

I'm Sorry, Oliver

Alison M. Tomlinson

Copyright Alison M. Tomlinson 2018

Smashwords edition

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To Timothy

The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy:

I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.

John 10:10

### BOOK 1

# Chapter 1

"Mr. Spencer, Dr. White sent me to tell you the equipment is fully installed and operational, the mother's in labor, and he's arranged for a trainee ODA to operate the video."

The hospital porter held the car door for Mr. Spencer as he retrieved his briefcase from the back seat.

"I'll take that," said the porter, taking the briefcase from him. "It's really exciting, isn't it?" He bounced alongside the consultant as they crossed the carpark to the Park Dale Hospital main entrance. "I mean, we're going to be the first hospital in the whole of Yorkshire to do the procedure, right?"

"You seem to take a lot of interest in the actual medical work at the hospital." The stony expression on the doctor's face made it clear that, in his opinion, porters should confine themselves to porting.

"Of course I do. We're all on the same team, right? You can't do your job properly unless I do mine. And I always wanted to be a doctor. You doctors are my heroes. It must feel wonderful when you save a life. You're going to save this baby, aren't you? Here you are at the forefront of advancing medicine into the 1960s. Every time you're on TV, I tell everybody that the famous Mr. Archibald Spencer works at my hospital."

"Your hospital."

"Well, our hospital. You know what I mean. My wife thinks you're wonderful. Wait 'til I tell her I got to talk to you today. She'll be so jealous. Of course, we've had our three kids so we won't be needing your professional services. I wish we'd known about you before. The doctors really mucked up the last caesarean. Helen got an infection. She was in and out of hospital for months."

"Problems can occur, even with the best of us."

"Yeah, and I guess you feel terrible when a baby dies, and it's your fault, right? Well, I shouldn't say your fault, but you know what I mean. It must put a lot of pressure on you. You're the best, so you can't afford to make the slightest mistake, right?"

"Thank you for the reminder. I'll take my brief case now." They had entered the building.

"No, no. I'll carry it to your office. It's my job."

"It's really not necessary."

"No problem. Of course, everybody's watching you on this case, right? There's an article in the hospital newspaper about the new equipment. I saw it. Did it make the regional NHS news?"

"Oh, yes. There was even a brief mention on a local TV channel."

"That's fantastic. We're so proud of you, Mr. Spencer. That little baby girl is so lucky to have you."

Mr. Spencer stopped walking. "How do you know it's a girl?"

"Just a feeling," said the porter, looking slightly embarrassed. "I'll get the lift." He ran ahead and stopped the lift doors from closing just in time for Mr. Spencer to step in. "It's good we caught it, isn't it? Sometimes you have to wait ten minutes for a lift, and you must be in a real hurry, right? You've got to make sure all your team are up to scratch. The mother's already in labor, so another doctor must be delivering the baby right now. How do you feel when you have all the responsibility and you have to carry the can for other people's mistakes? I guess you'd better hurry up and get in there before they really muck things up."

"I have full confidence in my team," said Mr. Spencer, but he slightly lengthened his stride as he spoke.

They arrived at the office. The porter handed Mr. Spencer his briefcase and said, "Good luck. I know you won't let us down."

The doctor took the briefcase without a word, entered his office, and slammed the door.

The porter walked back through the hospital with a satisfied smile on his face. A nurse called to him to come and help with a patient, but he shouted back, "Sorry, I'm on an important errand for Mr. Spencer."

When he exited the main entrance and arrived back in the carpark, he was met by a tall, handsome, blond-haired man in a designer suit. "Hi Joo-gy. Were you watching?" asked the porter.

"Of course," said the man, "Not bad, but you could have pumped up the pride even more."

"Oh, come on. I was brilliant. Did you like the bit about it being his fault if the brat dies?"

"You were brilliant, all right. So brilliant you knew the sex of the baby when the consultant obstetrician himself doesn't know it yet."

"Yeah, but I bluffed my way out of it OK. I've got to get out of this," he said, indicating the blue uniform he was wearing. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and then ducked down behind a Volkswagen Beetle. He re-emerged one second later wearing jeans and a fairisle jumper.

"I must say, Pa-gwe, I've never developed your taste for human impersonation," said the tall man.

"And I've never developed your taste for simply using our little, demonic minions to plant ideas in people's heads. How boring. Direct Intervention is so much more fun."

"And so much more illegal," said a quiet, firm voice behind them, "Not that you Defectors ever concern yourselves with such matters as righteousness and goodness." Joo-gy and Pa-gwe turned to face two short, unassuming men of Middle Eastern appearance.

"Leave it out, Chee-oo. You do your share of Direct Intervention when it suits you," countered Joo-gy.

"On the contrary, we have direct contact rarely, and only when doing so glorifies the Lord, and when faith levels allow."

"Get out of here and take your sermons with you. This is our domain," said Pa-gwe.

"It is not your domain when it involves followers of The Way, The Truth and The Life."

"The little urchin's family do not follow That Man. She is ours. We destroyed the mother's last progeny. You couldn't stop us then, and you won't stop us now."

"I am here to inform you that the child has been chosen to be one of myriads who will rise above your health deception and be part of a healing revolution. Go-chee and I are assigned to protect her."

"You're throwing down the gauntlet, are you? Shall I remind you of the situation in case you've forgotten? You're stepping into our territory. This is a place of sickness and torment and death and horror and wretchedness." He said it as if he were reading from a gourmet menu. "This war has never been so much fun before."

"I suggest you read the end of the book again," said Go-chee. "You know, the bit where you get thrown in the lake of fire."

Joo-gy's face turned to granite. He said quietly, "And how many homosapiens are we going to take with us? We have deceived the whole world, and you have been powerless to stop us."

"On the contrary," said Chee-oo, "you will find that your weapons of pride and deception and fear will not prosper against—"

"Won't they? We've got a pretty impressive record so far, don't you think? We allowed the discovery of antibiotics—"

"You take credit for that?" said Go-chee.

"—so we could raise up modern, scientific medicine as a god, never to be questioned, always to be worshipped." Joo-gy spoke in an ethereal voice as he lifted his head and raised up his arms in mock ecstasy of admiration. "Granted, our job is not as easy as it was when we wiped out 200 million people with the black death. But the current climate allows us to exercise our craft with a subtlety and skill that makes it so much more enjoyable. Don't you agree, Pa-gwe?"

"Absolutely, though unfortunately this case doesn't present much of a challenge. We're talking about a chronically undernutrified mother who lives on Yorkshire pudding and apple pie and custard."

The two fallen angels guffawed, looked at each other, nodded and vanished.

"He has a point. We do seem to have our work cut out for us this time," said Go-chee.

"Let's check on the current situation."

The two angels of light gazed upwards for a moment as if plane spotting.

Then Go-chee said, "Aunt Agnes is still on her arthritic knees storming the heavens on behalf of her unborn great-niece or nephew."

"Sandra is battling under extreme pressure," said Chee-oo, "Let's see if we can help her."

# Chapter 2

"Hand me the forceps. Hurry, woman."

Dr. Sandra Hotton hesitated for just a second. Should she object?

"What are you waiting for?" barked Mr. Spencer.

Sandra spoke to the exhausted mother, who was lying on the birthing bed. "Mrs. Roundhill, we need your permission to use forceps. You should be aware that there's always a risk—"

"We have no choice, Mrs. Roundhill," interrupted Mr. Spencer. "The baby's stuck, and with your history we need to get this baby out as soon as possible."

"Just save my baby, Doctor. Do what you have to. Just save my baby" Mrs. Roundhill's face was contorted with fear and exertion.

Sandra reluctantly picked up the forceps but immediately dropped them on the floor. Had she meant to do it? She wasn't even sure herself.

"You idiot. Where's the nurse?" he said looking around. "Why don't people do their jobs round here?"

"She's just very busy."

"You'll have to go get another pair. On second thought, I'll do it myself." Mr. Spencer stood up quickly from the stool at the end of the bed while removing his gloves. He stormed toward the door. "If you want something doing properly, do it yourself."

As he said it he caught his foot on the leg of the equipment table by the door, lost his balance, and slammed into the wall. He let out a yelp of pain. When he regained his balance, he doubled over, holding his right wrist.

"Are you all right?" asked Sandra.

From the stream of expletives which came from his lips, she deduced he was not.

"I don't believe it. I've sprained my effing wrist. Go get the forceps, now. Hurry."

"Mrs. Roundhill—" Sandra wanted to offer some comfort and explanation to the terrified mother, but Mr. Spencer shouted, "Now."

She hurried out of the room. Oh, Lord. Please help me. Please let this baby be born safely.

She returned quickly with the forceps.

"You're going to have to do it yourself," barked Mr. Spencer.

"What?"

"I can't use my wrist. Hurry, sit down and get that baby out."

Sandra donned her gloves, sat down between the stirrups holding the mother's feet, and carefully inserted the forceps.

"Hurry," said Mr. Spencer.

Sandra was careful to position the forceps correctly around the baby's head and started to draw the baby out.

"Get a move on, girl," whispered Mr. Spencer through clenched teeth.

"I feel like I'm using maximum pressure as it is. I don't want to damage this baby's head."

"Better a baby with a damaged head than a dead baby."

Sandra hoped Mrs. Roundhill had not heard this.

"We need to get this baby to theater, now," continued Mr. Spencer.

By this point Mr. Spencer was standing over Sandra and speaking directly into her ear.

"That baby is going to die, and it's going to be your fault."

Sandra knew that it was driving Mr. Spencer insane not to have hands on control. She took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. "It's coming. I'm nearly there."

"Move it, girl." His voice was getting louder. He grabbed Sandra's right hand with his good left hand and pulled.

Lord Jesus, please get him off me, prayed Sandra.

At that moment the door opened, and a young doctor stuck his head round. "I was wondering how it was going."

Mr. Spencer let go of Sandra's hand and stood up as he replied, "Fine. Nearly there. Are we set?"

"The theater is ready, and the team are on standby waiting for the result of the blood tests."

Mr. Spencer turned his attention back to Sandra just in time to see the baby born. The baby's head had been somewhat distorted by the pressure of the forceps, but not seriously.

"It's a girl, Mrs. Roundhill." Sandra lifted the baby to show to her mother.

"What's wrong with her head?"

Mr. Spencer answered, "Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Roundhill. The head is a little misshaped due to the forceps, but such distortions normally correct themselves within about six weeks." He turned to Sandra. "Take it straight to N.I.C.U. and get the blood tests done."

——————————

Mrs. Roundhill was lying on a metal frame bed in the maternity ward, tears streaming down the sides of her red, sweaty face. "Is she all right?" she asked as soon as she saw Sandra approaching.

"She's being prepared for theater just in case it's necessary.

"So you don't know yet if there's a problem."

Sandra hesitated, but she knew she had to tow the party line. "Mr. Spencer feels strongly that your daughter has all the clinical signs of rhesus disease, and, given your family history, we should err on the side of caution. But, no, we don't know for sure yet."

"You haven't done an operation like this on a newborn baby before, have you? Is it safe?"

"There's a level of risk with any operation, but the 1950s have seen wonderful advancements in blood transfusion procedures."

"I heard some of the medical staff talking about it. They sounded really excited, but I'm not sure I like the idea of my baby being the first guinea pig."

Careful Sandra. She knew they were treading on dangerous territory here. She bought herself some time by pretending to check the clip board on the end of the bed. Finally she said what she had to say, "I assure you, Mrs. Roundhill, we will only do the procedure if it's in your baby's best interests."

"Her name's Sylvia. And please call me Gladys."

"OK. Gladys."

"What about Sylvia's head? Mr. Spencer said it would get normal in six weeks, right?"

It was true. The baby had escaped serious damage from the forceps, thank God. But she was suspected of having another, more serious problem. Sandra hadn't wanted to tell Gladys about it yet. She didn't want to add to her stress. After all, the immediate issue was the transfusion. It was possible the baby wouldn't make it, in which case, why worry the mother about other potential problems? But here was Gladys asking her directly. Sandra always tried to be as honest as possible with her patients. However, doing so always generated questions she simply couldn't answer.

"Yes, the damage from the forceps is minor. However there's something else we should talk about." Sandra sat down on a chair next to the bed and took Mrs. Roundhill's hand. Gladys looked at her with an expression of horror on her face, obviously expecting terrible news.

"We carefully checked Sylvia's head, and we suspect she might have what we call coronal craniosynostosis."

"What?"

Sandra berated herself. Why could she never learn to explain things without using those ridiculously long Latin words from medical school?

"Usually when a baby is born, the bones at the top of the head are not yet fused together. We suspect the bones on the right side of Sylvia's head are already joined." Sandra ran her finger across the top of her own dark hair, from the middle to the right hand side.

"What does that mean?"

"The fused bones may hinder the growth of Sylvia's head."

"Are you telling me she's going to be a vegetable?"

"No, I'm not saying that."

"So, what's going to happen?"

Here we go. This is where Sandra, as the doctor, was expected to be able to see into the future with miraculous clarity. "There are too many variables to predict." She had resorted to medical language. "But it's very likely the right side of Sylvia's head will not have room to grow, and the body will compensate by enlarging the left side causing a misshapen skull. Her vision and hearing may be affected."

"Can't you just separate the bones again?"

Sometimes Sandra thought the medical profession brought on itself the unrealistic expectations of their patients. Doctors loved to trumpet their successes and give the impression they were invincible. Sandra was getting fed up with feeling she spent her whole life trying to explain that a lot of the time, doctors were working on educated guesses.

"It's not that simple. Recently a man called Moss showed that simply separating the bones doesn't work. He postulates that the problem actually originates from the base of the skull rather than the top of it. We simply don't know enough about it at the moment."

Gladys threw up her arms in apparent defeat. "So we're screwed. My husband nearly left me when the last baby died. He's not going to hang around if I present him with a deformed freak. I'll have to bring up my other daughter Joy on my own."

Gladys said this as if it were Sandra's fault. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," said Sandra, trying to sound calmer than she felt. "First, let's hope and pray that the transfusion is not necessary."

"Oh yeah, I forgot. She might die on the operating table, and then we won't have to worry about misshaped heads, will we?" She rolled herself away from Sandra and abandoned herself to pitiful wails and sobs.

At that point a nurse approached Sandra and handed her a piece of paper. Sandra looked at it, felt a surge of hope, and jumped up, saying, "There's some good news, Gladys. I'll be back shortly." She asked the nurse to take care of Mrs. Roundhill and dashed out of the room.

A few minutes later she arrived outside theater. She leaned across the red line that stopped people entering without surgical scrubs and shouted for Mr. Spencer. His head appeared around the door to the theater staffroom as he called to Dr. White to alert the anaesthetist.

"You can call off the transfusion," said Sandra gasping for breath, "She's O negative."

Mr. Spencer walked towards her and grabbed the paper she was holding. He stared at it in apparent disbelief. He hesitated for a second, biting his bottom lip, then thrust the paper back at Sandra and said, "It must be a mistake. The lab's famous for their foul-ups. I can't risk this baby just because a lab technician had too much to drink last night. We'll go ahead with the transfusion anyway."

Sandra couldn't believe what she was hearing. Her normal restraint abandoned her. "That's ridiculous," she shouted after him as he stormed towards theater four. "You can't put this baby through an exchange transfusion just because you want to try out your new equipment and you want to be the first doctor in the region to perform the procedure."

He paused with his hand on the theater door, then turned and glared at her. "Dr. Hotton, I think it's about time you found yourself another position as senior house officer with another team." He turned, opened the door, and was gone.

Sandra just stood there in shock. What could she do? She had no authority to stop the transfusion. Consultant obstetricians are kings. Nobody contradicts them. They have free rein. No one overrules them except God.

After informing Gladys that Sylvia was in theater, Sandra went to the staffroom to pray.

Thirty minutes later she returned to Gladys who, again, immediately asked for news of Sylvia.

"She's still in theater. We just have to wait."

"Please stay with me."

They didn't have to wait long before they saw Mr. Spencer enter the ward. He looked serious and troubled. Sandra feared the worst.

"Is she alive?" Gladys asked desperately.

"Yes, she's alive," said Mr. Spencer. "Unfortunately we couldn't complete the transfusion because the baby went into shock, and we had to stop. But we are optimistic that we did enough to achieve our goal, and we don't expect your baby to show any more signs of rhesus disease."

Gladys heaved a sigh of relief and grasped Mr. Spencer's hand. "You saved her. Thank you, thank you so much, Doctor. I can't tell you how relieved I am. The doctors couldn't save my last baby, but you've saved Sylvia. I'm so grateful to you. How can I ever thank you enough?"

Sandra seethed under her breath, resisted the urge to call Mr. Spencer a filthy, disgusting liar and tried to force a smile as Gladys took her hand and thanked her, too.

Sandra accompanied Mr. Spencer back out of the ward. As she closed the door behind them, she handed him an envelope.

"What's this?" he asked.

"My resignation." She turned and walked away.

——————————

"You idiot."

"It's my fault, is it?"

"We nearly had it. They didn't keep enough blood flowing in the little brat's circulation. We had her in shock. How did she survive?" Joo-gy stopped walking and glared at Pa-gwe.

"They brought her back. How was I supposed to stop it? You know jolly well too many Direct Interventions cause the whole illusion to fail. We would lose everything in the long-term."

"We nearly had two offspring in a row from the same family."

"The runt survived. That keeps the focus on heroic medicine. It's not all bad. And the brat will now be trapped in the medical system for the rest of her life."

"How bad is the craniosynostosis?" asked Joo-gy, trying to find a silver lining in an otherwise disastrous situation.

"Not terrible, but she's not going to win this year's cutest baby award." Pa-gwe smirked. "Come on. Look at what we've got here. She's so malnutritioned we've got her mutilated from birth. There's going to be wonderful opportunities for further deformity later." He looked at tiny Sylvie. "We can cripple her," He added softly with a glint in his eye.

Joo-gy seemed to savour the thought. "How's her immune system?"

"Shot. It was bad before theater. It's now wrecked."

"It sounds like Park Dale Hospital is going to be her second home."

"Every staff member in the place will know her name. She'll be famous. She'll have a bedside locker with her name on it. They'll have to keep a bed warm for her."

"It's not so bad then, is it?"

"I told you. We've got her trapped. She'll never be free."

# Chapter 3

Eleven years later.

"Let me carry him."

The brash, angry voice made Sylvie look up from her copy of A Hundred and One Dalmatians. She saw her classmate, Georgina, come through the back gate into the tiny back garden where Sylvie and her sister Joy were reading in the summer sunshine. In Georgina's arms was a beautiful baby rabbit, and her six-year-old brother, Duncan, was doing everything in his power to take it from her.

"I brought him to show you," said Georgina approaching Sylvie's wheelchair.

Sylvie gave a sigh of satisfaction at the sight of the cute little animal with its long ears and big black eyes.

"His name's Zebra. I named him," said Duncan proudly.

"You called a rabbit 'Zebra'?" said Joy, looking up from her copy of Athletic Fitness for Teenagers with an exaggerated expression of disbelief on her face.

Duncan turned to her with his hands on his hips. "He's black and white," he said as if she was stupid not to realize that Zebra is the obvious name for a black and white rabbit.

"He's a black and white Dutch. I got him yesterday," said Georgina.

"He isn't yours, he's ours," corrected Duncan, "but she hardly lets me touch him."

"You had him for hours this morning. Anyway, I'm going to be a vet, so I have to learn how to look after animals. And Clarence is my friend, not yours, so I'm going to show him to her."

Sylvie was quite used to being called Clarence. It used to really upset her to be named after the cross-eyed lion in Daktari, but she'd come to accept it as a nickname. She knew she'd never be Miss World so, even at the tender age of eleven, she'd decided to take a certain pride in being different—unique even.

Georgina leaned forward and put Zebra into Sylvie's lap. "Mind his paws. His claws are a bit long."

Sylvie knew very well she shouldn't let Georgina give her the rabbit. She knew what could happen. But sometimes she just wanted to feel normal, to feel that she could enjoy the simple pleasures that other children enjoyed.

"Oh, he's so soft," she said, smiling and stroking the smooth, silky fur on the rabbit's back.

"His teeth are like yours," said Duncan. Sylvie put her prominent front teeth over her bottom lip and impersonated a chewing rabbit. Duncan laughed, deepening the dimples in his chubby cheeks.

"We could give him some lettuce," said Duncan, spotting the leftovers on the lunch tray sitting in the grass beside the wheelchair. He squatted down, picked up a piece of lettuce and held it out for Zebra, but Georgina pushed his hand away.

"No, that's iceberg. It's not good for him. You should give him rabbit pellets instead. I brought some to show Clarence."

"Yuk," said Sylvie as Georgina pulled a small plastic bag out of the pocket of her pinafore dress. The bag contained small, round strips of something that looked to Sylvie more like it had come out of a rabbit's rear end than something that should go into its mouth.

"They are very nutritious. They have twenty-two minerals," said Georgina as she poured a few pellets onto the palm of her hand.

Duncan grabbed a pellet out of her hand and put it in his mouth.

"What are you doing?" she shouted.

"You said they were nutritious."

"They are, but they're for rabbits, stupid."

"Maybe I need twenty-two minerals, too. Why don't we have human pellets?"

Georgina ignored him and turned back to Sylvie. "When you're walking properly again, you can come and see his hutch."

"The doctor says I need to stay in the wheelchair for a week," said Sylvie.

"What did you do?" asked Duncan.

"Fell off a roundabout and hurt my hip."

"I fell off the fence the other day, look," said Duncan and he rolled up his trouser to reveal a large purple and black bruise on his knee. "My dad was really mad. Was your dad mad with you?"

"I don't have a dad."

"Everybody has a dad."

Joy looked up from her book, gestured with her head towards her sister and said, "He left because of her. Couldn't stand all the doctors and inhalers and pills. I don't blame him. I'm getting out of here as soon as I can too. It's like living on a hospital ward."

Sylvie opened her mouth to tell her sister to shut her ugly gob, but as she did so she started to feel an all-too-familiar tightness spreading across her chest. "Get it off me," she said to Georgina.

"I thought you liked him," said Georgina. Anxiety showed on her pretty face as she picked up the rabbit.

"Give him to me," said Duncan. Georgina ignored him.

Sylvie felt her airways constricting, and breathing in became difficult. She knew talking was not a good idea, but she spoke one word: "Inhaler."

Joy slammed down her book and stood up. "Here we go again. She thinks I'm her slave. Why didn't you bring it out with you?" she yelled back at Sylvie as she headed for the backdoor.

A minute later the door was thrown back, and out stormed Sylvies's mum. "You stupid girl. Did you touch it? Get that animal out of here," she shouted to Georgina.

"I'll take him," said Duncan. Georgina handed Zebra to him, and he hurried out of the garden looking delighted.

By now Sylvie was wheezing audibly. Gladys handed her the inhaler. She took it, removed the cap, exhaled as well as she could, tightened her lips around the mouthpiece, and breathed in slowly. She immediately felt the salbutamol spreading through her lungs, bringing relief.

"Am I going to have to call the doctor?" said Gladys. "It's Saturday, for heaven's sake. It'll be the duty doctor. What if it's Dr. Blanchard. I can't stand the woman. She makes me feel like I'm the worst mother in the world. Look at your clothes, you idiot child. You've got rabbit hairs all over them. Go get changed. Except, of course, you can't go because you can't walk. You weren't satisfied with asthma doctors and eye doctors and dentists and foot doctors and chicken pox doctors. No, you wanted to go back and see orthopedic doctors again. What was it? You fancied the doctor who treated your dislocated right knee, did you? Thought you'd give him the other leg to work on too." She grabbed the back of Sylvie's wheelchair and spun it round carelessly to face the house. "I'm going to miss Dr. Kildare again."

"I'll take her," said Georgina. She took the handles from Gladys and leaned forward, pushing with all her might until she had the wheelchair slowly moving across the grass and up the temporarily board that had been laid across the steps to the back door.

"She'll have to get out the chair to change her clothes, but she mustn't walk on that leg," Gladys called after them.

When they reached the kitchen Georgina asked, "How do you get up the stairs?"

"I shuffle up backwards on my bum, but would you just take me to the living room and go get some clothes for me?"

When Georgina returned with a clean T-shirt and shorts, she helped Sylvie to the sofa and helped her get changed. Sylvie then lay down on the bed and carefully lifted her left leg into a comfortable position. "I'm going to have to lie down for a while," she said quietly.

"I'll stay and talk to you," said Georgina sitting down on an armchair.

"You'll have to do the talking. I should be quiet."

"OK. I'm sorry Duncan talked about your dad, like that."

Sylvie just gave a wry smile.

"It's not fair that you don't have any dads and I have two."

"Two?"

"My earthly father and my Heavenly Father."

"Oh, that." Sylvie had heard this before. A father up in heaven didn't seem much use to her. She wanted a dad who could carry her up the stairs when she was sick. She had a kind of fantasy where she was walking along the street, and she tripped over something, as she often did. Her mother started telling her how clumsy she was, but her big, strong teddy bear of a father stopped her and said, "Leave Sylvie alone. It's not her fault her heels are turned in at a strange angle. She can' help stumbling sometimes," and he would take Sylvie's hand and walk with her, keeping her safe.

"I know you said before your mum wouldn't let you come to church"

"No way."

"—but in two weeks' time there's a special healing service."

"A what?"

"They pray for the sick. You could come, and the pastor could pray for your asthma."

"Is it like going to the hospital?"

"No. The pastor isn't a doctor. He just puts his hand on your head and asks God to heal you."

"Does it work?"

"Sometimes."

This seemed strange to Sylvie. In her experience, when people try to heal you, they put you to sleep and cut you up or stick you with needles or make you do exercises that really hurt or give you medicine that tastes horrible.

"So it doesn't hurt."

"Of course not. Do you want to try it?"

"Does she want to try what?" said Gladys as she entered the room and picked up Sylvie's dirty dress from the floor.

"I was telling Sylvie about a special healing service we're going to have at the church soon."

"And you expect us to go, do you? Why not? We're running out of doctors to consult with in Yorkshire, so why not consult with God? I know you mean well, Georgina, but I'm thirty-nine years old. If God wanted to help me out he's had plenty of opportunity before now."

"Have you ever asked him to heal Sylvie?"

"If he comes and knocks on my door, I'll ask him, OK?" said Gladys as she knelt down on the floor and put her ear to Sylvie's chest to listen to her breathing.

"It's just down the road, and I'm only suggesting you go one time for a couple of hours. We have lunch together afterwards. You'll enjoy it."

"We'll see," said Gladys as she walked out of the door. "Maybe we'll go so I can tell God exactly what I think of this miserable life he's given me."

——————————

" 'Human pellets.' That little boy is way ahead of every doctor in the country," said Go-chee.

"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings," said Chee-oo.

"And Georgina's a great little evangelist."

"We could be on the verge of a breakthrough, here. For eleven years we have been held back, but that healing service could change everything."
Chapter 4

Sylvie spent ten days trying to persuade her mother to let her go to the healing service, but Gladys resolutely refused. In the end, Georgina's mother, Joan, called round with some homemade scones and commiserated with Gladys on her difficult lot as a single mother with a constantly sick child. (Under normal circumstances Sylvie would not have liked this topic of conversation because it allowed her mother to recount Sylvie's many failings, but on this occasion, she understood that Joan was executing a carefully prepared strategy to get Gladys to cooperate.) Joan reassured Gladys that the service would be short and friendly, and in the end Gladys reluctantly agreed to take Sylvie.

On the morning in question, Sylvie woke with a strange lightness in her heart. She felt a little nervous about going to the service but also a little hopeful, somehow.

The service was held at Sylvie's school, which was just a ten minute walk from their house. Gladys and Sylvie arrived at the school at 10:45 A.M. Gladys had wanted Joy to come, but Joy said she was behind with her training schedule and needed to go running. As they walked through the gate, they were greeted by a hearty, "Morning," from the gardener who was attacking a privet hedge with a large pair of secateurs. "Going to the healing service, are you?"

"Yes," said Gladys curtly and walked smartly past him.

"Little girl has asthma, does she?"

"How do you . . ." Gladys turned sharply. Sylvie knew that her mother hated people knowing things about her. She always thought people were talking about her behind her back.

The gardener pointed at Sylvie's bag. The box containing her inhaler was sticking out at the top. "Terrible, isn't it, asthma in little ones? My grandson has the same problem. So you think God's going to help you, do you?"

"I doubt it, but there's no harm trying," said Gladys.

"You're probably right," said the gardener, but he said it in a way that conveyed great scepticism. He turned back to the hedge.

"You think there could be some potential harm in it?"

The gardener paused, shook his head and said, "No, you're all right. I'm sure this place is different."

"Different to what?"

"It's just that I saw this TV program last night. This poor little mite had cystic fibrosis and this so-called minister was screaming and shouting over her and waving this perfume stuff around. He said she had demons, and he needed to cast them out. He had this great big wooden cross, and he kept swinging it over her head and chanting in some weird language or other." He clasped the secateurs with both hands and swung them around in an apparent impersonation of the minister with the cross. "In the end the poor little thing fainted from sheer terror. I wouldn't let them do it to my grandson. But it's up to you."

The look on Gladys's face was one of sheer horror. "Mum, I'm sure—" began Sylvie, but Gladys wasn't listening. She grabbed Sylvie's hand and turned back round to face the exit. But at that moment a car pulled up near them, and Joan and her husband, Roger, got out followed by Georgina and Duncan.

"I've changed my mind. We're going home," Gladys informed them.

"Please, Mum. We're here now," said Sylvie.

"You can leave Sylvia with us if you prefer," said Joan. "We'll take her to the service and bring her back home after lunch."

"You think I'm letting my child walk in there without me?" said Gladys. "I'm not stupid, you know. I've heard all about the sort of things that go on at these so-called services. Demons screaming and people crawling about on all fours acting like rabid wolves."

Joan and Roger were laughing. "Don't worry, Gladys," said Roger. "There's nothing like that. The pastor will simply lay hands on Sylvia and pray for her."

"No pervert of a pastor is laying hands on my daughter." She dragged Sylvie towards the gate.

Duncan ran in front of them and stopped them. "It's just like this," he said. He stood on his toes so he could put his hands on Sylvie's head, closed his eyes and said, "Heavenly Father, please heal Clarence in the name of Jesus, amen," then let go. Sylvie felt a strange warmth spread down from her head as he prayed.

Gladys seemed to be softened by the six-year-old boy's simple reassurance, and she hesitated for a moment. Sylvie took advantage of it. "Mum, please. Let's just go in. We can sit at the back and leave if we don't like it."

"Gladys, we invited you and Sylvie because we want to help. We wouldn't do anything to hurt you."

Gladys looked round to where the gardener had been, and Sylvie followed her gaze. The gardener had disappeared.

"OK," said Gladys, "but we're out of here at the first sign of anything weird."

——————————

"That boy is a pesky little nuisance," said the gardener as he approached Joo-gy behind the school building.

"You screwed up yet again, Pa-gwe."

Pa-gwe turned on the spot and resumed his normal appearance. "No I didn't. The mother now sees the pastor as a perverted maniac. As long as she keeps the kid away from him, we'll be fine."

"Get in there and keep an eye on them."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Why don't you go? You play yourself as the great, invincible champion, but it's always me who has to do the dangerous stuff."

"Stop arguing and move it."

Pa-gwe started to walk back round the building. Then he stopped and said quietly, "What if they start reading from That Book?"

"Then you have my permission to run for your life."

——————————

When Sylvie walked into the entrance hall, she saw a big board on a tripod saying, 'WELCOME TO BRAMDALE CHRISTIAN FELLOWSHIP,' and she could hear music coming from the assembly hall. There were several groups of smiling people standing around and chatting. A number of small kids were running around unrestrained. The atmosphere seemed friendly and light. She liked it.

"Come on," said Georgina encouragingly, and they followed the adults to the door of the assembly hall. A short, plump woman in a flowered, blue dress handed Sylvie a newssheet and said, "Welcome. It's nice to see you. Did you hurt your leg?"

Sylvie was still limping and she was getting that question a lot. "Yes, but it's getting much better, thank you."

"Praise the Lord," said the woman and Sylvie wondered why the woman called the doctor "Lord."

They stepped into the hall and looked around. On the platform at the front there was an older girl playing a keyboard and two boys playing guitar. One of the boys was singing into a microphone. On the back wall on the right hand side was a huge, purple banner. On it was the figure of a man in long white robes with his arms reaching out. Underneath were the words, "I WILL NEVER LEAVE THEE NOR FORSAKE THEE."

"Where's the organ?" said Gladys

"We don't have an organ. We use the synthesizer and the guitars to worship God," said Joan.

"What about hymn books?"

"The words to the songs will be put up on the screen." She indicated the large screen behind the lectern and the overhead projector in front of it.

"Shall we sit over here?" Roger started to lead the other two adults and three children forward, but Gladys said, "Let's sit here, near the door." Joan and Roger looked at each other and then led their little group into the back row of chairs.

There were about thirty people sitting at the front of the hall. About five empty rows separated them from Sylvie's group. An usher came forward and politely asked them to move forward. "We're fine here, thank you," said Gladys abruptly, and Joan smiled apologetically at the usher.

Sylvie was sitting between Georgina and her mother. Gladys was talking to Joan on her other side. Sylvie turned to her friend and asked, "Who's 'Thee'?"

"What?"

"Who's 'Thee'?"

"I don't know. Who is 'Thee'? Is that a name?"

"It's on that banner over there." Sylvie pointed to the big purple banner.

"Oh, 'Thee' is 'you.'"

"Me?"

"Yes. Well, everybody."

