Sister Zoe longed for the taste of food over the tongue—the tang of garlic and salt and tomato on a pizza, the mild creaminess of milk, the messy sweetness of an orange torn open with the teeth. Instead, the doctors nourished her evaporating body with clear liquids that dripped through tubes into her veins. They wouldn’t let her near food, for fear she would choke. Nonetheless, she missed the soul of food, the taste of something other than her own dry mouth.
Her journey to death was becoming a long, solitary march through the desert. She waited for visions to come to her: long-dead relatives, angels, maybe Jesus or Mary. She knew such things were not uncommon as souls passed over into the new country, for many of the dying had reported the lay of the land to her as she kept vigil by their beds. A part of her hoped she, too, would experience an intrusion of the divine.
She had no heavenly visions. But as wakefulness came and went like a gentle, wandering wind, she did have dreams. For instance, she dreamt about the mischievous girl named Sulee, one of the many children she had taught during her missionary years in Africa. In this dream, the girl was lying in a pool of her own blood, stabbed through the gut with a machete. Sulee was not the first, and certainly not the last, to die in the ethnic violence that erupted all around Matate village, but she was the one Sister Zoe remembered, long after her community had ordered her back to Iowa for her own safety. Perhaps it was the girl’s bright yellow head scarf, or the gentle way she had with her younger siblings, so motherly for a nine-year-old.
She told Father Manion about the dream when he came to hold his own vigil at her bedside. He had been her student once, in the years before her retirement when she had taught high school algebra. His round, brown face still seemed young to her.
“Why do you think you’re dreaming about Sulee now, twenty years later?” he asked.
“I’ve always felt guilty that we never buried her body,” Sister Zoe said, coughing deeply—her lungs kept filling with fluid despite all medical efforts to keep the floodwaters at bay. “We left in such a hurry.”
The priest raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to one side. “You feel guilty about abandoning her, you mean. Or for not preventing her death.”
“Yes,” Sister Zoe said. She folded her bony hands together over the white sheet.
“There is no reason for you to feel that way,” he said. He spoke carefully, as if he was tasting each word. “It’s not your fault she died.”
“My head knows it, but not my heart,” she said. “We were supposed to be the hands and feet of Jesus to those people, and we ran away when they needed us the most, in their suffering. We left so we’d be safe. But what for? Most of the women who were with me are just as dead now as they would have been then. I am dying now, too. We should have stayed. I should have at least buried the girl.”
Her eyes had gone all teary. Father Manion reached across the bed and squeezed her hand but said nothing for a while.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be sorry.”
“It’s this place—it’s got me down.”
The priest nodded, handing her a tissue. “So. Have you had any good dreams?”
She thought about it. “Yes, I did. I dreamt about driving across the country to see the ocean when I was in college, with some friends. We slept on the beach in March, in our winter coats.” Her eyes got dreamy. “I had cancer—it was usually fatal in those days—and I went with my friends to see the ocean, and to say good-bye to them. But I didn’t want to die, so I prayed hard for a miracle. I promised God I would give my life to him if I survived.”
“Obviously you did survive,” Father Manion said. “A miracle?”
“I think so,” Sister Zoe said. “The tumor disappeared.”
“And that’s when you chose the religious life?”
Sister Zoe laughed, which made her cough raspily. She nodded as she caught her breath. “I thought that the only way you could give your life to God was by becoming a nun, which caused problems years later when I realized the truth. But I worked through those, and stayed.”
“And are you glad you did?”
“Yes,” she said, the word sharp on her tongue, and the look in her eyes suddenly strong. “Yes. When I think of what an abundant life it’s been, it takes my breath away. It opened my eyes to a million miracles.”
Later in the day, her community and her other friends gathered around her bed, a hot beam of afternoon sun slanting through the window at them. When Father Manion began the anointing, they each placed a hand on her body in blessing. It was the most pleasant sensation, her body covered with warm hands all over. Sister Maribeth stroked her hair gently as Father Manion pressed oil to her forehead, then her hands, then her feet.
“May the God of all consolation bless you in every way and grant you hope all the days of your life. Amen.
