chests. In prayer, in supplication, in hope.
“I’m sorry, I can’t, I don’t know how,” I say, over and over, until the vision ends, until the children disappear, until I am left alone.
AFTER THIS sighting, I pay a visit to my son Ryan. Something about the murkiness, the timelessness of that vision, leads me to him. As it is, I visit him every Tuesday afternoon, rain or shine. That is our schedule. He serves Pepperidge Farm cookies and tea, which I eat and drink with as little motion as possible, hoping the birds overhead won’t notice I’m there. He has four or five large yellow birds the size of cats. Their wings are clipped so they can’t fly, but they are able to jump from perch to perch. I forget what kind of birds they are. I forget their names. They hop from one corner of the room to the other, squawking and talking and going to the bathroom wherever and whenever they feel the urge. I am, of course, very careful about where I sit.
Ryan asks about his brothers and sisters first thing. He has a very good heart. “How is Kelly, how is Pat, how is Theresa, how is Meggy, how is Johnny?”
Today he pretends not to listen while I run through the answers. I tell him everyone is fine. If I don’t have something good to say, I skip the subject. I don’t tell him about the accident, as there is no need for him to worry. I also skip over Gracie. But there is plenty else to say, and we never stop talking, between the two of us. Or, if we do stop talking, it doesn’t seem like it. The thing with Ryan is that you can’t listen to him the way you do to just anyone. You have to listen to what is beneath his words. You have to listen to his concern, his faith, his heart.
I liken the way I choose to approach Ryan to my study of the Bible as a child. You read stories about Noah, Adam, Solomon, Rachel, and the stories seemed to be just that, stories. You didn’t let yourself get distracted by the details and the background characters. The biblical tales were enveloping clouds of fiction, but soon enough you found the hard, sure stones of truth. Respect your elders, care for your fellow-man, do not steal, do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Ryan is very honorable. He is deeply committed to our family, and to the Lord. As am I.
I say, “Meggy is enrolling Dina in the school in their new neighborhood. Hopefully it will be a good change for her. Meggy coddles her too much, lets her do whatever she likes.”
Even as I speak, I am distracted by the memory of those children tied to a tree. I haven’t been able to shake them yet, but I’m happy to be talking about my children and grandchildren’s better chances. I feel like something is at stake. I wish I could tell Ryan that I know Gracie is pregnant, that I have seen her more than once now and there is no doubt in my mind. But this is not the kind of news I can share with my youngest son. He doesn’t handle surprises well. He would cast the news in the wrong light. It would upset and disappoint him.
Ryan leans forward in his wheelchair, his pale eyebrows furrowed. I have caught his attention. “Is it a public school?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, apparently it’s quite a good one.”
“Public schools are fascist—doesn’t Meggy know that? Stalin went to a public school. They have rules there that squelch a child’s spirit. They tie them up with so many regulations that they have to sneak into bathrooms and smoke marijuana and wear black brassieres. Dana is a sensitive girl. Very sensitive. Meggy might as well put a gun to her head, don’t you think, Mother? The child should be in a Christian school. I’m going to have to call my sister and have a word with her. I have to do what I can for my nieces and nephew.”
“Yes, well,” I say, feeling as if I’m losing ground. “Lila is actually working in the hospital now. Isn’t that nice? She’s still in school, of course, but she learns by helping the doctors attend to real patients. I worry sometimes that she works too hard. She doesn’t pay attention to anything else.”
Ryan thinks about that for a moment. “Doctors