By My Hands (13 page)

“Have a seat,” Pham said, nodding toward a chair in
front of the desk.

“No, thank you,” she said curtly. “Let’s just get on
with this.”

“Ah, it’s still there,” Pham beamed.

“What?”

“Chutzpah. noticed it was missing at the funeral and
feared you were losing it here.” Pham pointed at his chest

Priscilla looked at Pham with confusion. It seemed
incongruous to hear the Yiddish word uttered by such an Asian face.
“Chutzpah? What do you mean?”

“You know. Brashness. Boldness. Confidence.”

“I know what the word means, but what does it have
to do with me?”

Pham sat on the edge of the desk. “You’re the
epitome of chutzpah, almost to a fault. But I was afraid that it
had been killed along with Irwin.”

“Don’t make light of Irwin’s death,” she
snapped.

“I don’t make light of anyone’s death, and I
certainly wouldn’t do so of Irwin’s. I valued him for his skill,
professionalism, and his friendship. As far as I’m concerned, they
can turn this office into a shrine.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Because I’m doing what Irwin would do, and would
want me to do.”

“And that is?”

“And that is to get you back on track.” Pham got up
and paced the room. “You’re one of the finest reporters and news
anchors in the business. I don’t know how Irwin kept you from
skipping town to go to a larger market like L.A. I know you’ve had
offers. I may not know why you’ve stayed, but I’m glad you did, and
I want to make sure it stays that way.”

“What makes you think it would be any different
now?” Priscilla’s tone softened.

“Because events like you’ve experienced can sap the
strength from you. I’ve seen it before. You begin to blame
yourself, and then you assume everyone else is blaming you. Then
you simply drop out.” Priscilla stood in the middle of the room and
watched Pham pace. “Let me ask you something,” he continued. “When
you walked in here, how did you feel?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with any of this,”
Priscilla said.

“Just tell me,” Pham was just short of shouting.

“I felt lousy, scared, guilty, responsible,
uncomfortable. I felt like I don’t belong.”

“Exactly right about what you felt, and exactly
wrong about the truth. You do belong.”

“No, I don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to watch
someone die like that. To be that close to death, and to have it be
your fault.”

Pham stopped pacing and stared at her. She had said
the wrong thing. As a thirteen-year-old refugee from Vietnam, he
and his parents fled the country after it fell to the communists.
He and 160 other frightened nationals escaped in a leaky wooden
boat. North Vietnamese pirates stole what meager possessions they
had, and then, for the “sport of it” indiscriminately killed many
of the defenseless refugees, including Pham’s parents. The corpses
had to be dumped at sea. Pham had watched in horror as sharks
shredded the bodies of his mother and father. Fourteen years later,
through hard work and the help of a foster family, Pham had
graduated from San Diego State with a degree in journalism. He was
a natural behind-the-scenes man, never appearing on camera. Those
in the know considered him an administrative genius. He had spent
the last year as Irwin Baker’s assistant. Now that Irwin was gone .
. . Priscilla didn’t want to think about that. Priscilla raised her
hands, “All right, I guess you do know.”

“Better than anyone I know. And I’ll tell you what
else I know—that a painful past doesn’t mean a painful future;
injustice doesn’t mean no justice; and fear doesn’t mean the
absence of courage. You belong here, Priscilla. If anyone was
custom-made for this job, it’s you. Don’t let your fear and guilt,
wrongly placed as it is, kill your future like that burglar killed
Irwin. Call on the strength you’re famous for, and seize life.”

“I just need a little time off.”

“This isn’t about time off. Of course, you need time
off. Anyone would. But if you let sorrow and fear steal your heart,
then the time you take off will become permanent.”

Priscilla lowered her head. It was true: fear and
guilt had almost taken control. She had nearly surrendered the rest
of her life without a struggle. Pham was saying exactly what Irwin
would have said.

“You take as much time off as you need,” Pham said
in a soft voice. Then in a firm, authoritative tone he stated, “But
you
will
be back to work, and you
will
do a wonderful
job.”

Lifting her head, Priscilla nodded. “Monday,” she
said. “I will be back Monday.”