“May God restore you to health and grant you salvation. Amen.
“May God fill your heart with peace and lead you to eternal life. Amen.”
When it was over, she opened her eyes to all of their faces. “Thank you,” she said.
“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Sister Maribeth asked.
She was so tired; sleep was closing in on her like dusk. “Some spumoni ice cream in my belly would be heavenly.”
Father Manion smiled. “We’ll see what we can do.”
During the night, she slept long and deep, and had powerful dreams. She swam up to awareness only as someone’s hand rocked her dream-boat, pushing insistently at her shoulder.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up.”
Zoe’s eyes snapped open. It was a girl in a white nightgown with yellow butterflies printed all over it. She had large brown eyes. The girl turned her face sideways to see Zoe better.
“Hello,” the girl said.
“Hello,” Zoe said, blinking several times. The clock on the wall said it was five in the morning. “What room did you escape from?”
The girl leaned forward, until her beautiful brown face was inches from Zoe’s. “I’m hungry,” she whispered conspiratorially, her eyes widening. “Let’s go find something good to eat.”
Zoe laughed. Didn’t they feed anyone around here? “I can’t get you anything to eat. See, I’m stuck in bed. Go out in the hall and ask one of the nurses for a snack.”
The girl shook her head solemnly and began removing Zoe’s covers. “They don’t have the good stuff. We want real food, right?” The girl took Zoe’s arm, and peeled away the tape holding the IV line in place.
“Hey, don’t do that!” Zoe said.
The girl smiled brightly at her as she removed the needle and coiled up the line. “Why not? If you eat real food, you won’t need it.”
Zoe regarded the girl curiously for a moment. “It’s not my job to feed you, you know.”
The girl gave her a “get serious” look.
“Well,” Zoe sighed. “Maybe I can get something to eat myself while I’m at it.” She was suddenly hungry for strawberries in creamy yogurt.
She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and was surprised at how well she felt. She breathed in deeply; no coughing. The girl took her by the hand, and led her to the door.
The hallway was full of people—patients, mostly, in bath robes and flimsy blue hospital gowns. Nurses guided the people along with words of encouragement and direction: “No, ma’am, you don’t need discharge papers.” “Yes, Mr. Priske, just down the hall and to your left. Just follow everyone else.”
Zoe looked around in wonderment. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Is there a fire or something?”
“No, there’s no fire!” the girl laughed. She tugged Zoe into the hallway eagerly. “Everyone’s just hungry, that’s all.”
They followed the general flow of the crowd toward the elevators. At the nursing station, the nurses were shutting down computers and abandoning their posts. The vending machines they passed were empty; candy bar wrappers were littered everywhere, trampled underfoot like autumn leaves.
They squeezed into the elevator with some other patients. “Am I the only one around here who wants to know why we’re evacuating a perfectly good hospital in the middle of the night?” Zoe asked them.
“Food,” said a large, balding man wearing a red velvet robe and cow slippers. “I tell you, I own fourteen Shoney’s family restaurants in five states, so I know food, and this hospital food is the worst. They’ve had me on this no-fat, no-salt, no-nothing diet ever since my triple heart bypass surgery, and I mean, what’s the point? Why bother?” He shook his head as the elevator doors opened on the lobby, and they joined everyone else heading outside. “I’m starving, and so is everyone else in this place. I feel like I haven’t eaten in…in forty days, practically. Even the nurses are sick of the food!”
“Amen to that,” a passing nurse put in.
“So when we heard about how everyone’s invited to this big party out in the country, we figured, why not? Sounds like the guy hosting this thing puts on quite a spread.”
They passed through the sliding glass doors at the hospital entrance and found themselves on the street, which was lit by the pink and gold Easter colors of dawn.
“Looks like everyone had the same idea,” Zoe said in amazement.
The street was filled with more people than Zoe had ever seen in downtown Des Moines. It was like a stage onto which the entire cast of some bizarre play had come out for the final curtain call. There were business people in suits, Laotian dancers, kindergartners holding hands in a line, inner-city kids passing a basketball around, veiled Iranian women, several hundred South African soldiers, lots of shoppers with empty shopping bags—even the governor of Iowa, who waved and shook hands with passersby as if she were working a parade the day before elections.
