An Unholy Mission (15 page)

“Olympia, have you been over to the TU at all today?” asked Sister Patrick.

“Not yet,” said Olympia, “I thought I’d run up there after I look in on the twin.”

“Then you don’t know that Nancy Farwell passed away last night.”

“
What?”

“She died sometime before midnight. She was due to get a liver this morning. They located one, and it was in flight when she died. No one expected it. They called in Timothea to be with the family.”

Olympia pulled up another rocking chair and dropped into it like she’d been punched. “I can’t believe this. She was very weak when I left her on Friday, but there was no indication that she might actually die.”

“It came as a shock to everyone, Olympia. When I went up there this morning, no one could tell me exactly what happened. You can be sure I’m going to find out, but it certainly changes things as far as what you told me this morning.”

“What do you mean?” Olympia was rubbing her temples with her fingertips, trying to come to grips with what she just heard. Poor dear fragile Nancy, gone.

“What I mean is, now anything involving what you said about Luther and Nancy has just become your word against his.”

“He said, she said,” replied Olympia, shaking her head.

The nun simply nodded, got up out of the chair and handed the little bundle over to Olympia.

“Here,” she said, “rocking a baby helps me think. You might try it. Give her another two or three minutes. The nurse on duty will put her back for you.”

Olympia looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms. Both her sons had been twice that size. “She’s a pretty good size for a preemie, Sister.”

“She’s not premature. She was less than five pounds at birth. She’s drug addicted and going through withdrawal, so she’s considered to be at risk. They’ll keep her here until she’s stabilized. Then she’ll go into foster care until she’s adopted.” The nun shook her head. “Not the best start in life. So I come here when I can and hold her and rock her. Love and human touch make a huge difference in a child’s ability to survive, and …” Sister Patrick whispered in parting, “she seems to like it when I sing to her.”

When Sister Patrick returned to her office, Luther was standing outside the door, holding a cup of tea.

“You weren’t here, so I went and got myself something to drink. I hope you don’t mind. Maybe I should have gotten one for you. Do you want coffee or tea?”

“That’s thoughtful of you, Luther, but no, thanks.” Sister Patrick punched in the key code that opened the door, walked over to her desk and seated herself behind it.

“Sit down, Luther, and I’ll come right to the point.”

“Is something wrong, Sister?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’ve asked you here.”

Luther took the teabag out of the paper cup, squeezed it between his fingers and looked around for someplace to dispose of it. Sister Patrick pointed to a wastebasket in the corner.

“Luther, do you remember last week when you gave your verbatim, and I spoke very strongly to you about observing personal and professional boundaries with patients?”

“Yes, Sister, I heard what you said. I’ve been really careful since then. Remember, this is all new to me. I’m still learning.”

I don’t think it’s completely new, Luther. I understand that you were enrolled in another CPE program two years ago, but withdrew for personal reasons.”

Before Sister Patrick could say any more, Luther held up his hand. “I had a personality conflict with the director. He and I ended up in a power struggle. I think he was threatened by me. All the others in the program were women. I think he wanted them all to himself.”

The nun maintained her outward composure, but Luther couldn’t see her foot twitching under her desk.

 “Luther, I’m privy to some information that makes me think it’s possible that you’re still not being as attentive to your professional boundaries as perhaps you should be.”

“What do you mean, Sister?”

The nun changed direction. “Did you know that a patient you’ve been visiting died last night?”

Luther sat forward. “Who?”

“Nancy Farwell. She wasn’t on the hospice unit, but I understand you’ve been in to see her on a regular basis.”

Luther went pale and clapped his hand to his chest. “Oh, dear God. I was in with her yesterday. I had no idea. What happened?”

“I only found out myself this morning when I went up to talk to her about something which has recently been brought to my attention. It concerns your visits with her.”

Luther sat back and crossed his legs. “What about it? Is there some sort of rule that says I can only visit patients in the hospice unit? I met her on my first day on the floor. She seemed lonely, so I added her to my list. Somebody has a problem with that?”

