'A SMALL MIRACLE'
by Marion Arnott
The bench was slick with melted snow. Matthew sat down and sucked in cold air until his lungs burned. Hope had come to him in the same way as bad news had, kicking his heart out of its familiar rhythms; he was dizzy with its wild beating and the roaring of blood in his ears. He peered through the darkness at the nursing home looming black against the wide, snow-lit sky. It was still draped in its Christmas lights, which twinkled feebly in the gloom and failed utterly to look festive. The place always made him uneasy: too much divine mystery and not enough of the human touch for his taste. But the nuns were assiduous in their duties. Kate was well cared for.
He knew he should rise and go up there, knew he should be inside this very moment, celebrating his miracle. He blamed Sister Theresa for his reluctance to face it. She had broken the good news to him suddenly, making no effort to prepare him for it, unlike the last time she had made a midnight telephone call. That time she had tip-toed round the news so delicately and for so long that it had been almost a relief to hear the worst. This time the phone had shrilled him out of sleep and she had begun babbling at once. �A miracle! There�s been a miracle! Katherine is talking again.�
Matthew huddled in the cold, still trying to take it all in, but he could not think past the heavy pounding of his heart, or the need to hold back the tide of hope which was threatening to engulf him; for a long time, his only strength and refuge had been stoic resignation and without it, he would be defenceless.
It had taken him months to become accustomed to the frantic muttering which Kate thought was speech; even longer to be able to bear her silent tears when no one understood her; longest of all to accept that she no longer recognised him. He had persisted in believing that she was aware of him because he was he only one who could soothe her when frustration drove her wild. He would sit and brush her beautiful white hair and murmur that the nuns never did it the way she liked it. �There, there, Katy, that�s more like your old self.� She always became calm then, all the proof he needed that she knew that he was there. He had survived on that belief until he saw that it said more about his own need than reality. Finally he had understood that it would take a miracle to bring Kate back from wherever she was and he hadn�t believed in those for years.
But now Sister Theresa had proclaimed that miracle, and all he could do was hide in the dark, feeling old and confused. It was as well that Kate could not see him now. He tried to imagine the kind of thing she would say to get him up, but heard only the night silence and the slither and drip of snow melting off trees. He was an old fool to be sitting here with icy water dripping down his neck, thinking about his wife who was only fifty yards up the drive in a nice warm room, probably wondering why he wasn�t there. The thought of her waiting was enough to make him rise to his feet.
Sister Theresa opened the great front doors to him. He knew better than to expect a show of pleasure from the good sister at Kate�s recovery: Sister Theresa held the joys and sorrows of this world to be of no account. They greeted one another with their customary silence; they had hardly exchanged two words since the night of Kate�s second devastating stroke. He followed her inside and was deposited among the soft shadows of the hall while she turned back to the doors to lock up. He heard the muted clinking of keys and the drawing of long brass bolts. She was careful, this keeper of the keys and his Kate; and how was it possible for the woman to take so long over locking a couple of doors?
Matthew shifted restlessly. Hope hurt like feeling rushing back into a numbed limb and jabbed pins and needles at his self-possession. He looked round for a distraction, but there was nothing here to steady him. In fact, the statue of Our Lady only made him feel more uncomfortable. Her prim half-smile reminded him overmuch of Sister Theresa and her smug certainties; and on Kate�s behalf, he resented the plastic flowers twined round Her feet. �Tacky,� Kate would say. �Terrible tacky stuff.� That�s what Kate would say. If she could speak.
Unexpectedly her voice, warm and vibrant, rang round inside his head. �Tacky, Matt. Isn�t that just awful?� The realness of it pierced him through and through with longing. He heard the exact tone of the convent girl devoutly raised and rebelliously lapsed, embarrassed by past fervours and still afraid of her own daring. She had never quite stepped out of the shadow of superstitious awe, something which he understood very well because he was the same way himself. They had often laughed together about this: two Catholic agnostics, passionate socialists both, finished with the Church but never able to shake off entirely the old fears learned at the priest�s knee. He had lived to see the decline of religion and the rise of New Labour, and by the time he reached his eightieth birthday, it occurred to him that of all the things he had ever believed in, the only thing he had been right to trust was Kate�s great heart. She alone had never failed. But by the time he knew that, she was already lost to him and he hadn�t been able to tell her.
