Hybrid (7 page)

For the next three weeks, the hospice team members lived with Mary and Oliver. A group of five did tag-team shifts around the clock, attending to her every need. They anticipated all the bumps ahead and helped the brother and sister negotiate them. Oliver watched in awe. The depth of concern they showed Mary was beyond any financial reward. These people weren’t doing this kind of work for a paycheck; their devotion was much too deep, too genuine. It was almost holy. Mary wasn’t a case or even a patient: she was an individual, she was a widow, she was a sister, and she was going through the most difficult period any person would ever face. They didn’t see an incontinent, eighty-six-pound, semi-comatose problem; they saw a girl in pigtails riding her spider bike around the block laughing as loud as she could. They saw God in his sister, and Father Oliver began to see God in them.

Mary died December twenty-third, two days before Christmas Day, the birth of Christ. She was at peace now, and her brother slowly began to make peace with their maker. By the New Year, he had returned to Colorado Springs. He hadn’t recovered, but he was close enough to be a priest again.

He never talked with Father Coyle or his bishop about his experience, even though he knew he should. He knew he had to confess to someone, or at a minimum talk it through, but it was too soon, still too sensitive. Everyone wanted to know how he was doing, but he just smiled and told them that he was doing just fine. It took another month before he actually began to feel fine again, and by that point, there was no reason to reopen the wound. That was when things began to happen.

Oliver set the missals down and knelt on the padded kneeler. He looked up at the crucified Christ hanging over the altar, but didn’t feel worthy to pray. He had never believed that God tested people. Life tested people, and Jesus had lived and died to show us how to survive those tests. Oliver had preached this a hundred times, but over the last six months, he had ignored his own preaching. And now, God was ignoring him.

“Hell isn’t a place, it is the condition that exists after a person has removed himself from the grace of God,” he whispered to the darkness. It was hard to believe that less than a month earlier, his life had been returning to normal. “Your torment was pure and redemptive; mine is deserved,” he whispered to Jesus. Unconsciously, he rubbed the fine scar that stretched the length of his right thumb.

It had begun on February eighth, his mother’s birthday. He was just getting over a respiratory infection, and for the first day in five, he felt good enough to shave. For forty-eight years, he had used a straight razor without ever having a problem, but that morning, as he was reaching for it, he cut his right thumb. The blade sliced cleanly down to the bone. For the first instant, he marveled at the beauty of the glistening white tendons, his brain refusing to accept what had just happened. Then pain and blood forced the issue. He tried to squeeze the wound closed, but his palm quickly filled with blood. When it came to blood, Oliver had always been a “fainter,” and true to form, his head hit the floor just after the first drop of blood. He was out only an instant before consciousness began to re-form around him. His blurry eyes focused on the water-stained plaster on the ceiling, and his lethargic mind wondered idly who was going to paint it. It took a few moments for his head to completely clear and process how he had ended up on the floor. He had managed to wedge himself into the small space between the bathtub and the commode, his neck, twisted at an awkward angle, was beginning to ache. He rolled over onto his back and felt a pool of warm blood ooze into his nightshirt. He squeezed his lacerated thumb and managed to climb to his feet without looking at the bloody hand.

He was reaching for a washcloth when he suddenly felt everything around him change. The rectory had always been poorly insulated, and every morning the frigid, winter air managed to seep through the porous walls, chilling the bathroom to just above freezing. This morning had been no exception, at least until now. The air abruptly became unnaturally stagnant and increasingly warm. The cold mirror began to fog over, and Oliver wiped at it with his good hand. It was hard to move through the heavy air and harder to breathe. He slowly wrapped his hand and was about to sit on the commode when it struck him that he was no longer alone.

At first, he thought it was nothing more than an aftereffect from the fall, but the feeling intensified. He wheeled around but found no one. The sudden movement made him a little light-headed, but it passed quickly. He felt foolish. The bathroom was tiny, and it would have been impossible for someone to enter without him knowing. Besides, the door was locked from the inside. Still, the feeling that someone was watching him persisted. Blood began to run down his forearm and drip to the floor from his elbow, but he ignored it. He felt exposed, naked before an unseen presence that was growing stronger all around him. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up, and despite the heat, he broke out in goose bumps. He wiped the mirror again as the room became steadily hotter, and he half expected to see a face besides his own in the reflection.