"Who's the man?"

"What man?"

"The man on the banner."

"That's Jesus."

Sylvie was confused. "Well then 'Thee' can't be me."

"Why?"

"Because to leave someone you have to be with someone to start with, right?"

"Huh?"

"My dad lived with me for two years, and then he left me. Jesus doesn't live with us so how can he leave?"

"Jesus does live with you. He lives with everybody."

"You'd better not tell my mum that."

"Jesus is everywhere. We just can't see him."

"But you said he's a man."

"What?"

"You said the man on the poster is Jesus. We can see the man on the poster."

"Well, he was a man two thousand years ago."

"He's been dead a long time, then."

"He's not dead."

"He's two thousand years old?"

"No, he died when he was thirty-three and rose again—you know, came back to life."

Sylvie thought hard for a minute then said, "So, he's one thousand nine hundred and sixty-eight."

"No, he's—"

But Sylvie didn't hear how old Jesus was because the pastor had moved to the lectern and called for quiet. He didn't look like a pastor to Sylvie. He looked about forty, and he was dressed in slacks, a white shirt, and a red-and-yellow striped tie.

"I'd like to welcome you all to our special healing service. Maybe the people sitting on the back row would like to come forward and join us." To Sylvie's horror he lifted his head and stretched out his hands to indicate he was talking about them. Joan and Roger made as if to stand up and looked hopefully at Gladys, but she grasped Sylvie's hand and shook her head. "You go if you want. Sylvie and I are staying here." Joan and Roger sat down again.

The pastor smiled and said, "We just want you to feel part of our fellowship, but if you're more comfortable sitting at the back that's fine with us."

The service began. First they sang some songs. Sylvie didn't know them, but Duncan sang loudly and, when they sang a song called "Mourning into Dancing," he got up and starting jumping around with a group of other kids. Sylvie was surprised that nobody seemed to mind. Her mother was sitting stiffly in the seat next to her, glaring at Duncan disapprovingly. Most of the people, including Joan and Roger, had stood up and were clapping. Georgina stood up, too, so Sylvie got up to join her, but her mother grabbed her arm and pulled her down again. "Let's not get carried away," her mother said. "We're just observing, remember."

After the songs the pastor moved to the lectern again and said, "Let's pray." Everybody bowed their heads forward and closed their eyes. Sylvie wondered why they did this. She thought since you can't see God with your eyes open, maybe you can see him with your eyes closed. She tried it, but it didn't work.

She listened to the prayer but didn't understand it. The pastor talked to someone called "Heavenly Father" like Duncan had when he put his hands on her head, and that seemed to be God. But you can't see God, and the pastor asked Heavenly Father to reach out his hand and touch the sick. She half wondered if a large hand would come down from the ceiling and touch her. She even looked up just in case. Then the pastor asked Heavenly Father to bind up sicknesses. She didn't understand how you could bind up asthma. Then he said, "By your stripes we are healed." What had stripes got to do with it? The only stripes she could see were the ones on the pastor's tie, but that didn't make sense.

Finally, he said, "In Jesus' name, amen," and looked up. He then asked everybody to turn in their Bibles to Mark chapter one, verses forty to forty-five.

The Bible verses appeared on the screen, and Sylvie tried to read them. Then she listened to the pastor talking for the next thirty minutes. She understood the basics of the story. A leper asked Jesus to heal him. Jesus did so. The pastor said Jesus was here right now and could heal at Bramdale Christian Fellowship today just as he had in the Bible. Sylvie could feel her mother next to her fidgeting and shifting in her seat.

The pastor said if anyone wanted prayer, they should come to the front of the hall. He stepped down from the platform and about eight people stood up and walked to the front including a mother with her little boy.

"Would you like to take Sylvia forward," Joan asked Gladys cautiously.

"No, I would not."

"I'll take her," said Duncan from along the row of chairs.

Gladys hesitated. "It looks like voodoo to me. Magic tricks or something."

"I want to go," said Sylvie, "Please, mum."

Gladys hesitated some more and then said, "OK, Georgina can take you, but don't come crying to me when it doesn't work."

Georgina smiled at Sylvie, took her hand, and started to lead her down the aisle. They were halfway to the front when they heard a scream. They looked up and saw an elderly woman that the pastor was praying for. She was leaning back with her arms in the air, trembling from head to foot.

The next thing Sylvie knew was that her mother had grabbed her arm from behind, and she was being pulled towards the door.

"Madhouse," shouted Gladys as she pushed Sylvie through the door.

"Gladys, please let me explain," called Joan as she tried to catch up with Gladys and Sylvie. Georgina hurried behind her mother.

"No explanations necessary. I've got eyes in my head, you know. I can see for myself." Gladys was halfway to the main entrance.

"Well, why don't you at least stay for lunch? It's free. It's waiting for us in the canteen."

Gladys hesitated. Sylvie knew that the word free would have caught her mum's attention.

"OK, but we're not going back in there." Gladys pointed to the assembly hall. "And we're not talking to that pastor of yours."

"That's fine. Let's go reserve some seats for lunch."

Joan led them down the corridor to the school canteen. They were met by a delicious smell coming from various kinds of dishes laid out on tables at the end of the room.

"It's a potluck," explained Joan.

Two women led them to the table, gave them plates, and encouraged them to take what they wanted and find a seat. More people were drifting in from the service.

Sylvie and Georgina found seats a little apart from their mothers. They could hear Gladys' agitated complaints and Joan's occasional attempts to placate her.

"Why did Jesus touch the leper?" Sylvie asked Georgina and took a large bite from a slice of quiche.

"To heal him."

"Yes, but the pastor said people didn't like lepers. They made them live outside the city and nobody talked to them."

"So?"

"So, why did Jesus touch him? Didn't he realize he wasn't supposed to like him?"

"Jesus loves everybody."

"Even sick people?"

"Especially sick people."

"Why?"

Georgina thought for a moment and then answered, "Because he's Jesus."

Sylvie didn't find this a very satisfactory answer, but she pressed on. "Did Jesus heal anybody with asthma?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"Maybe asthma's too difficult for him. But you're sure he likes people with asthma?"

"Of course."

"And with sticking out teeth and a funny shaped head and a squint and weak muscles who have to go to zillions of doctors?"

At that point the doors to the canteen opened, and lots of people streamed in. Roger and Duncan got some food and then sat down opposite Joan and Gladys. Duncan's loud voice carried along the table. "If Jesus heals people, why didn't he heal Uncle Bob?"

"I don't know, but sometimes God has plans for people that we don't understand. Uncle Bob is in heaven now where there's no sickness and no crying," replied Roger.

"What will Georgie and I do if you and mum die?"

Roger stopped eating his chicken and ham pie and put his arm around his son. "The church would look after you, but even more importantly, even though it's possible for you to lose me and your mother, you can never lose your Heavenly Father. He will be with you for all eternity."

Sylvie turned her chair away from the adults. She didn't want her mum to see that she was crying, or she'd tell her to calm down before she brought on another asthma attack.

"What's wrong?" asked Georgina as she noticed Sylvie's shaking shoulders and the tears streaming down her face.

"I want . . . I want a Heavenly Father that never leaves me, too."

Before Georgina could answer, there was a sudden increase in activity at the adults' end of the table. Sylvie dried her eyes with the back of her hand and looked up to find the source of the commotion. The pastor had approached the table, and Roger, Duncan, and Joan had stood up to greet him and shake his hand.

"And this is our neighbor, Gladys," said Joan to the pastor. "She came today with her daughter, Sylvia. This is Pastor James, Gladys."

Gladys reluctantly nodded to Pastor James but didn't stand.

"I'm so glad you could join us today, Gladys," said Pastor James.

"We're just visiting. We're not into all this laying-on-of-hands stuff."

"It's what Jesus did in the Bible."

"Yeah, well, that was two thousand years ago before we knew about science. Most of us know better these days than to resort to hocus pocus, and screaming and shaking."

"God heals in many different ways, Gladys. We thank God when doctors can help us, but sometimes they can't. Did you come here today because of some health concerns?"

"It's her daughter. She's Georgina's school friend and she has asthma," said Joan as she indicated the two girls at the end of the table.

The pastor started to move towards the girls and said, "I'd be happy to pray—"

"You keep your hands off my daughter." Gladys was on her feet. "Sylvie, we're leaving, now. I should never have let you talk me into coming. Complete waste of time."

Before Sylvie knew what was happening, she had been pulled up to her feet and was being dragged towards the door.

"Can we give you a lift home?" asked Roger.

"We'll walk, thank you," replied Gladys.

Georgina ran to catch up with them, "I'll come with you."

"Mum, Georgina and I are going to go the long way through the park. I'll see you at home. OK?"

"Have you got your inhaler?"

"It's in my bag."

"And don't go near those ducks, OK?"

"OK, Mum."

Sylvie and Georgina crossed the road and entered the park. They walked without speaking for a couple of minutes as Sylvie struggled to put into words the question burning in her heart. "Is it true you have a Heavenly Father who will never leave you?"

"Yes. He's Jesus' father, so he's our Father, too."

"But how do you really know? Just because somebody told you?"

"I don't know how I know. But when you ask Jesus to come into your life, you somehow just know he's there. It's called faith."

"How do you ask him to come into your life?"

"You pray. You ask him to forgive your sin and—"

"Forgive what?"

"Sin, the thing's you've done wrong in your life. Lies and stuff."

"You mean like when Joy was waiting for her boyfriend wearing her new sexy pink dress and I told her she looked beautiful."

"That doesn't sound bad."

"She didn't know she'd leaned against next doors fence when the paint was wet and she'd got black streaks all down the back of the skirt. She was really mad when she found out I knew and I hadn't told her."

Georgina giggled.

"So, I ask Jesus to forgive my lies and stuff and then what?"

"You ask him to come into your life."

"Do I have to go to the church and scream and shake while I'm doing it?"

"No, you can do it right here and now."

"Should I kneel down? Some of the people in the church knelt down when they prayed."

"You can if you want."

So, the two girls knelt down in the middle of the park, and Sylvie met Jesus.

——————————

Somewhere in another dimension, Chee-oo and Go-chee threw back their heads and spread their long, majestic wings. They opened their mouths and sang as they lifted gracefully from the ground. Light exploded around them in swirling rainbow colors, and their song reverberated through the universe, a celebration of victory, a jubilant proclamation of new life.

An eternity later they returned to earth to confront Joo-gy.

"Back off, Joo-gy. She now belongs to the King of Kings and Lord of Lords," said Chee-oo.

Joo-gy looked subdued and yet defiant. He answered quietly, "We will take a step back, but we will always be waiting in the shadows. The damage has been done, and her body will fail her sooner or later." He turned and vanished.

"Did you check how we're doing?" Chee-oo asked Go-chee.

"The animal research is well underway, and they're getting great results, but they're a long way yet from producing the nutritional supplements Sylvie needs."

### BOOK 2

# Chapter 1

Ten years later

The reception was overwhelming. Sylvie and the other three recent graduates walked into Bramdale High School cafeteria to be greeted by cheers and party poppers.

"Let's have a round of applause for our university returnees. Champions, every one of them," said Pastor James. He walked over to the four young adults to shake their hands. As he took Sylvie's he said, "Well done, Sylvie. We're proud of you." But she didn't feel proud of herself. She felt like a fraud.

University had been difficult, and she'd scraped a three. She'd been bright when she was in junior school, top of the class. But through her teen years her brain had become foggier and foggier, and she could no longer put in the hours of concentration that a university degree demanded. She hoped she would never have to study again in her life.

"Let's pray for the future of these talented young people," said Pastor James. He put his arm around Sylvie's shoulder and began to pray.

Prayer usually lifted her spirits but not this time. She asked herself what future there could possibly be for an ugly twenty-one-year-old girl who was always lagging several paces behind the rest of the world.

"Sylvie." She turned round at the sound of her name and was delighted to see Georgina coming towards her, a Cheshire cat grin on her face. "You're getting quite a welcome back, aren't you?"

"Actually, it's all a bit too much. Can we go and have a walk round the grounds before the meeting starts?"

"Sure."

"So, what's the next step for you?" asked Georgina as she and Sylvie walked around the tennis courts.

"I've no idea. I scraped my degree. I don't have what it takes to be a professional flautist."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that. I don't have the stamina or the embouchure."

"The what?"

"The muscles in my face are too weak to give me a good top register."

"But you said you felt playing flute really helped your lungs."

"Yeah, learning to breathe properly really helped me, and, if there's one muscle in my body I've trained to function well, it's my diaphragm. But I've gone as far as I can as a musician."

"If God wants you to be a musician, he'll make a way."

"Drop it, Georgie." Sylvie was surprised by her own short temper. "I'm sorry, I just don't want to think about it anymore."

"You mustn't let yourself get so down. Look at me; working in a pet shop is a big come down from being a vet, but at least I'm working with animals, and my dad says that if God can speak through a donkey, he's sure God can use a pet shop assistant."

Sylvie didn't answer. She didn't appreciate the reminder that she had no father to give encouraging words and comfort.

Georgina seemed to realize that she'd said something unhelpful and changed the subject. "There's a new speaker tonight. Apparently he's been involved in the Sunday school for a while, but he hasn't spoken at the Young People's Fellowship before."

Sylvie wasn't interested in this news, but she nodded and tried to smile as though she were.

They walked back to the school in silence. Then Georgina looked down at her T-shirt and said, "Oh, no. I just realized I've got some dog hairs on my T-shirt. I'll just run to the toilet and wash them off."

"Actually, I'm less sensitive to dog hair these days. Cat hairs still really get me, though."

"All the same, I don't want your mum accusing me of triggering an asthma attack. You go save us some seats. Go near the front on the right. You get the best view from there."

Sylvie obeyed and walked into the assembly hall. It looked much as she remembered except the window frames were flaking and in obvious need of a coat of paint. There were also a number of new banners positioned around the room.

She found two seats at the end of a row in the section Georgina had indicated. "Are these seats free?"

"Sure," replied the young man with big, brown eyes and a large nose, who was sitting in the third seat along.

Sylvie sat down next to him and put her bag on the end seat to save it for Georgina.

"I'm Nigel, by the way, and this is my girlfriend, Caroline." He indicated the young woman with long blond hair sitting at his other side. She leaned forward and nodded to Sylvie.

"I'm Sylvie. Nice to meet you."

"I haven't seen you here before," said Nigel.

"No, I've been away at university. I just got back."

"So, what are your future plans?"

Not again. How many times was she going to be asked that? "I don't have any."

"Well, I'm sure the Lord will lead you."

Sylvie knew Nigel was just making friendly conversation, but she didn't want to be reminded she had no future. She wasn't going to try to explain to a complete stranger that her health did not allow her to participate in life the way everybody else did. People always wanted a diagnosis and "weak muscles and fatigue" never satisfied them.

She was spared from having to find a new topic of conversation because Georgina arrived and said "Hi" to Nigel and Caroline.

——————————

During the worship, Sylvie tried to join in, but having Georgina standing next to her clapping and jigging about just heightened Sylvie's sense of melancholy. She was beginning to wish she hadn't come. By the time the speaker was announced, she was thinking of getting up and leaving. She knew it would look bad, but it was better to leave at the beginning of the talk than in the middle of it. The speaker started to walk up the steps to the platform, and the audience applauded. Sylvie grabbed her bag off the floor, preparing to stand up. But then she looked at the speaker and was momentarily distracted. He was slim with dark hair and big brown eyes. He was not particularly attractive. That wasn't what got her attention. She turned to look at Nigel and then looked back at the speaker. She heard Nigel laughing next to her in a resigned kind of way.

"Neil's my twin brother," Nigel explained.

This news did not change Sylvie's decision to leave, but her moment's hesitation meant that Neil had gained the lectern, the applause had died down, and her exit would now be embarrassingly obvious. She settled back down in her seat and resigned herself to the fact she'd be there for the next forty-five minutes.

"Please turn in you Bibles to Malachi 4:5–6," began Neil.

Sylvie reluctantly got her Bible out of her bag, but she had no idea where Malachi was.

"Malachi is the last book in the Old Testament," said Neil, as if he had read her mind.

"He will turn the hearts of the parents to their children, and the hearts of the children to their parents; or else I will come and strike the land with total destruction," Neil read.

Just what I need, thought Sylvie, a nice cheery talk on total destruction. And don't talk to me about parents and children. I'm sure this guy comes from a wonderful, loving, Christian family, and he wouldn't understand my experience at all.

"I am blessed with a wonderful family," said Neil, "Loving caring parents and four wonderful brothers, including Nigel who is here tonight."

Just as I expected, thought Sylvie.

"But in these troubled times our family is unusual. The Bible warned us the enemy would attack our families and bring destruction on us. All of us here are between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. We're all thinking about finding life partners and getting married. But I'm here to warn you, don't do it unless you are ready to take your marriage vows seriously for the rest of your life. I'm still single, but I'm praying that one day the Lord will bring me a woman I can love, cherish, and protect from this day forward until death do us part.

"Let's take a closer look at the marriage vows. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part. We are called to fulfil these vows as husbands and wives. There are three situations here where the enemy will try to attack us and force us to break our promises; general stresses and strains, financial problems and sickness. Let's look first at the general stresses and strains category."

Sylvie listened up until this point then her mind drifted. It had been her fault that her father left. Her mum and sister had told her that often enough. But she didn't see what she could have done to make him stay. She simply wasn't good enough for him. She had come to understand with great gratitude that she was good enough for her Heavenly Father. But she doubted any man would want to marry her. She was tall, lanky and awkward with a squashed and twisted head and crooked eyes. And she couldn't function like the rest of the world. At university she had never been able to join in the social life because all she had the energy to do after classes was to lie down and read.

She made herself tune back into the preacher's words. "Then we come to the third situation, sickness. Jesus came to heal the sick. The sick came to him knowing that he would never reject them. In Mark chapter five, we read about a woman who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years. In her culture, in her time, it was shameful for a woman to have such a complaint. She would have been looked down on by everyone around her. She would have been shunned everywhere she went. But she knew she could approach Jesus—not only approach him but actually touch his clothes. When she was healed, Jesus spoke to her tenderly, 'Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.' This is the kind of attitude we are told to have towards the sick in general, how much more towards our own families? Mothers by instinct cherish their sick children . . ."

Really? thought Sylvie.

". . . but what about fathers? The men of this generation are failing their families, and the result is the destruction of our society. Tonight, right now, I want to call on all you young men out there. I want to challenge you to commit yourselves before God to being the sort of husband and father that pleases God, the sort of husband and father who loves and cherishes his family through difficult times of financial need and sickness. I ask you to stand with me now and bow your heads in prayer."

A number of men in the audience stood up as Neil began to pray, including Nigel.

"Heavenly Father, forgive our ungodly nation that has forsaken you and succumbed to the plans of the enemy and allowed the breakdown of family values all around us. Those of us standing here tonight want to say to you that, by your grace and power, we commit ourselves to being the generation that stops the deterioration of the family. We commit ourselves to being the sort of husbands and fathers that please you, true men who shoulder our responsibilities and stand by our families through thick and thin. We cannot do this without you, Lord. But all things are possible to him who believes, so we put our trust in you and offer you our lives this day. Do your work in us Lord. We ask in the precious name of Jesus."

Sylvie looked up as she heard "amens" muttered all around the hall, and she noticed Neil wiping tears away from his eyes with the back of his hands.

They sang a rousing chorus of "We Went to the Enemy's Camp," and then Sylvie headed out of the hall with Georgina.

"What did you think of the meeting?" asked Georgina, but Sylvie didn't answer. She was deep in thought. A crazy idea had just gripped her. It was totally barmy. She had lost her mind completely. People just didn't do such things. But why not try it? What did she have to lose? She had no way forward. It was time to do something drastic, to take a leap of faith. Or was it a leap of insanity?

They were halfway to the main entrance. Sylvie stopped and said, "You go on without me. I'm going back." She turned and ran back towards the hall.

"Why?" Georgina called after her.

"I've decided what my next step is," Sylvie shouted back to her.

When Sylvie got back to the hall, it was nearly empty, but as she'd hoped, Neil was still at the front gathering his belongings. She walked up to him.

"Hello," he said, offering her his hand. "I'm Neil."

"I'm Sylvie," she replied, "Will you marry me?"

——————————

"Depressing turn of events," said Joo-gy, "Are her nutrition levels high enough for her to get pregnant?"

"Oh, yes," said Pa-gwe with a grin.

"How can you look so happy at the prospect of new human life?"

Pa-gwe leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. "You asked if her nutrition levels were high enough to get pregnant. You didn't ask if they were high enough to produce healthy offspring. She's managed to stay out of hospital for a number of years. Soon she'll be back. Back in the system, back in our clutches, back in the firing line not only for physical torment but for mental torment too."

Joo-gy nodded appreciatively.

# Chapter 2

"My wife is twenty-eight weeks pregnant, and she's having an asthma attack. She's in the car. I need help to get her out."

Neil was leaning up against the reception desk at the accident and emergency department, trying to get his breath back. Between gasps of breath, he was all but shouting at the receptionist, who was talking to a woman with a makeshift bandage wrapped around her hand, seeped in blood. He was normally the least pushy person in the world, but not today. His wife needed help right now, and she was going to get it.

The receptionist politely asked the woman to wait as she reached under the desk. Neil assumed she was pushing an emergency button. Within seconds a nurse appeared from nowhere, and the receptionist explained the situation.

"Can your wife walk, or does she need a wheelchair?" asked the nurse.

"Umm. A wheelchair," answered Neil. He couldn't think straight.

The nurse turned back to the receptionist, "Can you . . . ?" The receptionist nodded, and the nurse turned and walked briskly towards the entrance with Neil.

"She's been in here four times before with asthma attacks in the past six months, but this is the worst. She can't breathe. What about the baby? Will it damage the baby?" Neil was close to panicking.

"Let's take one thing at a time. Where is your car?"

Neil pointed, "The old Peugeot. I tried to park closer but . . ."

Neil ran ahead and opened the back door. He bent down and said to Sylvie, "They're coming. You're going to be OK."

"Excuse me," said the nurse as she pushed past Neil.

He looked up and saw a porter walking across the carpark pushing a wheelchair. "This way," he shouted, waving his hands frantically.

The nurse said to Neil, "Can you help me get her out?" Then she said to Sylvie, "Take it really slowly. We'll support you and take the strain. Neil and the nurse carefully pulled Sylvie up and turned her round to sit in the wheelchair. They set off towards the building.

As they passed the reception desk, the nurse said to the receptionist, "Can you get Dr. Fitzpatrick? Cubicle four."

——————————

Sylvie so appreciated how her husband and the hospital staff were taking control. She sat up on the narrow bed in cubicle four. She was exhausted and wanted to lie down and rest, but she couldn't. Leaning back even the slightest from a vertical position made the breathing worse. Neil had come to understand this, and he was supporting her back and praying quietly.

After a few minutes, a doctor burst into the cubicle. He was young, tall, and slim and had a shock of blonde hair that kept falling down over his face. He was constantly jerking his head to get it out of his eyes.

"I'm Dr. Fitzpatrick," he announced as he put his stethoscope to Sylvie's chest. "Take deep breaths." Sylvie tried, but very little air was getting into her lungs.

The doctor opened a drawer, pulled out a peak flow meter, and attached a clean mouthpiece. "You know what to do with this?" Sylvie nodded. She tried to take a deep breath, pressed her lips around the mouthpiece, and let out a short, sharp breath. The doctor looked at the scale. "How tall are you?"

It was Neil who replied. "Five foot ten." The doctor glanced at Neil who was now standing next to him. Neil gave a wry smile and said, "She's two inches taller than me."

"Well, at five foot ten you should be up at nearly five hundred. You're well down in the red at two twenty. We're going to have to admit you. What medication are you taking?"

Again it was Neil who answered. "Salbutamol inhaler. She also has a Becotide inhaler, but we haven't really been sure how much to use it during pregnancy. Obviously, we want to avoid asthma attacks, but we're not really confident that it's safe."

"Wait here and someone will come to take you to the ward." He left as quickly as he had arrived.

Sylvie had mixed feelings about being admitted. She'd spent too much time in hospitals in her short life. But at the same time, she was scared for herself and her baby and wanted to know they were being taken care of. She didn't want to be parted from Neil. He was her protector and friend. He wouldn't let anything bad happen to her.

——————————

Half an hour later they were up on the ward. Sylvie's breathing was no better and no worse. Neil had said he'd wait to see the doctor, and then he'd nip home and get Sylvie's personal belongings. In the meantime she was supplied with a hospital gown, and she asked for and received extra pillows so that she could prop herself up in the most comfortable position. Everybody was treating her with great kindness.

Dr. Fitzpatrick arrived carrying a small tray on which a full syringe complete with needle was carefully placed. Sylvie was very used to the sight of injections. As a child she had collected syringes and played with them, spurting water at Joy whenever her mother wasn't watching.

The doctor sat on the bed next to Sylvie, rolled up the sleeve of her gown, and swabbed her arm. "We're going to give you a shot of Chonsicalline," he explained. "It should improve your breathing."

As the doctor picked up the syringe Neil said, "What is that?"

"Chonsicalline. It's a bronchodilator," said the doctor as he prepared to stick the needle in Sylvie's arm.

"Wait," said Neil, "I'd like to know more about it before you give it to my wife."

Dr. Fitzpatrick sighed and put the syringe back on the tray. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, is it safe during pregnancy?"

"You think I'd be giving it if it wasn't?"

"Well, are there side effects?"

"There are side effects with any drug, and it's a question of weighing risks. Your wife is having serious breathing difficulties, which put the fetus in danger. It's my clinical opinion that the effects of decreased oxygen to the fetus are far more serious than the side effects of Chonsicalline, not to mention the fact that your wife is experiencing extreme distress, and the injection will make her much more comfortable. Giving the drug intravenously should bring relief very quickly. Now, may I proceed? I'm very pressed for time here."

——————————

"Direct Intervention? I could get the doctor called away and then warn Neil and Sylvie what will happen if she takes the drug." Go-chee wasn't panicking. He wasn't capable of panic. But his perfectly featured face was contorted with deep compassion.

"We don't have grounds. The sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God, is not in use. They're operating in fear not faith," said Chee-oo.

Go-chee sighed, dropped his head, and closed his eyes. He didn't want to watch.

——————————

Sylvie looked at her husband. "I think we should accept the doctor's advice. I'm so scared, Neil. The baby could be short of oxygen even as we speak. We've got to do something. Maybe this is our only option." She spoke in short spurts between noisy gasps for breath.

Neil nodded reluctantly. The doctor stuck the needle in Sylvie's arm and pressed the plunger.

——————————

"Hello, Honey." Neil was sitting by Sylvie's bed. She'd just woken up. Several hours had passed since she'd been given the Chonsicalline. The ward was dark except for night lamps. She could hear nurses talking in quiet voices at the end of the ward.

"What time is it?" She asked.

"About eleven thirty. I've been sitting here for two hours watching you breathing. In and out, in and out, smoothly and easily. Rest and oxygen for you and our baby. Praise the Lord. You were right. We needed to trust the doctors."

"You should go home and get some rest yourself."

"I hate going home to an empty house. When you're not there, I have to do the washing up myself."

Normally she would have hit him playfully for such a remark, but she was too comfortable and too relieved to be bothered."

"You're going to be fine," he said. "And in a few weeks' time there'll be a family of three in our little house."

# Chapter 3

"What seems to be the matter?"

Sylvie was sitting nervously in her GP's office wondering how she was going to explain the problem. She had known Dr. Parkinson for some time, and she hoped and prayed that she would hear her out. It was now ten days since she'd been released from hospital. Her breathing had remained stable. She was grateful for that. But her mother's instinct was telling her something was very wrong.

"My baby's in trouble."

"What makes you say that?" said Dr. Parkinson.

"He's not kicking properly."

"Not kicking properly? So, it is kicking."

"Yes, but he's not communicating anymore."

"I don't remember you having an ultrasound. How do you know it's a boy?"

"I just know. The same way I know something's wrong."

"What do you mean by not communicating?"

"Well, there used to be two kinds of kicks: ordinary kicks and 'Hello, Mummy' kicks. The ordinary kicks are still there, but the 'Hello, Mummy' kicks have stopped." Sylvie knew she sounded crazy, and she had tears in her eyes as she watched the doctor's puzzled expression.

There was a pause and then Dr. Parkinson said, "Please remove your jumper and lie down on the couch."

The doctor smiled with amusement as Sylvie stood, lifted her baggy jumper and revealed what she was wearing underneath.

Sylvie explained, "I can't bear anything tight round my tummy. So I took the elastic out of the tracksuit bottoms, and I'm wearing the braces to keep them up. I know I look like Coco the Clown." Sylvie unsnapped the old pair of men's black and grey striped braces she'd bought in a charity shop and removed them, keeping one hand on the tracksuit bottoms as she lay down.

Dr. Parkinson approached carrying a Sonicaid, lifted Sylvie's T-shirt, and put the end of the long, green sensor to her huge round abdomen.

"Are there any other symptoms? Do you feel unwell?"

"No. It's just the kicks that have changed."

"Well, the baby's heart beat seems perfectly normal. There's no indication the baby is in distress."

"Please. I can't prove it to you, but I know something's very wrong."

Dr. Parkinson glanced at the calendar on the wall. "OK. Today's Wednesday. Why don't you go home and relax, and if you're still worried tomorrow, come back to see me again?"

So, Sylvie went home. She returned on Thursday to go through the same conversation with the same outcome. She did the same on Friday and then on Monday.

When Sylvie walked through the surgery door on Tuesday, the doctor seemed to be working hard to suppress a look of exasperation.

"Hello, Mrs. Keighley. Anything new to report, or is it still your concern about the lack of communicating kicks?"

"It's the same." She wanted to say again how convinced she was that her baby was in big trouble, but she had said it all before so many times.

"Fine. Please lie down, and we'll check the baby's heart rate again."

Sylvie lay down and the doctor went through the normal procedure with the Sonicaid.

"I wouldn't be bothering you like this every day if I just wasn't so worried. I realize you're being very patient with this patient, Doctor." Sylvie hoped Dr. Parkinson would smile at her joke, but she didn't. She was too busy concentrating on what she could hear though the Sonicaid.

The doctor sat up straight with a look of indecision on her face. Then she listened to the baby's heart rate once again. Sylvie waited expectantly. Was this it? Had the doctor found the problem? On the one hand, it would be a relief to find out what was wrong, but on the other hand, she was so scared she would hear bad news.

Dr. Parkinson sat up straight again and said, "The baby's heart rate does seem to be very fast this time. I think we should send you into the maternity hospital, so they can give you an ultrasound and check the baby's heart is pumping correctly. Do you have a car?"

"No, I don't. Are you saying I need to go this minute?"

"Yes. Could your husband take you?"

"Could I use your phone? I'll try to call him at the school where he teaches."

——————————

"They know something's really wrong, and they're not telling me," said Sylvie as soon as she saw Neil walking towards her down the ward with her hospital bag. He had collected her from the GP's surgery, taken her to Bramdale Maternity Hospital, and then gone home to fetch the bag. It hadn't taken him long because these days they kept the hospital bag ready, prepared by the front door. "The technician who did the ultrasound refused to tell me what was wrong, but I could see the baby's heart on the screen with my own eyes. It was pumping like crazy."

Neil bent down and kissed her on the cheek and then looked at the fetal heart monitor by the bed. The LED display read one hundred and forty-eight. "But the heart rate is normal, isn't it?" They had done enough research on pregnancy to know that a heart rate of about one hundred and fifty was normal for a baby in utero. "You're not used to seeing babies' hearts on ultrasound screens. Maybe what you saw was normal?"

Sylvie knew Neil was trying to reassure her, but she couldn't help herself. She was furious that he didn't seem to be listening. She had had a very strained conversation with the ultrasound technician, but she had comforted herself with the thought that Neil would be back soon, and he, at least, would believe her. "It wasn't normal; it was crazy. And it was obvious from the expression on the technician's face that she was hiding something. She was fobbing me off with vague answers like, 'We'll have to wait and see.' It was obvious she was hiding something." She knew she was repeating herself, but she was just so anxious to make Neil understand. Tears of frustration were streaming down her face.

Neil sat beside her and put his arm around her. "The nurse just told me that the doctor will be here soon. I'll ask him when he comes."

"You'll ask him. Are you trying to tell me to keep my mouth shut?"

"No, I'm trying to tell you I don't want you to be so stressed out. It's not good for you or the baby. I'm trying to take the strain off you. That's my job as your husband."

"I'm sorry. I know you take your job seriously. That's why I married you." She tried to smile, but the smile quickly fell from her face as she noticed the doctor walking briskly towards them carrying a pill cup.

"Mr. and Mrs. Keighley, I've reviewed the ultrasound, and it's clear that your baby has severe tachycardia—its heart rate is much too fast. I'm sorry to have to tell you that this is a serious situation."

"How serious?" blurted Sylvie.

"Very serious. Your baby is in danger. We need to act now."

Neil squeezed Sylvie's hand, a look of horror on his face. "What are you going to do?"

"First we're going to give your wife some digoxin in the hope that it will cross the placenta and help to control the baby's heart rate." She indicated the pill cup in her hand.

"You say you 'hope' it will. You don't know?"

"Mr. Keighley, this is a very unusual situation. What we're trying here is experimental, but we have to do something to get the baby's heart rate down. If that fails, we will have no choice but to do an emergency caesarean. At thirty-one weeks, we'd like to avoid that if we can."

"If you have to do a caesarean, what are the baby's chances?"

The doctor hesitated, "To be honest with you, I'd say about fifty-fifty."

