An Answered Prayer

Trigger warning - story deals with death.

An Answered Prayer

“Are you there, God? It’s me, Violet.”

Violet paused in her prayer, unsure about continuing. She didn’t know what God might think about what she wanted. Was she about to pray for murder? Violet didn’t necessarily want Pops to die, but she worried that her mother was killing herself with exhaustion. Her parents often argued about it. Violet wanted to go back to how it was before.

Would it be so bad, she wondered if she just wished this long-drawn-out illness would end? Would it be murder if she asked God to ‘take care of it’ like her mother had asked her father to do for the mouse caught but still living in a trap by the refrigerator?

           Violet blew out a long breath. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to talk to God. She rose from her bedroom floor, her prayer unfinished. She made her way down the hall just in time to hear the sound of retching and her mother’s soft, hopeless cry. Violet tiptoed past the guest bedroom. All she wanted was to sit at the kitchen table and enjoy a snack without having to think about it or, for that matter, hear it or smell it.

           But she had barely stepped past the doorway when her mother emerged, a jumble of sheets and towels under one arm as she held a damp shirt away from her skin with the other. Violet noted the dark circles under her mother’s pale blue eyes.

           “Vi,” her mom said in a rush. “Do me a favor and sit with him? I need to get a load of wash started and then take a shower.” As Violet started to shake her head, her mom added in a tired voice, “Please?”

           “Fine,” Violet muttered and waved her mother out of the way. She ignored her mom’s thanks and stepped into the guest room. The odor here was more pungent, the stringent acidity of urine, and chemical cleaners. Once a man of immense size and voice, her grandfather lay curled on his side near the edge of the bed with one hand dangling off the edge. His eyes were open, but he only stared blankly at the floor, not looking in her direction at all.

           Violet pulled a comfy chair near the nightstand and plopped down. She wondered how long her mother would take.

           “Hey, sugar,” her grandfather said softly. Sugar is what he called her mother.

           “Mom went to take a shower, Pops. She’ll be back in a little while. Do you need something?”

           “Water?”

           Violet picked up the cup of water and held the straw for it close to his mouth. He took two tiny sips and then let go. She set the cup back on the table. She studied his face for a while, trying to remember what he used to look like. Did she get her strong cheekbones from him? They definitely had the same dark eyes, although his were once again staring vaguely at the floor. She had noticed that most visitors would nervously look around the room, embarrassed to stare at the old man. But after months of slow decline, Violet had grown accustomed to being in this room. She didn’t like it, but she no longer found it scary.

           “Hey, Sugar,” he repeated. “Hey, Vi.”

           “Yeah?” Violet was a little surprised that he remembered her name.

           “Read to me.”

           Violet looked over at the nightstand, which had a small stack of books. One of her few memories of Pop’s house were all the bookshelves, crammed with stacks of books and magazines and newspapers. The old man had been a voracious reader, a lifelong student. But not long after they had moved Pops into their house, her father had told them that all of it had been gotten rid of. She knew that this meant that her father had paid some do-gooders, as he called them, to cart off the good stuff and to pitch the rest into a dumpster. Her father was all business all the time and had no patience for anything else, not even his own father’s precious books. Violet sighed at the thought that the immense library was reduced to this small stack.

           “Sure, Pops,” Violet answered as she selected a book from the stack. “How about The Chosen?”

           “Good one,” he said. “I like the way the Jews pray.”

           Startled, Violet looked up at him. Did he somehow know what she had just been doing? Heat flooded her cheeks, but she began to calm down as he stared into space. 

“You like the way they pray? I thought you were atheist?” Violet couldn’t help but ask as she studied the book’s cover. She read the author’s name, mispronouncing the first name.

Pops raised rheumy clouded eyes in her direction. “Chaim,” Pops corrected her, but to her, it sounded like he was about to vomit again.

           “Are you okay?” she asked nervously, pulling her feet back from the bedside. She did not sign up to deal with puke.

           “Chaim,” he repeated. “That’s how you say it.”

           “Oh.”

           “Read,” he ordered.

