Prayers for the Dead. Faye Kellerman
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he did.
She closed her eyes, anxiety now replaced by the overwhelming need to go comatose. But Sparks wouldn’t let up.
“Grace, open your eyes. We still have uncompleted business to finish.”
Grace opened her eyes.
“We mustn’t forget someone very important,” Sparks reminded her. “The most important member of our team.”
The surgeon paused.
“Do you know who that is, Grace? Do you know whose Hands really control this entire effort?”
Grace was silent. Though groggy and heavy, she felt her ailing heart fluttering too fast. He was testing her and she was flunking. She regarded Sparks through panicky eyes. The doctor smiled, gently patted her hand. The gesture reassured her immensely.
Sparks pointed upward. Grace’s eyes followed the narcotic-induced flickering path of the surgeon’s index finger.
Respectfully, Sparks said, “We mustn’t forget Him.”
“God?” Grace was breathless.
“Yes, Grace.” Sparks nodded. “We mustn’t forget our holy, heavenly Father.”
Grace spoke, her words barely recognizable. “Believe me, Dr. Sparks, I’ve been praying nonstop.”
Sparks smiled. It lit up his face, gave warmth to his stern demeanor. “I’m very glad to hear that. So let us pray together, Grace. Let us both ask God for His help and for His guidance.”
The surgeon went down on his knees. At that moment, Grace thought him very odd, but didn’t comment. Sparks’s manner suggested that the ritual wasn’t subject to debate. She closed her eyes, managed to put her hands together.
“Dear heavenly Father,” Sparks began, “be our guiding light through this time of darkness. Be a strong beacon to direct us through this upcoming storm. Show us Your mercy and Your love in its abundancy. Let Your wisdom be our wisdom. Your perfection be our perfection. Let Grace Armstrong be upmost in her fortitude. Give her strength and faith. In Your abundant love, allow me and my staff to be swift and sure-footed as we embark on another journey to heal the sick and mend the feeble.”
Grace winced inside at the word feeble.
“And now a moment of silence,” Sparks said. “You may add your own words of prayer here, Grace.”
Her own words were: Please, let me go to sleep, wake up and have this shitty ordeal behind me.
Sparks’s eyes were still closed. Grace’s head felt leaden, her brain so woozy it threatened to shut down. She managed to make out Sparks’s face, his lids opening. Suddenly, his eyes seemed injected with newly found vigor.
Grace liked that.
Sparks regarded his patient, swept his skilled hands over her lids, and gently closed them. “Go to sleep, Grace. Tomorrow you’ll be a new woman.”
Grace felt herself going under. No longer was her health in her hands.
It was up to Sparks.
It was up to God.
At that moment, they were one and the same.
The living room was dimly lit, the house motionless, reminding Decker of his divorced, bachelor days—days he’d be reliving soon if he didn’t start making it home earlier. To wit: The dining room table had been cleared—dinner long gone—and the door to Hannah’s nursery was closed, Rina nowhere in sight. Yes, she was a patient woman, but she did have limits. Decker often wondered how far she could be pushed before she’d explode on impact. Because as of yet, no one had developed a road test for wives.
He placed his briefcase on the empty table, his fingers raking through thick shocks of carrot-colored hair. Ginger came trotting in from the kitchen. Decker bent down and petted the setter’s head.
“Hi, girl. Are you happy to see me?”
Ginger’s tail wagged furiously.
“Well, someone’s glad I’m alive. Let’s go see what the crew had for dinner.”
Decker dragged himself into the kitchen, draped his jacket over an oak kitchenette chair. Rina had kept his dinner warming in the oven. He put on a quilted mitt and fished it out. Some kind of Chinese cuisine except, by now, the snow peas and broccoli were limp and khaki green, and the rice had developed a yellowish crust. At least the noodles appeared nice and crisp.
He set the dish on top of a meat place mat and took out cutlery. Washed his hands, said a quick blessing, but paused before he sat down. He noticed a light coming from under the door of his stepsons’ room. To be expected. As teens, they often went to bed later than he did. Perhaps he should say hello to the boys first.
That should take all of five minutes.
Kids had been preoccupied lately, hadn’t seemed to have much time for quality conversation. Maybe they were peeved at the late hours he’d been keeping. The more likely explanation was typical teenage behavior. His grown daughter, Cindy, had gone through sullen moments in her adolescent years. Now she was doing postgrad work back east in Criminal Sciences. A beautiful young lady who truly enjoyed his company. Ah, the passage of time …
He glanced at his withered food, eyes moving to the dog. “Don’t get any ideas. I’ll be right back.”
He knocked on the door to his sons’ room. He heard Jake ask a testy “What?” Decker jiggled the doorknob. It was locked.
“Someone want to open the door, please?”
Scuffling noises. Desk chair wheels sliding against the floor. The lock popped open, but the door remained closed. Decker hesitated, went into the room.
Both boys were at their desks, books and papers spilling over the work surface. They mumbled a perfunctory hello. Decker returned the greeting with proper articulation, and studied his sons.
Sammy had grown tall this last year. At least five ten, which, according to Rina, had already made him a couple of inches taller than his late father. From the pictures Decker had seen of Yitzchak, the elder boy strongly resembled his dad—same long face, pointed chin, and sandy hair. His complexion was smooth and fair, freckles dabbling the bridge of his nose. His eyes were dark and quiet in their intelligence. He was also nearsighted like Yitzchak; Sam wore wire-rimmed spectacles. Jake had been the one to inherit Rina’s stunning baby blues, her 20/20 eyesight as well.
The boys were still in their school uniform—white shirt and navy slacks. The fringes of their prayer shawls—their tzitzit—were hanging past the hems of their untucked shirts. Jake wore a knitted yarmulke, its colors designed to look like a slice of watermelon. Sammy had on a black, leather kippah embossed with his Hebrew name in gold letters.
“How’s it going, boys?” Decker asked. “What’re you doing?”
Sammy put down his textbook. “A paper on the evolution of the American Ideal through the literature of Mark Twain. A real conversation stopper.” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, peered at Decker. “You look real tired, Dad. Maybe you should go eat something. I think Eema left you something in the oven.”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“No, I just thought …” Sammy frowned. “Jeez,