Her first stroke hadn�t been all that serious, a warning the doctor called it. Kate had remained in good spirits, and being admitted to a Catholic nursing home had amused her. �Right back where I started,� she said, �and feeling like a naughty little girl already. I keep saying sorry. I feel I ought to be saying sorry for everything I ever did, thought, or said. Once a Catholic��
It was Sister Theresa made her feel like that, Matthew felt. She had this odour of disapproval about her, drifting from the folds of her habit like dust. Kate had thought the same thing. �Isn�t that Sister |Theresa the grim one, Matt? She says she never wanted to be nurse. Her mind was set on the contemplative life, but she does her duty for the love of Christ and the mortification of her flesh.� They had exchanged glances and stifled their laughter for fear the nun might hear. �That put me in my place, I can tell you, Matt. What a thing to have lived so long and ended up as someone�s penance. I mortify her as often as I can, just to be obliging, but all she ever says is that suffering has a beauty all its own. I never know whether she means mine or hers.�
And mortify the good sister Katy did. They were forever debating things: the meaning of life; the necessity of faith; the need for suffering in the world. �I can�t help getting heated, Matt. She thinks the horrors of the world are no more and no less than we all deserve. Why I let her get to me, I don�t know. I shouldn�t expect anything else from a woman whose best friends are suffering saints and tortured martyrs.�
Matthew remembered the last debate clearly. There had been a documentary on TV, flies on a dying baby�s eyes, a woman with empty breasts who had long given up weeping. Sister Theresa had smoothed the snowy sheets on Kate�s bed and squared the corners precisely. �It is God�s will,� she said. �We must all accept it.� �God�s will, Sister? God�s will? That�s man�s work and no excuses, thanks very much. Any God that would will that is a devil.�
Matthew, waiting in the shadows for the nun to return from locking up, shivered as he relived Kate�s indignation. It was not the first time Kate had challenged the nun, but Sister had been particularly upset that day. And that very night, Kate had been struck down by her second devastating stroke. Sister had sent for him and the first thing she said to him when he arrived was, �God is not mocked.� Then she crossed herself. Once Matt would have laughed that off, but he could not that time. He hadn�t even felt any anger at the nun�s crassness until she informed him solemnly that she would pray for forgiveness for Kate. For Kate who had never harmed a living soul in all her life!
The memory of that moment chilled Matthew more than the dripping snow had outside. Then he heard Kate�s laugh, so close to his ear that he actually turned, expecting to see her; but it was only Katy-in-his-mind again, talking the way she used to. �That woman, Matt, has the mind of a mediaeval peasant. Didn�t we always say that too much religion could spoil an imperfectly good human being?� Matt smiled tremulously. Hope had him by the throat again and he wanted his miracle; he wanted to talk to Kate again.
He stepped further back into the shadows to dry his eyes and was presentable when the nun returned at last. Stiff with starch and duty, she swept him along dim corridors filled with the ragged mutterings of old sick people sleeping fitfully. At Kate�s door, she turned to face him. �Our prayers are answered and God has restored her to us. But Katherine is very tired and must not be encouraged to talk for long. Few minute only.� Incredibly, she leaned forward and patted his arm. �You have travelled far for such a short visit, but I knew that you would want to know as soon as it happened. You�ve waited a long time for this day.�
He thought he glimpsed a small half smile, but before he could be sure, she had moved off along the corridor leaving him bemused and oddly touched to go into Kate. She was propped upright on a mound of pillows. Her head lolled a little to one side. He stepped forward and straightened her. She hated to wake with a crick in her neck. Then, suddenly shy of her, he retreated to the foot of the bed. �Hello, Katy.�
She was asleep. He studied the dignified peaceful features. The deep lines around her mouth and eyes looked ready to spring upwards into laughter at any moment. Matthew�s heart swelled until it was too big for his chest � he could fell it hammering against his ribs. He could not take his eyes off her. She was back. He knew it. She would wake soon and turn to him and they would talk. He wouldn�t ask for more, would not expect total recovery or to have her home again. But to talk � just to talk with her again. That would be enough.
