Hannah's Gift (9 page)

CLAUDE, WILL, HANNAH, AND I FOLLOWED LAURAJANE DOWN
the center aisle to the chairs that had been reserved in the front row. Hannah was wearing her new red-and-pink-flowered Easter dress, white tights, and her red patent leather Mary Janes. She held my hand while we walked, barely able to contain her excitement; she knew this service was for her. Will, looking handsome and serious in his freshly ironed shirt, blue jacket, tie, and crisply creased chinos, followed behind with Claude. His crew cut had grown out, and although his hair was still short, he had spent a lot of time in front of the bathroom mirror earlier, parting, wetting, and combing it.

As we reached our seats, I turned to look at the congregation. The sanctuary was filled, mostly with people we knew. The crowd had fallen silent when we entered, their hush respectful and curious. I was grateful for the attention. Hannah’s cancer was now the center of my world; I appreciated that, at least in this moment, it seemed to be the center of everyone else’s, too.

The news of Hannah’s inoperable tumor had shaken our community. So many people had asked Laurajane what they could do to help that she thought of offering a healing service for Hannah at our church. When she first told Claude and me about it, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. Although I loved the idea of people gathering to support one another, I was afraid that calling it a “healing” service would create impossible expectations. To me, “healing” meant a cure; I didn’t want anyone to consider Hannah, Laurajane, or themselves a failure if Hannah died.

I was worried about Laurajane, too, concerned that she was putting too much pressure on herself, perhaps even challenging God. I remembered our conversation in the intensive care unit, when she had wondered about how well she knew Him, whether she was up to the task of being a minister. I hated the thought of her or anyone else using Hannah as a test case for their faith.

I also believed that, no matter what we did, prayer was not going to save Hannah.

Still, sitting at the front of the church, I could feel a genuine sense of love and care coming from everyone in the room. I wished I didn’t feel like such a hypocrite in their midst. Glancing over at Claude, his fists clenched, his eyes tightly closed, tears sliding down his cheeks, I worried that he might accuse me of poisoning the whole pot if he knew what I was thinking; I also worried that he would be right. For the first time in his life, Claude had been reading the Bible and praying every day. I knew he would let Satan suck the heart out of his chest if it would
save Hannah’s life. My faith felt hollow and small compared to his.

The organist started to play, and everyone stood to sing. Hannah tugged at the hem of my dress.

“Pick me up, Mom,” she said. “I want to see who’s here.”

Lifting her onto my hip, I balanced the hymnal on my burgeoning belly. Will took the book from my hand and held it up for me to see. I smiled at him gratefully.

“Oh, Mommy, look,” Hannah whispered loudly, peering and pointing over my shoulder, “there’s Nurse Amy, Dr. Kamalaker, Dr. Edman, and Dr. Markoff … and Mrs. Fisher and Mrs. Forsythe, Jackie and Jeff and their mom and dad …”

She squirmed and twisted to get a better view. Laurajane began her message, but it was hard for me to hear. Hannah was still whispering the names of everyone she recognized in my ear. Finally, when Laurajane began to recite the Lord’s Prayer, Hannah paused. Turning to face the cross, she clasped her hands, bowed her head, and in a loud, clear voice, recited the prayer word for word. Hearing her, I felt proud and oddly reassured. If Hannah was going to die, surely it would count for something that she knew the Lord’s Prayer.

It was time for the children to sing. Hannah and Will joined the others on the carpeted steps at the front of the church for a rousing rendition of “Jesus Loves Me.” Will stood proudly and protectively behind Hannah, resting his hands on her shoulders. I felt proud of the two of them,
and grateful to see so many children at this service. It seemed a fitting tribute to the way that Hannah’s illness hadn’t been hushed up and tucked away as if being sick were something to be afraid or ashamed of.

Rick, one of the more conservative members of our congregation, stood and asked for a microphone. My smile froze on my face. Every cell in my body screamed “Warning, warning.” Rick started speaking.

“God is capable of working a miracle, right here, right now.”

This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. Our faith was being hijacked; it was all on the line. I breathed deeply into my rising panic, and let myself hear Rick’s words.

“… Love,” he said, “is the source of all healing.” I exhaled and felt my resistance begin to slip away.