Sylvie uttered a soft moan as she was temporarily paralyzed by shock. Neil hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. He held her hand as he turned back to the doctor. "If the drug is going to work, how long will it take?"

"It's difficult to say. Maybe a few hours. We'll keep monitoring the baby's heart rate closely."

"I think this monitor is broken. You'd better get it changed," Neil said indicating the fetal heart monitor.

"Why do you say that?"

"The ultrasound showed the baby's heart rate is fast, but according to the monitor, it's normal."

The doctor sighed and said, "Actually, the monitor isn't broken. It's designed to read fetal heart rates below two hundred. Your baby's heart rate is about three hundred. That's very unusual. The monitor can't register such a high heart rate, so it halves it. Half of three hundred is a normal heart rate."

Sylvie found her voice. "What on earth is the use of a stupid monitor that tells you your baby is fine when actually he's dying?" Sylvie was trying to rip off the belts around her abdomen that attached her to the monitor, but Neil gently took her hands, and she broke down in tears with her head against his shoulder.

"We'd like to keep the monitor attached, but we will also listen directly with a Sonicaid every hour for the next few hours," said the doctor. She handed the pill cup to Neil. "Please have your wife take these as soon as possible," and she walked away.

"They don't seem to have a clue what they're doing," said Sylvie.

"They're doing their best in a difficult situation. They're trying to save our baby."

——————————

Sylvie didn't get much sleep that night. She was awakened every hour so the nurses could listen to the baby's heart beat with a Sonicaid. Most of the rest of the time she lay on her side watching the paper readout from the fetal heart monitor. She didn't know why she was staring at it when she knew it was a worthless piece of junk. In fact, it was worse than that. It was an instrument of deception, of false security.

She tried to pray. She begged God to let her baby live. She asked God to give the doctors wisdom. She wanted to believe she was wrong when she said they didn't know what they were doing. She wanted to believe that modern medicine was a gift from God and that she was blessed to be in this well-equipped hospital with its well-trained staff who apply the knowledge given through modern scientific breakthroughs. She wanted to feel safe in their hands. But she didn't. She felt she was having to fight them all the way.

She must have dozed off about 3 A.M. She woke up again at 3:45 A.M. and glanced at the readout. Something had changed. She couldn't say exactly what. The LED display still read about a hundred and fifty, but the squiggly line on the top half of the readout looked different. Also, she sensed that the baby in her womb was more at peace. She pressed the nurse call button. A nurse came rushing down the ward.

"What's the matter?"

"I think the baby's heart rate is normal again."

"What makes you think that?"

"The baby feels more settled, and the readout on the monitor has changed."

The nurse looked at the readout, "No, it hasn't. It's the same."

Here we go again, thought Sylvie. "Could you listen with the Sonicaid?"

The nurse looked at her watch, "It's too early. I'll do it in ten minutes."

"Please, it would be very comforting for me to have confirmation that the baby's OK."

The nurse sighed, pursed her lips and turned to fetch the Sonicaid.

——————————

"He's OK. The drugs worked. His heart rate is normal." Again, Sylvie was shouting the news to Neil when he was still only halfway down the ward.

However, over the next two days the baby continued to have periods of tachycardia. Sylvie became very confident that she knew when these occurred even before the doctors and nurses could confirm it. She could sense when the baby was in distress, and she could see a definite difference in the fetal heart monitor readout.

On the Friday morning, the doctor told her she now thought an emergency caesarean was unavoidable, and they were going to transfer her to the Bramdale General Hospital where they were better equipped to deal with any complications that might arise.

A few hours later, Sylvie was settled on a new ward at the general hospital and was once again attached to a fetal heart monitor. It was the same model they'd used at the maternity hospital. During the rest of the day, she could see and feel that the baby's heart rate was normal.

However the second she woke up the next morning, she knew the baby was in trouble again. She glanced at the monitor and, sure enough, the trace on the readout was slightly altered. She pressed the nurse call button.

"The baby's heart rate is too fast again," she said as soon as the nurse appeared.

"How do you know?"

"I can feel the baby is distressed, and the readout on the monitor has changed."

As before, this nurse looked at the readout and said it was fine.

"No, you don't understand. I've been attached to one of these for the last four days. My baby's heart rate keeps doubling, and when that happens the stupid machine reads 'normal'."

The nurse actually laughed.

Keep cool, Sylvie. You've got to get her to understand. "The monitor can only cope with heart rates up to two hundred, and my baby's heart rate goes up to three hundred. It's off the scale so the machine halves it and reads a hundred and fifty."

"Calm down, Mrs. Keighley. There is no reason to distress yourself like this. The baby is fine."

"You're not listening. I want to see the doctor, right now."

The nurse tutted, rolled her eyes, and left the room. By now, not only was the baby's heart rate racing, but Sylvie's heart rate was also faster than it should have been. She tried to relax. It would be OK. The doctor was coming, and she would explain it to him.

A few minutes later the house officer walked into the room.

"I understand you're concerned about your baby," he said.

Sylvie repeated what she had told the nurse and got the same response.

"We're monitoring your baby carefully, Mrs. Keighley, and at the moment there is nothing for you to worry about."

Sylvie lost it. "There's plenty to worry about. My baby's in trouble again, and you're not listening. You've got your head so full of figures and drugs and test results and machine readouts that you forget the simple human fact that mothers know their babies. For God's sake, please help us." By now she was crying and bursting with frustration. How was she ever going to get this moron to listen?

At that moment the nurse reappeared carrying a small tray with an injection on it.

"What's that?" asked Sylvie.

"It's Pethidine," replied the house officer, "It will help you to calm down."

"I don't need to calm down. I need you to listen."

The nurse stopped and hovered. Sylvie forced herself to breathe deeply. She told herself to use her brain. Shouting was not going to help her baby. "OK," she said with forced calmness, "I'm a crazy, irrational woman. Humor me. Go get a Sonicaid and listen to the baby's heat rate yourself."

"O.K." said the doctor slowly. He told the nurse to take the drug away and come back with a Sonicaid.

"The monitor doesn't let you hear the actual heart rate, right?" Sylvie said. "With a Sonicaid you'll hear it yourself, and then you'll know."

The doctor gave an indulgent smile. When the nurse reappeared he took the Sonicaid and pressed the sensor to Sylvie's abdomen. His response was similar to that of Sylvie's GP four days ago. (Was it only four days ago? It felt like a lifetime.) He listened. Stopped. Listened again. Stopped. He seemed to be trying to make a decision. Then he suddenly stood up and walked out of the room without saying another word.

Now what? Sylvie didn't know what to think. Has he just decided she was a nutcase, and there was no point talking to her anymore?

Sylvie sat alone for thirty minutes trying to stay calm. She would explain to Neil when he arrived and let him take up the fight.

Then suddenly the house officer reappeared, and right behind him, much to Sylvie's surprise, came the consultant. It was Saturday morning. The house officer must have called him in. They were taking her seriously at last.

"Good morning, Mrs. Keighley," said the consultant as he sat on the edge of the bed and prepared to use the Sonicaid. "I hear we might have a problem."

Sylvie didn't know what to say, so she decided to just keep her mouth shut and wait to see what happened.

The consultant listened and then said to Sylvie, "Your baby is in severe distress. We're going to have to do an emergency caesarean."

"Well, it's a good job I kicked up a stink then, isn't it?" She glanced at the house officer who was looking down inspecting his shiny brown shoes.

"Not at all," said the consultant. "There's a problem, we've spotted it, and we're going to do something about it."

The arrogance and smugness in his voice left Sylvie speechless.

She was more than relieved at that point to see Neil walk through the door. "Mr. Keighley?" asked the consultant. Neil nodded. "We're going to prepare your wife for theater immediately. We need to get this baby out A.S.A.P."

——————————

A few hours later Sylvie was once again in a wheelchair. She was still groggy from the anaesthetic, and the bikini cut along her lower abdomen was agony. She was sitting next to the incubator with Neil as they gazed lovingly upon their baby boy. Sylvie longed to hold him so badly it was almost felt like a physical ache in her arms. His little body was bloated, and his skin was dark and red. But he was alive.

"They saved him," said Sylvie. "Despite all the problems, they saved him"

"Isn't it about time we decided what to call him?" said Neil glancing at the name card under the incubator that read 'Baby Keighley.' With all the problems, they had given no thought to names.

"How about Oliver?" said Sylvie.

"Why?"

"I don't know. He just looks like an Oliver."

"OK. Oliver it is. Welcome to the world, Oliver Keighley. We're going to love you and care for you and bring you up to know Jesus."

# Chapter 4

After two weeks in the NICU Oliver was moved to a children's ward. One week later he was sent home.

Sylvie and Neil hadn't had chance to make all the preparations they'd planned for their baby's homecoming. They had to run around and buy essentials at the last minute. The day they brought Oliver home, they laid him in the wooden cot by their bed and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving.

During the next three weeks Sylvie did nothing but care for her baby. He was still very small. They had bought the smallest baby clothes they could find, but the clothes still hung off him. Sylvie never left him for more than five minutes without checking he was still breathing. When she fed him, she noticed that he didn't look directly at her. The other babies she'd seen in the hospital always seemed to stare up at their mothers while feeding. Sylvie told herself the difference was that Oliver had been born prematurely. He was only six weeks old, and his expected birthdate was still three weeks away. She fully expected him to begin to act like a normal baby in three weeks' time.

Then one night she was lying in bed, and she began to cry softly. Neil stirred, then rolled over and put his arm around her. "What's wrong, Honey?"

"They're going to take him away again."

"No, they're not, Sweetheart. It's going to be OK."

But she knew she was right. She always knew.

The next day she took him to her GP for his first check-up, proudly carrying Oliver in his new baby carrier. It took Dr. Parkinson just five minutes to listen to Oliver's heart and announce that she was sending him straight into the hospital.

And so Sylvie and Neil ended up in the third hospital department in just a few weeks. They'd been on a general ward, the obstetrics and gynecology ward and now the children's ward.

——————————

They couldn't believe it. They had thought the trauma was over. Sylvie spent the next two weeks sleeping on a camp bed next to Oliver's cot in a little room just off the children's ward.

The day after they'd arrived the registrar told them Oliver had a heart condition called Wolff-Parkinson-White Syndrome, or WPW. He would need to take digoxin, maybe for life. So little Oliver lay in his cot with three electrodes attached to his tiny chest and a cardiac monitor beeping next to the bed.

Sylvie was exhausted. She was stuck in the room with nothing to do but stare at her poor, sick child and worry what was going to happen to him. He was her baby and should be in her arms. She should be the one looking after him, but she couldn't even feed him directly. She had to express her milk and watch the nurses give it to him through a nasal gastric tube.

She wanted to know as much as she could about WPW, so she sent Neil to Waterstones. He came back with a book called Cardiology Made Easy. She was reading it one day when the house officer, Dr. Darcy, walked into the room followed by a staff nurse.

"How's he doing today?" the doctor asked.

"He seems the same," replied Sylvie as she turned the book over. She didn't want him to see what she was reading.

He looked at the monitor screen and said, "Ummm. Ventricular ectopics." Sylvie had read in the book that ventricular ectopics were caused by an irregular rhythm in the heart and that they could be clearly seen on a cardiac monitor display. The house officer looked thoughtful for a second and then turned to the nurse and said, "We'd better increase the digoxin." They walked out.

Sylvie was horrified. Once again she didn't know what to do. Had the doctor made a serious mistake here? What would the consequences be for Oliver? She had to say something, do something. Neil would be there soon. She'd wait for him.

Once again she pounced on Neil the second he got through the door. "The doctor says he's having ventricular ectopics, and he's increased the digoxin."

"I see," said Neil.

"No, you don't see. Look." She opened Cardiology Made Easy and rummaged until she found the page. Then she held the book up for him to read and pointed. "Read that."

Obediently Neil began to read, "If a patient taking digoxin develops ventricular ectopics, the digoxin could be the cause, and the dose should be reduced."

"I keep telling you, Neil, they don't have a clue what they're doing."

"There's obviously been some kind of mistake. Perhaps you misheard."

Once again, Sylvie knew Neil was trying to be helpful, but she was so exhausted and so fed up to the back teeth with hospitals and doctors and nurses and drugs and stupid machines that went beep, beep, beep, day and night. "I didn't mishear. He should be given less digoxin, and they're giving him more. What's that going to do to Oliver?"

"You've only read one small book. The doctor has had years of training. He obviously knows something we don't."

"Well, I want to know what it is he knows that I don't. Oliver's our baby. We have a right to know."

"We need to trust them, Sylvie."

"Trust them? Have you been paying attention the last few weeks? Would you like me to remind you of all the muck ups that have been going on around here? You haven't been here all the time. You haven't had to fight with doctors and nurses just to get them to listen." She was crying and shaking.

Neil seemed to sense that anything he could say would only make things worse, so he just stood beside her and stroked the back of her hair. She wiped her eyes and said, "Please ask them about it."

"OK. I'll ask the sister when I see her, but there don't seem to be any nurses around at the moment."

"They're on handover. The new shift is just coming on." Sylvie was now very familiar with the routine.

Just then a pretty, black student nurse walked in. "Hello," she said breezily. Then she looked at the monitor. "That doesn't look right, does it?" She walked up to Oliver, lifted his tiny vest and said, "Oh, look, someone's put the electrodes on the wrong way." She moved the electrodes around and then looked at the monitor again. "That's better," she said and walked out.

Sylvie turned in the book to find a picture of normal sinus rhythm and compare it with the monitor. Now that the electrodes were properly arranged, the rhythm was perfect. No sign of ventricular ectopics. Neil and Sylvie just stared at each other in disbelief.

# Chapter 5

"We can relax now and be a normal family." Neil handed Oliver to Nigel who said, "So, he'll be OK now?"

"They've found the right dose of digoxin. His heart rate has been stable for a couple of weeks, and they seem confident they can keep it that way."

Oliver was now ten weeks old, and he was home at last. An impromptu welcome home committee had congregated in Neil and Sylvie's living room. Sylvie watched as her son was passed to Caroline and then Gladys. Joy declined to take a turn holding her nephew.

"Actually, we have some news to tell you," Nigel looked at his wife. He and Caroline had married six weeks earlier. Sylvie had missed the wedding. "It seems identical twins really do like to do things the same."

"Meaning?" asked Neil.

"Honeymoon babies seem to run in the family."

"You're pregnant?"

"Well, my wife is, yes."

"Congratulations." Neil hugged Nigel and then Caroline. Sylvie joined in. She tried to look delighted, but she knew she couldn't hide the reservation she felt inside. She hoped Neil and Nigel wouldn't follow the same path too closely. She wouldn't wish the trauma of the last few months on her worst enemy. She would never have voiced her concerns, but her mother did not have the same reticence.

"Well, I just hope for your sake you have more luck than your brother here," Gladys said to Nigel.

"Mum, please," said Sylvie.

"It has to be said, Sylvie. You know very well now that things don't always go to plan. Mind you, the new baby won't be in my bloodline so maybe it will be all right. I had a sick child, now you have a sick child. Now you'll find out what it's like. You'll worry yourself to death. And don't expect any praise for shouldering the burden. There'll always be someone to tell you that everything you're doing is wrong."

"Pack it in, Mum," said Joy, "Come on, it's time I took you home."

"Not yet. I want to spend some time with my grandson, even if he is a poorly little sprite."

"He's not poorly, Mum. He's going to be OK," said Sylvie.

"He's not right, Love. You don't know because he's your first."

"It's just because he was premature, and he went through a lot of problems. He got off to a bad start, but he's going to have physiotherapy to help him catch up."

"There's no telling you, is there? We'll just have to wait and see."

"He'll be fine, and soon he'll have a healthy, happy cousin to play with." Sylvie sounded much more confident than she felt. "But I do suggest, Caroline, you keep away from Bramdale General. Find another hospital."

"Oh, come on, Sylvie," said Neil, "Isn't it time you called a truce? They made some mistakes, but at the end of the day, they gave us Oliver. We have a lot to be grateful for."

"I know. You're right." Neil handed Oliver back to her. She cradled him in her arms and offered a silent prayer of thanks for her wonderful husband and her vulnerable but beautiful little child. He was truly hers now, out of the clutches of the medical system. She would care for him like no mother had ever cared for her baby. She knew what it was like to start the journey of life at the back of the pack. She would stand by her son through thick and thin, give him her life if necessary. She would give him her all.

——————————

"Of course, he'd be making better progress physically if it wasn't for the mental handicap."

"What mental handicap?"

Julie, Oliver's physiotherapist, looked up with a mixed expression of surprise and embarrassment. Oliver was lying on a mat on the floor. Julie was kneeling beside him.

"What exactly have the doctors told you?" said Julie.

"About what?" said Sylvie.

"About Oliver's handicap."

"What handicap?"

Julie hesitated. "Surely you can see that Oliver can't move his hands and legs like other babies."

"Yes, but he was nine weeks premature."

"What did the doctors say about Oliver needing physiotherapy?"

"They said because he was premature, he needed help to get his body moving properly."

"I see." Julie sat back on her heels and put her hand to her mouth. She seemed to be deciding how much to tell Sylvie.

"Please tell me what's happening here."

"Well," said Julie cautiously, "premature babies are more likely to have cerebral palsy. Physiotherapy is prescribed to try to minimize the physical disability."

"Minimize? So, how physically disabled will he be?" Sylvie was numb. She was too shocked to feel. After all they had been through, they had thought the worst was over and that, given time, Oliver would overcome the problems of being born so early.

"You need to ask your doctor, but I think he'll probably tell you it's impossible to say."

"Then how do you know he'll be handicapped? He's only a few weeks old."

"Well, just to give you an example," Julie leaned forward again and put her finger in the palm of Oliver's hand. Oliver's hand remained open. "He doesn't have the grasp reflex."

Sylvie bent forward from the chair she was sitting in and put her own finger in Oliver's hand. There was no response. She hadn't thought about it before. Oliver had a strange, almost graceful, way of moving his hands, but she'd seen other premature babies with the same mannerisms, so she dismissed it. "And he'll be mentally handicapped, too?"

"Maybe I shouldn't have said that."

"But you did say it."

"Mental and physical handicap normally go together in these cases."

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When Neil arrived home that evening he found Sylvie sitting in a chair with Oliver in her arms. She was rocking backwards and forwards and staring across the room with tears streaming down her face.

"What's wrong, Honey," he asked.

"We can debate all day if the medical profession are saints or devils, heroes or villains. It doesn't matter anymore. Whatever they are, they've got us. We'll never be free."

# Chapter 6

"He'll leave you now, you know," said Gladys as she settled herself into a wicker chair in the garden behind the Olde Dales Tea House.

"Neil will never leave me," said Sylvie quietly as she leaned over Oliver's buggy to check he was still sleeping peacefully, "He's not like my dad."

"I know you think he has the patience of Job, but everybody has their limit, Sylvie. The woman has no choice but to bear the brunt. The man can, and will, up and go." Sylvie hated to hear her mother talking like this. She had married Neil because she was sure he would stick with her through her own health struggles. But now they had added a handicapped child to the mix, and their marriage was beginning to show the strain. She was spared from answering her mother when Joy piped up with, "Oh, pack it in you too. For once, can't we just relax and enjoy the scenery?"

Sylvie glanced at the beautiful green hills with their distinctive dry stone walls. She could hear sheep baaing nearby. But then she heard Oliver stirring and turned her attention back to him.

"You're going to have to grab moments of pleasure when you can, now that you've tied the knot and got yourself chained to a spastic baby," continued Joy.

"Don't call him spastic. He's a person. His name is Oliver," said Sylvie.

Oliver started to cry. Sylvie rocked the buggy to try to sooth him, but he cried all the louder, so she picked him up. "You mustn't pick him up every time he moans," said Gladys, "I've told you he'll get used to it. He won't want to sit by himself, and he'll never give you a moment's peace."

"But he seems to be in pain if he stays in the same position too long."

"He's not in pain. Babies cry. That's what they do. It's their only way to get your attention."

Sylvie opened her mouth to argue but then saw Neil walking towards them carrying a large tray. He set the teapot, milk, sugar, and cups on the table and propped the tray up at the side of his chair.

"What's with the Capri pants?" said Gladys pointing at Oliver's baby gown.

"I cut off the bottom part because I was worried they were too tight, and they might damage his feet. I think the booties are safer," said Sylvie.

"From what the doctors have told you, he's going to be more deformed than a tight baby gown could make him."

Neil stopped pouring tea and said, "Gladys, please don't speak so negatively. As Christians we believe in God's ability to heal."

"Here we go," said Joy, and she stood up and walked away.

"We tried it once. I took her to a service, didn't I, Sylvie? But she wasn't healed."

"I was healed," said Sylvie, "not outside but inside. And if I had to choose between physical illness with Jesus or health without him, I'd choose Jesus every time."

"And will you still choose Jesus when you're sick, your child's sick, and husband has left you?" said Gladys, sipping her earl grey.

"I will never leave Sylvie. We will walk together through the storms of life," said Neil.

Gladys threw her arms in the air and sang, "Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart, and you'll never walk alone. You'll never walk alone." Her voice was strong and clear, and people sitting at nearby tables turned and gave a short round of applause. Sylvie was embarrassed but tried to smile.

"Get your head out of the clouds, Mr. Keighley," said Gladys, "You think God's going to heal Oliver, and you're all going to live happily ever after, do you?"

"I don't know," said Neil, "but I'm sure the Lord has a purpose in this suffering. It says in John chapter nine, verse three—"

Gladys interrupted and said to Sylvie, "I thought you'd married a music teacher, not a preacher."

Sylvie had married a man with a great sense of duty and responsibility. But sometimes even she had to admit he was a bit naïve. Was God going to heal Oliver? Every day she prayed that he would. And every day she feared that he wouldn't.

——————————

The prayers continued over the next few months, but there was no breakthrough and no development in Oliver's motor skills. When he was about five months old, the grand mal seizures started. Another drug. Another problem to manage.

Three days before Oliver's first birthday, Sylvie took him for his vaccinations. She watched another mother with her one-year-old. The mother held her baby's hands as he tried to walk. He giggled and cooed and shouted, "Mama." When the baby sat down on the floor, the mother held out a toy for Oliver to take. It was a rattle in the shape of a teddy bear. Oliver gave no response, and Sylvie had to explain yet again that her son was handicapped.

Sylvie felt sorrow in her heart that her child would never be normal and would always need her special care. Life was difficult. Little did she know that it was about to get much worse.

# Chapter 7

"It's my fault."

"How can you say that?"

"I gave it to him." Sylvie held the nebulizer cup as Neil wrapped a handkerchief around the salbutamol ampule, broke it and poured the contents into the nebulizer cup.

"Not deliberately."

"Of course not. I would never hurt him in a million years. But if I hadn't had asthma, neither would Oliver." Sylvie was sitting on the sofa with Oliver on her lap. She screwed the top on the cup and held the mask over Oliver's face as Neil turned the machine on. "You know, something just doesn't seem right. By the time I got asthma, I was old enough to use an inhaler, and I seem to remember it crept up on me slowly. With Oliver, his breathing seemed to be fine until that first sudden attack the day after his first birthday. It's strange."

"I know. I guess it's just part of the gamut of problems that come with his handicap, like the epilepsy. Anyway, Nigel will be here in a minute. Do you need me to get you anything before I go?"

"It's OK. I got the next round of food, drugs, and everything ready while he had his nap, and I've prepared the next enema."

"You're so organized."

"I have no choice. It's the only way to get through the day."

The doorbell rang, and Neil went to let Nigel in. Sylvie heard Neil run up the stairs. Nigel walked into the living room with nine-month-old Matthew on his hip. "He's just getting his stuff," said Nigel and he sat down on the sofa next to Sylvie with Matthew on his lap. Matthew immediately reached out to try to grab the mask covering Oliver's face. Although Oliver was a year older than Matthew, he was smaller. Matthew's flexible, chubby arms and legs contrasted horribly with Oliver's skinny, stiff ones.

"How are you doing, Sylvie?" Sylvie knew that when Nigel asked that question, he wasn't just being polite. He wanted an honest answer.

"I don't know," she said, "I feel like a zombie on groundhog day just going through the same routine again and again, ad infinitum."

Nigel put his hand on her shoulder, "You know Caroline and I will help as much as we can."

"Yes, but you have your own family to take care of."

Matthew was now trying to pull himself up into a standing position on Nigel's lap, and Nigel put his hands under Matthew's armpits to help him. Matthew giggled and chirped as he bounced up and down. As always, Sylvie could see the striking resemblance between Matthew and Nigel and therefore between Matthew and Neil. She knew it tormented her husband to see a happy, healthy baby who looked just like him while his own son suffered day and night.

Neil reappeared. He kissed Sylvie on the mouth and Oliver on the top of his head. Then he and his brother left. Sylvie began the next two hour round of food and drugs.

——————————

"I'll go," said Neil, flinging back the sheets.

It was two o'clock in the morning, and Oliver was screaming. Sylvie lay in bed trying to get back to sleep, but it was impossible while she could hear her little boy's cries of pain. After a few minutes she got up and staggered to Oliver's room.

"Go back, Honey. You're exhausted," said Neil.

"I've got to take a turn sometime. Perhaps he'll be OK if you turn him onto his other side."

"I've already tried that."

Oliver was lying on his bed, his skinny, little body stretched and arched, his eyes screwed up. His face was bright red, his arms rigid, his legs scissoring as they always did. His mouth was wide open as he screamed. Neil picked him up. "I'll walk him until he stops crying. You go back to bed."

"He's in so much pain, Neil."

"The doctors say it's not pain. It's just frustration because he can't move."

"They're wrong. It's pain. He's in horrible, unbearable, constant pain."

Neil didn't answer but walked out of the room carrying Oliver and headed for the stairs.

Sylvie went back to bed and eventually sheer exhaustion sent her to sleep.

——————————

The next morning Sylvie was sitting in the kitchen with Oliver on her lap, feeding him soggy, mashed Weetabix for breakfast. Neil staggered in, looking exhausted.

"We can't carry on like this, Neil. We need some help."

Neil plopped himself down on the chair next to Sylvie and said, "God knows we can't cope with this for long. He will help us."

"When? I don't feel like I can do another day."

Neil got up, left the room and came back with his Bible. He opened it and found the passage that he'd highlighted in yellow. "It says in one Peter five, versus ten to eleven, And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. To him be the power for ever and ever. Amen." He looked up. "Just a little while, Sylvie, just a little while."

——————————

"Just a little while," echoed Go-chee. He and Chee-oo had continued to watch every trial and every tear and would continue to do so.

"He'd get a more accurate picture if he read the King James and included the previous two verses," said Chee-oo.

"Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour," quoted Go-chee.

"Quite, they just don't appreciate the battle they're in. And the KJV doesn't say anything about a little while. They have quite a while to go yet."

——————————

On Oliver's second birthday, he was recovering from surgery to correct a malrotated gut.

By his third birthday, Sylvie and Neil had asked social services to find relief parents who could look after Oliver occasionally, but they couldn't find anybody who could cope with his many and varied needs.

By his fourth birthday, he was living at The Great Oaks Children's home during the week and coming home at weekends. Sylvie hated this arrangement, but she was totally burned out.

Oliver came home for his fifth birthday, but later in the day, he had a severe asthma attack and was rushed into the hospital.

On his sixth birthday, he was in the hospital recovering from dental surgery.

He spent his seventh and eighth birthdays in hospital due to severe asthma attacks.

On Oliver's ninth birthday, he was at home with his parents.

After Sylvie and Neil had completed Oliver's two-hour lunch routine, Sylvie realized they were running low on disposable nappies and asked Neil to nip back to the children's home and get some.

When he'd left, she played Andrew Lloyd Weber's "Pie Jesu" for Oliver. She was sitting holding him upright on her lap. He would no longer allow her to lean him up against her chest. He cried when she did it, and she assumed he was in pain in that position. This effectively meant she could never hug him the way she wanted to.

As always, when Oliver heard the music, his eyes widened, he smiled, and then he made sweet cooing sounds. She knew the music soothed him. She also knew the sound of her voice soothed him. Whenever possible she talked to him. The doctors said Oliver couldn't understand, but what did they know? The Bible says that nothing can separate us from the love of God, and Sylvie knew that included cerebral palsy. If she spoke to him with God's love, he would understand.

"You understand the lyrics, Sweetheart, don't you? You know that, one day, God will give us eternal rest. One day, he will wipe every tear from our eyes, and there will be no more pain. One day you and I will live in heaven. You will be able to run and talk like other children. We will be able to talk to each other, mother and son.

"I know you know I love you. And I know you love me. People can't understand that because they think people can only communicate with words. But we know better. We're locked together in suffering and nothing can break us apart. I will love you forever, my baby." She kissed him on his forehead.

His ninth birthday would be his last. 

# Chapter 8

"We are here to say goodbye to the bravest little boy who ever lived. The world threw the worst it had to offer at him. He fought and fought and fought until he could fight no more."

Neil was standing at the front of St John's church.

Sylvie stared at the little coffin next to her husband. There was a small spray of peach roses laid across it with the card she had written clearly displayed. It read, "See you later. Love Mum. xxxx" It seemed so wrong to her that she was letting her son lie alone in that cold wooden box. Her mother's instinct would not accept he could not stay in her arms forever.

"It's usual at this point to celebrate the life of the deceased, to remember their happy times and their achievements," continued Neil. "To be honest with you, it's difficult to find happy times in the midst of the streams of asthma attacks, epileptic fits, operations, and fittings for wheelchairs. So I'm going to concentrate on Oliver's achievements.

"My son never learned to walk or talk. He could never so much as sit up, or hold something in his hand, and many people would question whether he achieved anything. But my wife and I know better." He smiled at Sylvie, and she tried to smile back through the tears.

"The doctors always said Oliver didn't understand anything, but what they didn't know was that he was smart enough to spot a doctor at a hundred yards, and he was smart enough to know that a doctor meant trouble. It meant he was about to be pulled and prodded and stuck with needles. So, he shut down and didn't respond to them at all. They never saw him at his best. They never grasped that Oliver's understanding was simply a question of motivation. For example, no one who knew him would ever doubt he understood the word 'chocolate.'"

There was gentle laughter around the church. Nigel, who was sitting next to Sylvie, nodded in agreement.

Neil paused and waited for the laughter to stop. "Oliver also understood certain hymns. If he didn't understand the words, he certainly understood the spirit behind them. His favorite hymn was 'O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing.' He would look up and smile every time he heard the words 'Hear Him, ye deaf; His praise, ye dumb, Your loosened tongues employ; Ye blind, behold your Saviour come, And leap, ye lame, for joy.' He's leaping for joy right now."

Neil had stood strong and firm until those last words then his voice cracked, his head dropped, and he covered his face with his hand. For a few moments the church fell silent. Then Nigel stood up and handed his brother some tissues. Neil took them, wiped his eyes, and then steeled himself to continue.

"Oliver liked us to read the Bible to him, and he wasn't like the rest of us who pick and choose our favorite verses and ignore the rest. He responded with the same smile whether we read from Leviticus or from Matthew.

"Perhaps Oliver's greatest achievement was the effect he had on other people. He brought out the best in everybody he met. The most strong-willed, pig-headed, close-minded person would soften and then melt at the sight of Oliver's smile.

"Three months ago my wife said Oliver had told her he'd had enough. He couldn't take anymore. How did he tell her? I don't know. I've spent the last ten years marvelling at the unfathomable and unbreakable bond between my wife and my son. She and I prayed that God's will would be done. Four days ago God answered that prayer, and he took Oliver while he slept peacefully in his bed. His suffering is over.

"We want to thank the staff of Great Oaks Children's Home who cared for Oliver's daily needs in the last six years of his life. We want to thank the doctors and nurses who worked tirelessly to help our son. Most of all we want to thank our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. We cannot begin to understand why a loving, all-powerful God would allow a child to suffer every day for ten long years. All we know is that our precious son is now safe in the arms of Jesus where he will remain forever. For that we are eternally grateful."

# Chapter 9

Chee-oo and Go-chee watched with reverence.

"They've done well," said Chee-oo, "Their faith, more precious than gold, has increased through suffering, not decreased."

"Yes, but Sylvie has poured everything she has into her son. Her nutrition level is critically low. If they don't do something about it soon, Neil is going to lose his wife as well as his son," said Go-chee.

"I know. As soon as we can, we need to encourage her to start thinking about her own needs again."

"The good news is that the nutritional supplements she needs are nearly ready."

# Chapter 10

"You've got to move on, Sylvie. Life's a bitch. Just pick yourself up by the bootlaces and soldier on. That's all you can do." Gladys was pouring herself another cup of tea in Sylvie's living room.

"I can't," said Sylvie.

"You're not the first person to lose a child. My mother lost four before she had me. Have another baby if it will make you feel any better."

"I can't."

"I can't. I can't. I can't. OK, sit there and feel sorry for yourself; just don't expect me to sympathize."

Sylvie didn't have the energy to argue with her mother, and she knew Gladys would never understand why Sylvie could never, ever, ever in a million years forget her little boy's ten years of pain.

"Don't tell her to have another baby," said Joy. "We don't want to go through all that again."

Sylvie opened her mouth to question the use of the word "we," but she thought better of it. Joy had done very little to help while Oliver was alive.

"They just drew the short straw with Oliver. We don't know if it would happen again," said Gladys.

"I don't accept it was just bad luck. Something must have caused the brain damage," said Sylvie. "Neil and I are going for genetic counselling next week to try to find out what happened."

"So, you are thinking of having another," said Gladys.