Sister Patrick chose her words very carefully. “On Friday, two days before she died, Nancy Farwell reported to Olympia Brown that when you visited with her, you put your hand on her chest when you sat and prayed with her. Is this true?”

Luther paused and then shook his head but said nothing. He remained motionless, obviously waiting to hear what Sister Patrick would say next.

“Olympia Brown came to my office and told me, because ethically she felt bound to. You are shaking your head. Does that mean that you didn’t do this, and Olympia made it up?”

Luther looked pained and took a sip of his tea before answering. The silence between them was literally pulsating.

“Sister, I think Olympia may have been resentful toward me because I started visiting one of her patients.” Luther looked off to the side and continued slowly shaking his head.

“Luther, tell me what happened when you visited Nancy.”

“She is … was … very ill. When I used to go in to see her, especially as she got sicker, she sometimes hallucinated, talked about things that weren’t there. One day she told me there was a strange man in the bed next to her, and he was making eyes at her. I can only think that she must have imagined my touching her when she said that to Olympia. Remember, she died two days later. So we’ll never know, will we, and I’ll never be able to prove my innocence in your eyes.”

“I don’t think it’s a question of innocence or guilt, Luther, it’s a question of professional behavior. If Nancy was imagining it, and you say you weren’t touching her, then I have no choice but to believe you. But you can surely understand my concern and know that in my position as Supervisor of Pastoral Care, I would need to address the matter.”

He started to respond, but instead, he grimaced and clutched his stomach.

“What’s wrong, Luther?”

When the spasm passed, Luther answered her question. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone, Sister. I didn’t want to call attention to myself or ask for any special privileges, and I’m only telling you now so you’ll understand if I’m not myself sometimes.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” said the nun.

“I’ve been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.”

The nun gasped and clapped her hand to her lips. “Oh, Luther, I’m so very sorry. Are you in treatment? Will you have to withdraw from the program?” Sister Patrick was all chaplain now, sitting with a patient, listening to his story, opening her heart.

“I’m going to hold off as long as I can, Sister. I really want to complete my work here. They tell me the treatment is really debilitating.”

“Dying is even more debilitating, Luther. Cancer isn’t something you can ignore.”

“I’m going to try and stick it through.”

“I don’t think that is a wise idea. Are you planning to tell the others?”

Luther leaned forward and put his hand on the nun’s arm. “I don’t want anyone to know, Sister. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. I’m assuming this is a confidential conversation.”

“Of course it is, Luther, but as your supervisor, I question your decision. Pancreatic cancer is very serious and very aggressive. Of course, early diagnosis and prompt treatment can at least give you more time.”

“If it’s God’s will, Sister, I’ll have all the time I’m supposed to have. I learned that a long time ago.”

“And I learned a long time ago that God gave us a brain for a reason, to make wise choices.”

“Don’t think I haven’t given it a lot of thought and prayer, but right now, I want to keep going. Is there anything else, Sister?”

The nun looked startled by Luther’s taking the initiative of ending the conversation. Ordinarily, she claimed that privilege for herself.

“No, Luther, not right now anyway.” Sister Patrick started collecting and ordering the papers on her desk. “I will say one thing, though, and that is, clergy are called to a higher standard. Because of who and what we are, and whether we like it or not, we live in a kind of a social fishbowl with people observing everything we do. Luther, for heaven’s sake, don’t do anything that even looks questionable, even in an unguarded moment.”

Luther stood up before speaking. “I hear you, Sister, and thank you for being so honest with me. This can’t have been easy for you.”

“Sit down, please, Luther. I didn’t say I was finished. You might not like hearing me say this, but given the potential severity of your illness and your current decision not to pursue treatment, the decision falls to me whether or not to allow you to continue.”

“What exactly are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you that I want to see you again tomorrow morning when both of us have had twenty-four hours to ponder all of the implications of this. We will discuss it then. Until then, I want you to refrain from visiting any patients.”

“I’m not contagious, Sister.”

