The Book of Strange New Things (52 page)

In any case, grieved as I am about the way things are done at my hospital, I still have an ongoing commitment to the place and I feel there’s still things I can do to help. I’m also scared that if I quit this job I won’t be able to get another one, because unemployment levels are soaring as the economy implodes.

Speaking of which: It’s only a few days before I’m due to go back to work and hey presto, I got a letter from Goodman. Once again, I must say that nobody in the history of the world ever had a less appropriate name and it’s criminal that a person like this is in charge of deciding how our hospital allocates its resources. Anyway, the letter is basically a threat. He alludes to some of my more conspicuous episodes of patient advocacy and hints that in the ‘current circumstances’, our hospital cannot afford to devote ‘disproportionate’ staff energies & funds to ‘clients who are least likely to respond optimally to our care’. Which is Goodmanspeak for: we shouldn’t waste our time on anyone who’s mentally ill, bolshie, ancient or too badly injured/cancer-ridden to ever shake the doctor’s hand and say Ta Ta & Thanks For Everything. What Goodman wants is more cleft palate repairs, more robust blokes with fractures, kids with 2
^nd
degree burns, youngish women getting lumps excised, etc. And he wants my promise that I won’t cause trouble. And he hints that if I don’t guarantee better behaviour, he may ‘re-evaluate’ whether I’m allowed back at all!

Peter, I’m glad I lifted your spirits by saying I love you, but you’re acting like a little boy who feels the whole universe has collapsed when his mother is angry with him but who then feels everything is all right again when she says she loves him. Of course I love you – we’ve both poured years of commitment and intimacy into our relationship and that’s totally integral to our minds and hearts. Our love can’t be erased by a bit of unhappiness. But that doesn’t mean our love can cure unhappiness, either. It comes down to this – there are frightening, dispiriting things going on in my life right now which I am dealing with on my own, partly because you’re not physically here with me but partly also because you are unable or unwilling to offer me emotional support. I hear what you’re saying about drug abuse, brain damage, etc, and maybe you’re right – in which case it has implications for our relationship that don’t exactly cheer me up – but another possibility is that it’s a convenient excuse for you, isn’t it? You’d like to show an interest in what’s going on in my life – or in the world at large, for that matter – but you can’t because your brain is damaged. So that’s all right then.

I’m sorry if I sound bitter. I’m just very, very overwhelmed. How about we both blame physical factors – you claim brain damage and I claim hormone overload? Ever since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve felt more vulnerable. But of course there are plenty of shocking things happening that have nothing to do with my hormones.

Which brings me to the funeral I just went to. The conclusion you jumped to as ‘obvious’ – that Billy committed suicide – was wrong, but understandable. I concluded the same thing when Sheila phoned me. But the truth is worse. It was Rachel. The child who was supposedly OK. There was no clear warning sign, or if there was, Sheila missed it. Maybe she was too preoccupied with Billy’s depression to notice. Of course, now, she’s tearing herself inside-out about it, trying to remember every tiny thing Rachel did and said. But as far as I can tell, Rachel was behaving pretty much as normal for a teenage girl – going to school, bickering with her brother, listening to bad pop music, fussing over her hair, going on fad diets, declaring she’s vegan one day and scoffing roast chicken the next. Of course Sheila now regards all of these things as distress signals but given how difficult 12-year-old girls can be, I think she’s being too hard on herself. What was really going through Rachel’s head, we’ll never know. All we know is that one morning she just took herself to a car scrap yard near her home, crawled through a gap in the wire mesh (the place was abandoned) and hid inside a big stack of car tyres. She took a lot of pills – her mum’s sleeping pills, painkillers, just household stuff but dozens of them. And she washed them down with flavoured milk and huddled inside those tyres and died and wasn’t found for three days. She left no note.

Billy’s coping well, I think. Taking care of Sheila, sort of.

I could write about what’s been happening in Pakistan but it’s a huge topic and I very much doubt you’d want to hear about it anyway.

Joshua’s cowering under the table as if he thinks I’m going to kick him. I wish he would just curl up in his basket and go to sleep. I mean, let’s be honest, life really isn’t so bad for a cat. Instead he just skulks around. And he doesn’t sleep with me anymore, so I don’t even have the comfort of his physical presence.