The restaurateur folded his arms across his wide chest. “This is just great. I hope all the good stuff isn’t gone by the time we get there.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” the girl piped up. “He’s rich enough to feed everyone, with leftovers to spare.”
“Well, let’s get going,” the restaurant guy said, grunting and ambling into the crowd.
The girl tugged at her hand, but Zoe didn’t follow. “Wait; just wait,” she said. She was staring intently at the passing crowd. This mystery seemed familiar somehow, as if she should know what it was all about—but she didn’t, and that bothered her. She directed her gaze to the strange young girl. “What’s going on?”
“Come and see,” the girl replied with a smile. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
“No,” Zoe said, a little taken aback. She’d been afraid before in life, but she had never given in to fear—except for perhaps when she left Matate village. “No,” she said again, “but I don’t even know where this thing is, or how to get there.”
“Yes, you do,” the girl said.
A man with a crooked nose and sad, baggy eyes approached them. “Excuse me,” he said, waving his hand at Zoe. “Can you help me find the way to this party?” He was awkwardly carrying shopping bags from various department stores, all of them stuffed full of boxes. He shifted his load and added, “All this shopping made pretty ravenous.”
“She knows the way,” the girl said, looking up at Zoe expectantly. “Don’t you?”
Zoe silently looked down at the girl for a moment. She looked back at the man and saw the hunger in his face. Something like understanding was dawning on her now, as she recognized the man’s hunger, and the girl’s simple joyfulness.
“Yes,” she finally told him, slowly. Yes, she thought, she knew all about bravely entering mystery. “I think I do. You can walk with us.”
“Oh—thanks!” the man said, readjusting his bags. “But—these boxes—uh, could you help carry some?”
“What’s in them?” Zoe asked.
“Uh, clothes, mostly. Nothing that I can eat, which is what I really need.”
“Well, I think I can help you out,” Zoe said, noticing some of the under-clad patients from the hospital. She winked at the girl, who covered her mouth and giggled.
They entered the motley parade behind a high school marching band. Zoe went through the man’s new clothes as they walked along, and gave them all away to anyone who needed them. His load lightened, the man traveled more easily, and to his pleasant surprise, he didn’t miss his baggage at all.
They walked east for a very long time, all the way out of the city. The girl skipped along, or chatted with different people. For a while the inmates of a maximum security prison, still wearing their gray uniforms, took turns giving her rides on their shoulders so she could see above the crowd. Later, she and Zoe danced to the music of a passing mariachi band.
Zoe took in the faces of the people around her. She knew these people, and knew their hungers, from all those years of working in parishes and schools and in Africa. She was happy to be traveling again, and happier still to be traveling with them. She was at home, here on the road with friends.
Soon they were well into the countryside, where fields rolled out all around them, black and ready for planting. People began leaving the procession and making their way across the fields toward a distant stream.
“Come on!” the girl said excitedly, jumping all around Zoe. “Let’s run!”
Zoe laughed at the suggestion, because running for fun was a child’s pastime, and she was no child—and she only had on hospital slippers, besides. But it had been a weird enough morning so far; who was to say she couldn’t run?
So she did; haltingly at first, and then with confidence, exhilarated at the sensation of a wind of her own making on her face. She chased the girl, weaving around people who cheered them on, until they came to the edge of the stream. There, she caught the squealing girl and scooped her up. She spun around and thought of dunking her in the water—but then she saw a man watching them, and she stopped abruptly and stared, breathing hard from running; she thought she knew him.
He looked like the gardener of this place, a common farmer, because he wore faded, dirty overalls, and a floppy wide-brimmed hat, and he was unshaven. And yet he did not look common at all. His bearing was such that she thought he might be the owner of the place, the host of the party. He was looking at her with an amused but friendly smile. She carefully lowered the girl to the ground.
“Welcome to the party,” he said. “I’m glad you came.”
