Miracle -A Short Story By Sandra Bunting
The house was almost paid off, the children tucked in college and both of them still working at what they enjoyed. They had two holidays a year. Life was good!
They had good friends and enjoyed eating out, going to the theatre and at times, just staying in with a bottle of wine, talking.
The television had broken long ago and hadn’t been replaced. As children and TV can wreck havoc on conversation, they’d been discovering each other again.
Grace liked to think that they were a special couple, as if destiny had a part to play in the whole thing. Destined for each other! It sounded corny, but they had both been struck immediately. It was as if they had no part in the decision but were acting like puppets on a string. Grace remembered reading her horoscope the week after they’d met. It said: ‘You are with someone you were close to in a past life.’ She believed it.
Charlie was not the kind of man she usually went for; he was boyish, clumsy and penniless. From the day that he jokingly pulled her to him, and their lips touched, Grace renounced all romantic interests, joining so close to Charlie that they were hardy apart for any period of time. Forever grateful for finding her soul-mate, she nonetheless never ceased to be amazed, that it turned out to be such an unlikely speciman as Charlie. It was a relief not to be still searching, flitting from stamen to stamen. She had found her other half.
It’s not that they didn’t have to work at their marriage. Grace was not an easy person. As many women do, she lost confidence when the children were born but, despite that, was able to cope well at her job.
Charlie, because of the pressures of work, no longer had time to play games. Grace had always expected him to read her thoughts, though she was sometimes vague and unclear. Charlie had once found this aspect of her personality charming but now that he had little free time, it was exasperating.
Grace’s new life began in on a quiet day in June when she went into the clinic for a routine test that she had every two years. Ten days later when she phoned for the results, the nurse took a long time to come back with the information.
“Those results are inconclusive,” she said finally.
“What does that mean?” Grace asked.
The nurse coughed into the phone.
“It means you have to come in for a re-test.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s all the information there is here. The re-test is cheaper.”
“I can come in tomorrow.” Grace wanted to have it done before she forgot to make another appointment or got busy at work.
“No,” said the nurse, “we’d rather you waited for a month.”
Grace was not worried because that sort of thing had happened before. Irregular cells, and then it turned out to be okay. She wondered if summer holidays hadn’t a part to play in having to wait a month.
It didn’t stop raining all summer. Charlie and Grace went off to catch some sun in Spain for a few weeks. They spent the days in bed or in the pool because of the heat, and sat out on the balcony drinking wine and eating olives at night until the sun came up. They toyed with the idea of buying an apartment there but, in the end, they decided it was easier to rent.
Back home again, their friends told them they had missed the nicest two weeks of the year.
“It’s always the same,” Charlie said, “we can’t win.”
Grace had to work longer hours to get caught up after the holiday. Therefore, when the clinic phoned to remind her of her appointment, she was annoyed and almost cancelled it.
The doctors had made a great effort to make visits to the clinic as pleasant as possible. The latest fashion magazines were spread out on the waiting room table, the curtains were flowery and bright and the air was fragrant. Nothing, however, could mask the cold steel of the instruments.
Grace told herself to relax, that it would soon be over. When she phoned the following week for the results, she was told to come in again.
“That’s just too much,” she said, but she cancelled her work appointments so she could go to the clinic the following day.
“Come right in Mrs. Wrightly.”
“Sit down, Mrs. Wrightly.”
There were two nurses on duty.
“I’m afraid we’ve found something a bit nasty and would like to do more tests.”
That’s when a life of x-rays, chemo, hair loss began. Charlie was wonderful to her. He took time off work to take her for treatments. He bought her expensive scarves for her bald head. Bits of her life were being cut off in chunks; she could no longer get meals or clean the house let alone keep up her job. Charlie tried to manage at first but as Grace got weaker and weaker, and she grew more dependent on him, he brought in a woman to do the housework.
Energy flowed out of her. She was as thin as she always wanted to be but couldn’t enjoy it. Someone had to help her to the toilet. She could hardly eat. Sometimes she’d get sick or wet. Charlie said nothing as he cleaned it up but sometimes she caught him trying to mask his disgust.
Grace was slipping fast. Resigned to her fate, she had made her peace with the world. Charlie had taken a week off work until a nurse he’d hired could start. He made his wife fish chowder, her favourite. However, eating it together, Grace got sick to her stomach again, vomiting onto his trousers.
“God damn, Grace. How long is this going to take? I can’t take it anymore.”
“What?” Grace looked at him in horror but he didn’t notice. “What did you say?” she asked.
“I said - how long is this going to last?”
“You mean,” Grace asked, “how long will it take me to die?”
“I’m sorry, ….”
“You bastard, this is my life we’re talking about. “
Something snapped in her then. Everything changed. She asked her husband to leave. Health insurance was more than adequate to hire a nurse a few days a week. A friend moved in to help the other times. She filed for a divorce. Hate gave her the energy she needed to be able to fight the illness. It was obviously not a plausible answer for everyone but it worked for her. She tried every alternative cure going, along with her conventional treatments. She was lucky. She went into remission.
Sometimes she worried that she had sold her soul to the devil, giving in to all this hate in return for her health back. Other times she missed the relationship she had with her husband and wondered if she’d been too hard on him. No, he’d passed a line.
Grace’s children tried to get her to take their father back. He’d gone into a depression and was drinking heavily.
When the house was sold, Grace bought an apartment in Spain and packed up all her belongings. An English widower had an apartment next to hers and they soon got in the habit of meeting in the evening for a glass of wine and some olives.