I must have a rest. Big day today. Will write again tomorrow. Will you?

Love,

Bea

Peter vomited, then prayed. His head cleared, his guts were soothed with a fuzzy numbness, his fever – which only now he recognised as a fever – ebbed away. God was with him. What Bea was facing now, they had faced together many times in the past. Not the precise circumstances, but the feeling that life had become unbearably complicated, a tangled network of insoluble problems, each requiring all the others to be solved before any progress could be made. It was in the nature of a troubled soul to regard this as objective reality, a hard look at the grim facts that were revealed once the rose-coloured glasses were off. But this was a distortion, a tragic misconception. It was the frenzy of the moth butting against the lightbulb when there was an open window nearby. God was that open window.

The things that were worrying Bea were genuine and awful, but they were not beyond the power of God. In their lives together, Peter and Bea had been confronted with police harassment, financial ruin, eviction, a hate campaign by Bea’s father, the concerted opposition of local councils, malicious lawsuits, escalating vandalism, threats from knife-wielding gangsters, the theft of their car (twice) and a burglary so bad they were left with little more than their books and a stripped bed. In each case, they had appealed to the mercy of God. In each case, He had untangled the barbed wire of trouble with a firm, invisible hand. The police had suddenly apologised, an anonymous donor saved them from bankruptcy, the landlord had a change of heart, Bea’s father died, a Christian lawyer took on the council on their behalf and won, the threatened lawsuits melted away, the vandals were caught red-handed by Peter and ended up joining the church, the gangsters got jailed for rape, one stolen car was found undamaged and the other was replaced by a parishioner, and, when the burglars cleaned them out, the congregation showed such kindness and generosity that Peter and Bea’s faith in human goodness was boosted to ecstatic heights.

Dear Bea, he wrote.

Please don’t use the word ‘Godforsaken’. I know you’re upset and rightly so but we must honour with our mouths the fact that no one is truly forsaken by God. In all your distress, I get the feeling you’re not leaning on Him as trustingly as you might. Remember all the hundreds of times we’ve been at our wits’ end and He’s come through. Turn to Him now. He will provide. Philippians 4:6 reassures us: ‘Be careful for nothing (ie, don’t be anxious about anything), but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.’

I’m sorry I didn’t offer to come home early. I did think of it and was very strongly tempted by the idea but instead of airing it with you I struggled with it inside my own mind before I wrote. Apart from anything else I didn’t want to raise false hopes in case USIC told me it wasn’t possible. There is already a ship on the way, I gather, containing (no doubt among other things) another doctor to replace one that died.

I’m not as attached to staying here as you think. While it’s true that this mission is an extraordinary opportunity, the spread of God’s word has its own momentum and its own timescale, and I’m sure the Oasans could do marvellous things on their own, with the input I’ve had so far. The reality is that I will have to leave them in a few months anyway, and there’ll still be a lot to do. The Christian life is a journey, not a self-contained project. I am giving these people my all, but when I have to go, I’ll go, and my sights will then be set on our life back home.

Please try to reconnect with the love and protection that God has shown us in the past and which is waiting there to shield you now. Pray to Him. You won’t have to wait long for evidence of His hand. And if, in a few days, you still feel distraught, I will do my best to arrange to come home to you, even if it means forfeiting some of my payment. Whatever happens, I’m confident that I’ll be treated fairly. These are benign, well-intentioned people. My instincts about them are good.

As for the countryside, yes, I admit ignorance. But as Christians – and, again, with God’s help – we have the power to affect what sort of ethos a place has. I’m not saying there won’t be problems but we’ve had big problems in the city too and you’re currently having a horrendous time so could it really be worse? I’ve been spending most of my time outdoors here and there is something so calming about it. I would love to go walking with you in the sunshine and fresh air. And think how Joshua would adore it!

It will be your morning by the time you read this. I hope you slept well.

Love,

Peter

Having sent this message, Peter was clammy with sweat. And ravenous. He showered and dressed in clean trousers and T-shirt. Then he went to the mess hall and ordered himself the sausages and mash.