She approached him slowly, pushing strands of hair away from her face. He was standing behind a beat-up old red pickup truck, in the back of which were piled many large sacks. He met her eyes, and smiled. She felt her heart beating against her ribs.
“Help me feed these people,” he said, reaching into one of the sacks. She reached out her hands, and he filled them with seeds of many shapes and colors.
“I want to help, too,” the girl said, and Zoe poured some of the seed into her hands. Others gathered seed, too, and began drifting back through the crowd.
They gave the seeds to all the people, instructing them to find their own patch of good ground to till. Placing the seeds carefully in each outstretched hand reminded Zoe of distributing communion at church. She closed her eyes and saw them coming to her in a long line of beautiful faces. “The body of Christ,” she said. “Amen,” they said, gazing into her eyes in the way of people who know each other well.
The girl gave seeds to some soldiers, who used the stocks of their guns to till the earth. Zoe gave a seed to a group of gray-suited business women sitting cross-legged on the ground.
“I thought,” the woman who received the seed said dryly, looking down at it, “there was going to be food at this party. Gardening isn’t exactly what we had in mind.”
“Well, I guess this is a surprise party, then,” Zoe said, smiling.
The woman rolled her eyes. “Why do we only get one seed?”
“Tend to it with care, and sprinkle it with water from the stream,” Zoe said. “You might find you have more than you expected.”
When they were finished, Zoe lifted the girl onto her shoulders to see the milling crowd that spread out to every horizon.
“Wow,” the girl breathed. “Look at all the people.”
And they’re all hungry, Zoe thought, as am I after all that work. We’ve come too far to go home now, and there is no food anywhere to give them; just bare fields. She turned to find the gardener in the crowd. He was sitting on the pickup truck’s cab not far off, and he waved at her as she approached with the girl.
“Children, have you found anything to eat?” he called to them.
“Not a thing,” Zoe answered.
The man adjusted the brim of his hat and regarded her from under it, grinning a little. “Zoe,” he said to her. “Turn around, and you will find something.”
His words raised the hairs on the nape of her neck. Behind her, a great cry rose up from the crowd. She turned and saw not empty, muddy fields, but a garden, a garden that rose from the earth even as the people watched. Grasses and grains, vines and legumes, and every kind of tree that bears fruit grew up all around. Canopies of leaves spread out from trees as if to embrace the sky. Vines twisted and tumbled wildly around tree trunks, and squash and melons made low thunking noises as they plopped onto the ground. Boughs shook out the apples and oranges and pears gathering along them like roosting birds. Corn emerged with a green creaking noise, stands of wheat rustled and bent over heavy with grain, and flowers strew color everywhere. The emerging garden rumbled like an earthquake, and the people cheered and cheered—even the gray-suited businesswomen, who were dangling from high among the limbs of the tree that had sprung up from their tiny seed.
Zoe gasped and whirled around—everything was changed, even the people. Or maybe it was she who had changed, for now she saw the land not with her eyes, but with the heart of her heart; and from that place, she saw everything transformed by love.
She saw the beautiful girl who had awakened her to all of this, and recognized her as Sulee, quite alive as she clapped and cheered and jumped up and down. Sulee winked at Zoe and began dancing joyfully; she reached under her nightgown and pulled out a long machete, which she twirled over her head like a majorette’s baton. She tossed the machete in an arc away from herself, chased after it by doing two cartwheels and a backflip, and caught the flashing knife as it fell into her mouth. People applauded and cheered as she removed the machete from her mouth and made a sweeping bow.
“Isn’t that a neat trick?” Sulee said, skipping over to Zoe and taking her hand.
“It’s an amazing trick,” Zoe exclaimed, picking up the girl and embracing her. “It’s all amazing.”
She turned to the gardener, and she recognized him, too; she knew him from the moment he had called her name. She smiled at him shyly, but she wasn’t afraid; she only felt warm and beautiful near him. “This isn’t Iowa, is it?” she teased.
“No, ma’am,” he replied, laughing. “This is heaven. Come and eat your meal.”
All around, the people gathered the harvest and shared it with one another, combining their simple gifts to make the best meal any of them had ever had. Zoe laughed with joy, and ate until she was satisfied.