"No, Mum. I'm so exhausted, I can't look after myself at the moment, never mind a baby."

"You've got to push yourself, like I do. I run four miles a day. Do some exercise. Using energy creates energy," said Joy.

I wish I had a pound for every time I'd heard that in my life, thought Sylvie. "Every morning I walk around the block. It takes four minutes, and it just about kills me. Just taking a shower in the morning seems to use about half my energy reserves for the day. It's nearly two o'clock in the afternoon now, and I'm spent."

"Oh, poor little Sylvie. There must be something you can do. What about poor Neil? Don't tell me he comes in from work and cooks your dinner."

Sylvie didn't answer. She didn't want to be reminded of the burden she was to her husband. She had married him because he said a husband should stand by his wife and children, no matter what. He had certainly been put to the test and had to match his words with action. She was a load around his neck, just like she'd been to her mother.

Joy looked at her watch, picked up the remote control, and turned the TV on. "Seb Coe's running," she said. Sylvie was glad. Her mum and sister could watch the race and stop asking her questions for a while.

"I don't know why you bother watching," said Gladys, "He always wins. Where's the excitement when you know who's going to win."

"He's just brilliant to watch," said Joy.

During the pre-match coverage, Sylvie closed her eyes and thought about the contrast between her athletic sister and herself. What makes one sibling so fit and healthy and the other so weak and feeble? There had to be an explanation.

When the race got underway, Sylvie allowed herself to be taken up with the cheers of the crowd and the excitement in the commentators' voices.

"Why don't they do something?" said Gladys, "They're just running in a bunch. Nobody's trying to win."

"It's a 1500-meter race, mother. They're pacing themselves. By the third lap they'll be jockeying for position."

Joy was right. On the third lap the athletes at the back of the pack started to push and shove in an effort to make their way to the front. The camera was focused on Seb Coe when another runner barged into him, and he tripped and fell.

A few choice words left Joy's lips as she gripped the sides of her head in frustration.

"Oh good," said Gladys, "That will make it more interesting."

"Shut up, mum," said Joy.

The TV was now showing the front runners again, and the commentators started to speculate who the winner might be now that Coe was out of it. Then with 200 meters to go, they spotted Seb Coe at the back of the pack. Where had he come from? Could he possibly win from that position? Surely, it would be the hardest possible way to win a race. On the last bend, Coe kicked into another gear, soared past the rest of the pack and won the race. They immediately showed the replay of the fall from another angle. Coe had lunged forward until his hands were on the ground. He's scrambled and scrambled and somehow managed to stay on his feet.

Joy was on her feet with her arms in the air, cheering.

Gladys was laughing and applauding.

Sylvie was crying.

"What on earth is up with you?" asked Joy.

"That's me," said Sylvie through the tears.

"What's you?"

"That's me. I'm going to be knocked out of the race, but I'm going to come back and win."

"What race? What are you talking about?

"I don't know, but God says that's what's going to happen."

Joy and Gladys looked at each other as if to say, "Here we go again with the God stuff."

"It's like the dream I had last night."

"What dream?"

Sylvie grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from the coffee table and drew a large dome-shaped hill with very steep sides. "I was climbing down the side of a very dangerous mountain. I was told in the dream I should stop because I had reached the lowest safe place." Sylvie marked the place where the mountain curved into a sheer drop, like the side of a cliff. "I looked out from the mountain to the surrounding countryside and was astonished by what I could see. Normally when you look into the distance, the farther away something is, the less clearly you can see it. But I could see for miles and miles in complete detail."

"And what does this have to do with the price of fish?" asked Gladys.

"Something dangerous is going to happen, but because of it I will understand something. I will be able to see it clearly."

"What?"

"I don't know."

"And you're going to achieve this by sitting on your bum, waiting for a miracle?" said Joy.

"You don't know what it's like." Sylvie was now losing her cool. "Every afternoon I start having a terrible stomach ache that lasts until the following morning and keeps me awake most of the night. I'm exhausted. I can't do anything."

"So, why don't you go to the doctor's? We all know what you thought about the doctors when Oliver was born, but you can't stay away from them forever."

"I've been to the doctor's again and again and again. She's sent me to every specialist she can think of. She's done every test she can think of. Last time I went she sat there, and actually said, 'I'm sorry. I don't know what else to try.'"

"You'll just have to help yourself, then."

"How? Tell me how, and I'll do it."

"If you've got stomach ache all the time, you're obviously eating something that doesn't agree with you."

"Surely, it can't be anything that simple. The doctors never seemed to think so."

"Well, you're normally the first to say doctors don't know everything, right?"

"I can't think what it would be. The only mention doctors make about food is telling me to eat more bran to help the constipation."

"Why don't you go down the bookshop? Maybe there'll be some self-help books on the subject."

"You think there might be a book that has the answer when not one of the specialists in the whole of the north of England can help?"

"It's worth a try. At least you'd be getting off your backside and doing something. Go on, get down there."

"OK. I'll go tomorrow morning. I've already used up today's energy."

"Doing what?"

"Making this cup of tea and drawing that picture."

——————————

"OK, Pa-gwe," said Joo-gy, "How are we going to keep her out of that bookshop?"

"I don't know, but we'd better come up with a plan pretty quickly."

# Chapter 11

"I was going to go to the bookshop, but I don't think I feel up to it."

"That's OK. Just take it easy. You don't want to overstrain yourself." Neil picked up the breakfast tray. "I've got to dash, or I'll be late. Bye, Honey."

"See you later." Sylvie sat in the bed and considered her next move. Neil was right, and he had every reason to suggest she not overdo it. He was the one who had to cope with her ups and downs. Maybe she would just slob out.

On the other hand, if she got to the end of yet another unproductive day, she would hate herself as usual. She did a stocktake on her energy levels. She didn't have to make breakfast because Neil (bless him) had made it for her. If she skipped having a shower and stuck her woolly bobble hat over her dirty, greasy hair, maybe she could go.

The bookshop was about half a mile away. She could maybe walk it in twenty minutes. If she spent twenty minutes in the bookshop then walked home she would be on her feet for an hour. That was more than she could do.

She could go to the bookshop, and then go have a cup of tea in the café next door so that she could rest for thirty minutes before coming home. But then the whole trip would take an hour and a half.

Of course, there was always the bus, but it was very unreliable. She could stand and wait in the cold for half an hour, and it still wouldn't come.

She couldn't find a way to do it. She would just stay in bed.

But she could spend the rest of her life sitting in bed. What was the point of that? She was thirty-three years old. The past thirty-three years had been pretty grotty. What if the next thirty-three years were going to be even worse? She must not allow herself to start thinking like that, or she would think about Oliver and get really depressed again.

Even if she somehow got herself to the bookshop, there was no guarantee she would find anything helpful. She would probably exhaust herself for nothing. Then she would be even more frustrated and more depressed.

Lord, I don't know what to do. Please help me. She picked up her Bible and opened it. It fell open at Matthew 7, and her eyes fell on the passage she had highlighted in pink: Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.

She made herself throw aside the covers and stagger out of bed.

——————————

Sylvie's resolve held long enough for her to put on some clothes, followed by her duffle coat and woolly hat, scarf, and gloves, pick up her bag, and walk out the door.

The wind was biting. She had always felt the cold more than other people, and any particularly nasty gust of wind could take her breath away and trigger an asthma attack. The bus stop wasn't well sheltered. There had been letters of complaint about it in the local paper. Maybe she could sit on the wall outside of her house, sheltered by nearby trees, and run to the bus stop when she saw the bus come round the corner. But running was never a good idea, especially in a cold wind. So, she walked to the bus stop and huddled against the back wall, trying to keep warm.

Twenty minutes later she was still there. It was no use; she would have to turn back and go home. How frustrating! She's started to walk, promising herself a nice cup of hot tea to warm her up.

Then a blue car pulled up in front of her. The window wound down, and a familiar face appeared. "Can I give you a lift somewhere?" It was Mrs. Bluestone from the church.

"I was going to the Waterstones, but the bus didn't come."

"Hop in. I'm going to Sainsbury's. I can drop you off and then pick you back up on the way home."

Sylvie got into the front passenger seat with mixed feelings. Mrs. Bluestone was a kind and helpful woman. At times, however, she could be very pushy and stroppy. Sylvie didn't like putting herself in Mrs. B's (as she was known in the church) control. Sylvie had already used up half her energy reserves for the day. Nobody in her life except Neil understood her problem.

"So, are you looking for any book in particular?" asked Mrs. B.

"My sister suggested it might be a food allergy causing my stomach pain and lack of energy."

"I know exactly what to do for the energy problem," said Mrs. B enthusiastically. "What you need is some ginseng. Korean is the best. They sell it at that little health food shop next to the bank. I'll take you there right now."

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. B, but I'd really rather go straight to the bookshop."

"No, no, I insist. It won't take long, and you won't regret it, I promise you."

"Thank you, but I don't have much time. I really need to be back home in about an hour." This wasn't really true, but the truth took too long to explain and was rarely understood anyway.

"Are you sure? Oh well, I'll get you some next time I'm in there and give it to you when I see you on Sunday."

They pulled up outside Waterstones.

"I'll be back in about twenty minutes. Will that give you enough time?" asked Mrs. B.

"That'll be perfect. See you later."

Sylvie walked into Waterstones and headed for the section on health. She found herself facing shelf upon shelf of books on everything from Weight Watchers to low cholesterol diets to positive thinking to weight lifting to the healing effects of laughter.

"Can I help you?" A girl with a pink Alice band holding back her long, brown hair stood behind Sylvie smiling.

"I'm looking for something about foods that can cause digestion problems and low energy."

"With those symptoms what you really want is a book on yoga. I do it three times a week. It helps with sleep and energy and sex drive and everything. You'd be amazed." As she said this, she pulled several books out of the shelves and piled them up in Sylvie's arms.

"No, I'm really not interested in yoga," said Sylvie, although she knew Neil would appreciate it if her sex drive improved.

"Are you sure? You shouldn't knock it until you've tried it."

"I'm sure. I'm really thinking more about foods that could be causing the problem."

She put the yoga books back on the shelves looking disgruntled. "Well, we have a number of books on the Mediterranean Diet and the Raw Food Diet. How about juicing? Or there's this book written by a psychologist"—she got a large, hard back book down from the top shelf—"who says that digestion and sleep problems are caused by trauma. Have you by any chance suffered a loss recently?"

"No," lied Sylvie. There was no way she was going there. "Really, I don't think there's anything here that interests me." She turned to leave. Fifteen of the allotted twenty minutes had passed. She would wait just inside the main entrance and look out for Mrs. B's car.

As she was standing there, an older-looking assistant approached her. Sylvie noticed that she was wearing an Ichthus necklace. "Did you find what you wanted?"

"No, I didn't, actually. I'm just waiting for my lift home."

"Would you like to tell me what you were looking for? Maybe I can order something for you."

Sylvie really didn't want to go into it all again, but she thought she might as well since she was just standing there waiting. "I was looking for a book that could tell me if anything I'm eating is causing stomach pain and fatigue."

"Please wait a moment." Sylvie watched as the assistant walked back to the health section, pulled a book off the shelf and walked back.

"This is it," she said and handed Sylvie a small, paperback book with a picture of various kinds of bread on the front. The title read, The Exclusion Diet: Finding the Food You Like That Doesn't Like You.

——————————

"If she reads that book and applies it, we're half way there," said Chee-oo.

"And the nutritional supplements she needs will be available in a few weeks. She's about to find out what health feels like for the first time in her life," said Go-chee.

"That will be a beautiful, glorious thing to see, a follower of our Lord experiencing the vitality and life he has decreed for all his people."

# Chapter 12

"I have good news for you."

Sylvie was sceptical at the genetic counsellor's joyful pronouncement. What possible good news could there be? Her precious son had suffered for ten years and then died. She wanted to know why.

Neil, however, reached out and took her hand and smiled. He seemed to accept that the doctor had something good to tell them.

"I've carefully reviewed your health history questionnaires," continued the doctor. "Thank you for taking the time to complete them so thoroughly. I've also analysed your test results including your ECGs. Neither of you has any sign of heart trouble. I have found nothing to indicate there was a hereditary cause to your son's disability, and therefore I have no reason to expect the problem to recur in a second child."

"So, why did it happen?" asked Sylvie.

"Pardon?"

"If there was no hereditary cause, why was Oliver handicapped?"

"These things just happen occasionally. It was one of those lamentable mischances that life throws at us now and then."

"In other words, you don't know."

Neil shuffled in his seat. The counsellor looked slightly embarrassed, but he smiled and continued, "There are many things about genetics that are not yet fully understood."

"So, you're saying it was a genetic problem?"

"Probably."

"If it had a genetic cause, how can you say the problem won't recur?"

"We have no reason to think it will."

"Yes, you said that, but what are you basing that on if, by your own admission, you don't know what actually caused the problem."

"With my clinical experience and knowledge, I think a recurrence is unlikely."

"It's your best guess?"

The doctor hesitated as if he were considering the advisability of his next statement. "Looking at your records, the pregnancy seems to have proceeded normally until about twenty-eight weeks, and then you had a severe asthma attack."

"So, now you're saying the asthma caused it? In that case, my asthma could cause the same thing to happen again, couldn't it?"

"Before proceeding with a second pregnancy, I would advise you to see an obstetrician and discuss your options for better management of asthma during pregnancy."

"So, the problem with Oliver occurred because my asthma wasn't properly managed?"

"I didn't say that."

"I want to know what happened."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Keighley, I can't tell you that."

Sylvie stood up to leave, but Neil gently held her arm to persuade her to wait. He asked, "Doctor, have you ever seen Oliver's level of handicap occur more than once in a family?"

"Not without detectable genetic markers, no."

"Thank you very much for your help, Doctor." Neil stood and shook the doctor's hand.

"You're very welcome. I wish you all the best with whatever you decide to do."

——————————

Sylvie and Neil walked in silence back to their car. Once inside, Neil put his arm around his wife and said, "Honey, he's right; this is good news. We're in the clear. They can't find anything wrong with either of us. When you're feeling better, we could try for another baby. I'm sure having another child would help you get over Oliver."

As always, Sylvie knew Neil's heart and that he was trying to help, but even so uncontrollable anger rose inside her. "We could never replace Oliver."

"I'm not talking about replacing him, but we have to move on sometime. From what we've heard today, we can be optimistic about the future."

"I'm sorry, Neil. I know you want another baby. I know you just want a normal life. I understand that. I want that too, but I simply can't let go until I know why it happened. There must have been a reason, and I've got to find it."

——————————

"I can poop."

"Congratulations. Let's get an ice cream," said Joy as she and Sylvie walked through the park in the warm spring air.

"I can't eat ice cream anymore," said Sylvie.

"Why not?"

"Because you were right."

"Can it be my baby sister is acknowledging I'm right about something?" Joy walked up to the ice cream stand. "I fancy a 99 Flake. How about you?"

"I told you, I can't."

"How come?"

"Because you were right. You said my problem could be something I was eating, and that I should go down the bookshop. Well, I bought a book that led me through an exclusion diet. It took weeks but now I know that my biggest problem is gluten."

"Is what?"

"Gluten. It's a protein found in wheat, barley, rye, and oats. I stopped eating gluten three weeks ago, and I feel good."

"You mean you can make a cup of tea now without exhausting yourself? I wondered how we'd escaped your kitchen today and made it all the way to the park." She handed her money to the assistant at the stand and received her ice cream.

"The stomach ache's gone," said Sylvie. "What's more, I've discovered there's a link between gluten and asthma."

"Do you mean, if you hadn't eaten bread when we were kids, we could have avoided all those mad dashes to the hospital in the middle of the night?"

"Maybe, but more importantly, what about Oliver? Maybe my gluten intolerance caused the asthma that caused Oliver's handicap. If I had known—

"If 'ifs' and 'ands' were pots and pans—"

"If I had known, maybe it wouldn't have happened."

"You can't turn the clock back, Sylvie. If you're feeling better, and you think you can avoid another Oliver, maybe you can give your long-suffering husband another baby."

Sylvie felt the pang of guilt she always felt when reminded of Neil's patience and his desire for another child.

"But why didn't the doctors tell us about gluten?" continued Sylvie.

"Maybe they've only just discovered the connection with asthma," said Joy as she used her finger to catch the melted ice cream that was dribbling down the cone.

"No. They knew about what they called 'Baker's Asthma' in 1700. That's nearly three hundred years ago. But during the past thirty-three years, no doctor has ever mentioned it to me. They just told me to eat more bran for the constipation. Wheat bran. The worst thing I could do."

"So, your latest theory is that the doctors caused Oliver's handicap because they never told you gluten was causing your asthma."

"Maybe." They stopped at the edge of the park and prepared to go their separate ways.

"But your asthma wasn't a problem right at the end of the pregnancy when everything went pear shaped, was it?"

"No. The last attack was two weeks earlier. They gave me an injection of Chonsicalline at the hospital, and it stopped it."

"Maybe the injection caused the handicap."

"I doubt it. When I came out of the hospital that last time, we were fine. My breathing was good, and Oliver was kicking normally."

"All the same, it might be worth checking it out."

——————————

Sylvie wasn't sure whether she should pursue this. If the Chonsicalline had caused the handicap, the doctors would have known, surely. Why would they have sent her and Neil to genetic counselling? It didn't make sense. On the other hand, even if there was just a very small chance that the Chonsicalline had contributed to Oliver's suffering, she wanted to know. Maybe she should talk to Neil about it. But she knew what he would say. He would tell her not to stress herself out about it. Be still and know that God is God.

If she decided she wanted to find out more about Chonsicalline, who could she ask? In the end she decided to go to the local chemist's. The pharmacist there was always helpful. It wouldn't be a big deal. Sylvie would just ask if Chonsicalline was safe in pregnancy. The pharmacist would reassure her, and then she could forget about it.

# Chapter 13

Sylvie spent ten minutes in the queue, waiting to speak to the chemist. As she was waiting, she picked up a bottle of 100 paracetamol and paid the assistant for it. It helped with the occasional headaches she had. She kept looking at her watch and wondering if it was really worth the wait. But she was here now. She might as well wait a bit longer and get her questions answered.

The pharmacist came through from the back of the shop and called, "Sally Partridge."

A little girl of about seven years old stepped forward with her mother.

"Remember, the Becotide inhaler should be taken regularly regardless of symptoms," said the chemist to the mother. "The Ventolin is only used when your daughter has breathing difficulties."

"Yes, we know. We've had them before," said the woman as she took the paper package from the chemist, put it in her shopping back and started to lead her daughter out of the shop.

The pharmacist turned her attention to Sylvie.

"Excuse me a moment," said Sylvie and she followed the mother and child. She knew she was losing her place in the queue, but there was no way she could let that mother leave without speaking to her.

"May I talk to you for a moment?" she asked the woman as they both stepped outside.

"What is it?" said the mother, looking at her watch.

"Forgive me for interfering, but I understand your daughter has asthma. I used to have the same problem, but I've found something that helps, and I would like to tell you about it."

"Are you a salesperson?"

"No," said Sylvie with a half laugh. "I'm not selling anything. I just want to suggest that you try putting your daughter on a gluten-free diet."

"A what?"

"It means you stop eating wheat, barley, rye, and oats."

"But wheat is good for you, and we eat only organic, whole wheat bread." She looked at her watch again. She seemed to be torn. She was obviously in a hurry, but what mother would not want to know if there was something to help her child?

"We obviously don't have time to go into now, but I highly recommend that you read a book called The Exclusion Diet. You can get it in Waterstones."

"The Exclusion Diet? OK. I'll check it out. Must dash." She rushed away with her daughter trying to keep up behind her.

——————————

Fifteen minutes later Sylvie had finally made her way back to the front of the queue.

"I'd just like your opinion as to whether Chonsicalline is safe in pregnancy," Sylvie began.

"Why don't you ask your doctor? He or she can best advise you about that because they know the full details of your pregnancy."

"I'm not pregnant. It's just a hypothetical question."

The chemist looked suspicious. She hesitated but then went to the back of the shop and returned to the counter carrying a large handbook of some kind. She shuffled the pages and read in a matter-of-fact voice, "Chonsicalline should only be used in pregnancy when all other options have been ruled out, and the prescribing doctor considers that the risk of administering the drug is less than the risk of not doing so."

Sylvie felt the color drain from her face. This was not what she'd expected to hear. This wasn't the quick reassurance she was hoping for. For a moment she was speechless as a thousand questions raced through her mind. When all other options have been ruled out. She didn't recall being given any other treatment at the hospital except the Chonsicalline. The doctor certainly hadn't discussed options with them. And if there are such important guidelines for administering the drug, who checks that the doctors are following them?

"Does that refer to pills or injections or both?"

"I would think administering Chonsicalline intravenously during pregnancy would be rare."

Sylvie guessed that the expression on her face gave away her surprise at hearing this because the chemist seemed to try to backpedal. "You say this is a hypothetical situation, but you must have a reason for asking."

Sylvie ignored this. "Does that book tell you anything about research that has been done on Chonsicalline in pregnancy?"

"Yes," said the chemist.

"And?"

The chemist was now looking very uncomfortable. "Who is your doctor?"

"What has that got to do with research on Chonsicalline? As a consumer, don't I have the right to know about drugs that I might be given?"

The pharmacist didn't answer, but instead read quickly from her handbook. "Animal studies have suggested possible teratogenicity and embryolethality, but it is not thought that—"

"Hang on. Hang on. Em-bry-o-le-thal-it-y. That sounds like the babies die."

"In animal studies, yes, but—"

"And what was the other word?"

"Teratogenicity."

"Which means?"

"The offspring are born with deformities, but that's in animal studies."

"So, what happened in the human studies?"

Again, the chemist hesitated uncomfortably. "There haven't been any comparative human studies."

For a moment Sylvie just stood there with her mouth open. Surely she had misheard. "Let me get this straight. The animal studies show the babies can die or be born with deformities, but they haven't checked to see if that can happen in humans?"

The chemist seemed to have no answer to that. By now Sylvie could hear the people behind her in the queue whispering and getting restless, but she didn't care. "Have babies died or been born with deformities after the mother was given Chonsicalline?"

"I don't have that information. You would need to contact the manufacturer."

"And you think the manufacturer would tell me if their drugs are dangerous? What about lawsuits? Have there been any lawsuits against the manufacturers?"

"I don't know."

"But drugs are your life. You must know how to find out."

The pharmacist sighed. She seemed resigned now to the fact that Sylvie was not going to go away until she had received the information she came for. "I'll make a phone call." She disappeared through a door at the back of the shop.

Sylvie turned and smiled apologetically at the people behind her. An elderly man glared at her through thick glasses. She turned back around and watched the door waiting to see the chemist reappear. She seemed to be gone a long time, but maybe it was only a few minutes.

Finally, the door opened and the pharmacist said, "Please could you step into the office for a moment."

Sylvie walked around the counter and through the door. The chemist closed it behind her. "I'm going to tell you exactly what I've just heard." She related the conversation she had just had on the phone, and Sylvie listened in horror.

Then the world stopped turning.

# Chapter 14

It was all her fault.

She could remember the doctor giving her the Chonsicalline. Neil had tried to hold her back. He questioned the doctor. He asked for assurances. Sylvie was the one who insisted on having the shot. She had acted out of fear and for her own comfort. She caused her son ten long years of pain. How could she ever live with herself? How could she ever look her husband in the eye and tell him she was the one who killed their baby. She couldn't. She wouldn't.

She went home and wrote Neil a simple note.

Dear Neil

I went to the chemist's today to ask about the Chonsicalline. The manufacturers have been sued several times because the drug has been shown to cause tachycardia and brain damage in neonates. So now I know it was all my fault.

I know what I'm about to do will cause you even more pain. I'm so sorry, My Love. You are the best husband and father in the world. You're still young. You always told me I had to move on after Oliver. Now it's my turn to tell you—you have to move on when I'm gone. I hope you can find someone who will make you a far better wife than I ever could. And I hope you have beautiful, healthy children together.

I have to go see Oliver now, so I can tell him how sorry I am.

I will love you forever,

Sylvie

She folded the note and wrote Neil's name on it, then left it on the kitchen table. She poured herself a glass of water, took the bottle of paracetamol out of her bag, and walked up the stairs to the bedroom.

——————————

"Isn't it wonderful when they do our job for us?" Pa-gwe said to Joo-gy as they walked towards the house. They were stopped in their tracks as Chee-oo and Go-chee appeared in front of them.

"Get out of the way," snarled Joo-gy, "You have no grounds to stop us. We've got her. She's drowning in guilt and despair. It's taken us thirty-three years to get her to this point, and you can't save her now."

Chee-oo simply and calmly responded, "She's praying."

"What?" said Joo-gy, and all four angels looked up at the bedroom window.

——————————

"Lord, I know this is wrong. I'm sorry. Please understand. I can't face one more day in this horrible, ugly, dirty world full of pain and anguish. I realize I'm jumping the queue. I long for You to wipe away every tear from my eyes, and to be in a place with no sorrow or crying or pain. I'm going to do this, but even at this moment, I'm scared to take myself out of Your will. So I pray that Your will be done, and I put myself into Your hands. Forgive me." Sylvie opened the bottle of paracetamol and began to take them, one at a time.

——————————

"Can you cover my class? I have a family emergency."

"What family emergency?"

"I don't know." Neil grabbed his coat and headed out of the staff room.

"You're not making any sense," his colleague called out after him.

"I know," Neil shouted back. He couldn't explain it to himself, so how was he going to explain it to anybody else? He had been sitting marking exercise books when he just suddenly, irrationally knew that something was wrong, and he had to go home immediately. His first thought was simply to phone home, but he wasn't comfortable with that. It would be a waste of time. He had to get in his car, right now.

He had obeyed the instinct, but during the ten-minute drive, he started to feel like an idiot. He had acted so out of character. He, Neil Keighley, was the epitome of reliability. He did not just vanish and dump his work on a bewildered colleague.

He ran through the front door and called Sylvie's name. There was no answer. Then he saw the note. For ten full seconds after reading it, he just stood frozen with his mouth open, not able to think or move. Then he heard retching sounds coming from the bathroom. He shook his head to bring himself out of his stupor and then ran up the stairs taking three at a time.

Sylvie was kneeling in front of the toilet bowl, throwing up violently. "What happened? Did you take something? Sylvie, please tell me." But she couldn't speak. He walked into the bedroom and saw the bottle of paracetamol.

"Did you take these?" he asked walking back into the bathroom. Sylvie nodded as she sat back against the wall and wiped her mouth with toilet paper.

"How many?"

"Eighty-five," she said weakly, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, my God." He ran back into the bedroom, picked up the receiver and dialled 999. "My wife has taken an overdose of eighty-five paracetamol. Please help." He struggled to keep his mind clear and his voice steady as he gave his name and address.

"The ambulance is on its way. We need to try to get you downstairs, Honey. Can you stand?" Sylvie tried to stand, but her legs were shaky. Neil helped her and half carried her down the stairs. She slumped to the floor by the front door. Neil unlocked the door so that the paramedics could come straight in. Then he remembered he'd been told to bring the paracetamol bottle, so he ran upstairs to get it.

Finally, he sat on the floor next to Sylvie, put his arm around her and wept.

——————————

Having her stomach pumped was one of the worst experiences of Sylvie's life. She was told to swallow the plastic tube that was put into her mouth, but it made her gag, and she fought and fought the nurses until a young, blonde nurse with blue eye shadow leaned over and said unkindly, "If you keep fighting us, we will just keep fighting back until we win. Let's just get it over with, shall we?" So Sylvie yielded. She felt like she would choke to death as the tube was fed down into her stomach.

By the time she was wheeled onto the ward, she had fully gotten the message that people who take overdoses were considered to be stupid nuisances who take up the medical staff's precious time and energy when they should be concentrating on more worthy patients. She responded with ambivalence to their disdain. On the one hand, she deserved it. She had failed in her sacred responsibility as a mother to protect her child. She merited all the contempt they could throw at her. On the other hand, hadn't their mistakes, the failings of the medical profession, contributed to her wish to die?

She had wanted to die, to block out the pain. But here she was, still alive, still having to endure the agony of her own thoughts, still being tortured by a million unanswerable questions. And now, in addition, she had to face the pain she was causing her beloved Neil. He had stayed by her side, holding her hand. They had hardly spoken. What could they say to each other?

A tall, young doctor walked in and examined the IV drip attached to Sylvie's arm.

"Is she going to be all right?" Neil asked

"She takes eighty-five paracetamol, and you expect her to be all right, do you?"

"She vomited shortly after taking them, and she's had her stomach pumped."

"Yes, and fortunately for her, there's an effective antidote for paracetamol." The doctor then proceeded to tell them what drugs do not have effective antidotes.

Sylvie was irritated that, in the midst of their suffering, the doctor just seemed to want to impress them with his knowledge. She said, "Thanks for the information. I'm sorry I got the wrong drug this time. I promise to do a better job next time." She immediately regretted saying it. The sarcasm was lost on the doctor, but the lines of strain in Neil's forehead deepened.

"So, we're in the clear?" said Neil to the doctor.

"We won't know that for a while. With paracetamol overdoses, the patient can seem to be doing well and then drop dead from A.L.F. a few days later."

"A.L.F.?"

"Acute liver failure. If you ask me, paracetamol shouldn't be available in such large quantities."

At that moment a nurse walked in and handed the doctor a piece of paper. "Lab results," she said as she hurried out again.

The doctor looked at the paper then said, "Not again."

"What is it?" asked Neil.

"The lab's screwed up again. They don't seem to appreciate the importance of decimal places. If your wife had this amount of paracetamol in her blood, she'd be dead." He rolled his eyes, heaved a big sigh and left, presumably on his way to rebuke the incompetent lab technicians.

Neil turned to Sylvie and said, "Can we talk?"

She nodded. Immediately tears started to stream down her face. She couldn't look at him.

Neil began slowly and compassionately. "Please help me understand, Honey. If I understand correctly, you now think a drug killed our son. But your response is to try to kill yourself with a drug. It doesn't make sense. And in doing so you've put yourself back into the hands of the people you seem to hate."

"I wasn't supposed to be here. I was supposed to be dead."

Neil picked up her hand in both of his and began to rub it gently. "You've always told me I'm a wonderful husband because I'm committed to standing by you through everything. Doesn't it work the other way around? Don't you realize I need you to stay with me, too?"

"I'm no use to you."

"I think I should be the judge of that."

"I can't live with the knowledge that our baby suffered for ten years and then died because I allowed a doctor to stick a needle in my arm."

"We don't know for sure that was the cause."

"No we don't. There were other factor like my asthma, but why were we never told the drug was so dangerous?"

"The doctor said the asthma was also dangerous, and he was weighing risks. He had a difficult decision to make."

"OK, but when Oliver was found to be severely handicapped, why wasn't the Chonsicalline even mentioned as a possible contributing factor?"

"Maybe it was a lack of communication. The injection was given on the general ward. Oliver was born on the maternity ward. His handicap manifested later on the children's ward."

"The medical notes were passed on, weren't they?"

"I guess doctors are too busy to read them."

"I can't believe nobody knew. But either way, something's very wrong. If they didn't know, the whole system is inefficient and dangerous. If they did know, why did they send us for genetic counselling? Was it because they wanted to blame it on us, on our genes? Or was it a diversion to stop us from suing them? They're either totally incompetent, or they're criminal." By this time she was sobbing.

"Sylvie, Sylvie, come on. You think God would allow Oliver to suffer like that just because of medical incompetence?"

"Is it better to think God allowed him to suffer because of some random misfortune?"

"The bottom line is we don't know, and we will never know this side of heaven."

"I can't accept that. I have to know. And maybe God wants us to know. Jesus healed the sick. He wants his disciples to be healthy. So why aren't we? What are we missing? If we had known about the connection between gluten and asthma before I got pregnant, maybe none of this would have happened. Perhaps there are other things we just don't know. Maybe we've been so taken up with the wonderful, modern medical system, we've missed something."

"Please calm down, Honey. You're physically and emotionally traumatized. Let's talk about this when you're more settled."

"You mean when we're sure I'm not going to drop dead from liver failure."

Neil hung his head and wiped a tear away from his cheek.

Sylvie lowered her voice and stroked the back of Neil's head. "I think I'm going to live, Neil, because, when I started throwing up, I asked God what he was doing to me, and he said he was saving my life. And if I do live, I'm going to spend the rest of my life finding the truth about health, God help me. I have to know for sure if Oliver's suffering could have been avoided."

——————————

"This changes everything," said Chee-oo. "She will survive, but we can't lead her to the answer just yet."

"Why not?" said Go-chee, "We've been working on getting the nutrition to her for over thirty years, and it's now ready and available."

"She wants to know the truth."

"She will know the truth when she takes the products and feels her strength come back."

"No. That's not enough. Not for her. She needs to experience what Oliver experienced. She needs to know what it is to live in a crippled body, racked with pain and barely able to move. When she gets to that point, we will guide her to the products, and she will feel her body rebuild itself. Then, and only then, will she truly understand."

### BOOK 3

# Chapter 1

Twenty years later

"What do the doctors say?" asked Joy.

Neil answered for Sylvie. "She doesn't know. She refuses to go."

Joy threw her hands up in apparent exasperation, and said to Sylvie, "Don't be ridiculous. Look at the state of you. You're what, fifty-three? You look about seventy."

Sylvie grasped the arms of her high backed chair and pushed with her right leg to press her back into the pillow behind her, but it slipped. Without saying anything Neil stood up from the sofa and adjusted the pillow into what he knew was just the right position. She thanked him.

