F. Paul Wilson - The Touch

Sylvia watched his face, feeling the glow of his enthusiasm.

"I can't tell you what it means to actually be able to do something! Most of medicine is just buying time, staving off the inevitable. But now I can make a real difference!"

"You always have," Sylvia told him. "You shouldn't sell yourself short."

"Why not? I was like a guy trying to swim the Channel with both arms tied behind his back. God! There was so much I could have done! So many lives…"

His eyes got a faraway look, as if he had wandered into a private world and couldn't find his way back right away. Which was fine with Sylvia. It made her angry to hear him put down his pre-Touch self.

"You always had something special!" she told him as his eyes focused again. "You had compassion and empathy. I still remember the second or third time I saw you with Jeffy and told you how you were the only doctor who made me feel I wasn't imposing by asking a few questions."

"Good. Then let me ask you a question."

"Okay." The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable. "What?"

"Jeffy."

Her stomach twisted. She sensed what was coming. "What about him?"

"I've" been thinking about him ever since I found I really had this power, this Touch, or whatever it's called. But I didn't know how to approach you. And you haven't brought him in since he had that abdominal pain and, I mean, I couldn't exactly come knocking on your door." He seemed to be fumbling for words. He took a deep breath. "Look: I want to try the Touch on Jeffy."

"No!" Sylvia said automatically. "Absolutely not!"

Alan blinked. "Why not?"

She didn't know why, exactly. She had refused reflexively. The thought of placing Jeffy at the mercy of some power she couldn't quite believe in frightened her. It was too mystical, too scary. But it went deeper than mere fright. A nameless dread, baseless and formless, had risen within her as Alan was speaking. She didn't understand it, but knew she was helpless before it. Who knew what the Dat-tay-vao might do to Jeffy? Bad enough if she got her hopes up and it didn't work. But what if it backfired somehow and made him worse? She couldn't risk anything happening to Jeffy.

"I-I-I don't know." The words tumbled out. "Not yet. Not now. I mean, you said yourself you don't know how it works, or exactly when it will work. There are too many unknowns here. And besides, all the cures you've told me about have been for physical ills. Jeffy's problem isn't purely physical."

Alan was watching her closely, searching her face. Finally he nodded.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe we should wait. It's up to you. Just remember: I'm at Jeffy's service anytime you say."

"Thank you, Alan," she said, feeling the dread and near panic recede.

He glanced at his watch. "Getting late. I'll get Ba to drive you back."

Sylvia felt a nudge of concern. Alan seemed to be forgetting a lot. She had always been struck by the keenness of his memory in the past.

She shrugged it off and laughed as she reminded him that Ba was gone and that Alan was supposed to drive her back. With the strain he must be under—between grappling with this miraculous power and now with the press—it was a wonder he could concentrate on anything.

"And thank you for thinking of Jeffy."

"Oh, I think of him a lot. Tommy would be just Jeffy's age if he had lived."

___20.___

Alan

Alan drove toward his office in an almost lighthearted mood. He had finally found someone with whom to discuss the Hour of Power. It was like having a great weight eased from his shoulders; there was someone to share it with now.

Too bad it wasn't Ginny. He truly enjoyed talking to Sylvia. Enjoyed it too much, perhaps. He had revealed more of himself than he had wished today. Perhaps the fact that she had seen him crying had opened the door. He had always preferred to leave his feelings for Sylvia unexplored, but he could see the day approaching when he would have to confront them. An intimacy was growing between them, almost in direct proportion to the lengthening distance between Ginny and him. He wished it weren't so, but there was no use denying the obvious.

He knew when it had started. He had almost blurted it out to Sylvia today but had caught himself. It was a private thing, between husband and wife, and he wouldn't have felt right talking about Ginny behind her back like that.

Saying that something in Ginny had died with Tommy had been true enough. But it was only part of the story. There was the guilt and the self-flagellation that had poisoned a part of her forever.

Ginny had smoked during the pregnancy. Only an occasional cigarette—she had been a pack-and-a-half-a-day smoker for years, but had ostensibly stopped when she had become pregnant. Ostensibly. When the house was empty she would sneak a smoke. Only one or two a day, and heavily filtered.

Tommy's cardiac defect had had nothing to do with her smoking. Nicotine had ill effects on the fetus, but this type of heart problem was completely unrelated to smoking. The pediatricians and cardiologists had assured her of that, her obstetrician had reinforced it, and Alan had repeated it like a litany.

It didn't matter to Ginny. She had decided that she was responsible and no one could convince her otherwise. Over the years, she had slowly poisoned herself with guilt and self-loathing. She locked a part of herself away forever and refused to even consider the thought of another pregnancy. She had decided that she wasn't fit to raise a child and that was that. She had walled off the memory of Tommy, too. She never mentioned him, never visited the grave site. It was as if he had never existed.

Alan sighed as he drove. He almost wished he could do the same. Maybe it would ease the pain of the wound that never seemed to heal; the wound that tore open every May 27.

The parking lot was jammed. So was the front entrance. Alan didn't recognize any of the faces. And the way all those strange people stared at him as he drove by on his way to the rear of the building made him glad he had given up his M.D. plates years ago. Having his car broken into and ransacked twice had been enough to convince him that the few prerogatives granted the M.D. plates were not worth the hassle of drug-hungry junkies popping the lock on his trunk.

His nurse, Denise, met him at the back door.

"Thank God you're here!" she said, red-faced and breathless. "The waiting room's filled with new patients! I don't know what to do! They all want to be seen today—now!"

"Didn't they see the sign? 'Patients Seen by Appointment Only'?"

"I don't see how they could miss it. But they've all seen that newspaper, The Light . Most of them have a copy with them, and they ask if you're the Dr. Bulmer in the article, and even when I say, 'I don't know,' they say they've got to see you— got to see you and they plead and beg with me to give them an appointment. I don't know what to tell them. Some of them are dirty and smelly and they're crowding out our regular patients."

Alan cursed The Light and he cursed Joe Metzger, but most of all he cursed himself for letting things get to this point. He should have known, should have foreseen…

But what to do now? This was an impossible situation, yet he shied from the unpleasant decision it called for.

He should say no to these people. They had come to him expecting to be healed, and anything less would disappoint them. To agree to see them and then withhold the power would be unconscionable.

The trouble was, they were looking for miracles. And if he supplied them, they would talk. God, how they would talk! And then the National Enquirer and the Star and all the rest would be knocking on his door. Followed soon by Time and Newsweek .