An Unholy Mission Read online

  She finished the last, now warm, swallow of her beer and padded out to the kitchen in her stocking feet to consider what she might unearth for supper. Shopping day was Tuesday, so the fridge was all but empty, and the cabinet over the sink offered nothing more than a dented box of bran flakes and three packets of sugar saved from McDonald’s. Shaking her head at the dismal prospect, she reached for the phone on the wall.

  After Luther and Olympia finished their coffee, Olympia thanked him and went off to retrieve her car from her newly appointed space in the underground parking garage. Luther remained seated at the table for a few minutes. Then he took the elevator back up to the hospice unit on the fourth floor, introduced himself to the nurse on duty and asked if he might stay on for a while to get a sense of the place.

  He put his hand on his silver cross and said, “I like to come in when it’s quiet, and there aren’t so many people around.”

  “Chaplains aren’t usually here after hours unless they are specifically asked for.” The nurse looked up at him from her desk full of paperwork.

  “Oh, I won’t bother anyone,” said Luther, “but if there’s someone who could use a visit, I’d be happy to sit with them for a while.”

  “That’s a kind offer, Mr. Stuart, but I think it’s best to stick with your regular hours for now, especially when you’re just beginning the program. We have your name and how to contact you.” The nurse smiled and held out her hand. “I appreciate your making yourself known to me, and there’s no doubt if the need arises, I’ll be calling you.”

  Timothea Jones pulled into the driveway and sat listening to the end of the NPR evening news before getting out of the car. Home was a ground level section of a grand old West Newton Victorian mansion which had been converted to condominiums. It was a perfect size and space for a woman on her own. It was convenient to everything and fitted out with everything a person might need. She had ordered herself a take-out from a nearby Indian restaurant and was looking forward to a tasty meal and a few minutes of down-time in front of the television. Driven by an empty stomach and the heady smell of the curry in the container beside her, she poked off the radio, pushed open the driver’s side door and heaved herself out. The rain had stopped, but there were still puddles everywhere. The few remaining flowers in the little garden by the back stairs were tumbled all over themselves, soaked and battered from the storm. Timothea checked her watch. There was just enough time to eat, have a quick look at the weather for tomorrow and get to the church in time to lead her regular Monday night Bible study. The real unwinding part would have to wait until she got back.

  Once inside, she opened the containers of food and thought about the people she’d met that day. As the only black woman in the group, Timothea knew to proceed with caution. It had served her well in the past, and it would in the days to come. Now, alone in her one-woman castle, she rumbled and hummed with pleasure as she heaped all of the hot, fragrant food onto her plate.

  Alice Whitethorn got off the bus two stops before her regular one. She needed to walk off some of her nervous energy and have some time alone to collect herself before having to face her chatty roommates. After only one day in the hospital, she was already rethinking her priorities. She shook her head in genuine anguish. If she didn’t even like the smell of the place, never mind the sight of all those sick people, how in the world was she ever going to be able to make it through the whole four months? For most of her adult life, all nine years of it since she turned eighteen, she had believed that she wanted to minister to sick and orphaned children. Now, after her first day, she wasn’t so sure. Sister Patrick said that this was a turning point for religious professionals, but did the tipping point usually come this quickly and without warning?

  Walking along the still wet pavement with her head down, her hands clasped tightly to her chest, Alice Whitethorn promised herself she would see this through to the end, no matter what. Considering all the money her adoptive parents had invested in her education, she couldn’t back out now. She owed them that much.

  Jenny Abelard stubbed her cigarette out against the dusty red brick wall of the building and let herself in through the side door of the women’s shelter, where she lived and worked and which she called home. The guests were already arriving for their evening meal, and she could hear them calling out greetings to each other. Jenny waved as she walked past them to the locked room at the rear that she had been given in exchange for being on call as the night manager and supervisor.

  She knew some of these women would be there just long enough to eat and then go back out on the streets. Others would stay the night and leave, as required, shortly after breakfast. Still others would be turned away because they were too drunk or high and disruptive to be admitted for the night. These were the ones that broke Jenny’s heart. She’d been there herself once.

  Some of the regulars were women she had befriended while she was in prison, tough women who had seen it all and had the scars to prove it. Some of them could be helped; others could only be fed and given a clean bed. It was not Jenny’s place to judge. But to her growing dismay, more and more young girls, kids in their mid- and even early teens, would show up at the door because had they no other place to go. They were looking for a place to hide out and heal from being beaten up by a vicious boy or girlfriend, or pimp, or the mother’s abusive live-in boyfriend. Sometimes they came back for help, but sometimes they turned up dead somewhere, and Jenny would be the one called to the morgue to try and identify them.

  She changed out of her Goodwill Store chaplain suit and into her shelter clothes—jeans, a clean but well-worn sweatshirt and Red Sox baseball cap worn backward. Now she was ready to join them all for supper. These were her people. They didn’t ask questions, and Jenny needed to keep it that way. It was one of the rules, and Jenny had a lot of rules. Rules kept you safe.