When he returned, he resumed work on the Bible booklets. Several of the Jesus Lovers had asked him about the parable of the Good Shepherd, the Hireling and the Sheep. He’d gently urged them to tackle a different episode, because this one involved sheep and wolves, two creatures they’d never seen, and besides, it was full of sibilant letters. But they insisted, as if worried that their natural limitations might prevent them from comprehending something utterly crucial. So, he was tinkering with it. For sheep, he could substitute whiteflower. God could be the Good Farmer, making sure that the crops were tended properly and picked at the correct times; the Hireling could be . . . what could the Hireling be? The Oasans knew nothing about money and recognised no difference between vocation and employment. And what about the conclusion of the story, where the Shepherd lays down his life for his sheep? A farmer couldn’t lay down his life for his crops. The whole parable was untranslatable. Yet the Jesus Lovers would not be fobbed off. He would have to teach them about sheep, wolves, shepherds, hirelings. It was an absurd challenge, although it might be worthwhile if it allowed the Oasans access to the concept of the Lamb of God.

On a sheet of paper, he experimented with drawing a sheep. Art was not one of his strong points. The animal he scrawled had a credibly sheep-like body but its head looked more like a cat’s. He struggled to recall ever having seen a sheep in the flesh, or even in photographs. Beyond a vague impression of woolly rotundity, he couldn’t summon forth any details about ears, snout, eyes and so on. Was the lower jaw visible? Perhaps there would be something in the USIC library. Granted, many of the books had pages torn out, but he imagined that if there were any pictures of sheep, they’d be intact.

Absent-mindedly, out of habit, he checked for new messages on the Shoot. Immediately, one from Bea loaded in. She hadn’t gone to bed after all.

Peter, PLEASE PLEASE STOP HARPING ON ABOUT THIS COUNTRYSIDE FANTASY, it’s just making me feel worse. You just don’t seem to appreciate how fast and how frighteningly and how MUCH things have changed. The housing market has COLLAPSED. Like just about everything eslse in this country IT IS KAPUT. Couldn’t you guess that? Wouldn’t that be obvious from all the things I’ve been telling you? Do you really think some nice young coiuple is goimng to be isnepcting our house with a chequebook in their hands? All those nice young couples all over the UK are frozen with TERROR. Everyonbe is just sitting tight, hoping agaimst hope that things will improve. I am sitting tighjt myself, hoping that at last some big truck will finally come and pick up the stinking piles of garbage in front of our home.

As for using the word godforsaken, I’m sure God can forgive me but the question is, can you?

The vehemence of the blow took him by surprise. In the minutes that followed, his brain swirled with hurt, indignation, shame and fear. She was wrong, he was misunderstood, she was wrong, he was misunderstood, she was in trouble, he couldn’t help, she was in trouble, he couldn’t help, she was deaf to his assurances of love and support, she spoke in a tone he couldn’t recognise. Was this what pregnancy had done to her mind? Or had she been harbouring these resentments and frustrations for years? Half-formed sentences suggested themselves, drafts of defences and analyses, ways to demonstrate to her that she was not helping anyone by behaving like this, ways to allude to the deranging effects of hormones and pregnancy without making her angrier still.

As he thought more, however, his urge to argue dwindled and all that was left was love. It didn’t matter, for the moment, that she misjudged him. She was overwhelmed, she was in distress, she needed help. Rightness or wrongness was not the point. Giving her strength was the point. He must let go of his grief at how alienated she was from him. The greater problem was that she seemed alienated from God. A barrage of suffering borne in unaccustomed loneliness had weakened her faith. Her mind and heart were closed like the fist of a child in pain. Rhetoric and arguments were useless and, in the circumstances, cruel. He must remember that when he’d been at his own lowest ebb, a single Bible verse had pulled him back from the abyss. God didn’t waste words.

Bea, I love you. Please pray. What is happening all around you is terrifying, I know. But please pray and God will help. Psalm 91: I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress. He shall cover thee with His feathers, and under His wings shalt thou trust.

There, it was sent. He clasped his hands and prayed she would pray. Everything would be all right if she only could.