Authors: Marita Conlon-McKenna
Miracle Woman
Martha McGill was an ordinary woman. Nothing extraordinary had ever happened to her, unless she counted her marriage to Mike and the birth of her three perfect, healthy children. Until the day of the accident, when she touched the Lucas boy as he lay dying on the tarmac, and they said she saved him. That was the start of it all . . .
As word of her healing spreads, Martha's life and the lives of those around her are radically altered. Hounded by the media and those in desperate search of hope and miracles, Martha is forced to decide what is most important in her life.
Contents
Marita Conlon-McKenna
To James
My daughter Laura, for her constant support, encouragement and wisdom during the writing of this book, and to my husband James and children Amanda, Fiona and James for their love and patience.
My editor, Francesca Liversidge, Sadie Mayne,
Beth Humphries and all at Transworld
Caroline Sheldon and Christopher Schelling
Pat Donlon, for the âBoston' experience
Anne Frances Doorly
Catherine Harvey
Anne O'Connell
Martin Butler
Helena Hughes-Levine
Gill Hess and the team in the Dublin office
I am extremely grateful to the healers I talked to in America, England and Ireland who gave their time, spirit and energy.
Also thank you to all those who told me of their experiences of having healing or being healed.
THE DOG DAYS
of summer were upon them, New England sweltering in the late August heat as Martha, crab like, darted in and out of the shade of Easton's canopies and store-front porches, the air shimmying above the baked ground as she attended to the messages scrawled on a notepad in the bottom of her purse. Unhelpful, her daughter Mary Rose dawdled along behind her. Today was Martha's mother's birthday and already she was frazzled at the thought of ten of them sitting down to dinner, a meal she had offered to cook. Frances Kelly would sit at the the top of the table, resenting the thought of being another year older and admitting her true age, the rest of them trying to jolly her along. It didn't bear thinking about.
She needed lemons, and icing sugar and fresh cream, not to bake a cake, as one had already been ordered from Jesseps bakery, but to give the appearance of having baked one. She sighed to herself, remembering the dry cleaning to collect
and the wine and bottle of Irish whiskey needed from the liquor store on the corner. The street was busy and the grocery store bustling with Saturday shoppers.
Finding the small purple ticket, Martha collected Mike's fawn-coloured summer jacket and taupe chinos, along with a linen shirt of her own which thankfully no longer bore the red wine stain from the barbecue at Kathleen and Jim's, the previous weekend.
Mary Rose and herself deposited the clothes in the back of her old Volvo and set off again. Ignoring the tempting smell of fresh brewed espresso and cappuccino and melt-in-your-mouth fudge browns that greeted entrants to the best home bakery store in miles, Martha joined the queue at the counter to collect the cake. Jenny Jessep tilted it towards her for approval before ensuring that the walnut frosted cake sat snug in its gaily coloured pink box. Martha added a dozen donuts and an Italian tomato bread to her purchases. She passed her daughter the box along with the keys of the car.
âPut it carefully on the back seat, honey. Mind you don't squash it!'
Mary Rose sighed.
âI want to listen to something on the radio, Mom, so I guess I'll just wait in the car.'
Martha licked a line of perspiration off her top lip, annoyed that her daughter couldn't even be bothered to help with the rest of the groceries.
She grabbed a small shopping cart as she entered the Easton Market and flew along the familiar aisles, mindful of the things she needed. She crossed off the list. Usually she hated people who made lists but knew in her heart there was nothing worse than setting to cook a meal for a large group and discovering that you had forgotten something. She added a peanut Hershey bar at the checkout as a reward for her endeavours.
Driving in the glaring sunlight Sarah Millen pushed the hair back off her face and adjusted her sunglasses; she was tired and could feel the familiar tension and start of a splitting headache as she passed along Commonwealth Avenue. Rachel her three-and-a-half-year-old had already managed to pour her cup of orange juice all over the floor of the car and was probably sticky as hell and Kevin the baby had scarcely stopped crying since she had put him in the car seat. The poor kid had been awake half the night teething and his gums were swollen and painful. He needed some more of that teething gel that numbed the pain and one of those plastic teething things you stick in the freezer to cool.
She was mad as hell with her husband Ryan. It was meant to be equal partners with regards to caring for the kids, what with both of them working full time, but somehow it always ended up with her getting up in the night missing her
sleep, not him. She was the one busy finalizing designs for the architect's office where she worked, which were due on the partner's desk on Monday and it meant her having to work most of the weekend. Yet, after lunch when she'd asked him to run to the drugstore and get what she needed for Kevin he told her he was already late for his tee-off time for golf and that she'd have to just go fetch it herself. Fetch it herself sounded nothing but she had hoped to crawl back into bed for the afternoon when the baby slept and now she had had to shower and dress, drag Rachel away from the cartoons and battle with a sleepy Kevin to get him strapped into that darned car seat.
