To Everything a Season (26 page)

“Please.”

Thorliff got up from the table and grabbed his hat on the way out.

Astrid felt a heaviness, a terrible sadness within her. Their Irishman looked close to dying, and there was nothing she could do about it. She returned to the hospital.

After checking the nurses' station, she found the nurses changing the bedding for one of their incontinent patients. “There you are, Miriam. I just sent Thorliff searching for Father Devlin. Please come.”

They both hurried to Mr. O'Flaherty's bedside. “He is comatose, bordering on delirium, and since you were able to help him before . . .” She knew Miriam had come on duty only a short time earlier.

Miriam stepped in close to the man's head and said something.

The most beautiful smile spread across his face, and he opened his eyes. He responded.

She asked a question.

His voice was raspy, shaky, but he responded.

She said a single word.

He responded.

Miriam looked at Astrid. “He's forgotten that Father Devlin visited him before and is so afraid he is going to die alone and unforgiven. Thank you for seeking Father Devlin again.” Even though Mr. O'Flaherty's speech was halted and barely discernible, he was more calm with a nurse who could speak not only his home tongue, but was familiar with his religion too.

Thorliff hurried through the door with Thomas Devlin in tow. He might be working as a carpenter, but he still wore the clerical collar, in spite of its badly needing a scrubbing.

Miriam simply nodded toward the patient, and in a heartbeat, the carpenter became a priest. Astrid was astonished at the transformation. He was the same man, and yet . . .

The carpenter-father made the sign of the cross. “God's peace be in this place.”

Miriam replied, “And in all who live and work here.”

The father hooked a finger in his collar, pulled it away from his neck, and with his other hand drew out a small pouch on a cord. From the pouch he brought a tiny cross and a small vial, like ones used for medicines. He held the cross close to the patient's lips. Mr. O'Flaherty raised his head and drew the cross
to his mouth. He kissed it and flopped back on the pillow. His whole face changed, from fearful to peaceful. Tears leaked down his cheeks. Happy tears, it would appear.

The two of them conversed for a few moments, which took longer due to the long pauses on the part of their patient. Astrid was surprised he was able to respond as much as he did. And sad that he no longer remembered the priest's other visits and the hours Miriam had spent with him. But, she reminded herself, he responded at the time. Surely God understood and remembered.

Miriam looked at Astrid. “Does your church have a formal confession?”

“Not like this.”

Even Thorliff was watching with rapt attention.

Miriam lowered her voice. “He just blessed this place and asked for the services of a guardian angel. Sure and the service of a guardian angel would not be amiss.” She raised her voice. “Amen.”

All sorts of questions raced through Astrid's head. The main one? This man was obviously a priest, albeit Anglican, but why was a priest working as a carpenter?

Thorliff moved in closer, watching intently. Astrid glanced at him. She at least had seen Father Devlin working with this man before, so this wasn't such a surprise to her.

Still murmuring in Latin, the priest touched his thumb to each of Mr. Flaherty's eyelids.

Miriam explained, “He is saying, briefly, ‘By this holy anointing and by His most tender mercy, may the Lord forgive you all the evil you have done through the power of sight.' And now he'll forgive and bind the evil done by each of Mr. O'Flaherty's other body parts.”

Speaking rapidly, the priest touched his thumb to the man's
nostrils, his lips, his hands, his legs, his feet. After each touch, he wiped off the site of the touch with the cotton Miriam had given him.

But Astrid was struck by their patient's face. It had been drawn, terrified, but now she could see an expression of peace. Not joy, for the man was dying. But peace. A pleasant peace. She might not understand all that was going on, but this man was receiving what had been the most important thing in the world to him.

Miriam disappeared and returned with a small basin of water.

The priest recited some prayers and crossed himself. With fingers shaking in weakness, Mr. O'Flaherty drew the sign of the cross on his chest. His body relaxed, seeming to almost melt back into the pillow.

Father Devlin stepped away.

Miriam held the basin and a towel out to him. He carefully washed and dried his hands.

He smiled at her. “I thankee. A bit rough and ready, but quite adequate.” He looked at Astrid, held her eye. “And I thank ye, Dr. Bjorklund, for allowing me to serve this fellow. 'Tis a gift. Ye cannot ken the extraordinary value of that gift.”

