An Unholy Mission Page 10

  “How are you going to arrange that?”

  “I don’t know, Frederick. The hospital is such a public place, and I don’t want to raise any eyebrows. Even being seen going into in her office might arouse curiosity. I might just try calling her at home.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Not yet,” said Olympia, “but I know how to find people when I want to. I need time to think it through. The man has cancer, and he says he’s going to forego any treatment because he’s convinced God won’t let him die until his work is done. Well, if that’s the case, what I need to know is exactly what it is that he thinks he’s got to do before then.”

  “I don’t like the sound of it, Olympia.”

  “Neither do I, Frederick, but I don’t see that I have any choice.”

  November 29, 1861

  The weather is truly vile and rapidly getting worse. We are in the midst of a storm that began as driving rain but soon gave over to blinding snow. It is already up to my knees and still coming down at a furious pace. I am grateful that my dear Aunt Louisa arrived ahead of it—not only for her own safety but for my own. I feel better with another adult in the house when there is a storm raging, especially now with a child to keep safe. I secretly hope she will stay on for the winter. We do get on well, and having no children of her own, she is besotted with her great nephew and spends hours playing and talking with him while I steal off to my study and write. The arrangement suits us both and may do for some time to come. The thought of a house in the country and a house in the city offers numerous possibilities to this fledgling writer. But I must not let my thoughts stray too far into the future. When the time seems most propitious, I shall broach the subject with Aunt Louisa.

  Our little Sammy-cat, not so little any more, refuses to set one paw beyond the kitchen door. Seeing the desperation in his golden eyes, I made a little privy of scraps of paper and the dusty remains of a potted plant for him to use. Now I just have to keep my curious son from playing in it and pray that we have enough dry wood inside to keep us warm until the storm abates.

  More anon, LFW

  Twelve

  When the chaplains gathered for the afternoon meeting, Alice Whitethorn was seated in a despondent heap at the table next to Sister Patrick. After the opening prayer the nun turned and invited her to speak. Alice raised her head, clasped her two hands together on the table in front of her and told them she was withdrawing from the program.

  “I want you all to know how much I appreciate all of your help and support, but I realize there is too much of my own work I still need to do.” Then she shrugged her thin shoulders and added, “I guess that’s worth something, isn’t it?”

  Sister Patrick went on to say that after a long and prayerful discussion, she had accepted Alice’s request to withdraw, and it was appropriate at this time for them to say a few words to her before she left.

  Olympia expected this to be agonizing, but she realized within a few minutes just how good Sister Patrick was at what she did. Each of them, in his or her own way, told Alice what they had learned from knowing her and what they wished for her in the future. Even Luther said that her honesty with herself was a lesson for them all, and he hoped one day she would find her true ministry. When they finished, Alice stood and thanked them all, gathered up her things and left the room, letting the heavy glass door close slowly behind her.

  Sister Patrick broke the heavy silence left in her wake. “I like what you said to Alice about honesty with one’s self, Luther. She’s made the right decision, and you all gave her a lovely tribute. This doesn’t happen often, that someone leaves the program, and we did it well.”

  Then she guided them back to the business at hand. She asked Timothea and then Luther to tell them all how they felt were doing in their respective assignments. Luther gestured to Timothea that she should be the first to speak.

  The large woman took a few moments to compose and arrange herself before speaking. “I don’t think you all know this, but I came from a business background before entering seminary. I had a good job that paid well, so I could afford to send my son to a good college. When that was accomplished, I felt it was my turn to go back to school. One of the things I learned in the business world is a sense of timing, when to take charge and when to get out of the way. I’ve discovered that it’s not that much different here. Sometimes I start a conversation with a patient, and sometimes I just stand back and wait and let things unfold.”

  Sitting beside her, Olympia was likely the only one who heard the soft “uh huh” Timothea emitted before she continued. When she did go on, she did so in dramatic contrast to how she had been speaking earlier. Timothea began talking in dialect. She let the vowels and the consonants of her words slide together in the musical cadences that blacks will sometimes use among themselves and that whites rarely get to experience.

  “And dey’s sumpin else. If we’re gon be honest, then I’m gon tell you that I’m used to bein’ big, and I’m used to bein’ black, and bein’ in business and all, I kin hol my own with all you white folks, men an wimmin.”

  Then she looked at them all and shifted once again. “But I’ve learned that I don’t have to try so hard here, and I want to thank you all for that. I want to thank you for letting me be who I am and also be one of you. God bless you for that.”

  “Preach on, Sister,” said Patrick.

  Before he took his turn Luther glanced over at Olympia, making her wonder if their conversation of yesterday might influence what he was going to say, but she needn’t have worried. He said only that he liked the hospice work and felt like he was learning a lot, but there was so much more that he hoped to learn, and the time seemed like it was flying by.

  When they finished for the afternoon, and only Olympia and Timothea remained at the table, Sister Patrick asked Olympia if she might be interested in going over to Women and Infants on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and serve on the Maternity and Obstetrics Unit. She could, Patrick continued, stay on the Transitional Unit on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That way, her transitional patients would have a sense of continuity, and Olympia could expand her skills in another and dramatically different hospital setting.

