Oliver knew what it was the instant he saw the cream-colored paper. It was a special note, handwritten by Pope John Paul II himself, thanking Oliver for all his work and congratulating him on the creation of his twentieth parish. “I appreciate your effort, but this is not a crisis of faith. I will admit that as I watched Mary die my faith was shaken, but this has nothing to do with that. What happened this morning with Mr. Flynn was real and verifiable. It was not a manifestation of a psychiatric or personal disturbance, nor was it demonic possession. The visions are related — I’m convinced of that.”
“John, I don’t want you to take offense, but you know my background is in psychiatry,” the bishop started. “Everything that you’ve shared with us could have a psychiatric explanation, including your encounter with Mr. Flynn.”
“So you think I have a dissociative disorder severe enough that my perceptions are being altered, but not so severe that it disables me,” Oliver tried to keep his tone neutral, but his frustration was embarrassingly evident.
“I realize that you truly believe what you are saying, but that’s the way. .”
Bishop McCarthy didn’t finish his sentence because Oliver had seized his wrist. For the third time this morning, Oliver felt his consciousness flow into and mix with another. His body felt light and his mind free; he wanted nothing more than to stay in this particular moment, but he knew he couldn’t. Reluctantly, he let his bishop’s wrist go and the connection was broken. He fell back into his chair exhausted, and it took several moments for him to realize that Francis was standing over the prostrate form of Bishop McCarthy.
“What did you do, John?” He was yelling, but Oliver was having a hard time coordinating his movements and processing what he was seeing.
“I’m all right,” a voice said from the floor, and it took Oliver a moment to realize that it was McCarthy.
Francis helped his bishop back to his feet and then into a chair. Oliver watched the two men get resituated. His breathing was still heavy, but his mind was clearing. “Still think it’s a dissociative disorder?” He said as both of the two men facing him wore expressions of fear and anger.
“That was hardly necessary, John,” Francis said. “You could have killed him.”
“I think you’re probably right. I’m sorry Steven, are you okay?”
“Nasty headache, and a bump on my head, but otherwise I’m fine.” The bishop rubbed the back of his head and Oliver could distantly feel the pain. “I think you have proven your point.”
“What did you see, if I may be so bold?” Oliver asked and Francis Coyle shot him an angry look.
“All of it. Flynn, your sister, a burning arm,” McCarthy stopped and examined his hand. “I felt it as well.” He flexed his fingers and worked his wrist. “You’re right; this is no dissociative disorder, or any kind of disorder.” McCarthy looked at Oliver and saw him in a new light. “Who was the tall man?”
Oliver looked confused. “What tall man?”
Now the bishop looked confused. “The one with the British accent.”
Oliver searched his memory, but came up empty. “I’m not sure who you’re talking about.”
The three men waited a moment as the subject changed. “What are we going to do with you, John?” the bishop asked.
“I’m sorry to say that things can’t stay the way they have been. I don’t think I can continue to be the associate pastor anymore. It would be somewhat unethical.”
“It would make confession go a whole lot faster,” Coyle said to lighten the mood.
Oliver smiled. “Probably. I would like to stay here until we figure this out, if that’s okay with both of you?”
“Of course you will stay here,” Father Coyle said. “We are all going to help you through this, and when you’re ready, you pick up just where you left off.”
“This is going to be a major hardship on you, Francis. The parish has grown beyond one priest,” Oliver said.
“I’ll manage.” Father Coyle smiled and reached for Oliver’s hand. Then he snapped his hand back, and his face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, John,” he said, but didn’t offer his hand again.
“Don’t worry about Sacred Heart,” the bishop said quickly, trying to get past the uncomfortable moment. “You know I’m going to have to talk with the cardinal about this John. Would you be available to go with me?”
“I’m at your disposal.”
“Excellent,” Bishop McCarthy said getting up from his chair. Oliver and Francis quickly got up as well. “Do me a favor and spend a little time writing this up, I think it would be helpful for all of us.”
“Of course. It’s a good idea. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
* * *
The clock on the wall ticked loudly. It had taken him almost two hours, but he was finally done. Choosing the right words proved to be more challenging than he would have imagined. He reread the report, and once he was satisfied that he hadn’t forgotten any important details, he printed three copies, one for himself, one for the bishop, and one for Father Coyle. Then he saved the file to his hard drive.
He was tired, physically and emotionally. He turned off his monitor and unconsciously rubbed his crucifix. He was done — done with the report, and probably done as a priest. Sadness and exhaustion washed over him. He put his head down on the desk, closed his eyes, and immediately fell asleep.
He floated above his hunched and sleeping form and realized that he would pay for this position later. His back and neck would surely hurt tonight. He drifted out of his office and into the rectory offices. Phones were ringing and people were scurrying about, but no one noticed him. He tarried a while, watching each individual, feeling each individual. They all seemed to be unaware of the halo of softly pulsing light that enveloped each of them. He moved through the halo surrounding Deacon Ham and touched his mind. He felt a rush of energy, and his body stirred in his office.
So this is how it works, he thought. He moved away from the deacon and left the rectory with no clear idea of where he was going or why. He became a balloon floating through the cold wind high above the neighborhood that surrounded Sacred Heart. He watched small clumps of school-age children enjoying the snow and the unexpected day off; he watched giant snowplows as they tried to clear the interstate and the main roads; and he watched the snow silently blanket the city, hiding all of its sins. Somehow, he had stepped out of the world, and he was content to simply watch it unfold before him. It seemed so harmonious, so interconnected, and he felt a rush of joy and hope.
Then he felt them. There were two of them — a man and a woman, but not together, definitely not together. The man he knew; they had spoken together some time ago, but on that occasion, he had been pretending to be something he wasn’t. He was the tall man that the bishop had seen in his mind. Oliver could feel that he was in pain, a great deal of pain, and he knew that she was the cause of his pain. The man was dying, or at least he thought he was dying. Oliver felt his own skin start to burn and found himself in a hotel room watching as a tall man wrapped in sheets and blankets flailed to the floor. Oliver’s initial reaction was to help, but as he drew closer, a wave of fear froze him in place.
Finally, the man stopped moving, and the room was quiet. Oliver didn’t know what to do next. He couldn’t just leave him like this. He waited for a moment, and when nothing happened, he decided it was safe to get a little closer. He closed to within a foot of the aura of pale green light that slowly swirled around the unconscious man. Little tendrils, no more than playful puffs of smoke, began to reach for him. At first, he avoided them, but after watching for a few seconds, curiosity overwhelmed his instincts, and he let one brush over him. He heard a sharp snap and felt a slight burn across his face as images flooded into his mind — foreign and violent images. Oliver recoiled, and the images disappeared. The tendrils followed him, and he backed off even further, well beyond their reach.