           Violet found the first page and began to read. She made it through the first chapter pulled into the story almost immediately. She turned to the second chapter before realizing that Pops had fallen into a deep sleep.

           Her mother came behind her, now smelling sweetly of shampoo and soap. She lay her hand on Violet’s head while they watched the old man sleep.

           “Do you think Pops believes in God?” Violet whispered to her mother.

           Her mother replied in a soft voice, “I don’t know, baby.”

           Violet chewed on her lip in anxiety. “But what if he doesn’t? What will happen when…” She left the question hanging.

           “I’m sure it will be okay, Vi.” Her mother turned away but not before Violet could see the lines of weariness furrowed across her forehead. “I’m going to get some work done before supper. Come on out. He’ll sleep for a while now.”

           Violet followed her mother out of the room. Violet’s face bore a deep frown, unsatisfied with her mother’s response. As her mother headed into her office, Violet returned to her bedroom and knelt once again on the floor. “Are you there, God? It’s me, Violet,” she prayed. “I don’t know what to ask. I don’t want Pops to suffer, but I don’t want him to die and not go to Heaven.”

           A few hours later, Violet’s father arrived home from work. He loosened his tie with one hand and gave her a brief half-hug with the other. “Hi-Vi,” he gave his usual greeting of her.

           As Violet’s mother entered the room, he added, “How is he today?”

           Her mother flicked a look at Violet and shrugged. “Not a bad day, but not a good day either. But Vi read to him for a little while.”

           “Oh?” Her father tightened his grip on her shoulders slightly. “Good girl. I’m sure he liked that.”

           Letting go of Violet, he pulled her mother in close, and Violet could hear her mother sigh as she pressed her face against his jacket. In a soft voice, he asked, “Don’t you think it is time to get him into a place that can take care of him?”

           Both Violet and her mother cried, “No!”

           “No, Dad.” Violet grabbed onto his sleeve. “He needs to be here. He needs to be with us.”

           “Okay, okay!” Her father held up his hands in defeat and smiled at them. “We will make the best of it then. I will work on getting someone to come here instead, just to help out a little.” He pointed towards bags at the door. “Vi, set the table. I brought some Chinese food for supper.”

           After her father had checked in on Pops, they converged around the table, arguing over the egg rolls and the dumplings. During a lull in the conversation, Violet asked, “Dad, do you think Pops believes in God?”

           Her father frowned, staring down at his plate as he pushed the fried rice around with his fork. “I don’t really know, baby. We never went to church growing up. Dad loved to talk philosophy and what-ifs, but he wasn’t one to chat about his personal beliefs. He was always more interested in getting other people to talk.”

           “Like the great teacher that he is,” her mom added.

           “Is that how you met him?” Violet asked

           “Yes, I was in his class in college, and then through him, I met your dad.” Her mother looked fondly across the table at her husband.

           Her words brought a vague memory to the surface. Violet tried to recall her parents as young people, seated at the table with Pops, and the echo of his deep boom of a voice. She could remember the warm scent of coffee and whiskey and the pressure of his gnarled hand as he caressed her hair.

           Later, as her parents tucked her into bed, Violet clung to each of them before they pushed her back into the pillows. Her father stayed with her for a few moments, his eyes dark, while her mother headed back into the guest room. Together, they listened in silence at the murmur of voices. Her father breathed deeply, and Violet stroked his hand, uncertain of what to say or do. He smiled at her, then kissed her forehead. “Night, Vi.”

           “Good night, Daddy.”

           As he turned out the light and left the room, Violet crept again from bed and knelt on the floor. “Are you there, God? It’s me, Violet. What can I do, God? To make this easier?” The silence of the room was her only answer. She climbed back into bed, listening as her parents prepared for bed, and the house slipped into its nightly slumber.

           A few hours later, Violet headed from her bed towards the bathroom, groggy with sleep. She slowed at a low voice from Pops’ room. Stepping into the doorway, she paused to listen, unsure of what she heard.

           Then as she focused, she could hear Pops’ quavering voice as he said, “Are you there, God? It’s me. I’m tired, and I’m ready to come home.”