Dancing with Gravity by Anne Tressler

Author:Anne Tressler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blank Slate Press
Published: 2010-07-27T16:00:00+00:00

“Is it all right if I say the opening prayer, today, Father?” The question came from Carol, the mother of three sons, two of whom were chronically ill. Her oldest, five-year-old Eddie, suffered from asthma, and her middle child, three-year-old Benjamin, was an insulin-dependent diabetic.

“Of course.” Whiting tried to hide his relief. The familiar fatigue he had experienced at early morning Mass had dogged him during his morning rounds and was still with him. He wished he could leave. He wished he were at lunch with Sarah. But since he had to stay, he decided serving as a comforting background presence was the best that he could manage. Carol bowed her head, glanced up to be sure that the others were doing the same, then closed her eyes and began.

“Dear heavenly Father, thank you for bringing us together today at St. Theresa’s.” Carol was in her thirties, but her voice could have belonged to a woman of seventy. Eyes closed, Whiting imagined a heavy-set grandmother in a dark cloth coat, hands clutching her handbag as she eyed strangers on a bus. He opened his eyes briefly and saw her as she really was: a brunette of average build, dressed in a navy blue sweater and creased jeans. A quilted nylon jacket, hot pink with bold purple trim, was draped over the back of her chair. He closed his eyes once again. “Thank you for your love and support. And thank you for our families. Help us, dear Father, to learn from one another and to gain strength from these meetings, so we can each go back and serve our families in a better way, as you see fit. And-dear-St.-Joseph-intercede-for-us-and-shine-your-fatherly-love-on-us-forever-Amen.” She added this last sentence in a rush as though she expected to be interrupted. St. Joseph was a favorite of hers and she mentioned him at every meeting.

Whiting took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Who would like to begin?” He looked at each of the parents in turn and hoped that one of them—he didn’t care who—would lead out the discussion. No one spoke. At first, he thought he would simply wait them out, but as the silence continued it grew more oppressive. He decided he must offer some opening thoughts. As he took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, Carol interrupted.

“I have something.” Her inflection made her statement sound like a question. The others turned to her. She moved to the edge of her chair and leaned forward. Whiting was afraid she was going to stand. And then what would he do? He hated it when people stood over him, looking down on him as if he were a schoolboy. Instead, she addressed the group from her perch. “Oh St. Joseph, give me strength!” She covered her head with her hands, as if shielding herself from a blow, and then ran her fingers slowly through her coarse, dark hair. The intensity of her gesture alarmed him. “It’s Eddie!” Her exclamation made Whiting jump.

“What happened?” The question came from Kathy, whose sixteen-year-old daughter had multiple sclerosis.

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