I’m in shock
, he thought.
Nothing more
. He wrapped the towel tighter around his throbbing thumb and turned back to the door. He reached for the knob, and a loud click made him jump. He whirled back towards the mirror, only to find his crucifix swinging upside down from its rosary. He stared at the handmade, polished silver cross, which was his most prized possession. It had been a gift from the members of the very first church he had ever worked in. It had taken six people over a week to carefully mold each bead and to shape the crude figure. An unknown artist had long ago inscribed
Mamhda, Kenya
across the crossbar, the lettering barely legible after nearly three decades of use. It was precious to him, and it had been lost for more than a week. It clinked again as it tapped the glass of the mirror. The unseen presence had crossed the threshold that separated imagination from reality.

Believing in ghosts was of course a prerequisite for a Catholic priest, but this was Oliver’s first experience with one. His heart was thundering in his chest, and he felt the first squeeze of angina.

“Be gone, unclean spirit,” Oliver commanded, but the phantom ignored the order. He took his crucifix down and started to pray aloud. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .” He closed his eyes and concentrated on his God, ignoring everything around him. Before he reached the end of the prayer, Oliver realized that he was alone. He thanked God and opened his eyes. The room had started to cool down, but not yet enough to clear the mirror. Oliver’s heart then gave another squeeze. Written in the dissipating steam was a message:
MARY SAYS HELLO
.

Perhaps if that had been the only message, Oliver could have gotten past it. He was still kneeling, his head down, avoiding the eyes of the crucified Christ. It was funny; for the last month, his mind and soul had been repeatedly assaulted, yet his body seemed to grow stronger. For years, his doctors had told him that his arthritic knees needed replacement, yet he could now kneel and even run short distances, two things he hadn’t been able to do for decades. Even his heart seemed to be working better. The last time he had felt the all-too-familiar squeeze of angina had been a morning three weeks ago when he had awakened to the vision of his sister burning in unquenchable flames. She writhed in agony at the foot of his bed, calling his name, cursing him for her torment. He had reached for her, and a tongue of flame shot from the pyre and scorched his hand, and then she was gone. The skin of his hand was burned off, and only charred muscle and bone remained. He tried to scream, but the shock had stolen his breath. The pain was, in a word, beautiful. It was all encompassing, filling every fiber of his being. Oliver had never experienced anything so absolute; not even the love of God was as complete.

He pleaded for it to stop, and then it was gone. Oliver examined his hand and was amazed to find that it was back to normal, right down to the age spots that covered his wrist. Intellectually, he knew it had all been just a hallucination, another manifestation of his ordeal, and that there was no reason to be surprised.

He put his arm down and stared through the now-vanished apparition. Illusion, nothing more, he told himself. Mary, his hand, the pain, they were all a trick. Only this illusion had a purpose—an intent. It tore away his façade of intellect and belief and exposed him for what he really was: a hypocrite and a fraud. A real pain in his chest began to intrude upon his reflection, and he reached for his Nitrobid. It was the last time he would need it, despite five more equally horrific and revealing visits from his dead sister.

Oliver stood. He had to get back to work. Morning mass was scheduled to begin in less than twenty minutes, and he still hadn’t gotten everything ready. The bishop was coming at Oliver’s request. Father Coyle would also be there. Oliver planned to celebrate the small weekday mass and then confess to both of them. He should have done this weeks ago, but all his life he had dealt with personal problems in his own very private way. It had been one of his father’s defining traits, and Oliver carried on the tradition. Apparently, even priests weren’t immune to living the stereotype of the strong, silent type.

