s outlook was very positive and his condition improved, but more than a year later in 1980, Dr. Johnson phoned him to
say he was retiring from his practice.

“But don’t worry. I’ve got a brilliant young doctor taking my place. If anyone can keep you alive until the Interferon is
available, it’s Dr. Fiona.”

“Dr. Fiona?” Tony was puzzled. “That name sounds familiar.”

“Well, I think you both grew up in New Jersey, so you’ve probably heard his name somewhere. I’ve set up an appointment for
you to meet him right away.”

The first meeting between Tony and the young doctor was upbeat and positive.

“Your condition is serious,” Dr. Fiona said. “But I think I can help you stay alive until the Interferon is ready.”

Dr. Fiona was tireless, spending hours with Tony testing his blood and advising him about his condition. Throughout that year
and the next there were several times when Tony nearly died. He would lie on a hospital bed clinging to life while machines
cleaned his blood. Almost always Dr. Fiona would sit beside him holding his hand and praying for him. For Dr. Fiona, Tony
was more than a patient with a rare form of leukemia. The two had grown up in Albany and had ancestors who were originally
from Italy. Because of that, Dr. Fiona cared deeply for Tony and devoted himself to helping the man and his family deal with
his cancer.

“Sometimes, all we can do is ask God to take over,” he would say occasionally. “We’re doing all we can, and now it’s up to
him.”

Despite his brushes with death, Tony lived and Dr. Fiona continued to help him fight for time. Then, in the late 1980s, when
Interferon finally became available, Dr. Fiona made sure that Tony was one of the first leukemia patients to use it. Almost
immediately Tony’s body grew stronger, and by late 1989 he was in remission.

“You saved my life, Doc,” Tony said to him when he got the news. “I’m supposed to be dead right now, but you never gave up.”

“We did it together, Tony. You, me, and God. You’ve always been special to me. You’re a fighter.” He paused a moment. “And
now I have something you can really fight for.”

Tony listened as Dr. Fiona explained that he wanted Tony to help him with a Christmas telethon he was about to do to raise
awareness about leukemia and possible chemical causes. He also wanted to work with Tony in filing suit against the U.S. Army
for exposing Tony to Agent Orange.

“I’m sure that Agent Orange is what caused your leukemia,” Dr. Fiona said. Both men knew that by then Agent Orange had been
partially banned because of its harmful side effects. “Now we need to see that nothing like that ever happens again to a group
of soldiers.” He paused. “I know it’ll take up some of your Christmas time . . . but you know how God works. You’re bound
to get more than you give.”

Dr. Fiona’s zeal was contagious, and Tony agreed heartily to help in the fight against both leukemia and government-approved
exposure to harmful chemicals. The Christmas telethon was set to take place in a month, and since Tony would be on television,
his sister, Sara, working as a reporter in New Milford, Connecticut, promised to watch.

“Wave to me,” she told Tony.

Tony laughed. “Oh, sure, Sara, you bet.”

Then there was silence for a moment, and when Sara spoke her voice was serious. “Really, Tony. I’m so glad you’re okay. I’m
proud of you for being such a fighter.”

“It wasn’t me, it was Dr. Fiona.”

“Dr. Fiona?”

“You know, the doctor who’s been helping me these past ten years.”

“I know, I know. I’ve met him a dozen times when you were in the hospital. It’s just that his name sounds so familiar.”

“I thought so, too. He grew up in Albany, so we probably went to the same schools or something. Who knows?”