Sylvie didn't know what to say to her sister. She hadn't seen her since their mother died four years earlier, and she and Neil had moved to Cowforth. Sylvie had not been looking forward to Joy's visit. She knew that as soon as Joy saw her dilapidated body, conflict would be inevitable.

"I know I have the world's most stubborn sister, but even you must realize you have no choice but to go to a doctor," continued Joy.

"I do have a choice," said Sylvie quietly.

"Yeah, your choice is to get medical help or expect your poor, long-suffering husband to nurse you until you die."

Ouch! Joy had wasted no time in digging in the knife where it hurt most.

Joy turned to Neil. "Why don't you leave her? You'd be doing her a favor. She'd have to come to her senses then."

Neil was leaning forward on the sofa, his hands clasped in front of him, staring at the carpet. He sat up and ran his hand through his now grey hair, and simply said, "For better, for worse. In sickness and in health."

"You're a saint, do you know that? You're unbelievable. I don't think you're human. Maybe you're an alien, and you're just pretending to be a deputy headmaster."

Neil gave a wry smile then stared at the carpet again. "My father taught me that a true man stands by his family whatever happens. Your father abandoned you when Sylvie was two years old because of her ill health. I promised I would never do that." There was a look of resignation on his face. Sylvie knew all too well that, after thirty-one years of marriage, the deep layers of love and passion with which her wonderful husband had tirelessly supported her and Oliver, had worn away, and he was left with only a dry, hard sense of duty to motivate him. She loved him for his dedication, but she missed the warmth and affection of the man who believed he could change the world in the name of his Saviour. She wanted to give him what he deserved, a beautiful, vivacious wife who could stand by his side, fulfil his needs, and support his goals in life. That was now impossible. She could no longer even fulfil his needs in bed. By this time she could not turn out her left leg at all, and the whole of her pelvis area was in constant pain. Neil had accepted this graciously, as he did everything. But sometimes she almost wished he would lose it and shout at her, so she could at least assure herself he was still alive, and she hadn't destroyed him completely.

"Don't you want to know why I won't go to a doctor?" Sylvie asked Joy.

"I know why. Because of Oliver. The doctors made one mistake."

Sylvie opened her mouth to object, but Joy cut her off. "Yes, it was a terrible mistake, but why on earth would you be so pig-headed as to refuse help yourself thirty years later?"

"You're assuming doctors can help me."

"Of course they can."

"I don't believe that."

"Why don't you at least try?"

"You make it sound like I've never been to a doctor in my life."

"OK, when did you last go to a doctor?"

"Two years ago. A sleep clinic in Leeds. I had a polysomnogram."

"A what?"

"You sleep at the clinic, and they wire you up to all sorts of machines and record lots of stuff."

"And?"

"They said I was waking up nineteen times an hour. I had sleep apnea and periodic limb movement disorder. They gave me five different drugs."

"Which you refused to take, no doubt."

"I was desperate to get some sleep, so I took them. I was awake all that night having hallucinations, seeing demonic faces, and hearing voices."

"Is she for real?" Joy asked Neil. He didn't answer.

"I looked up the side effects of the drugs on the Internet," said Sylvie. "It said Valium was very addictive and should never be taken for more than four months. I've had insomnia for decades. Even if Valium worked, it could only have helped temporarily."

"But what's your alternative? There is none," said Joy.

"Yes there is. I was so desperate I asked God to show me an alternative or let me die. Then somebody from church gave me some lavender essential oil."

"What good was that?"

"When I inhaled the lavender, I went to sleep. I still couldn't stay asleep, but at least I could get to sleep."

Neil stood up and asked Joy, "Would you like some more tea?"

"No thanks, but have you got any biscuits?"

"This house is a gluten-free zone. How about a banana?"

"That'll do." She turned back to Sylvie as Neil left the room. "So, you can sleep. Great! And is lavender oil going to help you walk?

Sylvie didn't answer. She slowly leaned to the left so she could stretch her right leg out in front of her alongside her left one. Joy's eyes widened. "I didn't realize your left leg was so much shorter than your right."

"Yes, but that's not what I'm showing you. Look at the right knee."

"What about it?"

"Can't you see?"

Joy reached out her hand to touch Sylvie's knee then withdrew it again. "I forgot. If I touch it, it'll hurt, and you'll start ranting about how it was all my fault in the first place."

When Sylvie was twelve years old, Joy had fallen across Sylvie's leg while playing Twister. Sylvie's right knee had dislocated. As a result, the knee cap had been sitting up at a strange angle for thirty-nine years.

"These days you can touch my right knee. Just keep away from the left."

Joy ran her hand over Sylvie's right knee. "It's flat. Did you have surgery?"

"No way."

"So, what happened?"

Neil returned with a banana and a newspaper. "She rubbed essential oils on her knee twice a day for a month, and the knee cap snapped back into place," he said.

"Just by rubbing on oils? That's impossible."

"That's what happened," said Neil. Sylvie was glad he had said it and not her. She knew Joy would react more favorably to her brother in law than to her sister.

"Nice story," said Joy, "but hardly relevant to your current situation."

"The point is, the doctors were wrong, weren't they? They told me my right knee would get worse and worse until eventually I couldn't walk, and then I would need surgery. They never told me I could get a new knee for about twenty pounds worth of essential oils. The important thing is, God knew I was going to need that knee. Now my left leg's in big trouble. If my right knee hadn't been healed, I wouldn't be able to get up and down stairs. God helped me then, and he's going to help me now."

"She also got her color vision back in her right eye and her reading vision back in her left," said Neil, looking up from his newspaper. Sylvie knew he said this to steer the conversation away from the most contentious issue—God. Neil used to be the first person to talk about God, but these days he had mellowed, and keeping the peace was his priority.

"Yes," said Sylvie, "that happened when I was using essential oils, and I'd just had fourteen mercury amalgam fillings removed from my teeth."

"You went to a dentist, but you won't go to a doctor," said Joy.

"I went to a natural dentist. Afterwards, my hearing, eyesight, brainpower and gut all improved significantly. The neurologist had said I would never get my color vision back. He was wrong. Again and again and again and again the doctors are wrong, and there are natural cures available without resorting to drugs and surgery."

"But this is different," said Joy. "You're crippled. You're in big trouble—"

"Like I need reminding of that."

"—and maybe this time drugs and surgery are your only option." Joy moved forward to sit on the edge of the sofa, and Sylvie knew she was warming up for a good argument.

"I can't take drugs. I can barely tolerate food. And I wouldn't survive major surgery."

"So, you're going to do nothing. You're just going to sit there and rot. My little sister knows better than the whole wide world, and if she says the doctors can't help, the doctors can't help. Never mind that she hasn't even talked to them. Never mind that anybody else with an ounce of sense would have at least found out what the options are. No, my sister thinks all the millions of pounds spent developing drugs and surgical techniques, and building hospitals, and training nurses and doctors is money down the drain. A complete waste of time. They have nothing to—" Joy stopped and gasped, her hands over her mouth.

In sheer frustration, Sylvie had lifted her skirt up to show Joy her decrepit left thigh. It was noticeably thinner than the right. The skin was pale and hanging lose. It looked like her right thigh belonged on a sixty-year-old, and her left thigh belonged on a ninety-year-old.

"Check it out for yourself, Joy. With all the billions of pounds spent by the medical industry, they have no answer whatsoever for degenerated muscles. They could put me through a hundred major surgeries and replace every joint in my body, but I still wouldn't be able to walk because my muscles are dying. You know very well, I've had weak muscles all my life. Nothing has ever helped them." Sylvie raised her arms with difficulty and stretched her fingers to show Joy the tension and awkwardness in them. "Every muscle in my body has stiffened, and every movement is difficult."

Joy seemed to recover from the shock, "Then you need to be thinking about getting a wheelchair and finding a place in a home where you can have twenty-four hour care. Or do you expect Neil to do it?"

Sylvie didn't answer straight away. She hung her head and wiped a tear away from her eye. She knew her sister was right. Or, at least, she would be right if it wasn't for God.

"God's going to help me," Sylvie said quietly.

"God's going to help you?" asked Joy. "Sylvie, have you ever heard the word 'denial.'"

"I asked God to let me die, and he told me he was going to help me."

"What did you do? Call him on the phone? Can I have his number, please? There's a few things I'd like to say to him."

"I don't expect you to understand." Sylvie didn't expect her sister to understand, but she hoped her husband did. He had been the one who expected God to miraculously heal Oliver. When Oliver died, Neil didn't exactly lose his faith, but he kind of stopped being so vocal about it. These days, he didn't express his feelings about Sylvie's physical state. He just got on with doing what he had to do.

Joy answered, "I don't understand. For a start, how can you still believe in God? What has he ever done for you? Or do you think he had some mysterious, noble purpose in letting you be sick all your life and letting your little boy die?"

"What makes you think all that was God's fault?" asked Sylvie.

Joy adopted a soppy, sentimental voice, "God is all knowing and all powerful and all loving—"

"Please stop mocking the Lord," said Neil.

"—If you trusted him, and he didn't help Oliver, either he didn't know how, he didn't have the power, or he didn't care. Fault my logic if you can."

"It's not that simple," said Sylvie.

"Wake up," said Joy as she leaped up off the sofa. "Just look at you. What is it going to take for you to see there is no god? There's just us. We just have to take what we can from life." She turned to Neil, "Take my advice. If she won't accept help, and she keeps just expecting you to make her dinner and wash her knickers, then get out while you can, while you still have some life left to live." She picked up her bag and said, "I'll see myself out." She was gone.

Sylvie and Neil sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Sylvie said, "I need the toilet." Neil stood up and walked over to help her out of the chair.

"I know you've had no real life because of me," she said.

Neil didn't answer.

"Please don't leave me."

——————————

"It's time. We can't wait any longer," said Chee-oo to Go-chee. "Her bones are crumbling. The slightest slip, the slightest knock and something will break. She will have no choice but to submit to trauma care, and as she said herself, she would never survive major surgery."

# Chapter 2

Sylvie watched with interest as the newcomer stepped into Pastor David's sitting room. A university student, she guessed, a budding eccentric professor with round glasses and searching deep blue eyes.

"This is Joseph. He's joining our Bible Study today for the first time," said Pastor David.

"Hi, everybody," said Joseph brightly.

"Why don't you take a seat next to Neil and Sylvia?" said Pastor David.

Joseph took a heavy-looking backpack off his shoulder and plopped himself down in the seat next to Neil.

Neil and Joseph shook hands. "I'm Neil and this is my wife, Sylvie." Sylvie tried to reach past Neil to Joseph, who then realized her movement was restricted, and shuffled forward in his seat to reach her hand.

"Do you prefer Sylvie or Sylvia?" he asked.

"I'd like you to call me Sylvia," she replied.

"Interesting. So, only your husband is allowed to call you Sylvie. I will respect that."

"If only it were that simple," said Neil.

"Neil is the only person in this room who calls me Sylvie because he's the only one who has known me for more than twenty years," said Sylvie.

"So, I will be allowed to call you Sylvie in twenty years' time?" said Joseph.

Sylvie laughed. "No, you will never be able to call me Sylvie because I met you after the eighth of November, 1992. That was the day I changed my name from Sylvie back to Sylvia."

"Excuse me," said Neil standing up, "I think I'll help Jayne with the coffee."

Sylvie knew Neil didn't want to sit through the explanation of the name change for the umpteenth time. After twenty years, he wanted Sylvie to drop the subject, but she couldn't. She would never be able to as long as she drew breath.

"May I ask what happened on the eighth of November, 1992?" said Joseph.

"It was the day I discovered that a drug I was given in pregnancy could have contributed to my baby son's suffering and death. I felt like the whole world changed that day. I needed something to reflect that, so I changed my name."

Usually at this point in the conversation, the person Sylvie was talking to would look very uncomfortable and would either offer their condolences or change the subject. Joseph's response, however, shocked her.

"The medical profession got it wrong again, did they?"

Sylvie wanted very much to ask him more about this statement, but at that moment Pastor David called the meeting to order, and Neil returned to his seat.

"So Joseph, you've met my wife Jayne. This is Andrew, Dr. Pickup, and Ethel," said David as he indicated the people around the room. "Let's just open with a word of prayer."

As David prayed, Sylvie silently asked the Lord to give her some guidance about her health during the meeting. Joy's words were still ringing inside her head. Was she, Sylvie, actually in denial? Was she just sitting doing nothing, expecting Neil to run around after her, when she should be making plans for a future in a wheelchair? Had God really promised to help her, or was it just her own wishful thinking? She knew she would soon have no choice but to submit to medical care. Why was she stubbornly refusing it? If the Lord really wanted her to continue to say no, she had to know for sure he had spoken to her, and he had an answer that did not involve hospitals, drugs and surgery.

"We're going to talk about giving, today," said David passing some sheets of paper around the group.

"Church running a bit short, is it?" asked Andrew, taking a sheet from David.

"Not at all, it's the spiritual principle of generosity that we need to keep in mind," said David.

"Would anybody like more coffee before we start?" asked Jayne.

"She's always generous with the coffee, our Jayne," said Dr. Pickup, passing her his cup.

Joseph rummaged in his backpack and brought out the largest Bible Sylvie had ever seen.

"The Bible verses are written on the sheet," David pointed out to Joseph.

"I know, but I always like to check the context for myself," said Joseph.

"Good on you, young man. You'll go far," said Ethel.

"OK. Shall we start?" said David.

Sylvie couldn't help feeling disappointed with tonight's topic. Whatever David said about spiritual principles of generosity, she knew, as did everybody else, that the topic was discussed about once a year and was usually followed by an increase in the church offering. She stared down at the paper and started wondering at what point she should disturb the meeting and ask to be taken to the little boy's room. The meeting would last nearly two hours, and she couldn't go that long these days without needing to pee.

Sylvie was finding it difficult to concentrate on David's words, but she forced herself to tune in. "There is a clear imperative in Scripture to pass on the financial blessings that we have received from the Lord. As it says in Matthew chapter ten verse eight, 'Freely you have received. Freely give.'"

"But the context isn't about financial giving, is it?" said Joseph.

"Oh, we're going to have some fun, tonight," said Andrew, rubbing his hands together in apparent glee. "The new guy isn't afraid to argue with the pastor."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to be argumentative," said Joseph.

"That's OK, Joseph," said David, "Even if the context is different, the principle is the same."

"What is the context?" asked Sylvie.

Joseph read from his Bible, "' Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils: freely ye have received, freely give.'"

"The King James," said Ethel, "I said he'd go far, this one."

"Do you think demons still cause disease?" asked Sylvie.

"Well, that's way off topic for tonight, Sylvia. Maybe, we can address that another time," said David.

"Darling, I think we should talk about it if Sylvia wants to," said Jayne.

"OK," said David slowly. "What do people think about it?"

"I think we're well past the demon hypothesis of the cause of disease," said Dr. Pickup leaning forward in his chair, his beer belly sagging over his grey suit trousers.

"But Jesus said demons cause disease, and he's never wrong," said Sylvie.

Neil shuffled back in his seat, crossed his arms, and stared at the floor, a posture he often assumed these days when Sylvie started being contentious.

"Jesus had to use language the common people two thousand years ago would understand. He couldn't start talking about viruses and bacteria and genetics, could he?" asked Dr. Pickup.

"Then, why did he seem to think that some sick people had demons and some didn't?" asked Joseph.

"Is that really important?" asked David in a tone of voice that suggested Joseph was splitting hairs.

"It's important to me," said Sylvie, "I'm really sick. What if I have a demon?"

Everybody shuffled in their seats and made noises that indicated Sylvie was way off.

"Jesus loves you," said Jayne in a sweet voice, "You're a Christian. He wouldn't let you have a demon."

"The Bible doesn't say people are protected from demons just because Jesus loves them," said Joseph.

"Jesus' love is very wonderful and powerful," said Ethel.

"I'm not denying that, but what about everything the Bible says about spiritual warfare? The Devil is out to get us."

"I don't think we should talk too much about the Devil," said David, "It gives him credence."

"Jesus and Paul talked a lot about the Devil, and they warned us against his deceptive scheme," said Joseph.

For a moment it looked like the new guy was going to be at the center of an uncomfortable debate. But just then the door from the hall slowly creaked open, and the face of a little girl with tangled dirty blond hair appeared.

Jayne immediately stood up, "Kirsty, what are you doing out of bed?"

"I just wanted to show Sylvia my tutu," said Kirsty innocently.

She stepped into the room to reveal a pink ballet dress with a sequined bodice circled by a tulle skirt. She gracefully stretched out her arms and tiptoed towards Sylvie.

Sylvie was torn. She knew Kirsty was waiting to be told how beautiful she looked. She also knew Jayne would be wanting to get her back to bed as soon as possible. Kirsty's smile won the day.

"You look very pretty," said Sylvie.

"It's for my concert. You will come, won't you?" said Kirsty.

"When is it?" asked Sylvie.

Jayne replied, "It's not for another four weeks. We shouldn't have got her the dress so early." Taking Kirsty by the hand she said, "OK. Sylvia has seen your dress. Now let's get you back to bed."

"Maybe Sylvia needs my help to go to the toilet," said Kirsty, and she asked Sylvie, "Do you need to go?"

Sylvie wasn't embarrassed by this. Everybody knew she needed the bathroom every hour. There was no hiding the fact. Now that Kirsty had put the idea into her head, her sensation of needing to pee increased. "Well, actually . . ."

"Neil will help Sylvia while I take you back to bed," said Jayne.

Sylvie would have preferred for Kirsty to help her so that Neil could have a break. Kirsty was small, but she seemed to understand Sylvie's needs. Jayne led her protesting daughter away, and Neil helped Sylvie to her feet. Once Sylvie was standing there was a couple of minutes' pause while she straightened her back to the extent possible and waited for her left hip to straighten to the degree she could then get her weight on it without the pain being intolerable. During this time, as always, the need to urinate became urgent. When she was ready to move, people pushed back their chairs to leave a wide enough space for Sylvie and Neil to pass. Sylvie hated being such a bother to people. Ethel, who was twenty years older than Sylvie, didn't cause nearly as much of a disruption to Bible studies as Sylvie did.

When Sylvie and Neil returned, David had brought the subject of the meeting back around to financial giving. Andrew was speaking, "But the Bible doesn't say there's any virtue in being poor, does it? I mean, hard work is praised, right? The worker is worthy of his wages and all that."

"Yes, but business has to be done ethically and with integrity," said Neil sharply.

Andrew glared at him, "Are you suggesting my business isn't?"

"I didn't say that, but now you mention it, I think you're very pushy about the things you sell and a lot of it is overpriced rubbish, to be honest."

Everybody looked at Neil as if they'd never seen him before. Sylvie knew it wasn't like him to be so forthcoming about other people's faults, but she also knew he really didn't approve of Andrew's various network marketing companies. Neil was on a short fuse these days. Andrew sat back with his mouth open and ran his hands through his dyed, permed hair. Before he could speak, however, David interjected, "We're not here to criticize each other but to encourage each other to good works."

"Actually, it's not rubbish," said Andrew, "In fact, I've just received some excellent nutritional products that I think might really help Sylvia."

Sitting next to Andrew, Dr. Pickup said, "Really. I don't think vitamins are going to help her at this point."

"These products are excellent for bones and joints," said Andrew.

"I had a dog once," said Ethel, her wrinkled face lighting up in joyful reminiscence. There was a collective sigh around the room, but she was too deaf to hear it. People sat back in their chairs and resigned themselves to hearing yet another of Ethel's trivial stories. "His name was Henry, and he was an old English sheep dog. Beautiful dog. You couldn't have wished for a better companion. He was so smart, and he seemed to know how you were feeling." She looked away with a dreamy expression on her face.

"Very nice, Ethel, but what's that got to do with anything?" said Andrew.

"I'm trying to tell you. The vet wanted to put Henry down because he had arthritis in his hip."

"The vet or the dog?"

"The dog, of course. Anyway, we found this special powder stuff that you sprinkle on their food. I remember it was called Doggy Bone Builder."

"And?" said Andrew impatiently.

"And it cured Henry's arthritis. He could run like a pup again. You should have seen him chasing next door's tabby. Of course, he died of cancer two years later."

"That's a nice story," said Dr. Pickup, "but Sylvia is a human being, not a dog. Modern medicine now provides better options for human beings."

"Like drugs and surgery?" said Sylvie, "Maybe if nutrition works for dogs, I should give it a try."

"We've already tried it, haven't we?" said Neil.

"Maybe there's something new," said Sylvie.

"Believe me," said Dr. Pickup, "if vitamins and minerals worked, pharmaceutical companies would not be wasting billions of pounds developing new drugs and surgical techniques."

"Oh yes, they would," said Joseph, and he laughed. He hadn't spoken for several minutes, and now every head turned towards him. "But they're not wasting billions they're making billions. We're supposed to be talking about financial integrity this evening. Big Pharma don't know the meaning of the word."

"It's expensive to develop drugs for the benefit of mankind. Of course, the pharmaceutical companies should be compensated for their great work on our behalf. Look at the good they do."

"You're a retired GP, aren't you Dr. Pickup?" asked Joseph.

"I certainly am. I practiced for thirty-five years," he replied proudly.

"And, in those thirty-five years, how many people did you cure of chronic disease?"

Dr. Pickup hesitated, "I helped thousands of people."

"My question was, how many people did you cure?"

"You can't cure chronic disease, but you can manage the symptoms and delay deterioration."

David seemed to feel the need to interject once again and keep the peace. "Joseph, I don't know what you're getting at. Even if modern medicine can't actually cure disease, we are still very fortunate to have it. For centuries, people only had herbs and natural medicines, but finally God led scientists to discover a superior form of medicine."

"But is it superior?" asked Joseph.

"Of course it is; everybody knows that."

"People only believe that because it's what Rockefeller and Carnegie propaganda taught us. If you look at the history of modern medicine, you'll find that the big banking families used their money to promote so-called scientific medicine and to squeeze all forms of natural medicine out of the market."

"Why would they do that?" asked Sylvie.

"Well, for one thing, you can't patent a natural substance, so you can't monopolize the market for it and make billions of pounds. But you can patent a drug."

"This is an interesting discussion," said David, "but can we leave it for another time? We're supposed to be talking about spiritual issues this evening."

"Health is very much a spiritual issue," said Joseph. "In the Bible we see the kingdom of darkness seeking to kill, steal, and destroy while the kingdom of God seeks to heal and bring life. What's more, the modern word pharmacy comes from the Greek word pharmakeia, which is translated in the Bible as 'sorcery.'"

"What?" said Sylvie, but she was the only one who seemed to be amazed by what Joseph was telling them.

"So, you're trying to tell us that the pharmaceutical industry is of the Devil," said Dr. Pickup. He laughed loudly and looked around the room inviting others to share the joke, and to help him put the outspoken newcomer in his place.

"What's the medical doctors' symbol?" Joseph asked Dr. Pickup, but he didn't reply.

"I've always wondered about that," said Jayne. "It's that staff thing with the snakes and the wings, isn't it? Why does it have snakes in it?"

"It's the caduceus, the staff of Hermes, a Greek god."

"It probably relates to Hypocrites, the father of Western medicine," said Dr. Pickup.

"Hypocrites was a follower of Asclepius, the son of Apollo. The World Health Organization uses the rod of Asclepius in their logo and the original Hippocratic Oath began, 'I swear by Apollo the physician, and Asclepius the surgeon . . .'"

"So what? It doesn't say that anymore, does it? We're in the twenty-first century now, young man. How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"And you've got your head full of books. Well, get a few more years of life experience under your belt before you come in here and start sprouting all this stupid rubbish."

"OK, that's enough. Let's get our focus back on the Lord, please," said David. "Joseph is right that Jesus came to heal, so let's pray for Sylvia as we close our meeting."

Everybody bowed their heads in prayer. Sylvie's mind was racing. She had come to the meeting asking God to show her a way forward for her health. She didn't get what she expected. However, there were now a number of things she knew she must do. First, she must apologize to the Lord that, after more than thirty years as a Christian and after a lifetime of health struggles, she still had no real idea what the Bible taught about health. She had to correct that. She also had to find out about spiritual warfare. She knew about Ephesians six and putting on your armor and all that. But how did this affect her health?

There was something else she decided to do. "Andrew," she called as everybody started to stand up and get ready to leave, "when can I talk to you some more about those nutritional supplements you mentioned?" Neil glared at her.

After she had arranged a time with Andrew and Neil, she turned her attention to the immediate challenges: getting out of her chair and getting to the toilet yet again.

# Chapter 3

"I just think it's a total waste of time," said Neil irritably. He stopped the car outside Andrew's nice, three-bedroomed detached house with adjoining garage.

Sylvie didn't want to let another row develop. She tried to stay calm and be patient. "We won't know unless we try."

"Which is exactly what I keep saying about the doctor's. You've got to give them a try."

"I've given them a try. They haven't helped me in fifty-three years. Why should it be any different this time?"

"Medical science is always progressing—"

"Oh, don't give me that. You sound like Bryan Pickup."

Sylvie's resolve to avoid another row was already waning. She tried to pull back and offer reasoned argument instead of just reacting with frustration to Neil's constant submission to established authority. "I've been reading that book Joseph loaned me. You know the one, Rockefeller Medicine Men. The rise of so-called scientific medicine had nothing to do with trying to help people. It was all about money and control."

"Even if that's true, it's still the best medicine we have."

Sylvie opened her mouth to object, but then saw the front door open. Andrew came out and walked briskly towards them, a welcoming smile on his face.

"He's a shyster, Sylvie. He'll use every soft sell technique in the book to sell us a bunch of worthless junk."

Sylvie put her hand gently on Neil's knee. "Please, Neil. Let's try it. I'm desperate. He just might have something that helps."

Neil frowned and got out of the car. Before he could walk round to help Sylvie out, Andrew had opened the passenger door and was offering her his hand. Sylvie hated this situation. Her muscles would have stiffened during the short journey, and there would be no way to get out of a car without severe pain. She would have to lift her left leg, and that would reduce the angle between her body and thigh beyond the point that caused serious pain. She always tried to hide the pain because every time she grimaced, somebody would give her another lecture about getting medical treatment. She steeled herself, used her hands to lift her left leg and let her foot hang out of the door. She wouldn't be able to tolerate this position for long because the weight of her leg would pull on her hip and increase the pain. She then held onto the door frame and dashboard as she brought her right leg around to join her left. Her back objected badly to the sideways twist. She lowered her feet to the ground and took Andrew's hand. She could no longer pull herself to her feet from such a low position. She somehow expected Andrew to understand that he would have to take her weight, but he didn't. As she stood, he staggered forward and struggled to maintain his balance. However, Sylvie managed to stand, albeit with her back still bent. She wouldn't be able to step onto her left leg for a couple more minutes, and now all three of them—Sylvie, Neil and Andrew—were blocking the narrow road, and irate drivers were beeping at them. Eventually, Neil took her right arm and Andrew her left, and they carefully steered her around the car to the pavement. They paused as Sylvie prepared to take her weight on her shaky left leg as she lifted her right to mount the curb. By now the stiffness was easing a little and the three of them made it past Andrew's car, which was sitting in the driveway, to the garage without incident.

Andrew opened the garage door, and Sylvie stared inside in amazement. It was immediately evident why Andrew's car was in the driveway. There was no room for it in the garage. Instead the garage was stacked on one side with box upon box, each labelled with the name of a nutritional supplement company such as Vitamin Valley, The Life of Leaves, Freedom Life Minerals, and Nature Nutrients. On the other side of the garage were shelves from floor to ceiling filled with bottles of various shapes and sizes containing vitamins, herbs, and other natural products.

"So, these are all products from Network Marketing Companies?" said Neil, a note of derision in his voice.

"That's right. I'm a distributor for seven different companies. If you're interested in the business side, I'd be happy to give you some more information," said Andrew.

"No, thanks. We're just hoping you might have something to help Sylvie."

"I'm sure I do." He walked to the end of the garage and came back with a small, foldable chair, which he opened and offered to Sylvie.

"No, thanks," she said. "It would be difficult to get in and out of that chair, and now that I'm on my feet and moving, it will be easier to stand."

Andrew put the chair back then said, "Now then, Sylvia. What is your diagnosis?"

Neil laughed. "To have a diagnosis you have to go to a doctor."

"I don't have a definitive diagnosis, but I can tell you what I have the symptoms of," said Sylvie.

"Diagnosis by Google search," said Neil.

"Fibromyalgia, sciatica, degenerative osteoarthritis, osteoporosis, muscular dystrophy, atrial fibrillation, urinary incontinence, scoliosis, tinnitus, restless legs syndrome, and peripheral neuropathy."

"Wow!" said Andrew. "Well, you certainly need some anti-inflammatories, some bone support, and some pain relief." He put his hand to his chin and walked up and down the shelves for a minute. Then he picked up an empty box, and started pulling bottles off the shelf while mumbling to himself, "Cat's claw. Yes. Boswellia cream, good idea. Willow bark. MSM, of course. Glucosamine, essential. Vitamin C, high dose. Vitamin D. Boron. Calcium and magnesium. Strontium . . ."

"Wait a minute," said Neil, "What does this stuff do, what evidence is there that it works, and how much will it cost?"

"Some of this stuff has been used for centuries. There's tons of research that shows it works, not to mention anecdotal evidence of miraculous cures. And the prices I'm offering are very competitive," said Andrew without looking at Neil. He continued to select bottle after bottle.

"What about stuff for muscles?" asked Sylvie.

"Yes, you need CoQ10, vitamin E, creatine, glutamine, selenium . . ."

"I thought selenium was dangerous," said Neil as he got his smart phone out of his pocket.

"Of course it's not dangerous," said Andrew. "I wouldn't sell you anything dangerous."

But Neil wasn't listening. He was looking up something on the Internet. "It says here that there is insufficient evidence to show that selenium helps muscles, and that it increases the risk of non-melanoma skin cancer."

"Is that an MD website?" said Sylvie.

"Yes."

"Well, of course it says selenium doesn't work. If people start taking selenium and stop taking their drugs, they'll lose billions of pounds. Talk about conflict of interests."

"But they are the experts."

"Says who?"

"Let's not start all that again."

Andrew was adding up the products on a calculator. "If we leave out the selenium, the total comes to one hundred and sixty-nine pounds, sixty-two pence."

"What!" said Neil, "I didn't know I'd have to take out a second mortgage. What if the products don't work? Will I get my money back?"

"Sorry, no, but I'll give you a discount on your next purchase."

"Why would there be a next purchase if they don't work?" He turned to Sylvie and his voice softened. "Look, Honey, I know you're desperate, and you know that I would do anything to help you, but our finances are limited. And, as I keep pointing out, we need to be saving to move to a bungalow. It won't be long before you can't manage the stairs. Then what do we do? Put a bed in the living room?"

"If these products work, maybe I won't have a problem with the stairs."

"If. If. If. If 'ifs' and 'ands' were pots and pans there'd be no need for tinkers."

Sylvie knew Neil was right. He always was the sensible one, and there had been many occasions when she needed him to point out practicalities. But she believed these products were going to help. Or was it just wishful thinking? Neil was the sole breadwinner, and he had a right to balk at the cost. She knew if she pleaded with him, he would buy them. She would then hate herself for being so manipulative. In the end she simply said, "I need the toilet."

Andrew directed them through the door that connected the house and the garage, and Sylvie went in to use the small downstairs toilet. When she came out, Neil seemed to have been considering his position. "How about making a deal? We'll buy all a hundred and seventy pounds worth of products. But if they don't work, we'll then go to a doctor just for a diagnosis. I'm not asking you to take drugs or have surgery. Let's just get their opinion. Agreed?"

"OK. Agreed," said Sylvie.

——————————

"How did we do?" Go-chee asked Chee-oo.

"Not well. They're applying allopathic mentality to natural medicine. Of the twenty-two products, Sylvie's oversensitive system will only allow her to take ten. From those, she will get some benefit, but she will only be taking fifteen of the ninety essential nutrients. They are not in particularly absorbable forms, and since she's not eating enough salt and is low on calcium, she doesn't have strong enough stomach acid to absorb well. The high dose of vitamin C will deplete the levels of other essential minerals. And they left out the selenium.

"The worst thing is, they will come away with the understanding that nutrients don't work."

# Chapter 4

"Let me get this straight. For several years, your body has been degenerating, but you have not sought medical help? Now you walk in here with a list of complaints as long as your arm, and just what do you expect me to do? If you had come earlier, we could have put you under the care of a number of specialists who could, at the very least, have slowed the progression. Instead you've allowed yourself to get past the point of no return. And now you expect me to wave a magic wand and put everything right?" Dr. Johnson's wrinkled face was ugly with anger.

Sylvie cringed. This was exactly what she'd been afraid of. She hadn't wanted to come, but she had promised Neil she would if Andrew's products didn't work. She had felt some benefit from the supplements. The atrial fibrillation seemed to have reduced, and her bowel function had improved. But she was still going downhill rapidly and couldn't deny it. So, she had told herself she would come to see the GP with an open mind. Whatever happened, she would be a patient patient and not embarrass Neil by arguing with the doctor. Just three minutes into the consultation, she was finding it very difficult to hold herself back. "I'm just asking what my options are from your perspective," she said.

"OK, well, we're going to have to set priorities. You will need to see a number of specialists, and we will need to start you on a number of medications. We can't start them all at the same time. We'll have to stagger them to check for side effects and interactions."

"I don't want to take drugs. Is there any alternative?" said Sylvie.

For a second, Dr. Johnson seemed lost for words. "No drugs? You must think I'm a miracle worker, Mrs. Keighley. You come in here asking for help for the desperate state you've got yourself into. Then you tie my hands by saying you don't want drugs!"

