Once Is Not Enough by Jacqueline Susann

idea hits you that maybe they got your bullet because there was something back there, waiting to be done . . . by you . And it’s your job to go back and do it. He felt he had been given luck—luck to accomplish the impossible. And he had to make good so that the guy who got his bullet would understand. He wasn’t religious, but he believed in paying his dues. That had always been his philosophy, and it still was.
    “My kid will walk,” he said quietly.
    Melba shrugged. “Then try Lourdes. Or if you really want to spend money, take her to the Clinique of Miracles.”
    “What’s that?”
    “In Switzerland, in a remote section of the Alps. It is very expensive, but they have accomplished great things. I know a racing driver who crashed at the Monte. They said he’d be paralyzed for life. He went to the Clinique of Miracles—they made him walk.”
    The next day Mike flew to Zurich, then drove to a rambling château hidden in the mountains and met with Dr. Peterson, a fragile-looking man who seemed incapable of creating even the smallest miracle.
    It was just another wild chase. Another blind alley. But he was there. So he toured the Clinique with Dr. Peterson. He saw old people who had suffered strokes wave cheerfully at the doctor as they struggled with crutches and braces. He followed the doctor into a room where small children were singing. At first glance, it appeared to be an ordinary songfest, until he realized that every child was performing against odds. Some had cleft palates . . . some wore earphones . . . some had facial paralysis. But they all smiled and forced some sounds through their lips. In another wing there were Thalidomide children working with their artificial limbs, smiling as they made some slight progress with a new and cumbersome prosthesis. Mike felt his mood changing. At first he didn’t quite understand. But then it hit him. Everywhere he went, there was an absence of despair. Everywhere he looked was an attempt at accomplishment. The fight to attain the impossible.
    “You see,” Dr. Peterson explained, “every waking moment is spent in therapy. In striving to get well. We have one littleboy who lost both his arms in an accident with a tractor on a farm. With his prosthesis he has learned to play the guitar. We have songfests every night. Sometimes we put on plays and ballets—all part of the therapy. But there is no television or radio.”
    “But why cut out the outside world?” Mike asked. “Aren’t they segrated from life as it is by their illnesses?”
    Dr. Peterson smiled. “The Clinique is a world of its own. A world where each patient helps the other. News from the outside world concerns wars, strikes, pollution, riots. . . . If it is not a world that healthy people enjoy, why should our patients want to fight insurmountable obstacles just to return to it? Also, a child born without legs who has worked six months to take two steps can be disheartened if he sees the violence or apathy of people born more fortunate. The Clinique of Miracles is a world of hope and the will to recover.”
    Mike looked thoughtful. “But there is no one here my daughter could relate to. Everyone is very old . . . or very very young.”
    “Who is she relating to in her hospital room in Rome?”
    “No one. But she’s not surrounded by sickness and mutilation.”
    Dr. Peterson looked thoughtful. “Sometimes seeing others less fortunate helps one to recover. A boy comes here with one arm and sees a boy without any arms. Suddenly, having one arm is not the end of everything. And the boy missing two arms takes great pride helping the boy without legs. And that is how it happens here.”
    “One question, Dr. Peterson . . . do you really think you can help my daughter?”
    “First I must study her records and the reports from the attending physicians. We accept no one whom we cannot help. And even then we cannot always promise a complete cure.”
    Three weeks later Mike chartered a plane and flew