�Kate? Did you catch that thought? About what I�d ask for? Once a Catholic! Just give me this one thing, God, and I�ll never ask for anything else again. Just one miracle, that�s all.�
He pulled up a chair beside her bed and noticed her hands. Gently, he removed the rosary which someone had looped round her fingers, and slipped into her bedside locker. �You�d have something to say if you woke up and found that there, wouldn�t you? That was taking advantage of you when you were down and out and not looking.�
He recalled Sister Theresa reaching out to him at the door and relented. �Ah, I expect she meant well, Kate. We all live by our own lights.� He realised that he was talking aloud. Was it going to be that easy to fall into the old routine? But why shouldn�t it be? It was a night for miracles and hard things made easy. Suddenly, he could not wait for her to wake and words came spilling out, tumbling over one another in his excitement.
�Wat till you hear about Theresa, Kate. She smiled. Really she did. I saw it. Two miracles in one day. I felt like thumbing my nose and saying, �See, Tess? God, if he exists, doesn�t hate my Kate after all.� He lifted the sleeping woman�s hands and stroked the fingers which were curved and twisted out of shape. �The thing is, Kate, although I knew she was trying to be kind, I couldn�t smile back. I�ve never forgiven her for the night she crossed herself. God is not mocked, she said. I�d have struck her if she�d been gloating, but she wasn�t. She was terrified out of her wits.�
His mind brimmed with memories of Kate and one obliged his need to hear her. He thought he heard her giggle. �Matt, you were terrified too! Admit, it. For one moment, she had you believing in the wrath of God.�
With some embarrassment, matt remembered a shudder of fear. He said nothing, but Katy-in-his-head knew everything and chuckled with delight. �I knew it! Your face was as white as your shirt.�
Matt laughed quietly. �Give me some credit, Katy. I managed not to cross myself at least. Though it was a close thing when she went on and on about God�s anger. You were lying there not able to speak, after saying God must be a devil - �
He tailed off. Another echo of Kate sounded in his head. �Didn�t my mother always say that my big mouth would get me into trouble one of these days? But I would never have thought that exonerating God from blame would have brought a thunderbolt down on my head.�
Matthew was so engrossed that he almost missed Kate stirring in the bed.
�Katy?�
Her eyelids fluttered open and her head turned on the pillow; she was smiling and looking straight at him.
�Katy! Hello, stranger.�
Stupidly, he could think of nothing else to say. He rubbed her hands which were still clasped between his. �How are you, Katy?�
�Is it time for Mass yet? Have I slept in?�
The voice was childish and afraid and he didn�t recognise it. She tugged feebly to free her hands and he let them drop. She began to grope around the bed. Her panicky search frightened Matthew.
�What is it, Kate? What have you lost?�
With some relief, he saw that she understood him.
�My beads! I can�t find my beads!�
Like a sleepwalker, he took the rosary from the locker and pressed it into her hands. She smiled gratefully, then bent her head and kissed the crucifix.
�In the name of the Father - �
Matthew winced at her intensity. �Katy!�
�The Lord is with Thee - �
She didn�t know that he was there with her! �Kate!�
She stared past him, quietly and ecstatically absorbed. Her face was radiant. It reminded him of when he was young: there had been bright Sunday mornings and the cleansing of the Mass, certainties, and a quiet stillness within. She had gone back there and left him alone again. He heard her pray in words as clear and precise as a child�s.
�Blessed art Thou amongst women - �
Matthew rose and stumbled from the room.
Sister Theresa, outside in the corridor, was flushed with excitement. �Did you hear her for yourself?� she cried. �Isn�t she beautiful? She has found her voice and returned to us.� Tears glittered diamond hard in the nun�s eyes. Then with a fluttering gesture of the hand, she went into Kate.
Matthew slumped against the wall. God is not mocked, but He mocks, He mocks. What kind of mind finds joy in that? He sensed that he was being watched. He looked along the corridor. The sad-eyed Christ on the Cross at the end of the hall was looking directly at him. The eyes pitied and spoke to him. You see? the eyes said sorrowing, God is not mocked. Fear stroked Matthew with icy fingers. He closed his eyes, consumed with the need for those compassionate outstretched arms and the terror of their comfort.
The shadows were thick with night whisperings. Matthew listened to the voices in the dark and the clamour of dreams being shaped into words.
The old man in the room opposite called sharply for his mother.
The woman in the next room sang �Twinkle, twinkle, little star.�
Fragments of dreams came at him from all directions, and above them all, sweet and clear, Matthew heard Kate praying.
HOMER
ALICE MUNRO