Astrid realized she might not understand the full value, but she saw and understood its effect. Mr. O'Flaherty convulsed in another fit of coughing, and when it stopped, the peace drew back into place. Perhaps for some of the newcomers to Blessing, there were important needs that were not being met. Astrid promised herself she would talk with Reverend Solberg. She'd heard that the two men were becoming friends. An Anglican priest and a Lutheran pastor. Wasn't this the way God wanted His church to be? But deep inside, she had a feeling there was trouble brewing, especially if everyone did not understand the differences and the similarities of the churches.

G
ood evening, Trygve!” Miriam smiled. Smiling came easily when he was around.

“You are on night shift, right?” Trygve watched her.

“I start in an hour or so.”

“Would you like to take a walk? We wouldn't go far, of course.”

“Yes, I would. Thank you.”

They strolled together down the street toward the river.

Saturday night. Miriam understood that in most of the country, especially in the rural areas, Saturday night was when swains took their ladies out to dances, or to soda shops, or just out walking. She'd heard of hayrides and barn dances and shucking bees, where the whole community got together to shuck corn.

Corn. They didn't grow corn in Chicago. So much was different here. But it didn't matter what sort of entertainment was out there. Miriam would be in here, working in this hospital, handling the night shift. She would complete her training, then go back to Chicago. Her mother. Tonio. All her siblings. She missed them.

“What are you thinking about?” Trygve was looking at her intently.

“Chicago. My family. We are very close. I miss them.”

“So which do you like best—Chicago or Blessing?”

She thought about this. Chicago? Dirt and squalor, magnificent buildings, pretty parks, the lake, downtown bustle. Mud when it rained, except on the main streets. Blessing? Fresh air, bright new buildings, strange smells that were nevertheless clean, hardly any bustle. Mud, when it rained. “It doesn't matter, really—here or there. It's the people. There are lovely people here, but my family is there.”

Trygve was staring off in the distance, no doubt thinking. “My onkel Haakan and tante Ingeborg came here from Norway. Tante Ingeborg started the cheese house, and Onkel Haakan built their farm.”

“A marvelous place. Very warm and inviting.”

“Ja. Then they invited the rest of the family to come out from Norway. And friends. Land is hard to find in Norway. You can almost never just buy land. It's handed down from generation to generation, always being split into smaller lots. Here, there is almost no end to good farmland.”

“Ah. So that is why there are so many Norwegian people around. That is also why there are so many Polish, Italian, and Russian people in Chicago. And Irish. Often the Irish are not well received. But in Chicago they have opportunities.”

“You should bring your family out here. Lots of opportunities.”

She shook her head. “I often think my mother would love to visit, but she's too frail. And my brothers and sisters are making lives for themselves there.”

“And you are determined to go back to Chicago?”

She frowned at him. “Your voice sounds tense, like I'm making a wrong choice. Why? That has been the arrangement all along.”

“Have you prayed about it?”

What could she say? She knew all these people prayed at the drop of a hat. “No. I leave prayer for others.” She stopped. “We should turn back. I go on duty soon.”

“Of course.” They started walking back the way they had come. “Arrangements can be changed, you know.” And then he was silent.

What was he thinking? What was she thinking? She felt mixed up.

“Miriam? Would you do me an immense favor?”

“I suppose. What is it?”

“Come to church with me tomorrow.”

Oh dear. How could she get out of this? “I'll have come right off work, after being up all night. I would fall asleep in the pew.”

He smiled. “Sometimes the godliest fall asleep in the pew. I'll poke you now and then. But I would like you to come with me. I really would.”

“I, uh . . .”

“And dinner afterwards, of course. As a favor to me, Miriam?”

She could say that nice Anglican girls did not go to Lutheran services, but she was not a nice Anglican girl, and he knew it. On the other hand, she really did want to do him a favor, to please him. It was only an hour. Surely she could survive an hour. “If you wish, yes. I will go.”

“Thank you, Miriam!” At the hospital door, he took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. And walked away.

This surprised her. Dr. Bjorklund had once claimed that in Norway, a man and woman never showed any display of affection in public. Her neck was burning hot as she entered the building.

She waged still another losing battle with this hair of hers, fighting to contain it neatly in her nursing cap. She sat briefly at the station, going through the notes from the day. Apparently
Mr. O'Flaherty was the only patient at the moment whose condition was serious.

