Fatherless: A Novel (16 page)

There were
about twenty or thirty vehicles on the lot, three or four hundred fewer than would have been seen a quarter century earlier.
The pavement showed signs of neglect, and lines of paint that once distinguished parking spots had faded, replaced by patches
of resilient weeds reaching toward a sky no longer obstructed by packed minivans and sport utility vehicles.

There was a time when this same campus hosted a beehive of Sunday-morning activity. Friendly parking attendants waved visitors
into special spaces reserved for a sure stream of first-time guests. Smiling greeters held doors for throngs of worshippers
scurrying into the building two minutes after services began. Young couples watched the first set of songs on a flat-screen
television conveniently mounted by the coffee bar before entering the auditorium just in time to miss the passing offering
plate and catch the pastor’s message in a place they called The Chapel.

The cars parked this Sunday morning didn’t belong to commuting parishioners. They belonged to attending staff and the handful
of residents still sharp enough to drive and clever enough to protect their licenses from confiscation.

The Chapel continued holding services in a scaled-down version of the auditorium, using a time-delay video feed from Pastor
Skip Gregory. His image appeared immediately after thirty minutes of music specifically chosen to suit the worship-style preferences
of nearly two hundred elderly baby boomers, most of whom lived a short walk down the hall.

It had been nearly ten years since the sign had been changed. The text beneath
CHAPEL HILLS CHURCH
had once read
COMMUNITY WORSHIP CENTER
. It now said
RESIDENTIAL COMMUNITY
, code for an elder-care facility. Even eighty- and ninety-year-old baby boomers hated the notion of getting old.

A nurse’s station dispensing daily medications now stood where the coffee bar had served caramel lattes and nonfat mochas.
The indoor playground had been converted into a comfortable sitting area where it had been assumed grandchildren would share
details of the latest school grades earned or peewee sports trophies won. Most of the space previously designated for small
group classrooms, a student center, an infant nursery, and the brightly colored “Kid Village” had been gutted and remodeled
to accommodate the building’s growing population of senior citizens in various stages of despondency, debilitation, deterioration,
or death.

As soon as he entered the building Matthew recognized a familiar image on the wall, an ancient icon of Christ holding a book
in his left hand while the tips of three fingers pressed together on his right. If memory served, it had originated in the
fifth or sixth century. Before he could place the date, however, the picture changed. A thousand tiny digital shifts morphed
the icon into a less familiar religious symbol, a cartoon dove spreading its white wings against a baby blue background. It
seemed modern, like a relic of the late-twentieth-century charismatic movement. Then another change, to Jesus dying on a cross.
It reminded him of the crucifix that had hung behind the altar at the church his mother attended while still limber enough
to kneel and lucid enough to remember the Sabbath. Next came the silhouette of hands raised in worship, facing a brightly
lit stage.

Matthew noticed the receptionist just in time to escape another image change. He walked toward the middle-aged woman seated
behind the kind of desk likely occupied by a security guard during weekday visiting hours. The sign-in list told Matthew he
would be the first of the weekend. From all appearances, guards didn’t keep a flood of intruders from getting in. They prevented
residents from wandering out.

“I’m here to see Richard Tomberlin,” Matthew explained. The woman appeared alarmed, frantically searching the desk for a volunteer
manual explaining what to do if an actual visitor came by during her shift as a hospitality hostess. After thirty seconds
of panic she remembered her manners.

“I’m sorry. Welcome to Chapel Hills. Did you enjoy the service?”

“Excuse me?” Matthew asked.

“Did you enjoy the worship service? It’s so nice when loved ones attend with the residents. They get quite lonely.”

“No, ma’am. I’m not related to any of the residents.”

She looked over Matthew’s shoulder to peer at a clock on the wall. “Of course. I’m sorry. The service doesn’t end for another
fifteen minutes.”

He stood quietly.

“How can I help you, then?”

“Richard Tomberlin?” he repeated.

“Oh. You wish to see a resident?”

“No, ma’am. I’d like to see Richard Tomberlin. He works here.”

“Is he a doctor?”