  True to her word, Olympia was in a far better mood when she returned home that evening. After supper she and Frederick retired to the great room of the multi-roomed antique house they now both called home. There was a blazing fire in the woodstove, and they sat, each with a lapful of purring cat and enjoying a caffeine-free cup of tea. Olympia was recounting her first day in the hospital.

  “It’s hard to believe with the weather and everything that I was only about fifteen minutes late. I was a wreck when I arrived, but things got better as the day wore on.”

  “What’s the rest of the group like?” asked Frederick.

  Olympia shook her head. “I don’t really know yet. You know what first day introductions are like. We only said our names and a few words about ourselves. Three of them—a man named Luther Stuart, a tall black woman named Timothea, and a student rabbi named Joel Silversomething—made the biggest impressions on me, so far anyway.”

  “How so?”

  Olympia looked at the man sitting across from her. They were in the sixth month of living together in a committed relationship. She was finally beginning to admit she liked having someone who chilled her wine, who made a genuine fuss over her beloved cats, and who was interested in how her day went. All that, and he was good with his hands, as well. But she knew from personal experience, such delicious comfort could also be a one-way ticket to a broken heart. Be careful, Lady, she thought.

  “Olympia?”

  “Huh? Oh, sorry, Frederick, my mind wandered. I guess I’m more tired than I realized. What was I saying?”

  “You weren’t saying anything. I asked you why the man and the woman named Timothea and the rabbi made an impression on you.”

  Olympia shifted, resettled her cat, and smiled at the image forming in her mind of Sister Timothea Jones. “By virtue of her size alone, that woman would impress anyone. She is a big lady with the most unbelievable speaking voice I’ve ever heard. It’s like listening to a river of chocolate cream, deep and rich and full. I could listen to her read the phone book, Frederick, all of it. I’d like to get to know her better, but I don’t want to rush things.”

  Olym
pia leaned back in her chair and smiled. “With a voice like that, I’ll bet she’s some preacher, too.”

  “What about the other two, the men?”

  “Olympia made a face. “Him, I like, and the other him I’m not so sure of.”

  Frederick gave her quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

  “The him I like is a medical doctor who’s decided to become a rabbi because he’s interested in the connection between the spiritual and physical aspects of healing and wellness. I’m looking forward to hearing what he’ll bring to the group.”

  “Well that’s one him. What about the other one?”

  “I wish I knew. Something about him makes me vaguely uncomfortable, but I couldn’t tell you why. He’s well dressed, neat, very organized, goes out of his way to be helpful. He even bought me a cup of coffee before I set out for home. I feel funny even saying it; I don’t like to prejudge people.”

  “Maybe he’s just wants to make a good first impression,” said Frederick. “Most people do, or maybe he’s, how do they say it over here, hitting on you? Not that I’d blame him.”

  Olympia shrugged and shook her head. “Maybe he’s just trying too hard. He made a point of being friendly, so why should I be questioning it?”

  “It’s the first day, my love, give it some time,” said Frederick. “People react differently to anxiety and stress. You were pretty agitated there yourself this morning. If you’re still feeling this way next week, talk it over with your partner-in-crime, Jim Sawicki. He’s in the business, too, remember? When I talked to him earlier, he said he wanted to hear all about your first day back in the trenches, and he wants to talk about coming down here for a while.”

  Olympia nodded and managed a tired smile. “Good. I was hoping he would. You know, I never thought of him as a partner in crime, but now that you mention it, I suppose he was exactly that when we got involved with that religious cult last year.”

  “And when you rescued the rape victim from his parish.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And when he served as your consultant and fact-finder when you almost got yourself killed this summer on Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “Oh, that!” She peered over her teacup. “But I’m a hospital chaplain now, Dearie, and that means I’m also out of the running for trouble-shooting and human salvage for at least four months. I’ll call him tomorrow when I’m not so tired. You’re right, he is the one to ask. Now that I think of it, I’m pretty sure Mercy is one of the hospitals he visits.”

  “You are tired, Olympia.”

  She almost laughed, but it turned into a yawn. “I know I’m undoubtedly imagining the Luther thing. I know I can do that. It’s just that he’s really intense, and to be honest, I was on edge myself.”

  “Why don’t you go up to bed?” said Frederick easing a reluctant cat off his lap. “I’ll do the washing up and take care of the animals.”

  Olympia nodded in grateful acceptance, deposed her own recumbent feline and replied with a second muffled yawn, “Thanks Honey. I’m too tired to think straight. I’m sure this will all make more sense in the morning. Maybe I’ll read a few pages of Miss Winslow’s diary before I turn off the light. That always seems to help me put things into perspective.”

  November 10, 1861

  It is done – or perhaps it is just begun. Time will tell. Today I sent a parcel to my Aunt Louisa in Cambridge. In it is a short story entitled, “The Secret Journey.” I have asked that she in turn send it on to Godey’s Ladies Book. The postmaster here in Brookfield knows too much of people’s personal business, and I do not care for anyone to know of this most private endeavor. I have used the name C.K. Barrow so that neither the publisher nor the reader will know my gender. I hear it said that women find it harder to find someone to publish their work than do gentleman authors. And I also know that the editor of Godey’s is a woman, but for many reasons, expressed only in these pages, I will write under a pseudonym. I do confess I have told my Aunt Louisa. She alone knows my whole story, and she alone is the person I can trust with it. In so many ways she has become the mother that was lost to me those many years ago.

