The Healing of Rose Verrechia's Daughter

The delivery room held the sharp smell of antiseptic and the low murmur of the doctor’s instructions. I stood by the instrument tray, watching the newborn’s face under the bright overhead light. The nose lay flattened and pulled hard to one side, the tiny nostrils almost closed on the right. The father, still in his work clothes, gripped the edge of the bassinet until his knuckles showed white.

He stepped into the corridor and made the call. His voice carried back through the half-open door, tight and quick. Minutes later a woman arrived, the aunt, and stood at the foot of the bed. She held a small book open in one hand. Her lips moved without sound for a long time.

The doctor returned near midnight. He explained that the cartilage would need daily pressure, months of it, perhaps longer. The mother lay pale against the pillows. She asked no questions. The aunt remained in the chair beside the bassinet, the book still open on her lap.

Outside the window the streetlamps burned steady through the rain. Inside, the only movement was the slow rise and fall of the blanket over the infant. No one spoke for nearly an hour.

At first light the father came back. He stood over the bassinet and looked down. The nose now sat straight, the nostrils even, the skin unmarked. He turned to the nurse and asked where his child was. She pointed to the same bassinet. He leaned closer, studying the face, then straightened and said nothing for several minutes.

The doctor arrived for rounds at seven. He examined the infant under the same light that had shown the deformity the night before. He ran one finger along the bridge of the nose, then checked the mother’s chart. He noted that the additional treatment planned for her would not be needed. He initialed the record and left the room without further comment.

The aunt closed the book. She placed it inside her coat pocket and walked to the window. The rain had stopped. Sunlight reached the wet pavement below in narrow strips between the buildings.

In the weeks that followed the mother began to read the same book each evening. She attended services at the church on the corner of the next block. The child grew without any sign of the earlier condition. By the time she could walk she accompanied her mother to the Sunday meetings. She learned the words of the Lord’s Prayer and repeated them at the table before meals.

Years later the same child stood at the front of the Sunday School room and recited the paragraph that begins “There is no life, truth, intelligence, nor substance in matter.” Her voice carried clearly to the back row where the aunt sat. The aunt kept her hands folded in her lap and did not look away from the child.