He motioned for us to come up to the altar. Hannah bounced out of her seat. She was loving being the center of attention. Will followed close behind, Claude and I more slowly. Laurajane stood, placing her hands on top of Hannah’s head. Hannah closed her eyes. Offering a prayer for Hannah’s healing, Laurajane invited Claude, Will, and me to join her. When all four of us had placed our hands on Hannah’s head, Rick motioned for everyone in the second row to come up. They gathered in a circle around Laurajane, Claude, Will, and me, placing their hands on our shoulders. Gradually everyone in the sanctuary rose and came to the front of the church, forming circles around circles.

While death is inevitable, knowing you are loved is not.
When I saw Hannah’s radiant face in the center of that circle, I realized that healing can happen even without a cure. No matter when Hannah died, she would die knowing that her life had mattered, that she was completely loved. I couldn’t imagine a more profound healing than that.

A FEW DAYS LATER A PACKAGE ARRIVED, ADDRESSED TO
“Miss Hannah Martell.” It was from someone in Colorado. Curious. I didn’t think we knew anyone in Colorado. Hannah unwrapped and opened it.

“Oh, look, Mommy,” she said, “it’s the cow jumping over the moon!”

She lifted a beautiful, child-size quilt into the air for me to see. It was an exquisite piece of work. The fabric on one side was cream with light pink flowers and moss-colored ivy. The other side was a delightful patchwork of green, orange, lavender, and pink, surrounded by a border with green, purple, and blue cows leaping over crescent moons and white stars in a pink sky. Someone had put a great deal of time and effort into making it. I wondered who.

At the bottom of the box was a manila envelope containing a handwritten note and a cassette tape. I scanned the note and then ran to the garage where Claude was changing the oil in his car.

“Read this,” I said breathlessly, handing him the note
and the tape. He frowned and wiped his hands on a towel. I watched his eyes scan the note as mine had done and then return to the beginning, taking his time. Halfway through, he started to cry.

The note was from one of Claude’s cousins, someone he hadn’t seen in years. She told us that when she first heard that Hannah was sick, she had decided she would make a quilt for her. As the months passed, her life had become busier and her heart heavier; she had begun to think she would never get to finish the quilt before Hannah died. Then, a week ago last Sunday, she wrote, she had gone to church. As soon as the service was over, an elderly woman she recognized but didn’t know had approached her.

“I know you don’t know me,” the woman said, handing Claude’s cousin a package, “but for some reason I can’t explain, I know I need to give this to you.”

She continued, “I make quilts, and some time ago, I felt compelled to make this one. It’s for a young child; that’s all I know. The whole time I was making it, I was wondering whose it was. I
still
don’t know, but as I sat in church last week,
something told me that you do.”

Claude’s cousin started to cry. She told the woman the story of Hannah and the quilt she was wanting to give her. Then the woman started to cry, too. The story was so extraordinary that Claude’s cousin had gone home and recorded the details of it onto the tape she had included with the quilt in the box, “just in case, when you tell the story, people don’t believe you.”

Holding the tape in my hand, I realized I didn’t have to
prove anything to myself or anyone else. Suddenly I understood the reading I had heard so often in church: “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” The quilt’s presence at the foot of Hannah’s bed was enough evidence for me.

HANNAH WAS STANDING NEXT TO THE OAK TABLE IN OUR
front hall, holding a plate of Noah’s Ark cookies. Someone had left a box of them, still warm from the oven, on our porch the day before. They were sugar cookies, perfect for us to bring to the preschool Mother’s Day Tea. I was holding a camcorder, capturing the moment on video. The camera, like my journal, had been documenting the past year of Hannah’s life in fits and starts. Hannah’s diagnosis and subsequent relapses had prompted flurries of photo ops and journal entries that were then followed by long, dormant periods when, lulled by the apathy of routine, I would begin to feel that there would always be more time. I knew differently now.

Hannah set the plate on the table and wiped her hands on the front of her dress.

“How do I look, Mommy?” she asked.

“You look beautiful, Missy,” I said.

Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright. She had been spending so much time outside that the May sun had
already tanned her skin. These days, people who didn’t know us were complimenting Hannah on her “haircut.” It was still very short, but it had grown in enough to lie flat on her head, like Tinkerbell’s in Disney’s
Peter Pan.
Her dress, printed with tiny purple violets, had an Empire waist, a large lace collar, and a matching headband. She smiled at the camera and patted the bow of the headband.

“See my hair and my hair bow,” she said, “and my dress,” she continued, smoothing the front of it, “and my tights and my red shoes,” she said, holding one leg out, like a ballerina, for the camera to see. She let her arms hang at her sides for a moment and stared silently into the camera. Then she reached for the cookies.