She was thankful to ‘that bastard’, as she now called Charlie, for making her fight. “If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is,” she said.
They had good friends and enjoyed eating out, going to the theatre and at times, just staying in with a bottle of wine, talking.
The television had broken long ago and hadn’t been replaced. As children and TV can wreck havoc on conversation, they’d been discovering each other again.
Grace liked to think that they were a special couple, as if destiny had a part to play in the whole thing. Destined for each other! It sounded corny, but they had both been struck immediately. It was as if they had no part in the decision but were acting like puppets on a string. Grace remembered reading her horoscope the week after they’d met. It said: ‘You are with someone you were close to in a past life.’ She believed it.
Charlie was not the kind of man she usually went for; he was boyish, clumsy and penniless. From the day that he jokingly pulled her to him, and their lips touched, Grace renounced all romantic interests, joining so close to Charlie that they were hardy apart for any period of time. Forever grateful for finding her soul-mate, she nonetheless never ceased to be amazed, that it turned out to be such an unlikely speciman as Charlie. It was a relief not to be still searching, flitting from stamen to stamen. She had found her other half.
It’s not that they didn’t have to work at their marriage. Grace was not an easy person. As many women do, she lost confidence when the children were born but, despite that, was able to cope well at her job.
Charlie, because of the pressures of work, no longer had time to play games. Grace had always expected him to read her thoughts, though she was sometimes vague and unclear. Charlie had once found this aspect of her personality charming but now that he had little free time, it was exasperating.
Grace’s new life began in on a quiet day in June when she went into the clinic for a routine test that she had every two years. Ten days later when she phoned for the results, the nurse took a long time to come back with the information.
“Those results are inconclusive,” she said finally.
“What does that mean?” Grace asked.
The nurse coughed into the phone.
“It means you have to come in for a re-test.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s all the information there is here. The re-test is cheaper.”
“I can come in tomorrow.” Grace wanted to have it done before she forgot to make another appointment or got busy at work.
“No,” said the nurse, “we’d rather you waited for a month.”
Grace was not worried because that sort of thing had happened before. Irregular cells, and then it turned out to be okay. She wondered if summer holidays hadn’t a part to play in having to wait a month.
It didn’t stop raining all summer. Charlie and Grace went off to catch some sun in Spain for a few weeks. They spent the days in bed or in the pool because of the heat, and sat out on the balcony drinking wine and eating olives at night until the sun came up. They toyed with the idea of buying an apartment there but, in the end, they decided it was easier to rent.
Back home again, their friends told them they had missed the nicest two weeks of the year.
“It’s always the same,” Charlie said, “we can’t win.”
Grace had to work longer hours to get caught up after the holiday. Therefore, when the clinic phoned to remind her of her appointment, she was annoyed and almost cancelled it.
The doctors had made a great effort to make visits to the clinic as pleasant as possible. The latest fashion magazines were spread out on the waiting room table, the curtains were flowery and bright and the air was fragrant. Nothing, however, could mask the cold steel of the instruments.
Grace told herself to relax, that it would soon be over. When she phoned the following week for the results, she was told to come in again.
“That’s just too much,” she said, but she cancelled her work appointments so she could go to the clinic the following day.
“Come right in Mrs. Wrightly.”
“Sit down, Mrs. Wrightly.”
There were two nurses on duty.
“I’m afraid we’ve found something a bit nasty and would like to do more tests.”
That’s when a life of x-rays, chemo, hair loss began. Charlie was wonderful to her. He took time off work to take her for treatments. He bought her expensive scarves for her bald head. Bits of her life were being cut off in chunks; she could no longer get meals or clean the house let alone keep up her job. Charlie tried to manage at first but as Grace got weaker and weaker, and she grew more dependent on him, he brought in a woman to do the housework.
Energy flowed out of her. She was as thin as she always wanted to be but couldn’t enjoy it. Someone had to help her to the toilet. She could hardly eat. Sometimes she’d get sick or wet. Charlie said nothing as he cleaned it up but sometimes she caught him trying to mask his disgust.
Grace was slipping fast. Resigned to her fate, she had made her peace with the world. Charlie had taken a week off work until a nurse he’d hired could start. He made his wife fish chowder, her favourite. However, eating it together, Grace got sick to her stomach again, vomiting onto his trousers.
“God damn, Grace. How long is this going to take? I can’t take it anymore.”
“What?” Grace looked at him in horror but he didn’t notice. “What did you say?” she asked.
“I said - how long is this going to last?”
“You mean,” Grace asked, “how long will it take me to die?”
“I’m sorry, ….”
“You bastard, this is my life we’re talking about. “
Something snapped in her then. Everything changed. She asked her husband to leave. Health insurance was more than adequate to hire a nurse a few days a week. A friend moved in to help the other times. She filed for a divorce. Hate gave her the energy she needed to be able to fight the illness. It was obviously not a plausible answer for everyone but it worked for her. She tried every alternative cure going, along with her conventional treatments. She was lucky. She went into remission.
Sometimes she worried that she had sold her soul to the devil, giving in to all this hate in return for her health back. Other times she missed the relationship she had with her husband and wondered if she’d been too hard on him. No, he’d passed a line.
Grace’s children tried to get her to take their father back. He’d gone into a depression and was drinking heavily.
When the house was sold, Grace bought an apartment in Spain and packed up all her belongings. An English widower had an apartment next to hers and they soon got in the habit of meeting in the evening for a glass of wine and some olives.
She was thankful to ‘that bastard’, as she now called Charlie, for making her fight. “If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is,” she said.
posted by sandbunting @ 2:50 PM
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