Shortly before being shot in the back with a tranquilizer
dart and dumped half-dazed on a stretcher, right before
being stolen from the hospital by silent men in white
coats, Elena Baxter stood at the end of a dying child’s
bed, her hand on a small bare foot, and attempted to
perform a miracle.
She was good at miracles. She had been practicing them for
her entire life, and at twenty-eight years of age, had
become quite proficient at the art of doing Strange and
Wonderful Things.
The child’s name was Olivia McCoy. Eight years old, with a
large brain tumor swelling against her skull. Conventional
treatments had only delayed the inevitable and likely
worsened the quality of Olivia’s end, and yet, unable to
let go, Mr. and Mrs. McCoy had brought their daughter to
the Milwaukee Children’s Hospital for one last stand. The
hospital had a good reputation for healing childhood
cancer, and while the doctors frequently patted themselves
on the back for their successes, their triumph was tainted
by uneasiness. They did not know why all the children in
their ward inevitably recovered. The statistics simply did
not allow for such a confluence of miracle.
Elena, a simple unpaid volunteer inside the hospital, was
not so surprised.
Today she was delivering stool samples and plasma, running
from one department to the next, taking the calls of the
nurses who needed charts delivered, patients transferred,
messes cleaned. Flowers had to be delivered from the gift
shop, cards signed by forgetful and not-so-loved-ones. Kind
words needed to be said to the dying, hands held for just
moments, to give comfort. The patients, young and old,
liked Elena. She made people feel good, even if they did
not know why.
The nurses and doctors knew this, and as Elena had
anticipated, allowed her some freedom of movement. She
could go into patient rooms and sit for a while,
unattended. The children liked to be read to, especially
when their parents had to leave for work or run errands or
sleep. Olivia, for example, enjoyed hearing about the old
woman who named things, or the story about a kitten with a
big meow. Elena thought she was a very sweet girl.
Which was why, with the books piled on the bed stand and
Olivia fast asleep, Elena decided it was time for a little
miracle. It was clear to her, based on experience, careful
eavesdropping, and sneak peaks at Olivia’s charts, that the
treatments were not working and the girl would be dead in a
week. With children, unlike adults, Elena could not bring
herself to perform triage. Every life needed to be saved.
Olivia’s foot was cold. Poor wasted body. She slept
uncomfortably, with the pale exhaustion of the dying: a
shallow rest, as though in her mind she knew the end was
near, and was afraid of never waking up again. Cancer
always put a bad taste in Elena’s mouth; like an unripe
persimmon, shriveling the insides of her cheeks. No other
disease caused quite the same reaction. Elena held on to
the little girl’s foot, and through that contact entered
her dying body. Olivia’s spirit felt older than her years:
like a mummy, dry and brittle.
Elena, drifting like a ghost inside Olivia, played her game
of possession. Breathed for the girl an image of health,
coaxing and prodding, a gentle heal yourself, bury it down,
because Olivia already had everything she needed:
protective mechanisms that made it possible for any human
to spontaneously regress even the most malignant of tumors.
Natural human capabilities were a wondrous thing, but only
if the body woke long enough to use them. Elena was very
good at waking people up.
It took some time. Olivia’s body was stubborn. Eventually,
though, Elena felt the response: a subtle twist, a
gathering of strength around the cancer in the child’s
brain. Little teeth, gnawing away at the tumor. No more
swelling, after today. The girl would live longer than a
week, longer than two, and in three, after exceeding
everyone’s expectations, after the death watch had grown
tiresome, the doctors would perform another scan and
discover the dying tumor, the healing brain, the happy
child.
Elena fled back to her body. Sounds returned: the nurses,
chattering softly in the hall outside Olivia’s room, the
click and beep of essential instruments, the squeal of
stretcher wheels. She imagined the girl looked better
already. There was pink in her cheeks.
Elena never heard the men enter the room. She felt pain
between her shoulder blades, had a moment to think that was
strange because she was always careful on the farm and
rarely pulled a muscle, and then she started falling and it
was impossible to stop, to hold on, to keep upright.
Hands caught her. Rough hands, strong, lifting her off the
ground. Her throat felt paralyzed. She saw white coats,
hard eyes.
Oh, no, she thought, lucid enough to feel fear. They
finally found me.
Elena was carried away.