  That’s great, she thought. That way I can still go back and visit Nancy … and keep an eye on Luther.

  “That would be wonderful, Sister. What I mean is, the women there aren’t really sick, are they? They have their babies and go home pretty much the next day now, don’t they?” Olympia was remembering the birth of her own two sons, and ten years before that, the birth of her daughter, and staying in the hospital for a minimum of five days with each of them.

  “Women also give birth to dead babies or babies that die within hours after birth or babies so hideously damaged and deformed that death is a blessing,” said Patrick. She was looking sorrowfully at Olympia. “Women miscarry, they suffer complications from abortions, and some do still occasionally die in childbirth. I find it to be one of the most demanding and challenging pastoral responsibilities in the whole hospital. That’s why I thought I’d suggest it. You’re a good minister, and you like to be challenged; if ever there was a pastoral challenge, this is it. Do you still want to go?”

  Timothea was humming as Olympia looked down at her folded hands and then up at the no-nonsense nun.

  “Sister, it is enough to say to you that as a woman in my fifties, I have not come through my childbearing years, or the years before I birthed my children, for that matter, untouched by tragedy and personal loss. It hasn’t affected my love of new babies and my sense of wonder at the miracle of birth or my reverence for death when it happens. Of course I want to go. Thank you for suggesting it.”

  “Whoooooeeeee!” whispered Timothea in such a way that only Olympia could hear the accolade.

  Much as she wanted to talk to the nun about Luther, now was not the time. With Timothea still there, she didn’t want to start anyone thinking about anything, even her powerfully elegant bilingual cohort.

>   On Saturday morning Olympia called Jim, and the two talked at length about her conversations with Nancy and Luther and what action might be most appropriate. In the end they decided on a two-pronged approach. Olympia would go directly to Sister Patrick and tell her word for word what Nancy Farwell had described at their last meeting and follow that with Luther’s response to her confrontation of his behavior.

  Jim would make good on his offer to arrange a second meeting with Luther and, under the guise of a colleague setting up a field education seminar at the hospital, see what more he might be able to learn about the man and his motives. Following that, and depending on how Sister Patrick reacted to what Olympia planned to tell her and what more Jim might be able to learn from Luther, they agreed it might be necessary to ask Sister Patrick to meet with the two of them.

  As they were winding down their conversation, Olympia remarked that she had assumed that when she left academia for a more pastoral ministry, her life would become quieter and less complicated.

  “You have a nose for trouble, Olympia,” said Jim, “and you’re always facing into the wind.”

  Sister Patrick stepped out of the elevator on the third floor of Boston Women and Children’s Hospital and walked down the corridor to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Few people knew that she came here most Sundays to be with the at-risk newborns. Away from the noise and bustle, she would sit, rocking and singing lullabies to tiny scraps of life whose weary, anxious parents could not be there beside the Isolette twenty-four hours a day. The hospital seemed quieter on Sundays than on other days, and the nun walked softly as she turned into the unit.

  “Good morning, Sister,” said the nurse in charge of the nursery. “How’s the weather out there? The light is always so dim in here, I have no idea what’s going on.”

  “Absolutely beautiful,” said Patrick, lifting her hands in an encompassing gesture. “It’s definitely getting colder, but it is November, after all. It’s clear and crisp, though, what you’d expect at this time of year. Before you know it we’ll have a snow storm on the way, but not today. I’ll probably go out for a walk later on.” She looked around. “Got any babies for me?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said the charge nurse, getting to her feet, “one of your specialties, Sister. This one’s a mess, poor little thing. The mother is a crack cocaine addict; the police brought her in last night. Somebody found her giving birth in a gas station bathroom. A customer heard the groans, took one look and called 911. She gave up the baby on the spot and left the hospital as soon as she could get up off the bed. God only knows what’ll happen to her,” said the nurse, shaking her head, “but legally we can’t stop her. At least the baby’s got half a chance, once we get her over the withdrawal stage. I feel so bad for these babies. What a way to begin life.” She shook her head. “So much pain, and no one to go home to.”

  The nurse picked up a little bundle, tightly swaddled in a pink blanket. Even from where she was standing, Patrick could see this was an undersized child and could hear the familiar thin, frantic wail of an addicted baby. She held out her arms and took the miserable infant to the rocking chair. There she held the little scrap of a thing firmly against her broad chest and began to chant and whisper words of comfort. Within minutes she could feel the tense little body relaxing against her own. The nurse stood watching.

  “I don’t know what it is about you, Sister. I mean, not having children yourself or anything, you certainly do have a magic touch. You’re the only one that can quiet these babies.”

  Sister Patrick smiled. She was drawing light circles on the baby’s back with her fingertips. “I’ll give you my home number, she said. “I’ll come in any time you need me. Look.” The nun lifted the corner of the blanket away from the wizened little face. “Just look at her. She’s got dark, curly hair.”