“A priest. Or rather, a retired priest. I forget his title, but I think he’s some sort of counselor.”

Five minutes later the flustered hostess located the information Matthew needed and sent him on his way to find room 122—which,
she explained, could be found just beyond the auditorium entrance. Approaching the doors, he heard an amplified voice within.
The service was still in progress, but someone pushed the doors open nonetheless. A smattering of attendees walked or wheeled
out in an apparent effort to beat the crowd to a lunchroom where, he would soon discover, everyone was simultaneously served.

Noticing an emaciated woman trying to navigate her wheelchair through the narrow passage, Matthew rushed over to hold the
door for her. She moved past him without acknowledging his presence. He looked in her eyes, noticing the same forlorn gaze
he detected in the other passing residents, a look increasingly evident on his mother’s face.

He remembered the words of Professor Vincent.
We decay, Matthew
. All the genetic screening and medical advancements in the world had not reversed a process that had been vexing the human
race since the dawn of time. His mother would not improve. He too would age. He too would decay.

SPIRIT GOOD. BODY BAD.

“Matthew?” The voice sounded familiar. “Matthew Adams?”

Father Tomberlin looked much older, reminding Matthew how long it had been since he had taken his mother to Mass. Having received
first communion and attended St. Joseph’s Parochial School during his elementary and junior high years made Matthew technically
a Roman Catholic. But he was sure he had passed some sort of expiration date after nearly two decades avoiding church. Still,
he had always liked Father Richard, his mother’s favorite priest, turned Matthew’s favorite teacher, turned whatever role
he now served at Chapel Hills Residential Community.

“Father Richard?”

“Just Rick. That’s what everyone else calls me these days. Wonderful to see you again, my boy!”

Matthew smiled at the reminder of Father Richard’s pet handle for every student at St. Joseph’s. They had all been his boys,
each craving affirmation from the closest thing most had had to a flesh-and-blood father.

“I appreciate you taking time for me.” He meant it. Dr. Vincent had a keen mind. But he might also have a damned soul. Father
Richard, by contrast, still wore a clerical collar. Wrestling with a profoundly spiritual question had incited Matthew to
seek a priestly perspective on the off chance God really did speak through the church.

“Let’s pop over to the dining hall before we get trampled in slow motion.” Music began in the background, signaling the benediction
of a service that must end at noon. “I hope you like creamed corn and tapioca pudding!”

The priest’s laughter sparked fond memories for Matthew, who tended to take himself too seriously. When teaching junior high
Father Richard had often cracked himself up in the middle of his lectures on topics like the imagination of J. R. R. Tolkien
or the wit of G. K. Chesterton. None of the students got their teacher’s humor, but all of them relished his snorting guffaws.

During the fifty-yard stroll toward lunch Matthew caught up on Father Richard’s life. His retirement from St. Joseph’s. His
year in Vatican City. His return to Colorado, where he was asked to provide specialized counseling to ailing seniors disguised
as carefree retired church members. Because the facility housed residents from a broad spectrum of religious traditions, the
Chapel needed a man who could cater to the particular spiritual needs of Roman Catholics. As it turned out, residents of any
and every religious persuasion came to see him. All of them needed someone to talk to about the question that haunted anyone
past seventy. The same question that had prompted Matthew’s visit.

“How’s your mother?” Father Richard asked as they took their seats at one of the small tables near the outer window.

“Not good.”

“Does she still attend Mass at Our Lady?”

Matthew had been refusing her requests for years. He felt an urge to confess his negligence. “When she can. Not often.”

Father Richard looked deeply into his former student’s eyes as if reading a story, requiring mere seconds to discern the plot.
“Dementia?”

“Yes, sir. Worse by the day.” Matthew glanced around the room, spotting the wheelchair-bound woman he had helped at the door.
He pointed. “Sort of like her.”

“How old now?”

“Seventy-seven next month.”

“Still living at home?”

A nod followed by a long silence. “I’m tired.”

“So you’re considering putting her here?” Father Richard assumed aloud.