Torturing her kids was not her idea of fun, and in the sweltering heat she turned the air conditioning on full blast, hoping to cool herself and the kids right down. The shops were busy and she needed to park right up close to the drugstore so she could get in quick and out and home as soon as possible. In the distance she spotted a student in a small red Chrysler pull out of a space. Pushing her foot on the accelerator, Sarah surged forward, turning the wheel sharply. The power steering of the Jeep made it extra easy to pull in.
Timmy pedalled as fast as he could, his skinny legs pumping the heavy pedals of his brother's old bike as he tried to keep up with the rest of them.
Sweat clung to his head and behind his knees with the effort but his mom had told him to stay with Ralph and the other boys that afternoon. Hanging out with his big brother and his gang of friends was special, and made him feel way older.
Blinking, Martha McGill exited the store, the automatic door heralding her return to the sweltering heat and sunlight. In the distance she could see her daughter, singing along to the car radio. Just as she stepped off the kerb a bunch of boys flew past her on shiny bicycles, a smaller boy bringing up the end, cycling past Mary Rose, trying to catch up on them.
A second! An instant! Martha couldn't believe it!
A black Jeep came out of nowhere and swung right across. The boy and his bike crashed against the enormous front grille and bumper, disappeared under the crushing weight of the car, heavy metal, tyres, plastic all screaming together in that frozen time when she realized the child was mangled somewhere underneath. There was a baby in front in a car seat and a toddler strapped safely in the back. The driver, distracted, couldn't have seen him, the flash of movement beside her vehicle unnoticed as she touched the accelerator, the trusty mountain bike folding under the huge wheels, the boy tumbling on to the ground, the thud and noise as the heavy vehicle moved over him, the aghast driver instantly slamming on the brakes.
Martha stood transfixed as people rushed by her. The driver's face blanched snow white at the realization of the small boy lying on the tarmac of the car park, underneath the weight of her car. The security guard pushed past her as a crowd gathered around the injured boy.
âHe's bad! Real bad!'
âThe kid's not breathing!'
âI think the boy's dead.'
Martha kept a firm grip on the recycled brown paper bag she was carrying. It couldn't be! It just couldn't be that on a bright summer's day she would witness the end of a life. That her child would see another child die. It just couldn't be!
She pushed through the crowd. Why, the boy was only about nine or so, just a kid, his bones and the bike frame mangled together, the spokes of the bike wheel sticking through the bones of his leg. The security guard knelt beside him, his head bent down watching his chest. A young girl and an elderly man were already trying to help, searching frantically for a pulse, any sign of life.
âDon't move him!' ordered, the guard. âAnd don't move the Jeep. It could make things worse.' The name Hal was written in large green embroidery on the badge on his shirt. âI've already called for an ambulance,' he said.
Martha edged closer. Something about the boy was familiar. Dark hair, small for his age. Baggy navy shorts, a white Nike T-shirt, torn and tyre
tracked and steeped in blood, his eyes closed, one side of his face almost embedded with dirt and gravel. It was the Lucas boy, the youngest. Timmy! That was his name. Why, he'd gone to the same pre-school as Alice, her youngest. The family lived down around the corner at the bottom of their street, she knew his mother.
âLet me through. Let me through!' she insisted. âI know the boy! He's a neighbour's child.'
Shoving and pushing, the crowd of onlookers was swelling. Curious, they were moving forward, ready to witness the tragedy of a small boy's death.
Panic filled her voice as she knelt down beside him: the security guard was making a sign to her that the boy was already gone. The young girl kneeling beside her on the roasting tar admitted there was no pulse.
âTimmy, don't go! Don't leave us!' Martha ordered, touching the abnormally still figure crushed under the enormous wheels. âCan't you try getting him to breathe again!' she demanded angrily of the elderly grey-haired man crouched beside her. âYou've
got
to try. Please!'
Hal was reluctant to move the boy but they all agreed they had to try something. The retired nursing home administrator took charge as in a haphazard way they took turns and began life support, trying to force air into his lungs, his chest moving up and down like a balloon as they inflated it.
âTimmy! Please, Timmy, you've got to try and breathe!'
The old gentleman, defeated, shook his head and gave up. Martha touched the boy's underdeveloped arms and stroked the good side of his face, the small dribble of freckles along his nose, aching to remember which part the small boy had played in the kindergarten Nativity play. She pictured him jumping through the water sprinkler with all the rest of the neighbourhood kids out on their front lawn, or hiding behind his big brothers when he came trick-or-treating. Pedalling furiously on his bike, playing snowballs, a myriad images of a childhood shared with her own children flashed before her eyes. Timmy couldn't die â he just couldn't! His mother should be here with him. He would listen to his mother's voice.