"I'm very sensitive to drugs. If I take them I get every side effect in the book, and I can't sleep. As I said, we're just here to see what the options are."

"Well, I'm not an orthopedic surgeon, and we haven't x-rayed you yet, but I would guess you're going to need several joint replacements."

"I don't want surgery, either."

"Then just what do you want?" The GP threw down his pen in apparent exasperation.

Neil interjected at this point, "Dr. Johnson, please could you tell us how you would proceed from here if Sylvie agreed to treatment, and what we might expect?"

Dr. Johnson turned to Neil and addressed him directly. Sylvie assumed the doctor expected her husband would be more reasonable than her.

"From what you've told me your wife's left hip is the greatest, immediate cause for concern. Given a free hand by a patient who valued my experience and expertise, I would prescribe pain-killers and anti-inflammatories and refer them to Mr. Spokane who is an excellent orthopedic surgeon in Leeds. I often refer patients to him. We have a very good working relationship, and he consistently produces good results."

Sylvie wondered to what extent the "good working relationship" was fuelled by lucrative kickbacks for referrals. However, she simply asked, "Please could you define what you mean by 'good results'?"

"After a suitable period of rehabilitation, his patients generally report a significant improvement in mobility and comfort."

"How long does a hip replacement last?"

"Ninety to ninety-five percent last ten years."

"My left hip is the worst, but I also feel deterioration in my other joints. What is the point of just replacing one joint? Wouldn't it be better to address the underlying cause of the disease?"

For the first time Dr. Johnson seemed to relax. He leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

"Mrs. Keighley, I didn't realize you were a scientist. So tell me, just when did you discover the underlying cause of degenerative disease? Please, share this revelation with me. I could make a fortune."

OK. After such a facetious answer, the gloves were off.

"There have been some very promising results treating degenerative disease with medical nutrition. However, necessary research has not been done because the medical industry is a monopoly dominated by Big Pharma and therefore—"

"You talk about the pharmaceutical industry as if it were a despotic tyrant. It has made wonderful contributions to modern medicine." Dr. Johnson's levity had not lasted longer. He was now looking daggers at Sylvie.

"What's so modern about it? Hundreds of years before Christ, Hippocrates was saying if drugs don't work, try surgery; if surgery doesn't work, try cauterization. Two and a half thousand years later, maybe it's time we tried a different approach."

Neil put his hand on his wife's shoulder and said gently but firmly, "Sylvie, we're here to see what Dr. Johnson has to offer through his perspective on medicine. We're not here to debate the politics and history of the medical industry."

Anger rose in Sylvie's chest. She constantly felt that Neil was gagging her, and she wanted to lash out. On the other hand, she needed and appreciated him so much. She held her peace.

Neil continued, "You know you're not far away from being totally unable to walk. A hip replacement might keep you on your feet for longer."

"But I'd never survive a major operation," said Sylvie.

Dr. Johnson let out a long, "Aaah," as if the situation had just become clearer. "Mrs. Keighley, it's quite normal to be a little fearful at the prospect of surgery, but modern surgical techniques are extremely safe," said Dr. Johnson with surprising kindness.

"You don't understand. I know in myself that my body could not take the stress of surgery."

"Mr. Spokane will thoroughly consider your particular circumstances before he makes his recommendation. He's very experienced. You couldn't put yourself in better hands."

"I'm in God's hands."

"An admirable sentiment, Mrs. Keighley, but God uses the hands of trained, experienced surgeons to save lives every day."

Neil asked, "Just agreeing to go see Mr. Spokane will not commit us to surgery, will it?"

"Of course not. Informed consent. He will do all the necessary diagnostic tests and then discuss the options with you."

Neil turned to Sylvie, "Honey, let's just go see him and get more information."

Dr. Johnson took this as the final decision and said, "Excellent. I'll write the referral letter immediately. It should only take a few weeks for you to get the appointment."

Sylvie felt she was rapidly losing control of her life. She felt she was little by little being backed into a corner where she would be forced into drugs and surgery against her will. She was certain this could only lead to even more hardship and an early death.

——————————

How could Sylvie persuade Neil not to go to Mr. Spokane? She had now armed herself with lots of relevant information, but wasn't sure how best to present it to her husband.

When they had got back to the car, and Neil had helped her into the passenger seat, she carefully said, "Did you notice the copy of Medical Ethics Today on his desk?"

"No," he said curtly.

"It had the BMA symbol on it. You know, the rod of Asclepius."

"I looked that up. The symbol was actually inspired by Moses lifting up the serpent in the wilderness. It's a Christian symbol."

"That wouldn't fit with the history of medicine or the history of the symbol. Anyway I'm trying to say, since I've started to get to know my Bible better, I've really come to understand there's a spiritual battle over our health. The Enemy comes to kill, steal, and destroy. Jesus came healing people and raising them from the dead. Neil, please. I don't want to go see Mr. Spokane."

"But why? He's on the good side of the battle. He's working to bring healing in people's lives."

"You know, when Greek doctors arrived in Rome thousands of years ago, the Romans thought the doctors were deliberately trying to kill them through medicine. Martin Luther had his doubts about doctors, too."

"Are you saying Mr. Spokane will try to kill you?" Neil sniggered.

"Of course not. Not deliberately. But in 2 Chronicles, Asa died because he looked to the physicians to help him and not to the Lord."

"So, it's wrong to go to doctors?"

"It's wrong to put more faith in doctors than you put in God. After all the experience I've had with doctors, I have no faith in them. I want to put my faith in God instead. There was a time you would have approved of that and stood by me."

She immediately wanted to take her words back. Neil looked stung. "Am I not standing by you?"

"I didn't mean that. You are the most wonderful husband a woman could have, and I thank God for you every day. But we obviously don't see eye to eye on my illness. The Lord has changed my understanding in a lot of ways, and I believe he has a purpose in letting me get so sick."

"I still believe in God's ability to heal, but he chose not to heal Oliver, and so far it seems he's chosen not to heal you either. Maybe God will restore your faith in modern medicine through Mr. Spokane."

"I doubt it. God is going to help me another way."

"How?"

"I don't know yet."

# Chapter 5

Neil felt torn, and he needed to talk about it. Pastor David had just preached about bearing one another's burdens. Neil was now sitting with the usual crowd having coffee in the church hall. Sylvie's back had been particularly painful that morning, and she had stayed at home. This was a perfect opportunity for Neil to talk over his situation with his church friends. However, he felt very vulnerable and knew he would not cope well with well-intentioned but unhelpful advice. Still, he needed to talk.

Finally he jumped in with both feet and voiced the question that was tormenting him. "Should I push her to go see the orthopedic surgeon or should I let her be?"

"If you insist, will she go?" asked Pastor David.

"Yes. That's the problem."

"Why's that a problem?"

"If I insist, she will go because she has no choice. She's totally dependent on me. I'm in a position of power, and I don't want to abuse that. I have no right to force her to undergo surgery if she doesn't want to."

"Neil," said Dr. Pickup with the air of a school master correcting a wayward child, "you're looking at this the wrong way. Sylvia is scared and in pain. She's obviously not thinking clearly. She's allowing a few unfortunate mistakes made by doctors in the past to cloud her judgement."

"She would strongly argue with your use of the word 'unfortunate.'"

"The point is, you're her husband. She needs you to give strong guidance. You're the one thinking logically about this."

Joseph looked up from his King James Bible and said, "You can't claim Sylvia isn't thinking logically simply because she disagrees with your opinion."

"It's not just my opinion; it's the opinion of the vast majority of the civilized world."

"That still doesn't make it right."

"OK," said Pastor David, "let's not start that again."

Neil was relieved. He was spending enough of his time debating these issues with Sylvie. He didn't want to listen to Joseph and Dr. Pickup rehash the arguments.

Neil felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned round to see David's seven-year-old daughter, Kirsty, looking up at him with her big, blue eyes. "Where's Sylvia?" she asked sweetly.

"She wasn't feeling too well this morning. She's at home."

"Oh," said Kirsty sadly, "I wanted to give her this." Kirsty held out a piece of blue card. It looked rather scruffy with curled edges and what looked like a shoe print on the corner. In the middle were large letters written in various colored wax crayons saying, "To Sylvia and Neil. Please come to my ballet concert."

Neil smiled. "Thank you very much, Kirsty. I'll see she gets it."

As Kirsty walked away, Pastor David picked up their conversation. "Neil, in the end, Sylvia will have to be the one to decide for or against surgery, but I think we have a role in helping her see she really has no choice."

Andrew had been listening to the conversation quietly up until this point. "Maybe she does have a choice. We haven't exhausted the possibilities with the nutritional approach yet."

Neil sighed audibly and put his head in his hands. He felt anger rising inside him. He was in a dire situation, but his church friends just used his predicament to push their own agendas. "Andrew, please don't start that again."

"I've just got a new shipment come in. There are some excellent new—"

"We tried it, remember? It didn't work." Neil's words came out a bit sharper than he intended.

"It helped a little; we just need to tweak the program a bit."

"We are in serious trouble here, and you just try to get money out of us." Neil immediately wished he could take his words back.

"Is that what you really think?"

"To be perfectly honest, yes, and I'm fed up with it. Just back off, OK?" Neil actually pushed his chair away from Andrew. He was saturated with pressure and couldn't tolerate a drop more.

"I'm trying to help you. You're in a quandary about whether you should let Sylvia decide for herself about surgery. Why don't you let her decide for herself about nutrition? If you really cared about her—"

Neil was on his feet. "So I have to prove I love my wife by writing you another check?"

David was now standing with his arms stretched out to keep Neil and Andrew apart. "Please, we are all brothers here."

As Andrew prepared to leave, he said quietly, "Neil, I pray for you and Sylvia every day. I know I can help you. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink."

"Andrew, please don't go," said Pastor David, but Neil was relieved to see that Andrew took no notice and walked out of the room without looking back.

Pastor David turned to Neil, "I'm sure he means well."

"I'm sorry, but he just pushes and pushes. I can't cope with it."

"Why don't you and I go and have a quiet word in my office?" Neil nodded.

——————————

"I think Sylvie's scared I'm going to leave her."

Pastor David didn't reply. He just nodded and seemed to wait for Neil to continue. They were now sitting in David's cramped office with the door closed. Neil was slumped over the desk with his head in his hands.

"Sometimes, I'm scared I'm going to leave her. Don't get me wrong, I love her very much. She's my true life companion, and we've been through hell together. But sometimes, I just don't know what to do." He wiped a tear away from his eye. "She's in a lot of pain. She's deteriorating so rapidly. Six months ago she could walk normally. Now she can't get across a room without holding on to furniture." He paused, hesitating to say what he really wanted to say. "It feels like a repeat of Oliver. I can't do it again. I can't watch somebody else I love—racked with pain, in a twisted and crippled body—slowly slip away from me." He let out one stifled sob and put his hands over his face.

Pastor David just put his hand on Neil's arm and prayed quietly.

Neil straightened up a little and said, "When I talk to her, her arguments against surgery seem compelling. But when I talk to other people, I have to agree surgery seems her only option. If I don't push her to have the surgery, I'm scared she'll just get worse and worse until there's nothing the doctors can do at all. We just seem to be getting further and further apart on this issue. I don't know. Maybe she has great faith, or maybe she's just in denial."

"What does the Lord say when you pray?"

"I feel he exhorts me to love her and stand by her. I also feel he tells me to trust in him, that it will be all right. I want to believe him but . . ."

After a short pause Pastor David finished the sentence for him, ". . . Oliver."

Neil nodded. "What would you do?"

"We have prayed and prayed for guidance. The only door that has opened to us is the one leading to the orthopedic surgeon. I think you should take Sylvia to see him and see what happens."

Neil nodded reluctantly.

"There's something else I want to say. It came to me while I was preparing today's sermon. It's time the church took a more active role in your situation. You've been carrying a heavy burden alone. It's time we gave you more help."

"I'm not sure what you can do."

"I'm thinking maybe a small group of us should come round to talk to Sylvia in her home, away from, shall we say, difficult people who can't see past their own perspective. The aim would be to show her that we care and try to persuade her to be more realistic in her expectations."

"It sounds like you're talking about an intervention for an alcoholic," said Neil with a wry smile.

"Actually, that's exactly what I'm thinking."

"I think that would absolutely be a last resort."

"Let's just keep it in mind."

# Chapter 6

Sylvie gasped. As she and Neil were walking towards Mr. Spokane's office, she had caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror at the end of the corridor. Was that old, crippled woman really her? Was she really that far bent over? Her hair was thin and lank, her complexion pale, and her once bright blue eyes were now dead and grey. The man walking next to her looked at least twenty years younger despite his grey hair.

The hospital felt like a strange, threatening place. When Oliver had been alive, she had spent most of her time in hospitals, and she thought she was very familiar with them. But this felt different. With her recently acquired understanding, she could no longer reconcile herself with the air of confident efficiency that seemed to exude from the very walls themselves. It seemed unreal. It felt like a virtual reality game that was based on a series of assumptions she now considered to be dubious at best. Did this high-tech, sterile facility really offer the healthful life God had bequeathed to his children through the death of his Son? Was being slowly poisoned with drugs and cut open on operating tables really the best the Lord could offer his people?

She was here because Neil had asked her to come. He had also asked her to allow him to ask Mr. Spokane all the necessary questions. He had listened carefully to all her reservations and had promised to address all of them on her behalf. So she had determined she would keep her mouth zipped this time and just pray Neil would come away understanding why she couldn't have surgery.

——————————

"There are definite signs of severe degenerative osteoarthritis and possible indications of avascular necrosis." Mr. Spokane was pointing to Sylvie's x-rays on the computer screen.

"What's avascular . . . ?" asked Neil.

"It means the bones are dying due to a lack of blood supply. We will do an MRI to confirm, but I have no doubt your wife needs surgery. I'm surprised Dr. Johnson didn't refer you much earlier, Mrs. Keighley."

"What kind of surgery are you recommending, Mr. Spokane?" asked Neil.

"A hip replacement, naturally. We should be able to schedule it within the next three months. I presume Dr. Johnson prescribed something for the pain."

"What would happen without the surgery?"

Mr. Spokane had been typing something into the computer, but at this he stopped and looked at Neil. Your wife's hip would continue to deteriorate until she can no longer walk, by which time surgery might not be possible."

"My wife also has problems with her right hip and left knee."

"We can only do one major surgery at one time. We'll look more closely at the other problems, later."

"What I'm saying is there's obviously an underlying problem affecting my wife's whole body, not just her left hip."

"Osteoarthritis can affect more than one joint, yes."

"So, the only treatment you can offer is to replace one joint after the other."

"That is the treatment, yes."

"How would the surgery affect her muscles?"

"Pardon me?"

"My wife has severe problems with her muscles—pain and stiffness throughout her whole body. What can be done to help that?"

"That's not my area of speciality. I'm sure Dr. Johnson can refer you to someone qualified in that area."

"Forgive me if I'm being naïve, but it seems to me that the hip consists of muscles and bones working together. Shouldn't the whole system be addressed as one unit?"

Mr. Spokane gave a slight laugh and said, "It took me eight years to become an orthopedic surgeon. It would take me another four years to become a rheumatologist. Medical science is just too vast for any one person to become an expert in all fields. That's why we specialize."

"I'm concerned that multiple joint replacements will cause my wife more pain and suffering. If the muscle problem is not addressed, wouldn't any benefit from surgery be limited?"

Mr. Spokane didn't seem to have heard the last questions. "Modern surgery is not the butchery it used to be, you know. We are now very adept at keeping our patients comfortable, and we cause them the least distress possible."

"My wife is very sensitive to drugs and often gets an extreme reaction. She also feels very weak and is not sure she could survive major surgery."

"Any known drug sensitivities will be taken into account. And, I assure you, we do not perform surgery on patients who are too weak to undergo it. All the necessary prescreenings will be done."

"There's one more thing I have to ask because I promised my wife I would. If my wife agrees to the hip replacement, how much will you personally be paid?"

——————————

"What do you think?" Sylvie asked Neil as he helped her back to the car.

"You're right. They can't offer you any real help."

"So you're not going to push me to have a hip replacement?"

"No, I'm not. But where does that leave us? We're back at square one."

——————————

"It's time," said Chee-oo. "We've allowed her to reach the lowest safe place. Any further and she really will be past the point of no return. Get the nutrition to her without delay."

"Easier said than done," said Go-chee, "Joo-gy is sharpening his sword."

"Let him. Just keep encouraging Sylvie to foster her faith in the mighty Word of God."

# Chapter 7

"I married Sylvie for the wrong reasons."

"Are you saying you regret marrying her?"

"No. I regret the life we've been forced to live together, but I don't regret choosing her." Neil was talking to the only person in the world he could say absolutely anything to, his twin brother, Nigel. They were sitting across a rustic solid ash table in a converted farmhouse restaurant with Adele playing quietly in the background. Nigel was passing through on his way from Harrogate to Durham on a business trip, and they had taken the opportunity to have dinner. Sylvie had insisted that Nigel take time out for himself and spend time with his brother.

"I married her because she needed a hero, someone who would stick with her through thick and thin, and I thought I was Superman."

"That's my brother, always ready to get stuck in and get his hands dirty."

"Isn't that what our dad taught us—to be a man and shoulder responsibility? I was so arrogant, I thought I could show the world how to be the perfect husband and father. If God's plan was to bring me down a peg or two and show me the limits of my endurance, he's certainly achieved his goal. I'm ready to throw in the towel."

"What do you mean?"

"Our church has found a home where Sylvie can get twenty-four hour care, and they are going to help with the costs."

Nigel put down his knife and fork and leant back in his chair. "Does she know about this yet?"

"No, and I feel like Judas. How can I do this to her? But then what choice do I have?" He looked at his brother. He desperately wanted Nigel to understand and justify his treachery.

"What if she won't go?"

"She has to go. You haven't seen her for a few weeks. She can barely walk. She's in constant pain. She's incontinent. And every week she gets worse. She needs twenty-four hour care. She insisted on moving into the spare bedroom so I could get some sleep. But I don't sleep. I just lie there listening for her hourly trip to the bathroom. I hear her struggling to stand up, and then I hear her pull herself along the walls to the bathroom."

"Can't you get her a bedside toilet?"

"That's the next step but then what? That's just one of the million things we need. What we really need is a bungalow with access for a wheelchair and a spare bedroom for a full-time nurse. Twenty-four hour home nursing costs about a hundred and fifty pounds a day. Where am I supposed to find that kind of money?"

Nigel whistled. "Can't the NHS help?"

"If Sylvie was pronounced as having only a short time to live, the NHS would provide what they euphemistically call 'end of life care.' For all we know, that could be appropriate. Sylvie is deteriorating so rapidly, maybe she won't last more than a few months." Neil slumped in his chair and gave up on his T-bone steak and baked potato. He was telling Nigel the things that had been consuming his thoughts for months. None of it was new to him. But somehow voicing the stark reality of his living nightmare made it come home with full, brutal force. The only way forward led to deeper and deeper agony for both him and his dear wife.

"Can I ask where you are with God in all this?" said Nigel carefully.

Neil hesitated. He normally told Nigel the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth without pulling any punches.

"Is there a God?" Neil looked into his brother's eyes to gauge his reaction.

"Are you seriously doubting there is?"

"I don't know anymore. I just don't know."

"Neil, you can't let go of the Lord. You need him more than ever right now."

Neil felt angry. "That's easy for you to say with your beautiful, healthy wife, your accomplished sons, and your adorable grandchildren." He hated himself for his jealousy, but sometimes he just couldn't understand how two people could be born on the same day with the same genes and yet have their lives turn out so completely differently.

Nigel seemed to take the punch on the chin and came back with, "You know I would do anything within my power to help you."

"What we need is not within your power. We need a miracle. God has the monopoly on those, and he dishes them out pretty sparingly."

At that point his mobile rang, and he got it out of his back pocket and looked at the caller ID. It was Sylvie.

"Hello, Honey."

"I'm so sorry to call."

"What's wrong?"

"I fell and wrenched my back." Her voice was coming in short, sharp bursts. "I'm on the floor . . . I can't get up . . . I would have just waited . . . but the fall triggered the sciatica . . . I can't bear to move my leg . . . if I could just get the chamomile oil . . . but I can't reach it." Neil could hear suppressed sobs in between the words.

Neil was on his feet, trying to open his wallet with his left hand to pay for the meal. "How did you get to the phone?"

"I pulled the cord . . . pulled it off the table . . . it smashed . . . the cover's come off . . . I'm sorry."

"I'm on my way. It will take about ten, fifteen minutes."

Nigel had understood the situation, and he'd taken control of paying the bill. As he ran after Neil towards the door he said, "Why doesn't she keep a mobile phone on her?"

"She doesn't like the radiation. She says she can feel it in her bones."

"She could keep it turned off in a Faraday pouch in her pocket and just take it out in an emergency."

"I'll suggest that. My car is down the road. Got to run."

Neil and Nigel separated at the door and Neil started to run across the road. Then he heard someone shouting, "Neil, please wait." He turned around and saw the last person in the world he wanted to bump into at that moment. It was Andrew.

"Sorry, Andrew. In a hurry," he called back and kept running.

"No, please Neil. I've got the answer." Andrew caught up with Neil as he reached the opposite pavement.

"That's what you said last time." Neil kept walking briskly towards his car.

"I was wrong. I'm really really sorry. But I really do have the answer this time. Please stop and listen." Andrew grabbed Neil's shoulder, but Neil shrugged him off and kept walking.

"I've got to get back to Sylvie. She's had an accident."

"We can help her, Neil. We really can. My mistake was to cherry pick nutrients. I now understand she needs a comprehensive program that includes all ninety essential nutrients including sixty minerals." He was struggling to keep alongside Neil.

"So, now you want us to buy ninety different supplements." The very last thing he needed right now was another sales pitch.

"No, the Hushmin 90 Company has a pack with just three products that give you all the essential nutrients. I understand now the body has an incredible capacity to heal itself if you give it all the necessary raw materials. If we give Sylvie the Hushmin 90 plus some extra stuff for bones and muscles, she could make a miraculous recovery."

Neil actually laughed. If only life were that easy.

Andrew continued, "Everybody needs this stuff. Your grey hair shows you're deficient in minerals. You need it, too."

"A lot of people my age have grey hair. It's normal."

"It's only normal because everybody is low on minerals. Hushmin stands for humic shale minerals. They come from ancient plant deposits, and they're easily absorbable. The minerals are the key. It's biblical. Remember the Garden of Eden with its four rivers bringing in minerals. They lived for nine hundred years in those days."

Neil couldn't believe this guy was actually claiming biblical support for his scam. He reached his car and unlocked the door. "So, you can make Sylvie live for nine hundred years, can you? And all we have to do is buy a few hundred pounds worth of products."

Andrew pushed his way between Neil and the car. "Please listen, if you really think I'm just doing this for money, I'll give you the first three months for free."

"If this stuff is really so miraculous, why doesn't the whole world know about it?"

"Because the powers that be don't want us to know."

"Andrew. Get out of my way. My wife is lying on the floor in pain, and you're holding me up."

Andrew didn't move. "What can I do to make you listen?"

Neil didn't really know what came over him. He acted before he had time to think. He got hold of Andrew's collar with both hands and yanked him away from the car door. Andrew lost his footing and fell headlong on the pavement. His head crashed into a garden wall, and he let out a howl of pain. He propped himself up on one elbow and ran his hand behind his head. His hand was covered in blood. He stared at Neil with a look of disbelief on his face.

Neil took a step towards Andrew to help him up. Then he changed his mind, got into his car and drove away.

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Joo-gy and Pa-gwe laughed and applauded.

Then Joo-gy looked more serious and said, "We've delayed the problem, but we can't keep those two apart indefinitely. We really have to get Sylvie into hospital and locked into the medical system as soon as possible."

# Chapter 8

"Sylvia, this is Mrs. Caraway. She's Ethel's daughter-in-law," said Pastor David.

Sylvie didn't attempt to stand up because it would just take too long. She reached out her hand to shake Mrs. Caraway's.

"Please, call me Joyce. It's a pleasure to meet you, Sylvia," said Mrs. Caraway in a slow, deliberate voice that sounded like she was addressing a child. In appearance, she reminded Sylvie of Vera Duckworth from Coronation Street in her blue rinse days.

Sylvie was curious to know why Joyce had come to visit her at home. Neil had told her a couple of people from the church would be dropping in. She thought it would be people she knew, and they were just coming to see how she was because she had stopped attending church. More than a couple of people arrived. She watched as Neil found chairs for Joyce, Pastor David, Jayne, Ethel, and Dr. Pickup. Everybody was looking at Sylvie and smiling in a way that seemed very artificial and forced. The atmosphere was like when visitors arrive on a hospital ward. Everybody knows the patient is suffering, yet they smile as if doing so will make everything all right again. To complete the picture, Jayne came over and presented Sylvie with an exquisite bouquet of pink and white roses.

"Thank you, they're beautiful," said Sylvie. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. We just want you to know, we're thinking about you, and we love you."

There was a pause while everyone continued to smile at Sylvie sympathetically. Sylvie wondered why Neil didn't offer everybody tea or coffee as he normally did. He was just sitting in a chair, staring at the floor. It felt like everybody was waiting for somebody else to say something.

Sylvie was just about to open her mouth to ask how everybody was when Joyce suddenly leaned forward in her chair and said, "Sylvia, I understand you have some reservations about Kirk Dale Hall, but I'm here to reassure you and—"

"Kirk Dale Hall?" said Sylvie. Joyce slapped her hand over her mouth as if realizing she'd just put her foot in it. Everybody else dropped the fake smiles and glared at her.

"What's going on?" Sylvie addressed the question to Neil, but it was Pastor David who answered. "Sylvia, we're here because we're very concerned about your situation, and we want to help. We have put our heads together and come up with a . . . suggestion."

"You're going to dump me in a home?" Sylvie felt a lump of ice rise in her chest, and the blood drain out of her face. She could not believe what she was hearing. She turned to her husband, "Neil, tell me—"

But Pastor David interrupted her and said, "You know that Neil loves you and is totally devoted to you. But the situation has become too difficult for just one man to cope with, and we've decided it's time the church stepped up and took care of her own."

"And your idea of taking care of me is to ditch me in a long stay hospital?"

"Please listen to us," said Pastor David. "Nobody is ditching you anywhere. We have carefully looked at all the options for your long-term care and we feel—"

"You've looked at the options. Don't you think it would have been a good idea to have included me in the decision process?"

"No final decision has been taken, and we are here now to include you in the discussion. We wanted to have considered all the options in a calm, objective manner before talking to you because—"

"Because you knew I would be emotional and subjective about it?"

David calmly continued, "We understand that when somebody is in constant pain, they don't always think totally . . . rationally." He seemed to have searched for a different, less emotive word, but failed to find one.

"Well, why don't you just go the whole way and get me committed, then?" She half-smiled. She'd intended it as a joke to try to lighten the atmosphere, but the blank, stern faces around her made her think maybe they had seriously considered sending her to a mental institution.

Pastor David just steadied himself and continued, "You must realize yourself, Sylvia, pretty soon you are going to need a wheelchair and twenty-four hour care. We have racked our brains trying to find a way to help Neil provide this for you in your home setting, but we just can't make it work. Having come to the regrettable conclusion that you need institutionalized care, we have sought out the best possible situation for you."

"And what if I don't want to go?"

"Then, we would have to beg you to consider your husband."

A knife ripped through Sylvie's gut. "You think I don't consider my husband? You think I don't know that he has a terrible life because of me? You think I don't pray every day that God will give us a solution that will finally give Neil a life, even if that means the Lord takes me to heaven right now?" She was shouting, and tears were streaming down her face.

Neil didn't look up. He just lowered himself to his knees, put his face in his hands and sobbed. Sylvie reached out her hand to touch the top of his head, but she couldn't bend well enough to reach him.

Jayne spoke for the first time. "Sylvia, what is the Lord saying to you in prayer?"

Sylvie hesitated. She was now more confident than ever she knew what God was saying. However, she was afraid to voice her beliefs. Would she just come across as in denial or even crazy? Finally she said, "God says he's going to heal me."

Pastor David said, "Sylvia, it's good to put our faith in God, but I think we would have had some sign by now if he were going to heal you. We have prayed faithfully, but you're still deteriorating rapidly."

"I know that. I don't need reminding. But the other day I was reading Isaiah thirty-eight." Ethel, who had been silently dabbing her eyes with a tissue throughout the exchange, got a Bible out of her bag and put on her glasses. Sylvie continued, "Hezekiah was dying, and he pleaded with the Lord to give him more time. The Lord said he would give him fifteen more years, and he sent the sun back ten degrees as a sign. It was a wonderful, supernatural miracle. But, in the end, how did God heal Hezekiah?"

"A lump of figs," said Ethel quietly.

"Exactly. God told Hezekiah to put figs on the boil. We now know that figs are natural antibiotics and have other medicinal properties. Hezekiah didn't understand that, but he obeyed God and got healed."

"So, what is the relevance to you?" asked Jayne.

Sylvie took a deep breath. "The Lord says there is a natural solution to my problem just as there was to Hezekiah's problem. I don't know what it is yet. But I'm praying he shows me. I'm going to come back from this, and when I do—"

Dr. Pickup leaned forward with a look of great compassion on his face. "Sylvia. Sylvia. I'm really sorry to disillusion you, but nobody comes back from this. In my thirty-five years as a general practitioner, I never saw anybody come back from even a tenth of your problems."

"You mean nobody comes back from this when they rely on conventional, Western medicine, and if you send me to a home, that's the kind of medicine I'll be subjected to."

"Sylvia, you haven't let us tell you anything about the Kirk Dale Hall," said Pastor David. "One reason we chose this home is they are open to the use of complementary medicine."

"You mean they might let me use herbs and vitamins alongside drugs and surgery."

"We actually looked for a place that specializes in natural medicine, but there isn't such a place."

"Of course there isn't because there'd be no money in it. The money comes from the pharmaceuticals."

Pastor David raised his hands in an apparent plea for Sylvie to refrain from her usual rant and said, "Please, listen to us, Sylvia. Obviously we can't make you go to Kirk Dale Hall if you don't want to. But we have worked very hard to find you a suitable place, and Mrs. Caraway has come all this way to tell you about it. Please give her a chance to explain."

Sylvie sighed. "OK. I will sit and listen. But first, can somebody help me to the toilet?"

When Jayne and Sylvie got back from the downstairs toilet, they found Neil had put the coffee table between the chairs, and Joyce had spread out a number of pictures and brochures for Sylvie to see.

Sylvie sat down and told herself to keep her mouth shut.

Joyce began in a kind but condescending tone, "Kirk Dale Hall is a beautiful Georgian building in the Dales, less than twenty miles away from here." She held up a photograph. The Hall was surrounded by beautiful Yorkshire scenery. Twenty miles? Was that supposed to make Sylvie feel it was close? "I'm involved with the management there. It is of course a Christian home, and all the staff are committed Christians. We hold regular prayer meetings and Bible studies. Our staff are fully trained in nursing care, and we have all the necessary equipment for people such as yourself with mobility issues."

"It really is a lovely place," said Jayne. "We went to see it. The rooms are nicely furnished, and the staff couldn't be kinder."

"How old are the inmates?" asked Sylvie.

"You mean the residents?" said Joyce. "They are mainly in their seventies and eighties although some are younger."

Fifty-three years old and ready for an old people's home. "What do they do all day?"

"There are various activities organized such as games, concerts, and art classes."

Thrilling, thought Sylvie. "How much does it cost?"

Pastor David interjected here, "You and Neil don't have to worry about it. The church members have gotten together and agreed to pay the costs between them." David said this as if he finally had an opportunity to play his trump card. He and Jayne smiled at Sylvie as if they were sure she would now understand they had found the best possible plan for her.

"That's very generous of you," said Sylvie because she had to. In reality, however, their generosity just increased Sylvie's sense of being backed into a corner. "What kind of medical care do they offer?"

"As we've said, the doctors who serve the home are open to complementary medicine," Joyce answered with a sickly smile.

"What happens if a resident refuses medical treatment?"

Joyce hesitated, "Well, I don't think that has ever happened."

"But if it did happen?"

"I would have to check the guidelines on that."

"Could you do that and get back to me, please?"

Joyce looked a little embarrassed. "Well, actually I have a copy in my briefcase." She picked up her briefcase, opened it and removed a thick, white, photocopied book. She started to rummage for the right page.

"May I see that?" asked Sylvie, reaching out her hand for the book.

"We don't normally show this to residents."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's just dry, academic, administrative kind of stuff, you know?"

"I'd still like to see it."

Joyce reluctantly handed it over. Sylvie looked through the index then turned to the section on medical treatment. "It says here, if a resident refuses medical treatment, the doctors and staff should impress on the resident the dangers of refusal and should suggest another dose or regimen, or an alternative drug. A non-pharmacological approach may be offered if deemed appropriate."

"Yes, as I said, the doctors are open to natural approaches."

"Only after putting a lot of pressure on the resident to accept drugs," said Sylvie.

Jayne interjected, "Sylvie, you make it sound like a Victorian workhouse. Why don't you just come to the home and see for yourself. You'll see there's no one who's going to force you to do anything you don't want to."

There's force and then there's force. Sylvie did not expect they tied residents to their beds and injected them with pethidine against their will. But right now she was feeling totally forced to do something she didn't want to, forced by kindness and generosity. What choice did she have? These caring people were bending over backwards to help her. And, absent a supernatural intervention from God, she had to admit they were right. She had no choice. She owed it to her husband to follow this up.

