Sunday, August 6, 3:00 p.m.
I don’t remember driving from the police station to the rectory or entering the living room, but when I saw RJ, I hugged him so tight and for so long that he squirmed away, stomped a red sneaker, and screamed, “Stop it, Uncle Jake!”
Without taking his eyes off me, he scampered to the sofa and nuzzled his blue security blanket, looking scared and forlorn. During his mother’s illness in Louisiana, he had been shuttled between a series of foster parents, some less than ideal, shattering his four year old world. Now, hundreds of miles away in a strange home, the poor kid had to deal with me, the eccentric uncle almost every family had.
Colleen abandoned her dust rag and scurried over.
“Saints protect and preserve us, Father! What is going on with you? Are you all right then?”
I couldn’t tell the Queen of Gossip what had happened at the station house, so I said, “I’m just grateful to have RJ in my life. And Justine. And you too, Colleen. I’ve been blessed.”
Colleen was speechless, a rare occurrence.
Tina’s betrayal of her babies, her husband, and her humanity had left me ice-cold inside and in need of physical contact. If Justine had been there, I might have hugged the life out of her frail body. I spread my arms and stepped forward to embrace Colleen instead. She stepped back.
“There’ll be none of that, if you please, Father.”
RJ was rocking back and forth, rubbing his blanket against his cheek. My sister had given me strict instructions that he could cuddle with it only for naps and at bedtime, now that he was “a big boy.” He gave me those sad, puppy dog eyes and I absolved him of this minor infraction. With Justine in the hospital, I had already broken the no sweets before dinner and bedtime by eight o’clock rules, so what was one more.
I walked over and tousled his hair. Although it was late, I said, “Let’s go visit your Mom, RJ. Would you like that?”
The scowl slid from his face, and he nodded vigorously.
“All right, then. Make a pit stop in the bathroom and we’ll leave.”
I thanked Colleen for caring for RJ, sent her home, and grabbed the legal papers for Justine. As my nephew and I walked to my car, lightening flashed in the western sky. Thunder roared and dark, roiled clouds galloped toward us like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. I sent him inside for his raincoat, sprinted to the garage through the opening barrage of rain, and sprayed the interior of the Toyota with air freshioner. The scent of death from the passenger seat, however, still faintly lingered.
I parked near the rectory door. When RJ came out, I whisked him into his car seat in the back and we headed east. With visiting hours dwindling, I pushed well past the speed limit through the wind-driven torrent and gathering darkness.
At the Cleveland Clinic, RJ and I hurried through the scrub and gown procedure and entered Justine’s room. My smile was short-lived. RJ sensed trouble, screeching to a halt just inside the doorway.
Justine’s oncologist stood at her bedside, accompanied by a nurse and an intern who appeared young enough to be a boy scout. Their expressions were solemn as they again postponed her planned discharge from the isolation unit, citing the need to bolster her immune system.
I asked them if I could review my sister’s hospital record. When Justine said that she wanted my “second opinion” and volunteered to sign a release form to keep the hospital lawyers happy, the oncologist relented but added that RJ couldn’t be left in the room unsupervised.
The nurse spoke up. “I have a child about his age and know it’s a chore to get him scrubbed and gowned. I’m going off my shift now and can stay with him for little while, but make it as quick as you can.”
I thanked her, left the room, and trudged to the nurses’ station. Justine’s chart weighed almost as much as she did. I worked my way through it, searching for a missed opportunity, an overlooked clue, or a path not taken.
What I found made my heart hurt. Saving her life would take more than a skilled team of doctors and nurses and the latest medicines; it would take a miracle. As a physician, I recognized how dire the situation was, and even as a man of faith I knew it was a long way from Cleveland to Galilee. I contemplated Jesus’s abbreviated thirty-three years on this earth, and whispered a prayer.
Merciful Lord, you made the lame walk, the blind see, and raised the dead. Please allow my sister to attend RJ’s next birthday, his First Communion, his high school graduation. Sweet Jesus, have mercy on us.
When I returned to Justine’s room, the nurse was making a quarter vanish from her hand and reappear in RJ’s ear. My nephew was dazzled and bouncing for joy, and my sister was clearly enjoying the show.
As the nurse began to leave the room, I asked her to witness our signatures on the Power of Attorney documents and the form nominating me as RJ’s legal guardian in case Justine became incapacitated. She helped Justine sign everything without violating sterile precautions, then went home to her own child.
When she was gone, Justine sent her son to play at the table by the window.
“Find anything in my chart? Give it to me straight, Jake. Is there a ray of hope?”
“There’s always hope, Sis.” I hesitated. “And prayer.”
She looked away as if she’d read my thoughts.
“Then pray for me … and my boy, Jake.”
Agnostic no more, or simply frightened and desperate? I didn’t know and didn’t care. I held her hand and prayed aloud. RJ left his toys on the windowsill, came over, and took my other hand.
When we had finished, the remainder of our stay was bittersweet and filled with long silences. I was relieved when visiting hours ended.