Dawn of the Golden Promise (61 page)

They stayed that way for a moment. Finally Morgan cleared his throat and said, “I have made my decision. I will have the surgery.”

The hands on his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “Yes, I thought as much,” came the quiet reply. “And do you have peace with your decision,
Seanchai
?”

“I do. Whatever comes, I have peace.” Morgan hesitated, then went on. “Two things I would ask of you, though in truth I have no right to ask.”

“I give you the right, then,
Seanchai.
Ask what you will. You know that I will do all that lies within my power.”

And so he would, Morgan knew, his heart swelling with gratitude for this friend who had enriched his life in more ways than he could number. “Should I not survive the surgery, I would hope that you might remain at Nelson Hall with my family—
our
family. Finola and the children would have great need of you. You would be taken care of financially, of course. It would mean more than I can say to have the assurance that you would remain with them.”

“I would stay,
Seanchai.
Surely you knew without asking that I would stay.”

Morgan
had
known. Still, he had needed to ask—for his own sake.

“And your second request,
Seanchai
? You said there were two.”

Morgan drew a deep breath. “I would ask you to be with me in the surgery room, while Gunther does whatever he will. I cannot explain exactly. I only know it would give me some measure of peace, the knowledge that you are standing by me, praying for me, watching the entire time.”

There was a long, bleak silence. Morgan was beginning to think he had asked too much. Even the most unselfish of men must surely have his limits.

When the reply came, it sounded strangely muffled, even somewhat choked. But the words were clear, and they warmed Morgan's heart like a soft blanket of down.

“If the surgeon has no objection, of course, I will stand by you throughout the entire procedure,
Seanchai
,” Sandemon said. He paused, and in a slightly steadier voice added, “And throughout the days and months and years thereafter…may they be long and richly blessed…I will continue to stand by you.”

Morgan could manage nothing more than a weak nod of gratitude. This, too, he had known without asking.

43

For where two or three are gathered in my name,
there am I in the midst of them.

MATTHEW 18:20

A
nxious not to get in the way of the doctors and aides rushing back and forth through the vestibule, Finola huddled against the corner in one of the chairs Michael Burke had secured for them. She could see nothing of the adjacent corridor or patients' rooms from where she sat, only the drab walls and cold floor of the small room where they had been told they could wait.

She had never been in a hospital before, at least not that she could remember. This Bellevue seemed enormous; its design haphazard at best. Grim as a prison and equally as intimidating, it reeked with the smell of sick rooms and acrid chemicals. As the morning hours went on, her stomach had grown increasingly unsettled from the noxious odors.

As Finola waited, she felt her senses heighten. Every sound drummed in her ears and played on her nerves: the abrupt exchanges between physicians, the groaning of patients, the heart-stopping screams that echoed down the corridor as if coming from a great distance.

Above the racket that drifted in to them from the hallway, she found herself keenly aware of even the faintest sounds made by herself or those waiting in the vestibule: Michael Burke's shoes buffeting the hard floor as he paced. The frequent sighs of his wife, Sara. Evan Whittaker's way of slipping off his eyeglasses and immediately putting them back on, the frames clacking lightly as he did so. Daniel Kavanagh's drumming fingertips on the small scarred table by the window. Pastor Dalton's walking in and out of the room, his low murmurs to one of the physicians passing by. Only Nora seemed to sit without making a sound, wringing her hands in her lap, occasionally glancing at Finola with a sympathizing smile.

They had been waiting since early morning—close on three hours by now. Even though the surgeon had cautioned that the procedure would be lengthy, with every hour that passed Finola grew more and more fearful. Three hours seemed far too long to bode anything good for the surgery.

As if he had sensed her anxiety, Pastor Dalton crossed the room and stopped in front of her. “The morning must seem endless to you, I'm sure, Mrs. Fitzgerald. But no doubt we'll hear something soon. Is there anything I can get for you in the meantime? Anything I can do?”

Finola shook her head. She tried to smile, but instead suddenly found herself fighting back tears.

The big pastor dropped down in front of her. “Would you like us to pray again?” he asked softly, his eyes reflecting kindness and understanding.

Finola looked at him. “I would, please,” she said gratefully.

There had been much prayer already throughout the morning, of course—the personal, silent prayer of individuals, as well as the combined prayer of the entire assemblage. But as the hours passed without word from the surgery room, the prayers seemed to increase, both in frequency and intensity.