  Before Luther left on Friday, the hospice charge nurse told him that one of his favorites, Mrs. Daly, would likely pass over the weekend and asked if he wanted to visit with her one more time before he left. On Sunday he called in to check on her and learned that she was still alive, so he decided to go in on his own time and sit with her for a while. Upon arrival at the hospital he went first to the Transition Unit to check on Nancy Farwell. As he approached room 311, Luther paused at the door and saw that her husband and children were clustered around the bed. If there was time after he visited Mrs. Daly, maybe he’d come back.

  The hospital schedule was more relaxed on Sundays, and visitors came and went all day. Luther was a chaplain, and as such he could come and go whenever and wherever he wished. He liked being able to do that.

  Sister Patrick had just returned from the hospital and was unlocking the door of her apartment when she heard the phone ringing. She managed to catch it before the answering machine switched on and recognized the voice of one of her chaplains.

  “Sister Patrick, is that you? This is Olympia Brown speaking. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “I do. Is there a problem? I don’t get many calls at home.”

  “I, uh, actually yes, I think so, Sister, but I’d rather talk about it to you in person. Could I meet with you first thing tomorrow before I go over to Women and Infants?”

  Sister Patrick carried the phone over to her chair and was kicking off her too-hot sensible shoes as she spoke. The cool floor felt good on her tired feet. “This sounds serious, Olympia. Can you at least give me some indication of what it’s about?”

  There was a slight hesitation before Olympia answered and Sister Patrick could hear her taking a long breath.

  “I’ve come upon what I think might be an awkward situation involving one of the patients on the transitional unit and one of the chaplains. I need to talk to you and ask your advice, but I really want to do it in person. Please, Sister?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Luther?”

  “Yes, Sister,” said Olympia.

  Now it was Sister Patrick’s turn to be silent for a few long moments.

  “I usually come in early. Can you make it by seven-thirty? That way, you can be on the floor at the usual time.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” said Olympia. “I’ll be there.”

  Sister Patrick hung up the phone and sat with her head bowed, one hand resting on the silent receiver and the other hand pressed hard against her lips.

  The emergency pager Timothea had tucked into her purse went off at eleven-fifteen Sunday evening. Bleary-eyed and fuzzy from just having fallen asleep, she switched on the bedside light and reached for the phone. When she dialed the call-back number, the night supervisor picked up and told her that a patient had just died, the family was asking for a chaplain, and could she please come in?

  Shaking the sleep out of her brain, Timothea told the woman she would be in as soon as she could and then asked who it was.

  “A woman on the TU,” said the nurse, “Her name is Nancy Farwell. One of the aides went into check on her and found her dead. The family’s hysterical. They weren’t expecting it. She was scheduled for a liver transplant in the morning.”

  “Help me, Jesus,” said Timothea as she put down the phone and heaved herself up and out of the warm, rumpled bed.

  Thirteen

  At seven thirty on Monday morning, Olympia Brown and Sister Patrick Alphonsus were sitting opposite each other in Sister Patrick’s office. The nun was ensconced in an old wooden swivel chair behind her desk, and Olympia was sitting on the outermost edge of the visitor’s chair. Without asking, Olympia had set down two cups of hospital coffee between them.

  The nun thanked her and held out a tin of English Toffee to Olympia. “I know it’s a little early, but have a couple of these. Sometimes it takes more than coffee to get me going in the morning.”

  Olympia smiled her appreciation, selected two and began unwrapping the first, stalling for time, not knowing really where or how to begin. The Office of Pastoral Care was in the older part of the hospital, built before everything was made streamlined and efficient out of impersonal polis
hed steel and glass. The walls were paneled in a dark, grainy wood. On one wall, a single crank-out, stained glass window, open about two inches, let in a shaft of early morning sunlight that fell in an elongated, dusty diamond on the wine-colored carpet. There was a small brass crucifix on the wall behind the nun and a gold-washed icon of Our Lady of Czestochowa, a Polish Madonna, on the wall across from the door.

  “This is really hard, Sister.” Olympia looked down at the bright spot on the floor, then back up into the broad, Slavic face of the nun.

  “I don’t feel right coming in here, telling tales on a colleague, but I don’t feel I have a choice. It’s not my place to try and handle it myself.”

  Sister Patrick sat forward in her chair. “What are you talking about, Olympia? Tell me what’s troubling you.”

  “Last Friday I was visiting with one of the patients on the TU, Nancy Farwell. She’s waiting for a liver transplant. I may have mentioned her.”

  “I believe you did,” said Sister Patrick.

  “She’s very ill and may not live long enough to get the liver.”

  Patrick nodded, listening.

  “Well, it seems that Luther Stuart has taken it upon himself to visit her, as well.”

  “He’s been assigned to the Hospice Unit.”

  “I know,” said Olympia, twisting and re-twisting the toffee papers. “Sometimes they put a hospice patient in a TU bed. He was up there visiting another patient and then started coming to see Nancy, as well. She wasn’t officially a hospice patient when he started visiting her, although she may be by now. I just don’t know. Something about it is bothering me.”