“Now the hard question. Do you want to continue
covering the Healer story?”

After a brief meditative pause, she replied,
“Absolutely.” Pham slapped his hands together and grinned.
“Chutzpah!” he shouted.

“Chutzpah,” she echoed and grinned for the first
time in days.

Sunday, March 22, 1992; 8:45
P.M.

ADAM PREPARED A NO-FRILLS sandwich—two pieces of
bologna with mustard on wheat bread—and plopped down on the sofa.
He turned on the television and watched a National Geographic
special on the Bengal tiger.

It had been a disappointing Sunday. His alarm didn’t
go off, which led to a hectic morning of preparation. He had to do
without his usual sermon review time. Both Sunday school and
morning worship attendance had been down. This often happened on
long weekends, but occasionally, as this Sunday, it happened
without conspicuous reason.

The smaller group, coupled with an overcast day,
made for slow services. By the time Adam stood in the pulpit, he
was uncertain if he were in a worship or funeral service.

The evening service had been no better. The
congregation was sparse, making it difficult for Adam to preach. He
had often maintained that he would much rather preach to 5,000 than
50; not for vanity’s sake, but because of the human dynamics
between audience and speaker.

The phone jarred Adam from his silent complaining.
It was Ann Lorayne. Her message was short and delivered between
bitter sobs, “David . . . is . . . dying.”

Sunday, March 22, 1992; 9:45
P.M.

ADAM’S STOMACH HURT AGAIN. He hated these calls. In
all probability he would sit with a woman who would become a widow.
There was so little that could be said, and less still that could
be done. The only ministry option available to him was to simply be
there. Although he had done this task many times, he had never
reached an emotional balance with it. No matter how often he had
watched people die, he could never grow used to the grief left
behind.

The doctors and nurses would do all they could, then
express their sorrow and leave. Although it was probably unfair, he
often envied them. Their work was over, and his was just
beginning.

Having parked at the far end of the hospital’s
parking lot, Adam walked, head down and lost in thought, toward the
glass doors that led to the lobby. As he entered, he was greeted
with a staggering vision: the large room was filled with people in
wheelchairs and lying on stretchers. There before him were the lame
with atrophied limbs; the weak with nasal tubes carrying oxygen
from green tanks to ailing lungs; the blind with their red-tipped
white canes; the uncontrolled bodies of those with cerebral palsy,
their head and limbs jerking from one position to another. But
worst of all were the children, some bald from repeated exposure to
radiation and the infusion of chemotherapy. One mother gazed
vacantly at the cyanotic infant she held in her arms, and quietly
hummed a lullaby.

There was a strange quiet in the room, and with it
an unmistakable air of expectation. As he entered, everyone looked
his way. The sudden confrontation as well as the magnitude of human
suffering jolted Adam. He had seen the crowds when he was released,
but didn’t realize that the sick and lame were still at the
hospital.
What are they waiting for?
he wondered.

Adam was so lost in his thoughts that he did not
immediately notice the crooked little figure at his feet. Looking
down he saw a boy, maybe ten years old, whose body was twisted. His
spine was curved so severely that it was nearly impossible for him
to look up.

“Mister, are you the Healer?” The tiny voice that
came from the frail form shook Adam’s soul. Simultaneously feeling
compassion and repulsion, Adam knelt down to look into the boy’s
eyes. He saw an incomprehensible sadness and yet, a brief but
discernible spark of hope. Adam could say nothing; he simply gazed
at the tragically deformed boy.

“Mister, are you the Healer?” the boy asked again.
“Have you come to heal me?”

The incongruities in the boy’s voice impacted Adam’s
mind like a meteor crashing into the earth. It was a voice of
hopeful sadness.

“What do you mean, son?”

“Are you the Healer? I want to be healed.” There was
mournful sadness in the boy’s voice, a melancholy rooted in a hope
that teetered on the edge of despair. In his eyes, Adam saw
something possessed by children, but lost to adults: a simple
willingness to believe, to cling to hope no matter how unreasonable
the situation. That expectancy glistened in the boy’s bright blue
eyes—eyes that had never looked directly forward. Something in
those eyes touched Adam with a searing intensity that branded the
boy’s image on his soul.