“Come on, Mommy, we can’t be late for the tea.”

I turned off the camera and kneeled down to arrange it properly in its case. Hannah came over and stood next to me, draping her arm around my neck.

“You look beautiful, too, Mommy,” she said.

“Thank you, Missy,” I said, giving her a hug.

Earlier that morning, as I stood in my closet wondering what to wear, I had realized that this might be one of the last things I would do publicly as Hannah’s mother. I thought of all the ceremonies and graduations that I would never attend, when Hannah’s name would never be called. I decided to make the most of this opportunity. While Hannah sat on the edge of my bed, I slipped the most beautiful maternity dress I owned over my head. It was made of ivory and peach silk. I carefully applied my makeup, dotted my wrists with perfume, and placed a light
pink hat with a wide, floppy brim on my head. Hannah clapped her hands together and gasped.

“Mommy, that’s perfect,” she whispered.

I heard Claude coming up the steps, two at a time, already late for work. He peeked in the door.

“Just wanted to give my girls a kiss before I leave,” he said. Then, noticing our finery, he smiled and let out a whistle.

Hannah squealed and jumped to the floor.

“Before you go, check how tall I am today, Daddy,” she said, standing as straight as she could, lifting her chin toward the ceiling.

Claude laughed and stood behind her, drawing the flat of his hand across the top of her head to a spot just above the buckle of his belt.

“Whoa, Missy,” he exclaimed, as she turned to see. “You’re taller than my belt buckle today.”

Hannah giggled and danced in front of him. It didn’t seem to matter to either of them that they had repeated the same routine every day for weeks. It was almost as if Hannah sensed Claude’s fierce resistance to thinking about her death. Their time together was about being silly and having fun.

Hannah was giggling now as Claude scooped her up.

“I love you, Missy,” he said softly.

“I love you, too, Daddy,” she said.

Holding Hannah’s hand as we walked to school, I felt so blessed to be her mom. How would I ever be able to let her go? In spite of my initial skepticism at the healing service
and the certainty in my heart that Hannah was going to die, I couldn’t help hoping for a miracle. Hope, I realized now, was the irrepressible substance of faith. It welled up naturally in response to fear and uncertainty, returning again and again, like a living thing.

HANNAH WAS SKIPPING IN CIRCLES AROUND THE KITCHEN
while I prepared dinner. The window above the sink was open to the early June breeze. The clanging lid on the soup pot and the steaming smells suggested all was well.

I was beginning to think the doctors were wrong. Hannah didn’t look sick. She hadn’t so much as sneezed in weeks. Her hair, which last month had lain flat on her head, had grown at least an inch longer and now had a personality of its own; Claude called it “woolly mammoth” hair because it stuck up and out all over. She was eating well, gaining weight, and getting taller; the hem of her “robe j’s” swung freely at her ankles now. She had even participated in her preschool Olympics a few days earlier, the only competitor to run in red patent leather shoes.

For the first time in months, I had regained a sense of privacy in my life. Although I felt grateful for everyone’s help while Hannah was sick, I had sometimes felt as if my whole life was being lived in a storefront window. Friends and family had cleaned my house, rearranged my cupboards, and
washed my dirty underwear. During Hannah’s bone marrow transplant, not wanting to leave her alone, Claude and I had made love standing up in the tiny bathroom connected to Hannah’s hospital room.

One of the ways I had found to maintain a sense of myself was to withhold the extent of my pain from others. It had been one of my guiltiest pleasures to tell people that I was “fine” even when I wasn’t. Although I knew it wasn’t the truth, it kept me from feeling like a gigantic wound that wouldn’t stop hemorrhaging. It was much easier to say, and people looked so relieved when I did. Lately, I had been saying the same thing, except that now I was beginning to believe it.

I stirred the soup. Suddenly Hannah stopped skipping and doubled over. She coughed once, twice, three times, then stood up and cleared her throat. I rested the spoon on the edge of the stove, my brow creased with suspicion. A car honked. A dog barked. Hannah’s sequined tutu sparkled in the late afternoon sun. Lifting a clenched fist to her mouth, she cleared her throat once more.

“It’s okay, Mommy,” she said finally. “I just have a cough that won’t come out.”

Her red shoes clicked across the linoleum. I bent down and gathered her up. She felt solid and strong in my arms. I inhaled her sweetness, cherry lollipops and baby shampoo, and lost myself in her embrace. The soup? It boiled over.