"OK. I'll go see for myself."

"Thank you, Sylvia. You won't regret it." Pastor David stood up, and everybody followed his lead.

As they were leaving, Ethel came over to Sylvie and handed her a small card. "Keep this on you and read it when you need the Lord's comfort," she said kindly. It was a sky blue card with a rainbow across the top. On it was written the ninety-first Psalm in the King James Version.

"Thank you, Ethel." Sylvie leaned forward with difficulty and slipped the card into her handbag.

"If the Lord says he's going to heal you, he's going to heal you. He is faithful," said Ethel.

Sylvie appreciated the positive words. But she was dreading the moment when Neil returned from seeing the guests out. What was she going to say to him? How could they continue from this moment on without ripping each other apart? He had hatched a plan to put her in a home without even telling her. She understood why, but she still felt utterly betrayed.

# Chapter 9

As Sylvie lay in bed in the spare room that night, she knew her life was over. Yet how can you say a life that never really started has ended? She had never lived as other, "normal" people. She had never known a day without struggle, never got through a whole day without severe fatigue. She had never been able to do things just because she wanted to. Her fifty-three years had all been about energy management. It was time to quit. It was time to go home. Leaving Neil felt like being ripped in two, but she told herself it was the best thing for him. He would grieve, but he would eventually move on.

After the people from the church left, she and Neil had spent the evening as if they were on a blind date. Every word was measured, every touch deliberate. They had talked about visiting Kirk Dale Hall as if they were talking about a day out to Castle Howard. They both seemed to understand that if they expressed their true feelings, the world would end.

Sylvie tried to pray. Lord Jesus, you know I cannot continue to live like this. You know that Neil cannot take care of me for much longer. I beg you I won't have to live in an old people's home at the age of fifty-three. Please heal me right now or take me to Oliver. I commit Neil into your hands, and I pray every blessing upon him after I've gone. I ask you, no, I beg you that I will go to sleep and wake up either healed or in heaven.

She cried softly as she waited to fall asleep, which generally took about two hours. Of necessity, she was lying on her painful left hip. She couldn't lie on her right because the spasms in her left thigh would get worse. It was impossible to lie on her back because doing so forced her left hip straight, which was agony. In her most irrational moments she had thought the best thing to do with her left leg would be to cut it off. It was very little use to her and just gave her pain. She had five pillows carefully positioned to support her body in the right places. She also had a rolled-up towel to support her neck, which creaked like grating gravel every time she turned it.

Pain cream and essential oils reduced the pain, but she had to reapply them every time she went to the bathroom. Her whole body needed pain relief, but that was impractical, so she concentrated on her back, hips, and thighs. As well as the pain, she had restless legs and the revolting sensation that insects were creeping up and down her legs. Her skin itched all over. There was the constant buzzing of white noise in the top of her head. She had whooshing, ringing sounds in her left ear and buzzing, popping sounds in her right.

As she waited for sleep, she repeated over and over again the words, "Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy." As sleep was finally approaching, she thought she heard him answer, "It's not a question of mercy. It's a question of spiritual warfare."

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The scream was out of her mouth before she was fully awake. The spasm in her left thigh was excruciating. She tried to move her leg to reduce the pain, but every position caused pain somewhere.

She heard a crash in the next room and knew she'd awakened Neil. It sounded like he'd knocked over a chair in his haste to get to her. Moments later the door flew open, and he staggered in, groping for the light switch. He squinted as the light came on. "What happened?"

Sylvie so wanted to play it down, reassure him she was all right, and send him back to bed, but she was beyond pretence. She was racked with pain and couldn't even speak.

"What's wrong, Honey?" Neil came and sat on the edge of the bed, but doing so caused Sylvie's weight to shift, and she let out another shriek of pain. He stood up as if he'd been burned. "I'm sorry," he said in a shaky voice, "Oh God, what can I do?"

He started to pace back and forth, his hands clutching either side of his hair, his face contorted in mental agony.

"I've got to call a doctor, Honey, there's nothing else I can do."

"No," she managed to say, "Wait, it will get better." And the pain was, in fact, starting to subside.

"What can I do for you?"

"Help me stand up."

"Won't that make it worse?"

"No, I have to make the muscles move."

He helped her to slowly, painfully get to her feet. Then she clung onto him as she waited for her left hip to straighten and take her weight.

She had the usual dilemma. She wanted to cry like a baby. She wanted to scream it wasn't fair. She wanted to tell Neil she was absolutely at the end of her rope. She wanted him to bear her emotions as he bore her physical trauma, but she knew he could not.

After a minute, she tried to step forward, but her left knee collapsed. Neil grabbed her and lowered her back onto the bed. A torrent of helplessness overwhelmed her, and she wept pitifully.

Neil squatted in front of her and put his hand on her good right knee. "Honey, please let me call a doctor."

She wanted to say something sensible and calming, but the only words that came out of her mouth were, "I want to die."

"Please don't say that."

"I'm sorry, but it's the truth. I don't want to be in pain anymore. I don't want to struggle just to get out of a chair anymore. I want to die. I want to go see Oliver. Please let me go."

"The doctors can help you with the pain, Sylvie. Let them at least do that for you."

"You don't understand. If I take one pain killer, it will start me on a slide that will lead to being doped out of my head while every drug I take causes more symptoms and problems and hurries me to an early, painful death. It would be better to die now. I want to die now."

After a few moments she added, "This is what Oliver went through."

"What do you mean?"

"This is why he cried all night. He was in pain. Every position was agony, and he couldn't even move himself. At least I can roll over and vary where the pain comes from. He couldn't even do that. The way he suddenly screamed in the night, maybe he had excruciating muscle spasms like me. It's unbearable to be in this much pain, Neil. Yet our little baby had to endure it for ten long years. I didn't know how to help him. I couldn't help him."

For a few moments there was no sound except that of Sylvie's heart-breaking sobs. Then Neil quietly said, "I can't do this anymore."

Sylvie looked at him. "I'm sorry. I know you're in pain too."

There was a pause, and then Neil just repeated, "I can't do this anymore." He stood up and walked out of the room and back to his bedroom.

Sylvie stifled her sobs and listened. She could hear him opening the wardrobe and pulling things out. What was he doing? Surely, he wasn't packing a bag. Surely, he wasn't leaving her. "Neil, what are you doing?" she shouted.

There was no answer.

She tried to get up. She got as far as getting to her feet, in a bent over position between the bed and chair when she heard Neil start down the stairs. "Neil." She shouted again.

She heard the front door open and close.

He was gone.

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"We're there," said Joo-gy to Pa-gwe, raising his arms in triumph. "Follow Neil. Keep pouring on the guilt, fear, and despair, and keep him away from Sylvie and Andrew at all costs. He won't be concentrating on driving, so try to get him in a car crash."

"What are you going to do?" asked Pa-gwe.

"Get her to leave the house and walk on that left knee, of course. Once that tendon snaps, surgery will be her only option. She'll be back in the system, and she won't escape this time."

# Chapter 10

Sylvie woke up the next morning with a spontaneous rib fracture.

She had had her usual night of trips to the bathroom and frequent applications of pain relievers. Feeling Neil's absence was just one more pain to bear.

When she finally awoke at 6 A.M., her thigh muscles were screaming, and she knew there was no point trying to sleep any longer. She had to get her muscles moving. As she pushed herself up to a sitting position, she felt it. She knew what the pain in her left chest meant. She'd had a rib fracture before when she'd fallen in the snow years earlier. On that occasion, it had taken six months to heal.

She felt a shock of horror. Oh, Lord. My body's disintegrating as I speak.

Her bones were crumbling. Her muscles felt like dry, old rubber bands that were about to snap. Her skin was like wrinkled rice paper. Her hair had lost all of its natural wave and life. She was dying.

She hated everything about her decrepit body. She knew it could not sustain life much longer. They wanted her to find a doctor. Maybe she should find one who believed in what they euphemistically called "physician assisted suicide." No, that would be a betrayal of Oliver. Whatever else she did with the little strength she had left, she would never betray Oliver.

She made herself get up, wash and get dressed. Then she found herself something to eat.

She desperately wanted to pick up the phone and call Neil, but she told herself she had to give him a break. How she wished she hadn't blurted out all that stuff about wanting to die. She'd put too much pressure on him, and now she had to give him some space. He would call her eventually. There's no way he would just abandon her long-term. She could manage independently as long as she didn't fall and wrench her back again. There was enough food in the house for a few days. She would have to be patient and let everybody see she could actually look after herself if she had to.

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Neil was in torment.

He was driving his car with no thought of where he was going, or what he was going to do. He didn't want to have to think. He tried turning on the CD player to let the music drown out his thoughts, but the first song that came on was "Faithful One," and it just reminded him he too should be "faithful to the end." He turned it off. He had abandoned his wife when she most needed him, and he was filled with self-loathing. God forgive me.

The sound of Sylvie's scream kept replaying in his mind, and the feelings of powerlessness and inadequacy it brought engulfed him. The situation was hopeless. There was nothing he could do to help her. Maybe she was right. Maybe it would be best if the Lord took her now.

He drove aimlessly for a few miles through country roads. Maybe he should stop and call her. No, he couldn't. He would hear her pain and be forced to turn around and go back. He couldn't go back. He couldn't risk ever having to hear that scream again.

But he couldn't just abandon her. Maybe he should call Pastor David and ask him to arrange for Sylvie to move to Kirk Dale Hall immediately. No, he couldn't do that. She would hate him. Maybe he could just ask Pastor David to go round and check that she was all right. He couldn't even do that until he had at least spoken to Sylvie himself. She would be all right for a few hours. After all, she looked after herself when he was at work. This was no different. And she was stronger than him spiritually. She would cope. He would give himself a bit of time until he was thinking more rationally.

But what if she fell like she did last time and couldn't get up. She was still refusing to carry a mobile phone.

Neil rounded a tight bend, and then it happened.

He was approaching a small, humpback bridge set in the middle of an S-bend that could only take one car at a time. Normally, he would have approached it slowly and carefully, especially in the half-light of the early morning. Today he didn't care. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he told himself nobody else would be using this minor road at 6 A.M. on a Saturday morning. However, he was just turning onto the bridge when something made him look up. He caught a glimpse of a headlight coming the other way. He braked, swerved and hit the side of the stone bridge, just as a car came round the corner approaching from the opposite direction. The other car screeched to a halt just in time.

Neil was trembling uncontrollably, but didn't seem to be hurt. He got out of his car as the young woman driver got out of hers.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

"Fine. How about you?"

"Fine." She didn't say anything else but stared wide-eyed at Neil as if he were out of his mind. Which he was.

He walked around the front of his car. The front passenger side was completely smashed in, and fragments of glass littered the ground.

"I'll see if it's still drivable," he said as he got back in. He backed off the bridge and pulled into the side to let the young woman drive past. Then, being the conscientious citizen he was, even in the face of intolerable life circumstances, he found an old cardboard box in the boot and broke off the lid so he could use it to sweep the broken glass into the box and take his rubbish home with him. He checked the stonework on the side of the bridge. It was badly scuffed, but didn't appear to be damaged. He didn't feel obliged to report the accident.

He drove more carefully as he continued his journey to . . . where was he going? He needed some time to think in a calm, relaxing environment. He also needed someone to talk to. Not someone from the church. By the time he reached the next major junction, he'd made up his mind. He turned towards Harrogate.

——————————

Why hadn't he called? Sylvie reproached herself for asking the question. She had told herself she might have to wait for days for him to get in touch. She was weakening after just three hours.

She was on her way to the toilet for the third time that morning. The right turn outside the living room door was always awkward. When your left leg is shorter than your right, walking in circles is easy, but turning right is difficult. Sylvie stood outside the living room door and shuffled on her right foot as she swung her left hip around. She held onto the door for support but didn't realize she hadn't closed it properly. It gave way, and she lurched forward. She managed to grab the door frame and prevent herself from falling. No harm done. It was the sort of incident that happened every day. But it reminded her of her vulnerability. What if she had fallen? She knew the Lord had miraculously kept her from harm in the last few months. A thousand times she could have fallen and been in big trouble, but she hadn't. Nonetheless, she didn't like the thought of being alone for days. She had to call someone. But not yet. If Neil hadn't contacted her by this evening, she would phone someone.

But why hadn't he called already? It was so unlike him. Maybe she should be worried about him rather than herself. He wouldn't do anything stupid, would he? Maybe he'd had an accident. Where could he have gone? Surely, he would have gone to see one of the church members. They would look after him and comfort him. And people would know what had happened, and they wouldn't leave her without help.

Patience, Sylvie. She knew she should pray, but she was so unsettled she could hardly hold a thought in her head.

She would stick to her original plan, and if Neil didn't call by this evening, she would phone someone. She picked up a John Grisham novel and started reading.

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"What happened? Are you all right?" Nigel was walking towards Neil's car, staring at it in disbelief.

"I hit a bridge. I'm OK."

"Where's Sylvie?"

"At home. Can I come in and talk to you?"

Nigel looked at his watch. "Sure, but I don't have much time. Matthew's coming over with Luke. I promised to take him to the Toys through Time exhibition at the Pump House Museum. Granddad and grandson time. You know."

But Neil didn't know. He would never know what it was to be a granddad. He resisted the temptation to point this out. "I should have called. I'm sorry."

"You could come with us. I'm sure Luke would enjoy having great-uncle Neil along for the ride."

"No thanks. Saturday is usually my day off from coping with hundreds of screaming kids." This was just an excuse. He would normally enjoy time with Nigel and Luke. But not today.

"Well, come in while I get ready."

Neil followed Nigel into the modest, red brick terraced house and up the stairs. Neil stood on the landing while Nigel went into the bathroom. "Talk to me while I brush my teeth. Tell me what's up," said Nigel.

Neil didn't know where to start. This wasn't exactly the ideal situation for a tête-à-tête with his brother. They were close, and then they weren't. They were identical twins, but life seemed to have treated them very differently. Neil had known it would be difficult to convey the hopelessness and despair he felt, but he had expected to at least have Nigel's full attention. He decided to jump in with both feet.

"I can't look after Sylvie anymore."

Nigel stopped brushing and turned his head. Through a mouthful of toothpaste he said, "Why?"

"I can't bear to see her suffering in such pain and refusing help. Last night she actually screamed. It woke me up."

Nigel spat into the sink, wiped his face with a towel then led Neil into the bedroom. "Sit down a minute," he said. "I thought you'd found a good home for her to go to?"

"She doesn't want to go. She seems to expect God to heal her any day now, and she wants me to look after her until that happens. I can't do it."

"Did you explain that to her?"

"I tried, but how do you have a rational conversation with somebody who's telling you they want to die?"

"She thinks God's going to heal her, but she wants to die?"

"She's not being logical. I don't know what to do."

Nigel glanced at his watch again. "Look, Matthew will be here any minute. Let's pray."

Neil did not want to pray. He was afraid he would hear God telling him to go back. But he couldn't refuse his brother.

Nigel put his hand on Neil's shoulder, closed his eyes and prayed, "Heavenly Father, I pray for my dear brother. He's at the end of his tether. We need a way forward, Lord. We know you are a good God, and you do not wish your children to suffer in pain. Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows. Please help us now. We have an enemy, but you came and died to set us free. For this purpose the Son of God was manifested, that he might destroy the works of the devil. I ask that you would destroy the devil's work in Neil and Sylvie's lives. Please guide us. Please show us the next step. We have nowhere else to turn but to you. We ask this in the precious name of your Son, Jesus."

Neil wiped a tear from his eyes as Nigel said, "I really feel you should come to the Pump House Museum."

"No, I really can't face it. I'm sorry."

"I feel the Lord wants you to come. He will bless you if you do."

Before Neil could respond further, they heard the front door open, and a little boy shout, "Granddad, we're here."

——————————

Sylvie had forgotten all about it.

She had put down the novel to answer yet another call of nature. As she shuffled along the back of the sofa she noticed the corner of a blue card. It was sticking out from under a book on the shelf under the coffee table. When she came back from the toilet, she carefully lowered herself onto the sofa. She didn't usually sit on the sofa because it was low and squishy and therefore difficult to stand up from. She slowly leaned forward with her left foot stuck out to the side, so she didn't reduce the angle of her left hip beyond tolerance, and pulled the card out. It was Kirsty's invitation to her ballet concert, which was to take place that evening. When Neil had given it to her, she had called Kirsty to thank her. Kirsty had extracted a solemn promise from Sylvie that she would attend, and Sylvie had assured her that wild horses would not keep her away.

Sylvie stared at the card and felt a shock of hopelessness. She had opted out of so many events recently, even when Neil could take her. This was one event she could not miss. If she did, it would be the final confirmation her life was over. Any remaining semblance of a normal life would be gone.

She had to get there somehow. Maybe Neil would remember and come back in time to take her. No, after last night's trauma, the last thing on his mind would be a child's ballet concert. Could she possibly get herself there? She would have to take a bus. It had been weeks since she had left the house without Neil's help and months since she'd travelled on a bus. On that occasion, it had been extremely difficult. Now it would surely be impossible. She wouldn't be able to sit down on the bus because it would take her five minutes to stand up again. But she couldn't stand on the bus because the muscles in her legs could no longer compensate for a moving vehicle. They could not keep her upright. She would have to cling on with her arms, but they were too weak.

She was sure David and Jayne would come and pick her up if they knew about her predicament. She should call them. But then she'd have to explain why Neil wasn't taking her. They would put her under even more pressure to move to Kirk Dale Hall. So what? She was already under pressure, and she was just going to have to deal with it. Sooner or later they'd hear about last night from Neil anyway. It would be better to call them now than wait until she was in desperate need of help. If she called now, she could downplay last night. She could say she and Neil had agreed he needed some space. That wasn't strictly true, but she couldn't say he'd walked out on her when she was in terrible pain, could she? It would make Neil look bad. She rationalized away the white lie.

She had decided. She would call Jayne.

She struggled out of the sofa and pulled herself along the furniture to the desk where the telephone sat alongside the telephone book. She found Jayne's number and picked up the receiver.

The phone was dead. No dial tone.

What had happened? Were the phone lines down? Or wasn't the phone plugged in? She sat on the wheeled desk chair and pushed back with her right foot to distance herself from the desk. Then she carefully leant to the right to look under the desk. The telephone cable had come unplugged. It didn't look broken. It just needed to be plugged back in. How did that happen?

The frustration was unbearable. A very simple task needed to be achieved that a four-year-old could do. But she could not. There was no way under the sun she could bend down, reach under the desk, and reconnect the phone.

If she managed to lower herself to the floor, maybe she could shuffle under the desk and plug it back in. But what if she couldn't stand up again? She could put the phone near the edge, so she could reach it from the floor and call someone. But then what? Nobody else had a key. She couldn't let them in. They'd have to call the fire brigade and break the door down.

There was no phone, no way to get help if she needed it. She started to panic.

——————————

"Daddy, daddy, Uncle Neil's coming, too." Luke was standing at the bottom of the stairs holding Matthew's hand when Nigel and Neil descended.

Neil usually experienced a little inner discomfort at the sight of his nephew, but today it was much worse than normal. At twenty-nine, Matthew was just a year younger than Oliver would have been, and the resemblance between Matthew and him was undeniable.

Nigel was half an inch taller than Neil and a little fatter. Today he was dressed in jeans with holes in the knees and a Jesus loves you T-shirt. He seemed to have lost his comb that morning. Neil was usually smarter than his brother, but not today due to his hasty departure from the house.

Nigel's son, Matthew, however, was Neil's height and weight, and he dressed a bit smarter than his father. Neil could never look at Matthew without imagining what Oliver would look like as a healthy young man. Nor could he look at Luke without wondering how his own grandson might have looked. Today, all the sorrow of his life felt just below the surface as if it were about to burst out and devour him.

Neil didn't want to disappoint Luke. He tried to let him down gently. He squatted down to his level and said, "I'm sorry, Luke. I can't come with you. But you're going to have a great time with your granddad." Luke looked crestfallen. His mouth fell open, and he looked as if he'd just dropped his favorite ice cream.

"Please come, Uncle Neil. We can see all the old toys. I've got some pocket money." He produced two one pound coins out of his pocket. "I'll buy you some chocolate," he said eagerly. Neil smiled wryly and stood up.

"How can you resist that?" said Nigel. "A six-year-old is trying to bribe you with chocolate."

Neil thought for a second. If he didn't go with them, what was he going to do? "OK, I'll come, but I'll bring my own car in case I need to get away quickly."

"Can I ride with you, Uncle Neil?" asked Luke.

"Not today. If your dad's seen the state of my car, there's no way he's going to let you ride in a vehicle with me at the wheel."

# Chapter 11

"Sir, you'll have to get that light seen to as a matter of priority," said the traffic warden as she got out her notebook and took down Neil's registration number.

Neil was walking back to his car with a parking time disc from a nearby news agent on Valley Drive.

"I'll deal with it before it gets dark," said Neil dutifully.

"Just see you do, sir."

However, as Neil walked away towards the Pump House Museum, he thought his damaged car was the least of his problems. What was he doing here? He'd come to Harrogate to talk to Nigel and try to find a way forward, but there was no chance of having a deep conversation with Luke around. If he couldn't talk with Nigel, he at least ought to be alone so he could think and get his head straight. How had he ended up visiting a tourist attraction? Surely it was the least appropriate thing he could be doing right now.

As if to drive the matter home, Luke caught up with Neil, took his hand and asked, "Why didn't Aunt Sylvie come?"

"She isn't feeling well."

"That's a shame. She'll miss the toys. Maybe you can take some photos to show her."

Neil forced a smile. This was crazy. He would get away as soon as he could.

As they approached the stone rotunda, the original pump house building, Neil saw two women standing outside. They were chanting at the top of their voices, "Save our water. Save our health. Save the Harrogate Cure." They both looked in their fifties. The taller of the two was wearing a sandwich board. The other one was short and round, and she was punching the air as she shouted. Neil thought they looked like they were once part of a large protest march, but they had somehow got separated from the other five hundred people.

As they got closer, Neil read the message on the front of the sandwich board: KEEP THEM NANNY EUROCRATS AT A SAFE DISTANCE WHERE WE CAN'T SMELL THEIR UNWHOLESOME. . . . The last word was left blank. Presumably the reader was invited to use their imagination to complete the sentence. Neil had no idea what this message meant, and his first thought was that Charles Dickens had a point when he said Harrogate was the weirdest place with the strangest people in it, living the oddest lives.

As Nigel passed the women, the shorter one jumped in front of him and said, "Please sign our petition. Keep Yorkshire for Yorkshire folk. Tell them Eurocrats we'll ruddy well drink what we ruddy well want to." Nigel deftly skipped round her and said, "No, thank you."

Neil tried to follow close behind, but Luke, who was still holding Neil's hand, stopped, pointed to the sandwich board and said, "What's on the back?"

"Show him, Dot," said the short woman, and Dot obediently turned around. On the back board there was a large white rose, and bold letters proclaimed YORKSHIRE: GOD'S OWN COUNTRY. LET'S KEEP IT THAT WAY.

In the moment it took for Luke to read the board, the short woman thrust a leaflet into Neil's hand. His first instinct was to stuff it in his pocket and say he'd read it later, but he was strangely curious why these women were so upset.

He started to read the introduction. For over 300 years, Harrogate Spa water . . .

"By the time you've read that you'll—" began the short woman, but Dot interrupted. "Shut up, Betty, and let him read it."

Neil started again. "For over 300 years, Harrogate Spa water has been famous for its healing qualities. People have come from all over Europe to try it, including members of the Russian royal family. Diseases such as lumbago and gout were said to be cured by it. But now the European Parliament has declared it to be 'unwholesome' and has banned the drinking of it. From now on, visitors to Harrogate may only 'smell the water from a safe distance.' We ask you to sign our petition to tell the EU that we are quite capable of deciding for ourselves what is 'unwholesome' and what we want to drink."

Well, at least Neil now understood the cryptic message on the front of the sandwich board. He looked up. Luke had got bored while he was reading and had run off to catch up with Nigel.

"So, will you sign?" asked the short woman.

Neil, never one to flout authority, wasn't sure. "I'm sure they must have a good reason for banning the water."

"They say it has unhealthy chemicals in it, but it's none of their ruddy business, is it?" said Betty.

"The real reason is, the powers that be don't want us to know that natural stuff can heal. It's Big Pharma behind it all," said Dot.

"Oh, don't start that conspiracy theory stuff again, Dot, you'll ruddy well put him off. Them Eurocrats are just a bunch of big bullies, that's the problem, and we need to kick 'em back to where they came from."

The powers that be don't want us to know. Neil had heard those words somewhere before quite recently. "So you think this water actually helps people's health?" He had addressed the question to Dot, but it was Betty who answered. "Well, we can't prove that, of course, but that's beside the point. The Harrogate Cure is part of our history, and no bureaucrats in the EU are ruddy well going to take that away from us."

"Our Gran had terrible lumbago," started Dot, but Betty cut her off again, "He doesn't want stories about Gran's lumbago. He wants facts, and the fact is the European Parliament want to take away our pride in being Yorkshire folks, and we're not going to ruddy well let 'em."

At that point another couple walked past them, and Betty turned her attention to them leaving Neil with Dot. "What's lumbago?" he asked.

"They don't use the term very much these days, but it's a really horrible kind of lower back pain. Gran told us she could hardly move when she were younger, but she went to take the waters. She drank two glasses of it every morning before breakfast, and she went to the royal baths for treatment twice a week. She says it took a while, but her back were completely healed. She never had any trouble again."

"What was it in the water that helped?"

"Well, it's sulphur water, right? But it has lots of other minerals, too. I don't know exactly what, but I understand the minerals are the key."

The minerals are the key. He'd heard that recently, as well. "Excuse me," he said, took a step back, and got his mobile out of his back pocket. He found Andrew's number and pressed to dial. After one ring he heard the voicemail message and said, "Andrew, it's Neil. Look, I'm really sorry about what happened last time we met, and I really need to talk to you. Please get back to me."

Was this it? Had the Lord sent Andrew with the answer, but Neil had been too stubborn to listen? Had he needed to come to Harrogate and be accosted by two whacky women, so he could hear the message again? He had to tell Sylvie. Maybe she had been right. Maybe there was an answer after all.

He nervously selected his home number and pressed to dial. To his dismay he was immediately heard a professional woman's voice saying, "The number you are calling cannot be reached. It is temporarily out of service. British Telecom apologizes for any inconvenience." The phone wasn't working. Did Sylvie know? Was she panicking because she had no means of calling for help? He had to get home immediately. Just then he received a text message from Andrew saying, "I do not wish to talk to you. Please do not call again." Neil would have to go and apologize to him personally.

He turned to leave. Betty caught him by the arm and said, "You 'aven't signed, yet."

He took her pen and scribbled his name and address. He waved to Nigel and Luke, who had been waiting outside the Pump House Museum, and ran towards his car.

# Chapter 12

Sylvie knew what she was about to do was irrational. She knew she should stop, pray and wait for an answer. But uncontrollable fear had seized her.

She could not bear the feeling of helplessness, of having no control. She had to do something. She had to show everybody she wasn't totally dependent on Neil. She would prove, as much to herself as anybody else, she could cope when he needed a break.

After all, the phone box wasn't far away. She would go and call Jayne and arrange for a lift to the concert. It was that simple. She would be fine if she just took her time and walked very slowly and deliberately.

She had to plan carefully. For anybody else, the short walk to the phone box was nothing. For her, it was an arduous trek across the Sahara. The weather was very hot and would make her feel ill. If she dehydrated, it would make her hip worse, but she daren't drink water. As it was, she would be in desperate need of a toilet by the time she got back.

She made sure she had some frankincense oil in her handbag. For Sylvie, a mosquito bite could add to her trauma. It could turn a hand into a balloon. If she immediately put frankincense on a bite, it halted the swelling.

She went to the toilet, then put her bag by the front door. The next question was her shoes. She could not tie shoe laces. She dragged a small folding chair to the door, sat down, and shuffled her feet into her sandals. She could reach the Velcro on the right sandal without too much difficulty. The left foot was another matter. To reach it, she had to reduce the angle of her left hip. On a good day there was no way to do this without pain, but today there was the added problem of the fractured rib. In addition, bending over always left her gasping for breath.

With the sandals firmly strapped on, the next challenge was standing up. As often happened, bending over to her left foot had triggered the sciatica in her left leg. When she stood, taking the weight on her right leg, her left leg was simply too painful to straighten. She clung onto the door. She was familiar with this situation and knew she would just have to wait a few minutes for the problem to resolve.

When she could finally straighten her left leg and put her weight on it, she opened the front door, and the heat hit her. She stepped outside, closed the door, locked it, and put the keys in her handbag.

The first obstacle she faced was the two steps down to the driveway. There was no handrail. It was one of the things she and Neil had discussed, but they were both reluctant to spend money adapting this house when they knew they really needed to move into a bungalow.

Sylvie shuffled to the edge of the first step. Stepping down on her left leg wasn't that difficult. The problem was supporting her weight on that leg while she brought her right foot down to the same step. She managed the first step well and put her left foot down on the driveway. But as she brought the right foot down to meet it, she caught the back of her heel on the edge of the step. She was thrown forward, but by some miracle, managed to stay on her feet.

This was crazy. What was she thinking? She hadn't got out of the drive yet, and she was in trouble. She could not go. She would go back inside and wait.

She turned around and now had to face climbing up the two steps which was even harder than coming down them.

She prayed. Lord, please help me to get up the steps safely. She managed it and was relieved as she stood in front of the door and got her keys out of her bag. But as she tried to put the key in the lock her stiff fingers slipped, and the keys fell to the ground. She carefully took a step backwards to see where they had fallen, but, to her horror, she felt the back of her sandal hit the keys and heard the unmistakable sound of them falling off the step into the dirt. She shuffled to the side edge of the step, carefully leaning on the door, and looked down. There were the keys, in the soil next to the step. There was no way she could reach them. Even once she'd got herself back down the steps, she wouldn't be able to bend down and pick them up.

Now what? Why hadn't she allowed Neil to buy her a mobile phone for emergencies? She carefully turned round to look up and down the street. Maybe there was someone who could help her. But the street was empty.

She thought about going and knocking on some doors, but that would mean climbing up and down more steps. She might as well go back to plan A and walk to the phone box.

She carefully descended the steps once again and headed down the drive. Her walking style now resembled that of a bent over penguin except penguins look up when they walk, whereas Sylvie always looked down to check the ground she was stepping on. Her bum was stuck out behind her. She waddled and twisted as she used her arms to throw her left hip forward. Her hip objected painfully to every step. Her bent-in left knee felt like it would snap any second now.

She needed to cross the road. That meant stepping down the curb. Sylvie considered the problem for a moment, and then decided to walk to the next lamppost so she could hold onto it while stepping down. There was no traffic. On the other side of the street, she doubled back to a tree for the same reason.

As she walked along the pavement, she heard voices behind her. She thought, even now, she might ask someone to help her get back to the house and pick up the keys. But turning round to see who was following her was a challenge. The weight of her head was too far forward due to her dowager's hump. If she turned her head while walking, she lost her balance. She stopped and slowly turned around, shuffling on her right foot. Four or five teenage boys were coming towards her. They were laughing, and she was sure she was the source of their amusement. She carefully turned back and continued walking. There was then a burst of raucous laughter behind her, and she imagined one of the boys was entertaining his friends by mimicking her strange walking style. This did nothing to help Sylvie's feelings of fear and hopelessness. She told herself to ignore the boys, but that was easier said than done. She was a freak, and she knew it.

After a few minutes, she reached a small junction. At this point, she had a choice. She could turn left into the side road and walk through the small park to the phone box. This route was undoubtedly shorter but had the most potential obstacles. Alternatively, she could keep going and walk all the way to the phone box on the pavement. This route was much longer but probably safer. By now, sweat was pouring down her face, and she felt weak. She didn't know how long she could stay on her feet, and she was already feeling the need to urinate. She chose the short cut and turned left into a small road with no pavement.

A few meters along the road she encountered a sleeping policeman. It took up the full width of the road, and there was no way round it. Although it looked innocent enough, it proved to be a greatest challenge so far. Her left ankle and toes could hardly bend, and they were attached to a hip with very limited range of motion. It was extremely difficult and painful to keep her balance while stepping up the short, steep slope. Then, on the way down the other side, her left foot slipped slightly. Her foot landed hard on the road, and pain shot up through her left knee and hip.

She was now in front of the entrance to the park. She looked at the path ahead of her and realized she'd made a terrible mistake. She'd forgotten how uneven the dirt track through the park really was. She hadn't crossed it for months.

She considered changing her mind and taking the long route. But that would mean crossing the sleeping policeman again. The path in front of her was daunting, but she could actually see her goal through the trees. The top of the phone booth was just visible on the other side of the park.

She would press on.

She stepped onto the dirt track. She had been walking slowly up until this point, but now she moved at a snail's pace. The slightest unevenness in the ground was terrifying. Whenever she stepped forward on her left foot and the ground was slightly lower than she expected, she dropped heavily onto that foot, and a red hot knife stabbed through her knee and hip.

She was petrified, and she started to cry.

Lord Jesus, please don't let me fall. Lord Jesus, please don't let me fall.

She concentrated on every step. She told herself she would be at the phone box in just a few minutes. She would talk to Jayne. She would let go of any remaining pride and tell her the truth. Neil had walked out because he couldn't bear being with her anymore. She needed help. If that meant going to Kirk Dale Hall, so be it. She had no choice. She would thank Jayne and David for their compassion and apologize for her ingratitude.