“Oh no.” The possibility had never occurred to Matthew. “She doesn’t have that kind of money. I hire a parent-sitter when
I can. We manage.”

“But?”

“But I think there’s a better option.” He hesitated.

“What kind of better option?” the priest prodded.

“We’re considering a transition.”

It was the first time Matthew had spoken the words to another human being. It felt simultaneously shameful and liberating,
as when he had confessed impure adolescent thoughts to the same man two decades earlier. Now, as then, he hoped to receive
absolution for what he knew was wrong but couldn’t help.

“She wants me to finish college. To become a professor.” The words rushed out as if trying to overtake the sin with validity.

Father Richard’s eyes narrowed at the thickening plot. “She wants to end her life?”

Matthew disliked the sound of the question. Too much clarity for a complicated decision.

“I think so.”

“You think?” No letup. “What did she say?”

Another urge to confess bullied by rationalization. “She said she wants me to teach college, to use what money remains for
tuition.”

Two plates of unappetizing food invaded their privacy. Priest and confessor raised their forks, the sound of chewing filling
the silence as Matthew awaited advice he hadn’t requested. He swallowed hard, opened his mouth to speak, then took another
bite.

Father Richard turned his eyes toward something specific on the other side of the room. “Do you see the woman over there in
the red dress?”

Matthew searched and found. “I do.”

“Her name is Carolyn. She came into my office last week after attending a transition consultation with her daughter. She closed
the door and began weeping like a baby. I guess the family has hit upon some pretty hard financial times. I think her son-in-law
lost a job. Something like that.”

Matthew looked back across the table. “She seems pretty healthy. Why would the daughter want her to transition?”

“It wasn’t the daughter who made the appointment. It was Carolyn. She wants to help them out by preserving as much of her
estate as possible. She came to my office upset over her daughter’s reaction.”

“Was the daughter mad?”

“At first. They’ve always been very close. The daughter hated discussing the possibility of her mother’s death. But Carolyn
insisted, so they made the appointment just to gather information, no immediate intentions of exploring the possibility. More
like a remote contingency option in case Carolyn’s health deteriorated and elder-care expenses became cost-prohibitive.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Does it?” A slight edge invaded Father Richard’s customarily playful voice.

“Isn’t it wise to know your options?” Matthew asked.

“I’ll let you decide after hearing the rest of the story. Carolyn wept in my office because of what happened once her daughter
better understood the transition option.”

He had Matthew’s undivided attention.

“Long story short, the daughter did a one-eighty. She saw Carolyn’s interest in a transition as the answer to a whole bunch
of problems like mounting debt that threatened their ability to pay the mortgage. Not to mention her husband’s depression
over the lack of decent job opportunities.”

“So the daughter changed her mind?”

“She did. But so did Carolyn.” Father Richard leaned back in his chair. “The daughter now seemed eager for Carolyn to transition.
She thanked her mom for being willing to make such a heroic offer at the same moment Carolyn got a knot in her stomach like
a condemned prisoner touring the gallows.”

“Wow.” It was all Matthew could think to say.

The priest took another bite of food to let the scene sink in.

“Carolyn wanted my advice. But she mostly wanted a shoulder to cry on. Imagine how she felt, her beloved daughter suddenly
eager for Mom’s demise.”

“What’d you say?”

“I mostly listened while handing her an entire box of tissues one at a time. She grew up attending the Chapel so she wasn’t
Catholic, but I read her what the catechism says anyway: ‘Being in the image of God the human individual possesses the dignity
of a person, who is not just something, but someone.’”

“Isn’t her dignity the point?”

“Yes, it is.”

Matthew sensed they were on different wavelengths. “What I mean is, doesn’t it grant the highest dignity to a spiritual being
to free him or her from a decaying body? You know, go to heaven and all that.”

“Have you so quickly forgotten what I taught you in catechism class, my boy?”

Apparently he had.

“I quote the catechism again. ‘The human body shares in the dignity of “the image of God”: it is a human body precisely because
it is animated by a spiritual soul, and it is the whole human person that is intended to become a temple of the Spirit.’”