  More anon, LFW

  Four

  Sister Patrick pocketed her pen, closed her notebook and pushed back her chair. “If there are no further questions, then I think you’d best get started on your assignments. After today, you’ll go directly to your individual units, and we’ll gather as a group after lunch.”

  She doesn’t sound so much like a staff sergeant this morning, thought Olympia as she checked her own pockets for her new reading glasses. Maybe she had first day issues too?

  Sister Patrick continued. “I’ve given your names to the nurse-managers in each of the departments where you’ll be working, but make sure you go up and reintroduce yourselves. When you do, I want you to ask specifically how they would like you fit in with the modalities and protocols on their individual floors. If you have questions, and you are expected to, ask one of the nurses, especially during this first week. No one expects you to know everything, and given the kind of work you’re doing, the last thing you want to do is to take matters into your own hands. Remember, when entering a patient’s room, always ask permission, even if it’s the visitor’s lounge. Some people don’t want a chaplain anywhere near them, and you have to respect that.”

  She paused. “Chaplaincy is a delicate balance of mind and heart in the most challenging of human circumstances. You’re here to learn, to serve, and above all to listen.” She looked down at her watch. “We’ll meet back here in the conference room at one. Now, then, I wish you all the best.”

  Then she smiled.

  Olympia exhaled a breath she didn’t even know she was hanging onto and stood up to leave with the others.

  “Olympia?”

  Uh oh.

  “Yes Sister?”

  “Can I have a quick word with you?”

  Double uh oh!

  “Sure.”

  When the others were gone, the nun gestured to a chair and invited Olympia to sit back down.

  “I just received the report of your first CPE, and I think it’s always good to go over that information before undertaking a second. Usually I do that at the interview, but for some reason, it was late in coming.”

  Olympia sat with her hands folded in her lap, unsure what to expect.

  “For the most part, the report is stellar. You were given an excellent recommendation. Your former supervisor made a point of stating that you possessed outstanding pastoral skills. He noted that you were dedicated and caring, but that dedication and caring could sometimes lead you to become over-involved with the patients.”

  “He said that to me,” said Olympia, looking down at the table. She was feeling an uncomfortable prickling in the corners of her eyes.

  “You appear to have many gifts, Olympia; intensity and passion are only two of them. I don’t want you to burn yourself out.”

  When Olympia raised her eyes to find the nun smiling at her across the table, she ventured, “Dare I say that it takes one to know one?”

  “None of us is perfect, Olympia. That’s the one lesson I’m afraid I need to keep relearning, as well. The best we can do is turn our personal challenges into growth opportunities.”

  Olympia lowered her eyes. “Thank you, Sister.”

  “Now, the elevators to the Transitional Unit are on your right, past the information desk.”

  Sister Patrick was once again all business and very much in charge. Mercifully, Olympia’s eyes stopped prickling by the time she reached her assigned floor.

  “The Transitional Unit is a step-down unit,” explained the charge nurse. She and Olympia were seated in the staff lounge with two paper cups of near-lethal coffee on the table between them. “The patients on this floor are mostly on their way home and just need a little extra physical or occupational therapy before they are considered safe to be left on their own.”

  “Mostly?” asked Olympia. “What are the others?”


  “We have a few convertible hospice beds in this unit. They’re here for people who, for whatever reason, aren’t going into a regular hospice program, or there isn’t a bed ready …” The charge nurse lowered her voice. “… or who are just too ill to justify moving at all.”

  “Will I be working with them, as well?”

  “Only in an emergency. We’ll keep you busy enough right here, but if two or three patients are in transition, that is, getting ready to pass, at the same time you might be pressed into service. I understand one of the other new chaplains will be covering the hospice patients.”

  “That will be Luther Stuart,” said Olympia. “He wears a big silver cross around his neck.”

  “Then I won’t miss him, will I?”

  “Olympia looked down at the table and ran her fingers through her hair. “No, you won’t miss him.”

  “One more question. Would you prefer to be called Pastor Brown or Reverend Brown?” asked the charge nurse as she directed Olympia out of the staff lounge and into the main hallway. “Most of our chaplains are still in seminary and not ordained, so we usually go by first names.”

  “I prefer being called by my first name. For the record, I was named Olympia after the very first woman ordained to professional Universalist Ministry in the United States back in 1863, so I guess I have a reputation to maintain.”

  “It’s a nice name, elegant.”

  “Thank you. I like it myself, but tell me, how do you prefer that I work in your unit?”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you around. When you check in at the desk, I think it’s best to ask if there are any special cases that might benefit from a chaplain’s visit, and just as important, to know if there are any people who have specifically asked that you not visit. After that, it’s up to you. I’ve found that most patients like to be asked how they are feeling, and trust me, they’ll tell you. Some will ask you to pray with or for them. Mostly they want some company.” The nurse grinned at Olympia. “I can tell by just this little conversation, you’re going to be one of the good ones.”