“I know that, Luther, but I don’t think you are thinking too clearly either. A cancer diagnosis is about as devastating and unsettling as anything we have to bear. You need time to think about what I’ve just said, and I need time to think about how to proceed. So we’ll continue this discussion tomorrow morning at nine a.m., right here in my office.”

Sister Patrick stood and extended her hand and didn’t change her expression. Someone was lying to her, and she didn’t think for a minute it was Olympia.

The jangle of the telephone at St. Bartholomew’s rectory startled Father Jim out of a perfectly heavenly nap. He reached for the phone, grateful that a parishioner or one of his Allston College students couldn’t see him, bleary eyed, his rumpled shirt open at the neck, and his collar on the bedside table.

“Father Jim speaking.”

“Sister Patrick Alphonsus, AKA Wanda Marie Theresa Wysocki, speaking. Remember me from your West End, Saint Peter’s Parochial School basketball team?”

Jim chuckled. He was on safe ground. “Wanda … uh, Sister, which are you, and more importantly, how are you? We really didn’t have much time to catch up when we bumped into each other in the hospital the other day. I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“Interesting, you should say that,” said Patrick, “because I have something I want to discuss with you, as well.”

Olympia reluctantly handed the baby Sister Patrick had been rocking back to the neonatal nurse, who returned the child to the incubator, and asked where she might find Giovanni Mangiani.

He’s over in unit five, said the nurse, looking at Olympia’s identification tag. “I’m glad you’re here. He can use a prayer or two. He’s not doing well.”

Olympia and the nurse walked over to the Isolette and peered in through the tangle of wires and plastic tubing. A tiny scrap of a human, his little chest caving in with each gasp for air, was struggling to stay alive. She remembered her own robust newborns, and in an instant the mother in her dominated all else. She ached to cradle the little boy and somehow make him live.

“We’re doing all we can, but he just doesn’t seem to be interested.” The nurse was twisting her hands. “With all the technical advances we’ve made in neonatology, we still can’t manufacture the will to live. Sometimes the battle is just too much,” She shook her head, looking down at him, “… and this little guy doesn’t have much fight left.”

The nurse took a hankie out of her hip pocket and wiped her eyes. “I know we’re not supposed to become personally involved, but knowing it has never stopped it from happening.”

Olympia understood all too well. She stood praying for all she was worth, her hands resting lightly on the plastic container in the dimly lighted room. Like all newborn boys, his penis and testicles were dark purple and far out of proportion in size to the rest of his tiny body.

“I have a thought,” said Olympia, turning to the woman beside her. “I remember reading somewhere of a twin who was failing to thrive. Maybe I read it a newspaper or a magazine.” Olympia pressed her fingers against her temples, trying to recall the information. “I remember. The doctors tried putting the healthy twin in with the ailing one, and something about the touch and feel and probably smell of the other baby made the sickly one start to improve. It must have been a familiar comfort. Think about it, they spend nine months together then all of a sudden they are three floors apart. Poor little kid is probably lonesome.”

Olympia looked at the struggling infant and then at the nurse.

“I’ve heard of stranger things, and at this point, anything’s worth a try. It certainly can’t hurt,” said the nurse. “I’ll go upstairs to maternity and see what I can do.”

“I wish I could stay,” said Olympia, “but I have a meeting in five minutes. Is it okay if I come back later and see how he’s doing?”

“Sure,” said the nurse, “but don’t get your hopes up. He’s pretty weak, and I can’t make any promises about getting the other twin down here.” She paused and looked at Olympia. “I may not be a chaplain, but I do believe in miracles. I also believe that sometimes you have to give them a little nudge to get them going in the right direction.”

Olympia was the last to come into the seminar room. She hadn’t had enough time to grab anything to eat and was feeling a little lightheaded, but she realized that it might not only be the lack of food that was making her feel strange. Metaphorically speaking, she’d been given a lot to digest this morning, and none of it was sitting well.

“Hi, Sister,” she said, pulling out her customary chair. She stopped and looked around the room and realized that Luther was not in his usual seat.