Not knowing what else to say, Adam slowly shook his
head and replied softly, “I wish to God I was, son. I really wish I
was.”

Adam stood and quickly made his way to the elevator
leaving the boy behind. At the elevators he was stopped by a large,
uniformed guard with heavy eyebrows, a broad nose, and narrowly
spaced eyes. May I help you, sir?” he asked firmly.

Adam was nonplussed. He had been to this hospital
many times to visit ailing members and had always simply walked
wherever he wanted.

“I beg your pardon,” Adam said, adjusting his
glasses.

“Do you have business in the hospital?” the guard
asked intently.

“Yes, I do,” Adam replied coolly. “I’m Reverend Adam
Bridger, and I’ve been called to the bedside of one of my
members.”

“What is the name of the person you are visiting?”
The guard clipped his words as he spoke.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Adam said. “I’ve
been in this hospital hundreds of times over the last few years,
and not once has anyone stopped me from—”

“I’m just doing my job, sir. Look,” he continued,
“you just walked through the lobby, didn’t you?”

Adam nodded.

“And you saw all those people, didn’t you?”

Adam nodded again.

“Well, they come by the hundreds and sit there. Most
of them wait quietly. Others wander around the halls, often
disturbing the patients. For a few days, the hospital almost shut
down. So unless you show me that you have legitimate reason for
going upstairs, this is as far as you get.”

Gazing back at the lobby, Adam considered what he
had just heard. He had trouble believing that he had been so
sequestered as not to have read or heard about all of this beyond
the initial information provided by Dick Slay.

“I understand,” Adam said. “I’m sorry if I seemed a
little gruff. I’m afraid I’ve been out of touch the last few weeks,
and I guess I was overwhelmed by the people in the lobby. I’m here
to see Mr. David Lorayne in ICU.”

The guard checked his clipboard list and then
nodded. As Adam rode the elevators to the fifth floor, his mind was
filled with the image of the crooked little boy. The meek and
hopeful appeal echoed in his ears, “Are you the Healer?” Adam was
surprised to discover tears in his eyes.

After identifying himself to the ICU nurses through
an intercom, Adam was granted permission to enter. David Lorayne’s
room was just inside the door. Ann stood by her husband’s bed. Her
face was drawn and her eyes red. She stood stooped over the dying
figure. David Lorayne lay motionless, an oxygen mask covering his
face. A plastic bag with clear solution was suspended on an IV
stand. Above his head was a heart monitor that showed his heart
rhythm and gave a digital readout of his pulse rate.

Adam took his place beside Ann and, placing his arm
around her shoulders, and silently prayed. Due to his own
recuperation and overwhelming schedule, Adam had not visited the
Loraynes in the hospital—Ann had insisted on it. Normally, he would
visit the hospital several times a week, but his own condition had
forced him to visit only by phone.

Fifteen minutes later Adam spoke. “How long have you
been up here?”

“They brought David up two hours ago.” Her voice was
shallow and raspy from crying. “They say he could go at any minute
or linger for hours. I just don’t understand. They said that it was
a routine operation and assured us that very little could go
wrong.”

“Do they offer no hope?”

“None.” Tears trickled down her face and fell onto
the bare arm of her husband; Ann gently wiped them off. “The
doctors say that David may have had a negative reaction to the
anesthesia; that the blood vessels in his brain constricted causing
his brain to slowly shut down.” Adam had heard all this before in
their phone conversations, but allowed her to explain it again. It
was Ann’s way of coping. “They want to know if I want them to do
things if David stops breathing.”

“Things?” Adam was puzzled for a moment. “Heroic
efforts?”

“Yes. That’s what they called it—heroic efforts.”
Ann reached for a tissue from a box on the nightstand. “I don’t
know what to tell them. I can’t say let him die, but I don’t want
him to be hooked up to all the machines either.”

“Is the rest of the family here at the
hospital?”

“Yes. They went to the cafeteria for some coffee.
Michael is . . . do you remember Michael?”

“I met him last Easter at the church. He’s a civil
engineer, isn’t he?”