Life Support (18 page)

Alexia looked at her watch. It was later than the previous time she eavesdropped on the minister's solitary practice session. As before, she didn't go into the sanctuary but sat in a small chair that had been her concert seat the previous day. On the walls of the foyer were several tarnished plaques listing the names of benefactors long since departed and forgotten by even local residents. Through the opening into the sanctuary came sounds from the soul of a deceased foreign composer whose fame still circled the globe.

It was Rachmaninoff, another Russian whose music she knew well, but it took her a few moments to remember the title. Then she recalled the composition as one of the
Études Tableau,
an intricately beautiful melody interlaced with moments of great tension. Thundering cadences in the lower octaves were answered by brilliant and sumptuous sparkles of crystal clarity in the upper range. At heart it was a characteristically Russian piece whose moments of intense sadness reflected the tragic history of the Russian people. The music spoke of joyful reunions, touched by poignant pain, and although the composer wrote the piece during a different era, the emotions it expressed fit today's world just as well.

When the last note faded, Alexia was suddenly nervous. Deciding it would be better to admit her presence than be found out by accident, she looked into the sanctuary.

“Bravo again!” she called out.

Ted Morgan, dressed in stained carpenter's overalls, looked up and squinted. He took his glasses from a pocket in the front of his overalls and put them on.

“Ms. Lindale, come in! I hope another member of the church hasn't filed for divorce.”

Alexia walked down the aisle and held up her hands. “No briefcase, today. I stopped by, uh . . .” She hesitated, searching her mind for the truth. “Because I hoped you were playing the piano. Is it okay that I eavesdropped?”

Ted gave her the same smile that had set her at ease the day before. “Only if you can name that tune in four hundred notes?”

“It was one of the
Études Tableau
by Rachmaninoff.”

Ted nodded in approval. “Ms. Lindale, you get an A in music appreciation. You weren't bluffing when you said you loved classical piano music.”

Alexia sat down on the front pew nearest the piano. “Call me Alexia. I especially like Russian composers and pianists. My mother grew up in St. Petersburg.”

“A beautiful city.”

Alexia's eyes grew wide. “Have you performed there?”

Ted laughed. “Not exactly. I visited two years ago as part of a mission outreach to a summer camp.”

“Mission outreach?”

“I helped with a summer camp for children sponsored by a Christian ministry in Florida. I played the piano for the meetings.”

“Did you give any concerts?”

“Twice in the evenings I played for the adults. The Russians take great pride in the genius of their composers, so it helped their attitude toward the camp when I performed their music. When did your mother come to America?”

“She was a soccer player who defected when the Soviet national youth team was touring the United States in the 1960s. She met my father in college at Ohio State.”

“Do you speak Russian?” Ted asked.

“Da.
My accent isn't the best, but I can communicate. We visited relatives five years ago, and I had a good time practicing Russian with them while they tried out their English on me.”

Alexia glanced around at the church. Its inner beauty was different from the architecture on the outside. The most striking interior feature was the stained-glass windows. Ted noticed her glance.

“Would you like a tour of the church?” he asked.

Alexia's previous visits to old churches had been hurried events when she was on a trip to England the summer after her first year in law school. She wasn't particularly interested in religious buildings but didn't have a reason to decline the minister's offer.

“Sure,” she said.

Ted left the piano bench and walked down the aisle to the middle of the room. Pointing to the stained-glass window at the left rear of the sanctuary, he said, “Each window shows a miraculous event in the ministry of Jesus. Usually, stained-glass windows depict his birth, death, resurrection, and ascension, but the artists who created these focused on his actions. The first one is the wedding feast at Cana where Jesus turned water into wine.”

Alexia followed Ted until they stood beneath the window. The colors were muted because the afternoon sun was shining on the opposite side of the building, but Alexia was impressed by the obvious attention to detail. The windows weren't a modern kaleidoscope quilt of roughly cut shapes but a glass painting that relied upon natural light to bring it to life. In the first window, the bridal couple and the celebrating guests were prominently portrayed in the foreground. Jesus stood to the side.

