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‘He’ll be here soon,’ she answered him.
She mustn’t let it hurt that Robbie seemed so much brighter whenever Drogo was here.
When Drogo did arrive a few minutes later, what she saw in his face, the exhaustion, the tension, the fear and the longing to cling on to hope, were, she knew, all mirrored in her own.
Since Sister had a rule that only one of them was allowed to be with Robbie, Emerald bent down to kiss her son’s forehead and then turned towards the door.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten but the very thought of food made her nauseous. Stepping out of the hospital into the September sunshine was as disorientating as seeing people going about their normal day-to-day business, oblivious to her pain, to Robbie and the twin powers of life and death that fought over him.
She had barely left the hospital since Robbie had been admitted, relying on Drogo to bring her clean clothes and other necessities. Up ahead of her she saw a small church. Without intending to, she walked towards it. The doors were open, the scent of incense heavy and sweet on the air. A head-scarfed women emerged from its dark interior.
On impulse Emerald stepped inside and then halted. She was an intruder here, someone who had no place and no right to be here. The only time she went to church was if she was attending a wedding–or a funeral. A shudder ripped through her.
Her eyes were accustomed to the gloom of the interior now. She watched as a woman walked past her, crossing herself and then lighting one of the waiting candles, sheltering the frail flame from the cold draughts of the church.
Robbie’s life was like that candle, flickering helplessly at the mercy of his illness. Like the candle he too needed someone to protect him and guard the flame that was his life.
Emerald walked unsteadily toward the candles, her hands trembling as she reached for one.
‘I’m sorry, God,’ she whispere
d as she tried to light it, ‘but I haven’t got a headscarf.’ Would it count against her, against Robbie that she was in God’s house with her head uncovered? Would he inflict a terrible punishment on her for her lack of respect?
‘Will it be someone special ye’ve come to pray for, then?’
It took Emerald several seconds to interpret the Irish accent of the woman now standing next to her. Small and elderly, her eyes were sharp and curious.
A drop of wax from the wavering candle spilled onto the table as Emerald tried to hold it steady, followed by the slash of a tear.
‘My son. He’s very ill. It’s my fault.’
‘Sure, and there isn’t a mother in the land who doesn’t think that when her little ones ail. Even the Blessed Mary, I dare say.’
As she spoke the old woman nodded in the direction of the statue of the Madonna several yards away.
‘’Tis to her ye should make your prayers, for she well understands the tears of mother.’
‘I haven’t got a headscarf,’ Emerald whispered. ‘I don’t—’
‘’Tis what’s in your heart ye have always wanted to hide, but there’s no place for that in here. A mother’s heart is always open to her child, no matter that that child be blinded by its own foolishness. All ye need is to cast aside pride and have faith.’ The old woman’s hand curved round the flickering candle flame, allowing it to steady and grow. ‘Go to her now and open your heart to her, and she will hear you.’
Emerald turned to look at the Madonna and then turned back to the old woman but she had gone.
Praying to a statue? Heavens above, how her set would laugh.
Emerald took a deep breath and picked up the candle. As she kneeled in front of the statue the air around her seemed to sigh and settle.
How did one pray to her? The only prayers Emerald knew was the kind that came from the Book of Common Prayer.
Open your heart, the old woman had said.
‘I’m sorry about not having a headscarf. So silly, as I have such pretty and smart ones at home, but of course Drogo wouldn’t think to bring me one.
‘It’s my son, Robbie. Robert. He’s dreadfully ill and it’s all my fault. I don’t deserve to have him spared for my own sake but please spare him for his. I’ll do anything, be anything, give anything, if only Robbie doesn’t die. I’ll be the best mother in the world, if you let him live. I’ll do everything I can–anything–to make him happy in future. Please, please don’t let Robbie die.’
Candle wax sizzled in the drip of her tears as she leaned towards the Madonna from her kneeling position, pleading for her son’s life.
It was a long time before she finally got up and made her way back out of the church and into the sunshine.