Once again her left foot dropped a centimeter lower than she'd expected. She tried to get her weight on her right foot as soon as possible, but she hit a lump of earth, and her foot slipped under her. She was falling forwards. Instinctively, she put her arms out to break the fall, but they weren't strong enough, and her face crashed into the ground. Blood spurted from her lip. The pain in her left hip was intolerable. With great difficulty, she pushed herself onto her right side. There was no way she could get up. She was stuck, and she was in agony.

God help me.

——————————-

Where should he go first, home or Andrew's house? Neil debated the question as he drove. He was anxious to get to Sylvie and make sure she was all right. On the other hand, Andrew's house was on the way. If he went to Andrew's house first, he would get a better idea of whether these new products could really help Sylvie.

He imagined Sylvie would be sitting in her most comfortable armchair, reading a novel or watching TV. Delaying his return by half an hour wouldn't make any real difference. He turned off the main road towards Andrew's house.

Neil didn't expect Andrew to respond well to him turning up on the doorstep uninvited. After all, Andrew had refused to talk on the phone, never mind in person. But there was too much at stake not to try.

Neil parked the car, walked up the driveway, and rang the bell. When Andrew opened the door and saw him, he immediately slammed the door shut again. Neil shouted, "Please, Andrew. I behaved atrociously, but please don't let Sylvie suffer because of what I did." There was a pause. Neil didn't know if Andrew was still behind the door. After a few moments he said, "I'm so sorry, Andrew. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I'm so ashamed. Please, let's talk." There was another pause, and then the door slowly opened again.

Andrew glared at Neil, then stood back and gestured for him to go in the kitchen. Andrew was uncharacteristically wearing a baseball cap over his permed hair. Initially they both sat down at the kitchen table, but Andrew immediately jumped up again and started to pace backward and forward.

"You left me there," said Andrew, "I had to call my wife. She had to leave work to come get me."

"I'm sorry." Neil didn't know what else to say. He couldn't look Andrew in the eye. Why had he just driven away and left Andrew lying on the pavement? Sure, he was worried about Sylvie, but the real reason was pure anger. He should at least have called Andrew later to check he was all right.

"I had to have stitches." Andrew took off the cap and leaned down to show Neil the bald patch with a one inch scar in the middle. Neil knew this would have damaged Andrew's vanity as well as his body.

"And all because I was trying to help you," continued Andrew, "But you wouldn't listen because you think I'm a scam artist, a shark. How can you think that?"

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm a salesman, and maybe sometimes I'm a bit pushy, but that's the job."

"I know. I—"

"I found something that could really help Sylvia. What was I supposed to do? Keep it to myself?"

"Of course not—"

"What would you do if you found the answer to someone's suffering, but that person wouldn't listen? Would you just give up? No, not if you cared about them. I care about Sylvia. Like everybody else, I've watched her deteriorate. The solution was dropped in my lap. So, I told you. What on earth did I do to deserve being thrown in the street like that? Tell me."

"I'm sorry. I was in a hurry and stressed out. But that's no excuse. All I can do is to apologize and ask for your forgiveness." Neil wiped away a tear from his eye.

There was a pause. Neither man spoke for what felt like a long time. Then Andrew suddenly left the room. He returned a few minutes later with some leaflets which he handed to Neil.

"This explains about the Hushmin 90 program." Andrew spoke quietly. Gone was the brash salesman's confidence. "It tells you why the body needs all ninety essential nutrients, including sixty essential minerals, in doses appropriate to body weight, and how the products were developed for maximum absorbability. There's a price list in the back." He sat back in his chair and examined the backs of his hands.

"What products would you suggest for Sylvie?" asked Neil cautiously.

"Well, if you want my opinion, I would suggest the basic program plus extra support for bones, joints, and muscles. We would have to experiment because of her food allergies. It might take a while to settle on a good program."

"And what could we expect?"

"No guarantees. There never is. But I've heard numerous reports of spectacular, even miraculous results, where bones and joints have rebuilt in a few months. I haven't heard as much about muscles regenerating, but I've heard of fibromyalgia pain resolving." Andrew was now leaning forward again. He opened his mouth to continue as if he were about to get into sales pitch mode, but he seemed to think better of it and sat back again. "Maybe you'd like to take the leaflets with you and get back to me if you're interested."

"Don't you have any products I can buy right now? Can we go to your garage and check them out?"

"Actually, this company doesn't demand I keep a garage full of products. I just order them as required."

"I see," said Neil. He had pictured himself arriving home and presenting Sylvie with a box of products that could really offer hope. Maybe Neil's disappointment was written on his face because Andrew said, "I guess I could let you have a few products out of my own personal stock."

"Really? I can pay you for them right now. We'll try those products straight away, and if Sylvie can take them, we'll put in an order. Is that OK?"

"Sounds good." Andrew went to a cupboard and came back with a canister, a large bottle of liquid and a small bottle of capsules.

"It's liquid?" asked Neil.

"Most of it is liquid or powder that's made up to a liquid. It's much more absorbable than tablets."

Neil thanked him, paid him, and made his way to the door. He now had to get home as soon as possible.

"Listen," said Andrew, "I'm sorry I refused to take your phone call. I was mad at you. But who am I to judge? Who knows what I'd do if I were under the kind of stress you've been living with lately."

"That's OK." They shook hands in a semi-friendly way.

Back in the car, Neil felt good. He would go back home. He would apologize to Sylvie for leaving her in the middle of the night when she was in pain. He would give her the products. Together they would research the Hushmin 90. They would pray together that this would be the answer. Everything was going to be OK.

——————————

The pain was unbearable. The fracture in her left chest screamed. Pain shot up and down her left leg as if it were being slashed with a hot knife. Her left hip was agony. She couldn't keep still, but she could not find a position that was remotely comfortable. She tried putting her handbag between her knees like she did with a pillow at night, but it didn't work.

She didn't think she'd broken any bones. She knew that was a miracle in and of itself. She should be thankful to God. But she didn't feel thankful; she just felt angry. Hadn't he told her he would heal her? Hadn't she prayed he wouldn't let her fall? He either didn't care or didn't have the power. That's what Joy had said. There was a time after Oliver's death when Sylvie would have agreed with her. But she'd pulled herself back from that and had recovered faith in God, or so she thought. But now she found herself where Oliver had been, in a crippled and tortured body. She had prayed and prayed that God would heal her son. Then she'd watched him die. Now it was her turn.

Despite her anger, she knew God was her only hope, and she made herself pray, albeit without much faith. Please send someone to help me.

She awkwardly rummaged in her bag with her left hand and tried to find some tissues for her bleeding lip. Her hand came across a small card. What was it? She pulled it out. It was the Psalm 91 card Ethel had given her weeks ago. She'd forgotten about it. She read the first line: He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. What a load of rubbish! Where was the safety in trusting God? It just left you lying in a park in agony, waiting to die.

Just then, she saw a little girl of about five or six holding a dirty doll and walking towards her through the park. The child saw Sylvie, stopped and then backed up a few steps looking scared. Sylvie tried to stop writhing and forced herself to smile.

"Hello, what's your name?"

The child didn't answer.

"Where's your mummy?"

She pointed vaguely behind her.

"Could you do me a favor? Could you go fetch your mummy?"

The little girl didn't speak. After a few seconds she turned and ran.

Was she going to get help? Had she understood? Surely, she would bring her mother, and Sylvie would ask her to call for an ambulance. Yes, she realized now, she had no choice. She was at the end of the road. She had resisted and resisted knowing that, once she was in the hospital system and pumped through with drugs, it would be the beginning of the end. But, as Neil had said, at least they would numb the pain. She would be spaced out of her head, but that was OK. It would be better not to think anymore.

The paramedics would come and take control. She could give up the fight and just let them carry her away to oblivion. She had suffered enough. No one could be expected to tolerate what she was living with, the constant pain and immobility. Yet, even as she lay there swamped with pain and hopelessness, she knew her present suffering was not the worst of her life. Nothing could compare with the agony of watching your child in constant suffering and being powerless to help.

She had once committed herself to finding the truth about Oliver's anguish, even if it cost her her life. Somehow, she felt that to give up now would be to betray her son. She could never betray him. But what option did she have but to surrender to death?

If there were an answer, it would only be found in God. Could she find the faith to believe that? Could she find the strength to trust him at this final hour when all hope was gone?

The Psalm 91 card was still in her hand. What had she got to lose? She decided to make herself read it.

——————————

"Sylvie, I'm back," Neil called as he struggled through the front door with the box of Hushmin 90 in his arms.

No answer.

"Are you OK, Honey? Where are you?"

No answer. Could she be so mad at him she wasn't answering? That wasn't like her. Maybe she was asleep.

"I'm so sorry I walked out, but I've got good news."

No answer. He put the box down on the kitchen table and ran through the house, checking all the rooms. No sign of her. He ran through the kitchen and out the back door into the small back garden. Then he started the whole search again, this time looking behind the sofa and the beds, anywhere Sylvie might have fallen.

She wasn't there.

He went to the phone and plugged it back in.

Then he saw Kirsty's invitation card laying on the coffee table. He'd forgotten. The concert was tonight. Sylvie would have wanted to contact David and Jayne, but how? Could she have tried to walk to the phone box? Surely not.

Neil called David and explained what had happened. David said he hadn't heard from Sylvie. He said he would check with Jayne and the other church members and call Neil back if he found out anything.

Neil was perplexed. Could Sylvie have gone to a neighbour's house? But who? She wouldn't have wanted to trouble old Mrs. Bettany on the left, and the neighbors on the right were away for the weekend. Should Neil go to the phone box and check? But it made no sense to go. Even if Sylvie had gone there, it could have been hours ago. She could have called for a taxi to take her somewhere else. But then, if she'd got to the phone box, why hadn't she called him? Maybe she was too angry, or maybe she felt guilty about the pressure he was under and had decided to give him some space.

If only he could find her and talk to her.

He could think of nothing else to do but to go to the phone box. He left her a note on the kitchen table in case she came back. He said he was sorry, the phone was now working, and please call him as soon as possible.

Should he go on foot or by car? It was only a five minute walk, but the car would be quicker.

He jumped in the car, drove down their street and turned left. The phone box was in front of him. Sylvie wasn't there. Of course she wasn't.

Maybe she had fallen and someone had taken her into their house. Maybe they had taken her to the hospital. Neil now started to imagine all kinds of terrible things. She was badly hurt, and it was all his fault. Why did he leave her like that? Guilt and panic overwhelmed him.

He called the local casualty department. No, they did not have a patient called Sylvia Keighley.

He could try walking up and down the street. Maybe he could find someone who'd seen her. It was a long shot, but he had to do something. He could look in the park. But no. If Sylvie had come, she would have walked round on the pavement. The dirt track through the park was obviously too dangerous for her.

Suddenly he saw a little girl coming out of the park. Should he get out of the car and speak to her? But why would he? How could she help?

His phone rang. It was David asking if there was any news.

Neil phoned his home number in case Sylvie was back. There was no answer. What if she was there but couldn't reach the phone for some reason? Maybe he should get back to the house.

He didn't know what to do. He calmed himself to pray. Heavenly Father, I'm so sorry. I've let Sylvie down, and I've let you down. Please help me find her. Please let her be all right.

# Chapter 13

"You make sure that scraggy little brat fetches her mummy, and I'll get rid of the husband," said Joo-gy to Pa-gwe. But before either of them could move, Chee-oo and Go-chee appeared before them.

"You're too late," screamed Joo-gy. "She's passed the point of no return, and you have no grounds to interfere."

"On the contrary," replied Chee-oo calmly, "She's reading the holy, living word of God."

Joo-gy flinched but said, "With her faith level on zero."

"She retains a grain of hope in our Lord. It is enough. We can withstand you."

"You think you can stop us now? For fifty-three years we have tortured and tormented that pathetic, ugly, slag in body and soul, and—"

"But not in spirit."

"—and we are about to seal our victory. Back off."

"Kingdom Challenge," cried Chee-oo.

Immediately, the two leading angels switched dimensions and appeared on a dry, dusty, deserted mountain top. Their apparel had changed. They bore breastplates of gleaming gold over robes of the finest silver chain mail, and each carried a broadsword of burnished steel. Joo-gy's blond hair flew behind him as his blue eyes flashed with rage. Chee-oo retained a composed countenance, but the expression of unyielding determination on his face was unmistakeable.

They both raised their swords.

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.

Sylvie read it, but she couldn't believe it. There she was lying on the ground in agony, and her only hope was that the little girl would fetch her mum who would then call an ambulance. Her only chance of relief now was to be drugged out of pain and into oblivion.

Joo-gy sneered, "Not only is she doubting, she's actually inviting us to stupefy her with pharmaceuticals." He lunged forward and struck Chee-oo's sword. Chee-oo blocked him but could do no more.

Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.

Sylvie wondered what a fowler was. The verse said it was somebody who sets snares, so maybe it was a hunter. Sylvie knew the Bible talks about the Devil setting snares. Maybe this verse means God will deliver her from the Devil? Did she need to be delivered from the Devil? Had he put her in this state? The Bible says the Devil comes to kill, steal, and destroy.

Chee-oo managed to push Joo-gy away from him. "She is being empowered by the knowledge of the Word."

He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.

Sylvie thought about truth being a shield. But what truth? The truth was that God had let Oliver suffer and die, and now he was letting her do the same. Where was the shield? Where was the protection?

" **No, she's being dragged down to the pit by sorrow and pain." With each emphasized word Joo-gy's sword struck Chee-oo's, who struggled to defend himself.**

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.

But Sylvie _was_ afraid. She was terrified of the pain getting worse and worse. She was terrified of needing a wheelchair. She was terrified of needing twenty-four hour nursing care, of being given bed baths, like her mum used to give her when she had an asthma attack as a child, and having to be helped on and off the toilet. She was terrified of a total loss of privacy and independence.

Her greatest fear, however, was of losing Neil. Had he gone forever? Had she driven him away? He was her only comfort, her only solace.

Joo-gy was energized by her terror. "How many times did That Man tell his lowlife followers not to fear? But look how easy it is for us to have them quaking in their boots. She's sinking in a quagmire of fear, and you've lost, Chee-oo. Give up, now?" By this time Chee-oo was crouching on the ground with his sword over his head. "While she reads the Word of God, I will never yield."

A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

But it had come near them. She'd always drawn the short straw. She hadn't had less health problems than others, she'd had more since the day she was born. She and Neil had been the one couple in thousands who had a severely handicapped child.

" **That's right, Sylvie. We stuck the dagger in before you were born, and we've been twisting it ever since. But don't worry. It will all be over soon. Death will bring relief." Joo-gy pounded Chee-oo mercilessly. Chee-oo was now lying on his back, barely able to hold out his sword.**

Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked.

On hearing those words, Joo-gy staggered backwards for a split second. He seemed weakened and momentarily disorientated. He faltered just long enough for Chee-oo to regain his feet. "Yes, Joo-gy, your reward awaits you, the lake of fire."

The reward of the wicked? The wicked weren't punished or curtailed as far as Sylvie could see. Evil prevailed in her life. She had prayed and prayed and prayed while she got sicker and sicker and sicker. What was the point of continuing to read? This wasn't helping at all. Rather than bringing comfort, it was just driving home her desperate state. She put down the card and gave herself over to uncontrolled sobs.

Joo-gy revived as Chee-oo weakened. Chee-oo had no choice but to stagger backwards again as Joo-gy attacked. Once more he fell on his back, and this time his sword flew out of his hand. Joo-gy pounced on him and pinned him down. "Let's just wait now, shall we?" said Joo-gy in a silky voice, his nose just inches from Chee-oo's, "While Pa-gwe gets that little brat's mummy to call for an ambulance. Then Sylvie can be carried away to the arms of caring, skilful doctors who know zilch about the nutrition her body is screaming for but everything about the slow-acting poisons they call pharmaceuticals. Of course, the poison is usually slow acting, but it won't take long with Sylvie. She's on her last legs anyway. Maybe, we can even get the paramedics to drop her, splat, so that pesky lateral collateral ligament snaps, and they have to take her straight to theater. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

Despair swept over Sylvie. It engulfed her. There was no hope. Had she really told her church friends she was going to come back from this? She had deceived herself. She just hadn't wanted to face the truth. But she had to face it now. For whatever reason, God had let her deteriorate to the point she had no choice but to submit to medical treatment.

She would die soon, and that was OK because she would see Oliver. She would see him whole and happy as she'd never seen him before. Yes, she believed that. She had hope in that. Maybe there is no relief for suffering in this world, and we just have to look to the next. But then why did Jesus heal the sick and raise the dead?

If she believed what the Bible says about heaven, why couldn't she believe what it says about earth? Oliver was now safe in God's arms. She was grateful beyond words that he was not eternally lost to her. And if she believed God for Oliver, why couldn't she believe him for herself? She had to keep faith with God for Oliver's sake. She reminded herself once again she could never betray him. For Oliver's sake, she must keep reading. She lifted up the card again and continued.

A mighty surge of power rippled through Chee-oo's body. He threw Joo-gy off him, sprung to his feet, retrieved his sword, and turned to face his opponent who now had traces of fear marring his handsome face.

Because thou hast made the LORD, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation; There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.

Had she made the Lord her refuge? Had she put her trust in him alone? No, she had not. Here she was accusing God of failing her, yet she had failed to do her part. She had not believed his word. What did it say in Hebrews? Without faith it is impossible to please him.

Chee-oo attacked viciously. Joo-gy initially staggered backwards but then rallied and stood his ground. Their swords were but silver blurs flashing back and forth.

For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.

Were there angels fighting for her now? "Lord, please send your holy angels to help me."

" **Yes," cried Chee-oo in triumph as Joo-gy's face succumbed to fear. With heightened strength, Chee-oo forced Joo-gy further and further back.**

Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder: the young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet.

Then it hit her. Then she understood. She had been so stupid. The Lord had told her to trample on dragons. He had empowered her to do so. He had called her to be a warrior, and here she was acting like a victim. She was not a victim. When Jesus rose from the dead, he proclaimed victory over death and sickness. He had handed that victory to her. He had put a sword in her hand, but she had let it fall idly at her side. She raised her aching left arm as if holding an imaginary sword and said, "Lord Jesus, you were manifested to destroy the works of the devil. Please destroy his works in my life right now."

Joo-gy screamed. He crashed to the floor and held his sword defensively over his head as Chee-oo continued to strike mercilessly.

Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name. He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him. With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation.

Sylvie summoned every ounce of strength left in her rapidly fading flesh and shouted, "Lord Jesus, I call upon you. Please deliver me."

With one mighty blow, Chee-oo knocked the sword out of Joo-gy's weakening hands. He held his own sword at the fallen angel's throat and said, "Unconditional Retreat?" Joo-gy nodded once, an expression of pure loathing on his face, then vanished. Chee-oo immediately leaped to his feet, lifted his voice across the dimensions to Go-chee and shouted, "Direct Intervention."

# Chapter 14

When Sylvie looked up and saw the little girl coming through the park gate holding her mother's hand, she felt confused. Was this God's answer to her prayer?

The woman saw Sylvie lying on the ground and ran towards her, "Are you OK? What happened? Should I call an ambulance?" She got her mobile out of her pocket.

Sylvie hesitated. If the Lord had sent this woman in answer to her prayer then, yes, Sylvie should ask for an ambulance. She opened her mouth to say as much, but then heard a man's voice behind her. "It's OK. Sylvie's husband is on his way, and we'll take care of her."

She didn't recognize the voice, and she couldn't turn her head to see who it was. He had called her Sylvie. Very few people called her that.

The woman seemed to notice the look of uncertainty on Sylvie's face and asked her, "Is that right? Shall I leave it?"

By now the man had walked around in front of Sylvie, and she could see him. He was of Middle Eastern appearance with short, dark hair around a broad forehead. The wide brown eyes below the thick eyebrows were the most beautiful she'd ever seen. He had an expression of joyful calm on his face, and he was carrying, of all things, a large, white pillow.

"Yes, I'll be fine," she said to the woman. It seemed an extraordinary, almost stupid, thing to say under the circumstances, but at that moment she felt it was true. She would be fine.

The woman took her daughter's hand and walked away, glancing back over her shoulder every few steps.

The man squatted down in front of Sylvie. "I'm going to put this pillow under your left thigh. The pain will increase as I lift your leg, but, once the pillow is in place, the pain will reduce. OK?"

She nodded. She winced as he gently lifted her leg. He seemed to know exactly where to place the pillow. He did it even better than Neil. The pain substantially reduced.

"Who are you?" The words burst out of her mouth, and she was worried she sounded rude.

"I'm an angel," he replied quietly.

Good joke. She half smiled at him. He smiled back, and his face seemed to light up with a radiant joy that flooded her with hope.

"We've been watching over you," he said.

"Then why did I fall?" She didn't mean it as an accusation. She just wanted to know.

"It was a difficult decision, but if you had walked for another ten minutes, your left knee would have snapped and needed surgery. So, we let you fall but made sure you didn't break anything."

Sylvie felt ashamed for her anger against God. If she had really trusted him, she would have known that he works all things together for good. "Is Neil really coming? How do you know? How will he find me?" she asked.

"My boss is fetching him. He'll be here in a few minutes, and he's found the nutritional program that will bring you back from this."

For the first time, Sylvie wondered if she'd actually fallen asleep, and this was a dream. Or, maybe she'd died, and this was her introduction to heaven. Had she actually just been told that she would come back from this?

"It will take some time," he continued. "There'll be a reduction in pain within a few days. Within six months, you will be standing straight, and the constant pain will have gone. Your bones and joints will heal quite quickly, but your muscles will take longer. However, within three years, most of your muscles will be stronger than they've ever been in your life, but you'll be left with some weakness in the area of your left hip. You once committed yourself to finding out the truth about health. When you feel your body regenerating, you will know beyond the shadow of a doubt that degenerative disease is caused by nutritional deficiencies and that the Lord gave the body an incredible capacity to heal itself when those deficiencies are addressed."

Sylvie couldn't take in what he was saying. "I'm coming back from this?"

"Yes."

Could it be true? It was what she'd hoped and prayed for. She'd told Dr. Pickup it would happen. Was she going to be set free? Was she finally going to have a life with her dear husband? Hope and joy surged within her, but she could not give herself over to it just yet because there was a question she knew she had to ask. She was terrified of asking it, terrified of the answer. Surely it would rip her apart. Nevertheless, she knew she had come to this point in order to find out the truth.

"If what you say is true, and if we'd known about it thirty years ago . . . "

She couldn't bring herself to finish the question, but the man seemed to know what she was trying to ask. He answered the unfinished question in a quiet, steady voice that was filled with compassion, and yet had no trace of regret or hesitation.

"If you had been on the diet and nutrition program before you got pregnant, you would not have had asthma during the pregnancy. You would not have been given the Chonsicalline, and Oliver would have been born healthy."

Sylvie could do nothing but cry. Her heart screamed with excruciating pain that was a million times worse than any physical pain she had ever had to endure. To know that Oliver's suffering had been avoidable. To know they had not simply drawn the short straw. They had been deceived. The truth had been kept from them, and their baby son had paid the terrible price.

The man read her thoughts. "But the Lord who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life came to destroy the works of the Father of Lies. Oliver is now safe and happy."

"Then let me go to him right now," sobbed Sylvie.

"You will see him again, but not just yet. First, the Lord has a job for you to do."

"What job?"

"Go tell the world what happened to you and Oliver. Tell them we can prevent such suffering. Tell them we can prevent more Olivers. Ninety percent of the people you talk to won't listen, but ten percent will."

She cried. She cried for Oliver. She cried for herself. She cried for her long-suffering husband. She cried for the hundreds of thousands of children who were suffering needlessly. There was an answer. The world needed to know. She would tell them. If the Lord really brought her back from this, she would shout it from the rooftops as long as she lived. If it were in her power, it would never, ever, ever happen again that an innocent child be put through ten years of torment.

She had her eyes closed, but she felt the man suddenly stand up. He shouted, "Neil, she's over here, in the park."

When she opened her eyes, the man was gone. A moment later she saw Neil running towards her.

# Chapter 15

Three years later.

The Yorkshire Dales were truly beautiful.

She had lived among them all her life, but never really noticed them before. In fact, until recently, she had been unable to see that life could actually be worth living at all. As she got out of the car and got her bag from the back seat, she admired Kirk Dale Hall. It was a large, handsome Georgian house with perfect stonework and elegant sashed windows. The rolling hills behind it looked even greener than usual after the showers earlier that morning. She savored the orange and red hues of the leaves on the Horse Chestnut trees. The prickly, green seed pods on the ground reminded her of playing conkers with Georgina when she was a child.

Yes, life now held some simple pleasures for her. But the greatest of them was something she would never be able to explain to another person—the wonderful joy of simply feeling stable on her feet.

Neil and Andrew went to the boot and took out a large box apiece with HUSHMIN 90 written on the sides. Sylvie walked alongside them as they carried the boxes towards the front door. She still had a strange gait, but gone were her penguin days.

The door opened before they reached it, and there stood Joyce Caraway, hurriedly wiping her hands on her apron. "Enid is bursting to see you, Sylvia." Then turning to Neil she said, "I'll take that. You go with Sylvia to the main sitting room," and she took the box out of his hands.

Joyce and Andrew headed for the kitchen while Sylvie and Neil walked down the long, wide corridor. She took his arm, not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. "Barbara will be interested to see your hair," she said as she stroked the back of his head. "She'll notice the difference from last month." The back of Neil's once totally grey hair was now streaked with lines of brown as it slowly returned to its original color. "You're getting more handsome and sexier every day, do you know that? How am I going to keep my hands to myself for the next few hours?"

"You'll manage." He winked at her as he opened the sitting room door.

They were immediately greeted by a shout of, "Look, Sylvia and Neil. Look at my hands." There were three elderly residents sitting round a table, and Sylvie and Neil's entrance had evidently interrupted a game of dominoes. The shout came from a small, old woman with scanty white hair. She had both of her skinny arms out in front of her, and she was opening and closing her fingers as if she were kneading dough. "See how easily I can stretch them. And I didn't know it was going to rain this morning, either."

"You mean you didn't check the weather forecast?" Neil looked puzzled.

"No, Silly," laughed Enid, "My knees didn't tell me. They used to work better than a barometer, but the pain has gone now."

"That's fantastic, Enid," said Sylvie as she joined them at the table. Enid leaned forward and grabbed Sylvie's hand. "I would never have believed it. It's like a miracle." She jumped excitedly in her chair, knocked the table, and sent her dominoes crashing to the floor. Sylvie picked them up for her.

"Calm down, Woman," said the woman opposite Enid. "We all know you're getting better, but so is everybody else here, and we're not all showing off about it."

"I'm not showing off, Barbara. I'm just telling Sylvia, that's all."

Sylvia understood. How can you not shout for joy when joints that haven't worked for years start to come back to life?

"Sylvia already knows, better than any of us," said Barbara as she tugged the bottom of her short, wavy, black wig.

"I know she does." Enid turned to Sylvie. "And how are you?"

"I'm going great, thanks."

"I can see that. I think your eyes get bluer every time I see you."

At that point, they were interrupted by the third domino player, who suddenly shouted across the room, "You can't eat that in here. You'll have to go to the gluten room." Sylvie was startled by the forceful pronouncement, all the more because it came from Henry, a man who could barely talk at all three months previously. He was announcing the prohibition to another resident and his family who were sitting with Neil in the corner of the room. Sylvie could see that the outburst had been prompted by the sight of a box of Mr. Kipling Cherry Bakewells.

There was a teenage boy among the visitors, and he shouted back, "The what room?"

"The gluten room. This is a gluten-free zone. We don't want none of your poisonous crumbs left in our sitting room."

"Poisonous?" chuckled the boy. "It's hardly arsenic."

"Don't you contradict me, young man. I'll have you know my prostate's working better than it has done for twenty years."

Joyce had just walked into the room. "Is something the matter?" she asked the visitors.

The teenage boy's father answered, "The gentleman at the table seems to be upset about the cakes we brought for my father-in-law."

Joyce seemed to be in her element as she took charge and explained the situation. "Here at Kirk Dale we are always ready to try new things, and indeed to set trends for other similar establishments. The majority of the residents recently voted to make Kirk Dale Hall a gluten-free zone. All the meals we provide are therefore free of wheat, barley, rye, and oats. For the convenience of residents and their families who do not wish to follow a strict gluten-free diet, we have provided a nongluten-free room in much the same way as other institutions provide a smoking room. The gluten room is thoroughly cleaned once a week by an outside cleaning agency in order to minimize any contamination in other areas of the building."

"Do they wear hazmat suits?" interrupted the teenager.

Sylvie was sure this was meant as a joke, but Joyce seemed to take it seriously. "Not at this time, but the cleaners are required to remove their overalls before leaving the room."

"I'm surprised you don't incinerate them."

Joyce laughed politely and said, "I think that would be going a bit too far, although we are currently looking at the cost of providing disposable protective clothing instead."

The boy smirked and said, "Now that we know how dangerous Mr. Kipling's Cherry Bakewells are, we'll just bring granddad some crack cocaine next time, all right?" His mother knocked him on the arm and glared at him.

Joyce ignored the boy's last remark and said to his parents, "I'd be happy to escort you to the gluten room and make sure you are comfortable there."

"It's OK," said the granddad. "I'll save them for later."

"I wanted one now," moaned his grandson.

While they were talking, Sylvie got a food box out of her bag. She opened it and held it out to the visitors. "Would you like a gluten-free, coconut and chocolate cookie? I made them this morning."

As the homemade biscuits were passed round, Sylvie turned to Barbara. "How are you, Barbara?"

"Well, I've got a little bit more hair growth," she said, patting the top of her wig, "but I've had some terrible news."

"Oh, it's awful," said Enid.

"I'll tell her. It's my family."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What's happened?" asked Sylvie.

"It's my grandson, Toby. My Karen's only child. He's four." She started to sniff and pulled a lacy, pink handkerchief out of her pocket. He was a beautiful baby, but we always thought there was something wrong. It took him a long time to learn to walk, and even then he had this strange way of walking on tiptoe." By now, there were tears streaming down her over-powdered face. "The doctors say he's got something called Duchenne's muscular dystrophy. They say he'll be in a wheelchair by the time he's twelve." The last few words came out in short bursts in between quiet sobs.

"Did you explain to Karen about the Hushmin 90?" asked Sylvie.

"Yes, I told her it was helping all the residents here."

"Did you tell her it can help them, too?"

"Can it? It's just for old folks like us, isn't it?"

At fifty-six and getting younger every day, Sylvie was not ready to number herself among the old folks. But she let that pass. "It's for everybody."

"Children too?"

"Yes, they need the ninety essential nutrients like everybody else."

"I know this stuff helps bones and joints, but the doctors say nothing can regenerate muscles. They're hoping gene therapy is going to work, but it could take years to develop. Karen wanted to have three more children, but now she's scared to get pregnant in case it happens again."

At this point, Sylvie could have given a long, technical explanation as to why she disagreed with Toby's doctors, but she had learned in the last three years that seeing is believing. She pushed her chair back from the table and pulled back her denim skirt to show Barbara her thighs. "Can you see a difference between my two thighs?"

At first Barbara said she couldn't, but then she leaned closer and said, "Oh, yes I can. Your left thigh is a bit thinner than your right."

"Darling," Sylvie called to Neil. "Please would you show Barbara that photo of my thighs taken three years ago?"

Neil said, "Excuse me," to the family he was talking to and walked over to Barbara. He got out his smart phone, found the photo, and showed it to her. Barbara gasped and looked repeatedly from the photo to Sylvie's thighs.

"As you can see," said Sylvie, "the muscles in my left thigh had badly degenerated, but they have now substantially regenerated. And I'm in my fifties. I don't have the recovery capacity of a four-year-old. Tell Karen to get Toby off gluten and on the Hushmin 90 with extra selenium. And get her to do the same for herself. Then she needn't worry about getting pregnant again."

"Do you really think it will help?"

"Listen, it took me fifty-three years to find the truth. And the truth is this: chronic disease is caused by nutritional deficiencies, and when those deficiencies are addressed, the body has an incredible, God-given ability to fix itself."

"Would you call Karen and explain it to her?"

"I'd be delighted."

Sylvie was indeed delighted at the prospect of helping another family. But, as always, the hope she gave to others compounded the dull ache that lived forever in her own heart. After fifty-three years she'd found the truth. Thank God she'd found it in time to help little Toby. But she was thirty years too late to help her own son.

I'm sorry, Oliver.

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. However, I gave poor Sylvie Keighley my body. At the age of fifty-three I, like Sylvie, was bent over to the left, barely able to walk and in constant pain. Then I discovered Dr. Joel Wallach and his Youngevity Company. At the time of writing, I've been on his diet and supplement program for three years. I'm walking ninety-five percent better, and I'm pain-free. I feel like I'm actually living for the first time in my life.

So, thanks must go first and foremost to Dr. Wallach for his dogged determination to get his message of health recovery out to the people despite fierce and powerful opposition. Thanks also to Dr. Peter Glidden, who helped me to apply Dr. Wallach's protocols to my own situation. I'm grateful too to the members of the Wellness Warriorz Facebook group who answered my myriad questions about Youngevity and cheered me on with every small improvement.

Oliver is based on my own son, Timothy, although I have changed names, places, circumstances, and relationships. Timothy was born severely handicapped and died two weeks short of his tenth birthday. I found the truth about medical nutrition thirty years too late to help him.

I'm sorry, Timothy.

www.givenhertoeat.com