She took up her notepad and began at the far end of the hall, visiting each ward, talking softly to those patients still awake. She visited Mr. O'Flaherty last.

Something was wrong. He was not awake, but he was not in peaceful sleep the way she'd hoped. His breathing was heavy, irregular.

“Mr. O'Flaherty?”

Nothing. Wait. He was raising his arm, or trying to. She grasped his hand in hers. He still could barely breathe. She switched to Gaelic and asked if he needed the priest.

Yes.

She ran to the phone and called Dr. Bjorklund.

“I'll send Daniel for Father Devlin immediately.” Dr. Bjorklund hung up.

Miriam ran back to the room and took up Mr. O'Flaherty's hand. “They are sending for Father Devlin. He'll be here soon.” She repeated the message in Gaelic.

He squeezed her hand slightly. Or did he? It was hard to tell.

Dr. Bjorklund entered the room.

“Oh good,” Miriam said. “Mr. O'Flaherty, your doctor is here.” Also in Gaelic.

Dr. Bjorklund's hair was not pinned up, but most likely, she had been prepared for bed. Or in bed. Miriam felt bad about calling, but she felt even worse that she did not know what to do for Mr. O'Flaherty.

Dr. Bjorklund stood beside his bed, a rather grim look about her. “Good evening, Mr. O'Flaherty. As you know, Nurse Hastings is a student nurse from Chicago. I would like to use you for a moment. Nurse, please demonstrate three different ways to check his circulation.”

Miriam frowned. Why this? Why now? “With a stethoscope I listen to his heart, of course. Uh, and I might press a fingernail like this.” She pinched a fingernail on the hand she was holding. It turned white, but it took several long seconds to return to pink. “Also, I might look at the color of the inside of a lower eyelid.” Carefully, she pulled downward with a thumb on Mr. O'Flaherty's eye. The eyelid was nearly white.

“Very good, Nurse. Now demonstrate how you might test for responsiveness.”

She looked at Dr. Bjorklund. Mr. O'Flaherty was dying. Miriam was pretty sure of that. The tests just now showed very poor circulation. Why was the doctor not letting him go in peace?

She was about to act when Reverend Solberg came hastening in. “Good evening, Astrid. Good evening, Miss Hastings.”

“Good evening, sir.” Miriam stepped back to give him ample room beside the bed.

“Good evening, Reverend Solberg. Thank you for coming.” Dr. Bjorklund bent over to speak to Mr. O'Flaherty. “I asked Reverend Solberg to come by in case Father Devlin was slow to respond. They have to find him in the tent city, and he may have retired for the night.”

The reverend took up the hand Miriam had just let go of. “I am John Solberg, Mr. O'Flaherty. We have met.”

The door burst open and in came the good father, all out of breath. “Top o' the evening, all. Eh, John. So good of ye to come. Thankee.” He continued around the bed to take Mr. O'Flaherty's other hand.

He began in Gaelic, and to Miriam's surprise he recited one of St. Patrick's poems in Gaelic, the one about Jesus around me and above me and all. Mr. O'Flaherty smiled faintly. Father Devlin spoke again, and his voice was upbeat, lilting.

Miriam translated, not so much word for word as meaning for
meaning. “He said there was not a lot of new sin Mr. O'Flaherty could have committed in the hospital bed, so he is administering a sort of blanket absolution for anything they might have missed earlier.”

Father Devlin switched to Latin as he pulled out that pouch and opened his little vial of oil, moistening his thumb. He anointed Mr. O'Flaherty's forehead.

“Now he's officially cleansing Mr. O'Flaherty of all sin and guilt. And now he's praying.”

Mr. O'Flaherty smiled. That faint smile had turned into a true smile. His mouth moved, but no words came out. Then, a raspy sort of whisper.

“I'm not certain, but I believe Mr. O'Flaherty is praising the name of God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit. Aye, he is.”

Father Devlin made the sign of the cross over the patient, tapping the patient's forehead, his shoulders, and his chest.

The patient exhaled. He did not inhale. The belabored breathing had stopped. The smile remained.

Miriam and the father crossed themselves.

Quietly, Astrid drew the bed sheet up over Mr. O'Flaherty's still-smiling face.

