An Unholy Mission (3 page)

“As you can see, we bring many gifts and very different perspectives to our time together. I look forward to working with you and learning from you, because every time I do this, I learn something I didn’t know before. Now I’m going to take you all upstairs to Human Resources where you’ll be issued your identification badges. After that I’ll give you a map with a floor plan, and we’ll have a walking tour of Mercy Hospital. We’ll finish the tour downstairs, underneath the hospital, where I’ll show you how to negotiate the underground tunnels that are shortcuts to our affiliate hospitals in the immediate vicinity.”

She pointed to the rain-streaked window. “On a day like this, you’ll be glad to know where they are. You’ll be doubly glad today, because the hospital cafeteria is down there, as well, and by then you’ll be more than ready for some lunch. I’ll expect you all back here in the conference room at one-thirty. That’s when I’ll give you your clinical assignments. You can leave your coats here. The door locks automatically. The elevators and the bathrooms are down the hall to the left.”

Luther was the first out of his chair. He went to the door and stood holding it open for the others. Olympia shot him a grateful smile as she heard the snap of the lock behind them. He fell into step close beside her, and side by side, they walked toward the elevator.

“I’ve only been here for an hour and I’m already overwhelmed,” she whispered.

“It always feels like that on the first day,” Luther whispered back. “The supervisor has to lay out the routine and get everyone on board and in line. She knows what she wants, and she tells you. You said you used to teach, so you probably did much the same yourself in your classes.”

“First day?” Olympia looked over at him, her eyes wide. “Have you done this before?”

Luther Stuart put his hand on Olympia’s shoulder and leaned in to respond, but their conversation was cut short when Sister Patrick pressed the up button, and the smooth steel door of the elevator slid open. Olympia shrugged and slipped out from under his hand as she and the rest of the cautious first day chaplains filed one by one, like schoolchildren, into the empty car and turned to face the door. Olympia found the hushed quiet inside the closed cubicle to be eerie and unnerving. Everything was so new. These people were really all still strangers to one another, and strangers don’t talk in elevators.

Three

By the end of day one, Sister Patrick had made her requirements and expectations unquestionably clear, and Olympia, along with the others, was not about to fly in the face of even one them. The director-supervisor, Sister Patrick Alphonsus, was known as a brilliant teacher and formidable task-master. A good recommendation from this woman and this program would open any number of doors for Olympia in the future, and she was determined to qualify.

Now, mentally and physically exhausted, she stuffed her writing materials and a leftover cookie saved from lunch into a colorful Martha’s Vineyard tote bag she’d acquired that summer. Tired as she was, she knew that however challenging this might turn out to be, she had made the right choice about wanting to come here. She was too tired to think about her colleagues and how they might fit together as a working group. There would be time enough for that another day. All she could think about was home, a glass of wine and Frederick in that precise order.

By the time she was finally ready to leave, the others, including Sister Patrick, were gone, and she and Luther were alone in the cool, empty room. Fortunately for Olympia, when they all returned after the tour, there was enough time for the new chaplains to go around a second time and say a little more about themselves. Even Sister Patrick joined in this time and told them she had been born less than a mile from there on Mission Hill. She entered the Dominican Order because it was committed to prayer and social justice. It was after she had qualified as a nurse that she began to understand the mind-body-spirit connection in the healing of the body as it related to the well-being of the soul. That’s when she decided to go into pastoral care as a profession and then went on to become a credentialed CPE supervisor. Finally, she told them that she had a brother who was a priest serving a church in Charlestown, just over the Tobin Bridge; and when she had the time, she liked to cook.

With more information about the group, Olympia was feeling marginally more comfortable, but only just. There was something pricking at the back of her brain. Certainly no one had been rude or unkind, just the opposite. Well, then, what was it?

Could it be that at my menopausal middling age, it’s nothing more than the challenge and uncertainty of all this newness? She shook her head in silent response to the disquieting thought. I don’t think so.

 “Got time for a coffee before you head home?” Luther Stuart was arranging his Bible, notebook and writing materials into the black leather attaché case lying open on the table.

“A quick one,” said Olympia, grateful to be distracted from her uncomfortable pondering. “If the traffic is anything like it was this morning, I shouldn’t hang around for too long.”

“Husband expecting you?” Luther snapped the case shut and tucked it under his arm.

“I’m not married,” said Olympia, shouldering her backpack, “but there is a significant someone expecting me at home this side of midnight. Can you remember the way to the cafeteria? My brain is totally fried.”

“I think I do,” said Luther, once again holding the door open for Olympia. “Sister Patrick said this thing would lock automatically. Let’s see if really does.”

After Olympia passed in front of him, Luther pulled the door closed and wiggled the handle to test it.

“It’s locked. Let’s go downstairs and find that coffee.”

Alone in her Jamaica Plain apartment, Sister Patrick kicked off her shoes, put her feet up on the coffee table and took a sip from of the can of beer she was holding. It was a rare indulgence reserved for days like this. She almost never bought alcohol for herself, but if a dinner guest brought some along, and there was some left over, she did the right thing by not letting it go to waste.  The two other nuns with whom she shared the apartment were off to meetings that evening, and she had the place to herself until they returned. She was totally drained, too tired even to turn on the evening news. She loved her job, but the tension of the first day of a new session always exhausted her.

 Later on, she might call out for a pizza, or maybe she would just make do with a bowl of cereal. She thought about this newest group of student chaplains, two men and four women. What would they be like? First day introductions were just the tips of their personal icebergs. She knew that. And what about those last two to come in? Olympia Brown, the one with the impressive résumé, and Luther Stuart, the social worker with the big cross on his chest and his Bible on the table in front of him. What about him? Patrick took another sip of her beer. The man seemed nice enough, certainly very polite and deferential, but she had never been fond of flashy religious jewelry and was less fond of people who needed to advertise their religion. On the other hand, given her profession, she should be the last person to pre-judge someone.

She was pleased with the diversity of the group. It would certainly make for some interesting discussions. She’d never had an ex-convict before. That one was a little rough around the edges, and what about Timothea? She had a magnificent speaking voice and appeared to have a true calling to serve. Alice, the young, earnest one sitting beside Olympia, the maybe future missionary, she might need some looking out for, but this was the place for it, was it not? Clinical Pastoral Education, this time of supervised chaplaincy, was often a turning point in the lives of religious professionals. After all these years as a supervisor, Sister Patrick Alphonsus knew only too well how to separate the wheat from the chaff, and she didn’t back away from doing it.

She thought again about Luther. He was the only one who had asked to be reassigned from the post-op medical/surgical floor to the hospice unit. When he did, he reminded her that he had said in his letter of application that he was preparing for hospice work, so it made sense. The other five were content with their assignments so far. Time would tell how they’d all work out, but on this first day Sister Patrick was feeling positive about the group and its prospects.

 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.