This would be the last mass he would celebrate. He couldn’t go on playing the part of the devout priest after his faith had been systematically deconstructed by whatever or whoever was haunting him. Frances Coyle wouldn’t be too surprised. He knew something was bothering his colleague. On three occasions, he had violated their unwritten code of silence and tried to pry it out of Oliver. The bishop probably was also aware that something was wrong; he had accepted Oliver’s invitation without question or comment, which was quite extraordinary for the usually loquacious cleric. Oliver guessed that they both would try and talk him out of his decision, offering a vacation or some therapy as an alternative, and in the end, they would all agree on an extended leave of absence that Oliver knew would prove to be permanent. He would return to Chicago, where his sister’s estate had passed to him and instead of selling it and donating the proceeds, he would stay there for a while and collect himself. After that, he had no plans.

Oliver was collecting the last of the missals when he heard voices in the back of the church. Larry Ham, the parish’s deacon, was laughing with one of the church’s lay ministers. Oliver looked up, and the two men waved.

“Good morning, Father,” said Greg Flynn.

“You beat us in again, Father,” Larry Ham said. “You know, it would be okay for you to sleep in every once in a while. Greg and I can get things set up, and you can just come waltzing in at the last second as Father Coyle does. But then again, he’s so old, and you are in the flower of youth.” The two men chuckled, waiting for Oliver to take the bait so they could start the day with some good-natured ribbing of their pastor, but all Oliver could offer was a weak smile.

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Oliver said. Greg Flynn smiled back, and Oliver suddenly almost remembered something. A fragment teased just below his consciousness, something he was supposed to tell Greg or maybe ask him. Oliver waited for it to bob to the surface, but it disappeared.

“You okay, Father?” Greg asked. “You look somewhat preoccupied.”

Greg Flynn was a good man, a very good man in Oliver’s eyes. He had had his share of tragedies, but instead of becoming scarred and bitter, he seemed to have gained some perspective, some inner peace that so few people ever realized. Greg lived his faith, while Oliver only preached it. It was for the Greg Flynns of the parish that Oliver was stepping down. “Nothing serious,” Oliver replied, hiding behind the smile that he had refined so well these past two months.

“I was wondering if I might have a word with you before mass?” asked Greg.

“Can it wait until after mass?”

“I’m afraid I can’t stay for mass. I promise that it will only take a few moments.” Greg’s face had darkened.

Oliver guessed that something important must be going on in his life for him to miss morning mass. “Of course, let’s go to the sacristy.” As the two men walked into the priest’s changing room, he realized that this would probably be his last official confession. Oliver locked the door and showed his guest a seat. “What’s on your mind, Greg?” he asked.

“It’s my daughter, Amanda. Actually, she’s my daughter-in-law, but we’re . . . close.”

Oliver was surprised by how nervous Greg seemed; he couldn’t ever remember the retired policeman being so hesitant in his manner. The stirrings of a memory struck Oliver a second time; he was supposed to ask Greg something—that was it. No, that wasn’t it. He was supposed to tell him something. His mind went back and forth, but couldn’t come up with it. He cursed his leaky memory.

“I’d like this to remain confidential, if you don’t mind. I know that this is not exactly confession, but I need to talk about something sensitive.”

Oliver stiffened visibly, afraid of what he was about to hear.

“Oh my God, it’s nothing like that. I know how that must have sounded, but this is not about me, it’s about her. She’s coming down here, and there are people looking for her, people that I’m afraid want to hurt her.”

Oliver felt relief flood into him. He didn’t know how he would have reacted to someone he had grown to admire confessing to an illicit love affair with his daughter-in-law. “How can I—”

He never finished his sentence. His mind suddenly exploded in pain. It was as if someone has sneaked up behind him and hit him in the back of the head with a baseball bat. For a moment, his identity was lost within the pain, and in that moment, he glimpsed the world through someone else’s eyes. He was inside a moving car; in fact, he was driving the car. He was slowly coasting down a snowy residential street, looking for something or someone. It was at once familiar and disorienting. He worked his fingers and watched as the fingers in the vision opened and closed at his bidding. He turned the steering wheel and felt the car skid along the slick road. Then, abruptly, he was back in the sacristy with Greg Flynn. His head throbbed, but the pain began to recede.