Miriam was so overcome that she almost forgot to snatch up a bit of cotton for the father to wipe off his thumb.

“Thankee, lass. Ye need not fetch a basin. This will do.” And he popped the thumb into his mouth. Rough and ready, he called it. It was that, but it was also official policy nonetheless, so far as Miriam could remember. The priest could consume the oil if washing was not an immediate option.

Reverend Solberg's head was bowed, his hands clasped. Presently, he stood erect and opened his eyes. “Astrid, Thomas, I have been praying quite a bit about this. This man is not the only person in our midst who is from a different church. There
are actually quite a few. Not the least of them is your nurse here, Miss Hastings. Thomas, I see how great the need is, just in this man's dying face. The peace you brought him. I could not have done that.”

Father Devlin nodded. “Eh, technically, ye could have done it, but he would not have known ye can. And the knowing, that's what brought him peace. 'Tis all in how we're brought up, of course. And how God directs our paths.”

“Thomas, will you come to church with me tomorrow, please? I want to approach the congregation about building a church to serve those who were brought up differently. I think it's high time Blessing was a blessing to everyone, not just some of us.”

Dr. Bjorklund frowned. “Remember the grumbling when news got out that we let the father here perform extreme unction? There could be trouble. Resistance.”

“I agree. I am also strongly convinced we must serve everyone we can. This man was a Christian, Astrid, as true as anyone in my congregation. The need is there. Besides . . .” There was a twinkle in his eye. “The best defense is a good offense.”

The two men left together.

Dr. Bjorklund turned to leave.

“Doctor?” Miriam crossed to her.

She stopped and turned back. “Yes?”

“Why did ye quiz me on a dying man, please? Why not let him go in peace?”

“You know the solace that the father provided him before. I was afraid Mr. O'Flaherty might die before Father Devlin could get here. You are the closest he has to next of kin, you with your Gaelic. If anything could keep his attention, keep him with us, it would be that.”

Miriam grinned. “And it worked! I see.”

“Since he has no next of kin, would you wash him, please? Prepare the body?”

“Yes, ma'am. I would be honored.”

“Do you need help with it?”

“I can manage. I'll call if I need someone.”

The doctor nodded. “You did well this evening, Miriam. Thank you. Good night.” And she left.

Miriam had nearly the whole shift to think. When she did rounds an hour later, all her patients were resting comfortably. Next she washed the body of a man who had died alone and only by the grace of God received appropriate rites.

In the morning she would go with a nice Norwegian man to visit a church that an Anglican priest would also visit. The world was such a strange place!

During the wee hours of the morning she very nearly fell asleep, despite all the drama and dread. Was she doing the right thing by accepting Trygve's invitation? The priest had accepted the reverend's invitation, but that was for business purposes, you might say, the prospect of building another church. The work of the Lord. Still, he was going. Did that mean she had made the correct choice? By the time she went off duty she was very confused and weary.

She washed, dressed, and fought her hair to a standstill. That took a while. But when Trygve stopped by for her, her hat was perched at a jaunty angle and pinned down with three different sizes of hatpins and hairpins.

As they walked to church and she told him about her night, a startling thought struck her. Was she supposed to make final arrangements, since she was sort of the next of kin, even though she wasn't? What arrangements ought to be made? Her mother had made all their father's arrangements, and the priest did for others in their Chicago church.

Reverend Solberg met her and Trygve at the door. “Good morning to you both.”

Trygve was grinning cheerfully. She had just told him a man had died in her presence, but apparently it didn't hit him the way it weighed on her.

“Reverend Solberg, are there arrangements that I must make? I know nothing about this.”

“Not at all. Tommy—that is, Father Devlin—put together a service for this afternoon. I will announce it, of course. And thank you for your ministry, Miss Hastings. It was needed and most welcome.”

She stuttered just a little. She hadn't been expecting that. “You're welcome.” All she did was pop out a cotton bit for the father. And prepare the body. And translate for the reverend and doctor, who did not know Latin and Gaelic.

Here came the Bjorklund wagon, and that Manny McCrary was driving. My goodness, but he was doing well. And look at how proudly he sat there. She suspected the Bjorklund team was well broken, but they responded beautifully as he drew the wagon alongside the church.