“He's not the center of attention,” Ted said. “At the time of the miracle, no one knew what he had done except his mother and the servants who took the water turned into wine to the man in charge of the wedding.”

Alexia studied the window. “Since he started with water was the wine a Chablis?”

Ted chuckled. “The only detail in the Bible is that it was the best wine served at the feast.”

They went around the room. There were eight windows in all. Blind eyes were opened; food was multiplied; lepers were cleansed. Ted casually talked about the events as if they had happened the week before on the streets of Santee. He wasn't stuffy, and Alexia decided that with some coaching, he might be a good witness after all. They stopped on the opposite side of the sanctuary from the wedding at Cana.

“This is my favorite,” he said. “The healing at the pool of Bethesda. The man in the picture had been paralyzed for thirty-eight years before Jesus healed him.”

“A paraplegic?”

“Yes.”

The scene featured a man lying on a mat spread on a stone pavement and looking up at Jesus. Other less distinct figures joined the two figures around a small pool of water. Alexia thought the window was one of the duller images. In the upper right-hand corner, there was a second, smaller scene of the man walking up the steps away from the pool with his mat rolled up on his shoulder.

“Why is this your favorite?” she asked.

“Step closer,” Ted told her. “Stand directly under the window so that your line of sight follows that of the man on the mat. This is the perfect time of day to do it.”

Alexia walked between two pews. The afternoon sun brilliantly illuminated the colors without overwhelming them. When she was in position directly under the window, she looked up into the face of Jesus. His eyes were like brownish gold fire focused directly on her.

She caught her breath. “How did they do that?”

“I don't know. It's a remarkable perspective.”

Alexia stepped back, then forward—in and out of the attention of the stained-glass figure. “There is just a small spot where it happens.”

Ted joined her in front of the window. “Of all the other sick people around the pool, only one saw the face of Jesus in a way that brought healing.”

“I'm not sure what you mean,” she said.

“Faith and the presence of Jesus is the recipe for miracles.”

Alexia didn't respond. The stained-glass window was a clever piece of art, but it didn't prove anything about life today. Maybe something happened when Jesus looked at people during his life on earth, but it ended when he died. Ted moved on. The last picture was an apocalyptic scene in which a vast throng of people streamed toward a glorified Christ who stood with his hands outstretched in blessing.

“That's the redeemed at the end of the age,” Ted said. “They are totally restored and healed. No cancer. No heart disease. No depression. No sin.”

“You can't see their faces,” Alexia observed.

“Because their focus is on Jesus.”

Alexia shook her head. “I don't like it. It makes Jesus Christ the consummate egotist who wants all the attention on himself. I liked him better at the wedding.”

Immediately, Alexia wished she'd kept her thoughts to herself and avoided offending the minister. It was like telling a doting mother her only child was a self-centered brat.

“I'm sorry,” she added. “I didn't mean—”

“Of course, you did,” Ted interrupted her. “But it's understandable. This is Jesus glorified. Until you see his beauty for yourself, it's impossible to imagine the basis for the attraction. Jesus doesn't seek adoration because he's insecure. He receives it because he's worthy.”

Alexia didn't understand how it was possible in the present day to see Jesus, but she was impressed by the way Ted, like a skilled expert witness, handled her objection without getting flustered.

“Thanks for the tour,” she said.

“One more stop,” Ted said. “You need to see the church from the pulpit.”

Ted led her to the front of the sanctuary to an elevated pulpit made of very dark wood. The preaching area could only be reached by climbing four steep steps in the rear.

“Climb up,” he said.

Alexia climbed the steps and entered the small circular area. A large Bible was open on the lectern in front of her. She surveyed the expanse of the room. The pulpit was the bow of a ship with the pews like waves lapping against the hull.