After nearly three hours, Sandemon was keenly aware of the tension and anxiety swelling inside him. He felt somewhat light-headed, though more from the malodorous ether than from his close vantage point of the surgery.

A number of times he had had to remind himself that he must ask no questions, make no sound whatsoever, must not even breathe too heavily. Such had been the surgeon's adamant orders before beginning the procedure.

So, as directed, Sandemon had spent the hours standing, unmoving, his insides growing tighter and tighter as he watched the surgeon and his slightly wild-eyed assistant operate on the
Seanchai
's back.

But now, with his chest as tight as his nerves and his head beginning to swim, he quietly turned and went to stand at the narrow window that looked out across the river. He had anticipated the long hours, the tension, the discomfort of standing in the same position for such an extended time. He had even anticipated the unpleasant chemical odors. What he had not anticipated was the effect this unnatural invasion of the
Seanchai
's large and powerful body was having on him.

As weak and ailing as Morgan Fitzgerald had been when Sandemon had first gone to stay at Nelson Hall, he had still been leagues beyond the perilous condition in which he now lay: utterly vulnerable, entirely at the mercy of a surgeon who appeared to possess little if any emotion or concern for the
person
beneath his knife.

As he stood there, drawing in deep, steadying breaths, Sandemon paused for only a moment in the prayer vigil begun during the hours before dawn. His concern was deepening as the morning wore on. Yet from the start of the surgery he had sensed a Power at work in the room that had nothing to do with the disdainful physician.

Clearly, Jakob Gunther's hands were those of a highly skilled surgeon, his mind nothing less than brilliant. All the same, he was only a man, subject to a man's inherent weaknesses and limitations. The great surgeon was still mortal. Thus it was both a comfort and a source of encouragement to Sandemon to sense that during these critical hours, that finite ability, albeit considerable, was being overseen and directed by a Divine Power.

The clattering sound of metal against metal caused Sandemon to jerk and whip around.

The physician glanced up from his work long enough to meet Sandemon's eyes. For the first time since they had entered the operating room, Gunther acknowledged his presence. “The bullet,” he said brusquely.

Hope soared in Sandemon's chest, but it faltered when the surgeon sharply warned him against any expectations. “The only thing we know at this moment is that his spine is free of the bullet. It is much too soon for optimism.”

Sandemon knew the physician was right. Still, the bullet had been removed, and the
Seanchai
was alive. That was enough to bolster his hope, at least for now.

The surgeon and his assistant were working feverishly over the
Seanchai
, Gunther's hands quick and deft beyond imagining. The assistant seemed to have more than he could do just to keep up with his mentor.

Gunther's face and neck were drenched with perspiration. Sandemon saw that even the man's surgical coat was damp. Obviously the physician was struggling not to contaminate the incision with his own perspiration, for every few seconds he wiped an arm across his forehead to blot it.

Sandemon hesitated only a moment before picking up a clean cloth from the instrument table. Quietly he moved in next to the surgeon, who glanced up with an angry frown.

Gunther's gaze darted from Sandemon to the cloth, and understanding dawned. His expression cleared as he stilled his hands and turned his face, waiting for Sandemon to blot it with the cloth.

They worked that way, the three of them, for the duration of the surgery: Gunther plying his skills with a seemingly fevered concentration, his young assistant struggling to meet the doctor's sharp demands, and Sandemon wiping the surgeon's brow, all the while maintaining his own silent vigil of prayer.

When Finola heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the corridor, she caught her breath, waiting. She had been disappointed numerous times throughout the day, thinking word about Morgan was on the way, only to have the messenger walk past.

But this time the footsteps slowed just outside the door. Her heart racing, Finola stood, waiting.

When she saw Sandemon standing in the doorway, her first thought was that something had gone wrong and the surgeon had sent him with the sorry news. Then the black man's eyes found hers, and he entered the room, coming to stand directly in front of her.

With her pulse thundering almost painfully in her ears, she searched Sandemon's face. She could not speak, could not even voice the question that had been churning in her heart since the surgery began early that morning.

And then he smiled. A slight, wan smile, but a smile all the same.

“The
Seanchai
has survived the surgery well, Mistress Finola,” he said quietly. “The bullet has been removed, and he is resting now. Although the surgeon cautions that he will not speculate on anything beyond this hour, he is quite satisfied with the procedure and with the
Seanchai
's condition.”