“I like it up here,” she said. “It's different from standing in front of a jury box. It makes me think I have something important to say.”

“That's the point. Try it out.”

“What do I say?”

“Preach whatever you think God wants the people in the pews to hear.”

Alexia thought for a moment. Then she pounded her fist on the side of the lectern. “Men! Repent or suffer at the hands of the ultimate Judge!”

She looked back at Ted. “How was that?”

“Short and to the point but limited to the male segment of the congregation. What would you say to the women?”

“Women?” she asked with raised eyebrows. “They don't need to repent.”

Ted smiled. “I've met a few of those women, but I didn't know you were one of them.”

“Okay, give me a second.” Alexia scanned the empty pews. “Women! I warn you! Hear the voice of experience! Document everything because your lawyer will need it later. Look out for yourselves because no one else will do it for you. And never, ever trust a man!”

16

To sit in darkness here hatching vain empires.

PARADISE LOST

R
ena appeared appropriately distraught, although for reasons other than the fact that her husband lay paralyzed in a coma. She'd spent so many hours at the hospital that the ICU waiting room with its vinyl furniture and pea green walls had become her prison cell. The orderly who sat at the table and monitored visitation was the guard on duty, and Ezra the cellmate whose every habit was designed for maximum irritation. Baxter's status remained unchanged. He had survived the first forty-eight hours, but no one knew whether he was on death row or serving a life sentence in suspended animation. Rena had no choice but to wait for the arrival of Jeffrey, Baxter's older brother. Jeffrey was an unknown variable whom Rena wanted to influence in her favor. If he became an ally, there might be a chance to sway Ezra.

Jeffrey Richardson had been in California on a business trip when he received the phone call from his father about his brother's accident. He immediately prepared to return to South Carolina; however, Ezra vetoed his plans and told him to finish his business. Baxter was unconscious, and there was no reason for a silent vigil around a hospital bed in hope for a fleeting good-bye. So Jeffrey sat through a day of meetings with a real-estate developer in San Diego and then flew to Greenville via Atlanta.

Ezra wasn't in the ICU waiting area when Jeffrey arrived at the hospital. Rena saw her brother-in-law and burst into tears. Jeffrey quickly came over to her. Rena stood, buried her head in his broad right shoulder, and sobbed.

“Am I too late?” Jeffrey asked in alarm. “Is he dead?”

Rena didn't respond until her weeping subsided. “It's worse,” she sniffled. “It would be merciful if he did die. It's so terrible.”

Jeffrey gently rubbed her back. “But my father said the first two days were the most critical.”

Rena pulled away slightly but remained in Jeffrey's arms. “He wants to believe there's hope, but when you see Baxter, you'll know what I mean. I need your help in talking to your father. We can't keep avoiding the decision about continuing life support.”

“I knew it was bad, but I didn't—”

“You need to see him for yourself,” Rena interrupted. “He's only allowed one visitor for five minutes every hour. I went back a half an hour ago, but we can ask if they'll make an exception for you since you just got here.”

“Where's my father?”

“He went outside to make some phone calls and smoke a cigarette.”

Rena introduced Jeffrey to the attendant who monitored visitors. A minute later Jeffrey was with his brother. Five minutes later he emerged with his face a shade lighter. He sat next to Rena.

“I see what you mean. I wouldn't want to be kept alive like that by machines. His skin is so pale and washed out. It was eerie—as if he's already gone.”

Rena nodded. “And I don't think it's right to make him artificially linger like this.”

“What do the doctors say?”

Rena tried to keep her voice calm yet emphatic. “They talk in circles and tell us to wait and see, but it's not right. A decision needs to be made.”

“Has my father talked to the doctors?”

“Not without me there, too. I've tried to stay here so we could meet with them together.”

Jeffrey glanced toward the door leading into the hallway. “How long has he been gone?”

“I'm not sure, but he should be back shortly.”