“You can wash for the next year and never clean all the crap you're slinging our way. Bye-Bye!”
Nick's heart raced. He walked back into the living room, feeling like a child afraid of being caught at something he shouldn't be doing.
What was he afraid of? For all he knew, they were talking about something entirely different than Margaret's visions.
The moderator on the radio continued, “All right. Looks like our lines are getting a little heavy with these Noah’s Ark wackos, so what say we just purge all the lines and start fresh? Sorry for anyone calling about something worth discussing. We promise...”
Nick sat on the floor and stared at the receiver, but the moderator made it a point to discuss everything but people’s dreams. He looked towards the wall clock to be sure not to be late to the hospice. He still had twenty-five minutes. The computer screen beckoned from the office. The priest took a breath, let it out slowly. He walked to the desk and finished reading the blog, moved on, scanned every major news page for anything related. Nothing yet CNN-worthy, but local news sites had plenty to discuss. For the next fifteen minutes, he stared intently at these early news reports, to snippets of chat room conversations and miscellaneous references unfolding before him on the screen.
As he prepared to leave for the hospice, already late, one thing was obvious. Though Nick could not yet bring himself to believe what the callers and reports were saying, the fact was that Margaret had been speaking the truth.
* * *
It was dark outside. Jack turned away from the window. His throat was dry. He considered ringing for the nurse again, but she took so long the last time, and was short with him when she arrived. Still, he’d gotten a free glass of ginger ale, then. Everything was free here. There wasn't much food. Beggars can't be choosers, he thought. And he was a beggar, wasn't he?
His arm hurt. He should leave. This quiet place was both frightening and familiar. The latter sensation was the most troubling, however; nothing he wanted to dwell on for long. There were two others in the room and one bed unoccupied. The old man across from the foot of Jack's bed whimpered softly in his sleep, fighting some unseen monster in his dreams. Jack risked a glance beside his own and gooseflesh crawled up his arms. The man next to him had the bed raised into a half-sitting position, the nurse having long forsaken asking him to lower it. He was a white kid, young, with long, stringy blonde hair. Jack thought he recognized him, but memory wasn’t his strong suit. The kid was awake, staring wide-eyed at Jack across the small chasm between them. It wasn't an expression of surprise, nor fear. Jack wasn't sure what the wild staring meant, except that the kid might be crazy. Maybe just broken, like himself.
He returned the gaze for a moment, then looked back towards the window, feeling the other's stare linger on him but trying to pretend it wasn't there.
The old man across the room coughed, seemed to wake for a moment, then fell into silence. The only sound was a single, exaggerated exhale, as if he were expelling the demons which had plagued him most of the night. In the murk cast by the lights of the parking lot outside, hazy ribbons of light draped across the man's chest. Jack waited for a sign he was still alive.
“You're the preacher man,” the kid said, his voice clear but hushed in the darkness. Jack reluctantly looked his way, felt another wave of fear. This guy was off. “You're the preacher man, I said.” The smile faltered. Jack realized it was a question, not a statement.
“Yes,” he said, his voice dry, cracked. God, he was thirsty. The pager was in his left hand. He pushed it. “God has sent me to -”
“Maybe you should give Crack Head over there last rights. I think he just kicked out.” A giggle.
Jack didn't look away. He stared at the kid's pale face. “God will care for all. That man was lucky.”
The kid laughed again. “Yeah, lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky. Clucky and lucky and dead and rotting, clucky and lucky and -” He stopped then, any trace of a smile gone. “What are you looking at?”
Jack lingered a moment longer, wondering what to do. He wanted to talk to someone, even this kid, talk about God and his mission. Of course, the last time he tried to preach in this place, they stuck him with a needle.
His neighbor said nothing else, though he slowly raised his hand to his chest. Jack had seen the white gauze earlier, with small red stains across the front. He wondered if he'd been shot, and why the hospital didn't get him a new bandage.
Jack turned back towards the window, closed his eyes. The kid beside him must have turned away, for Jack no longer felt his gaze on him. Maybe it was wishful thinking. He didn't want to check.
He was still thirsty. The bed was comfortable. He prayed the angel would return. Let him know he wasn't crazy like the kid next to him.
He eventually dozed. Lying in a comfortable bed was such a rare commodity, drawing him down even with a potential enemy beside him. Before falling asleep, he looked to the window, saw the neat pile of clothes on a chair. The folks from the Salvation Army had dropped them off earlier, but Jack pretended to be asleep. Why would he want to talk to them about Jesus? They were amateurs. He was the Chosen One. Officer Leary had come by, too. Jack chose to wake up for him, but the man only wanted to see how he was doing, didn’t stay long. As he’d turned to leave, Jack saw the cop stuff something into the pocket of the shirt on the chair. Jack hoped the kid in the other bed hadn't seen it.
His lids dropped closed. Maybe the Salvation folks left him some decent socks to go with the shoes.
* * *
Neha checked on the vagrant one final time before she left for the night. Not in person – she'd had her fill of that one. But she stopped at the night desk to verify his wake-up schedule, every two hours, and sign off on his progress. There were other forms to fill out, including one for a transfer to McLean if the need arose. She had signed it, but would wait before acting on it to see how the guy behaved overnight. In either case, it was painfully obvious his visit to Forest Grove would end up being courtesy of the Commonwealth.
That was to be expected. He was Jack Lowry, after all. Unwitting celebrity from one of Boston’s darkest moments in recent history – something that had happened two years ago. A moment that destroyed his life and permanently damaged his mind, psychologically as well as physically. She’d lingered a while, holding the transfer form. It would be best for him, but Neha worried about her reasons for filling out the committal form – worried it might have more to do with the vague connection she’d made between him and her own husband earlier. She left the form in his folder, and would sleep on it tonight.
The drive out of Boston was uneventful. Suresh didn't care for her hours, but she never heard him complain when the paycheck hit their account. Already it was almost on par with the pay from his programmer's job. He'd be patient. She'd only been at the hospital three years since beginning her residency. Suresh expected his wife to eventually settle into a comfortable practice with a more human schedule. Maybe at an HMO. Something to bring her home for supper every day. Neha would let him pretend, if that made him happy.
She enjoyed too much the dynamics of hospital life. The constant motion of people made her feel part of something bigger than herself. Caught up in the storm. Having an office of her own in some nondescript building meant hearing the ticking of the clock, watching dust settle in the light. An image that festered in the back of her mind every time Suresh mentioned how nice it would be when things settled down.
Of course a regular schedule, a routine, left open the option for children. Something neither of them talked much about, a silent agreement that raising a family was not part of either’s short-term goals. Unlike Neha’s sister, also living in the United States but with two children already. Neha was content to be the doting aunt whenever she had the time, which was rare. From the beginning, Suresh seemed the perfect match for her. Breaking tradition, she had made it a point to question him at their second meeting once they were left alone by their parents. He was concerned with getting his own career on track, more so than planning for children. One factor she hadn't counted on, however, was the influence of his mother and grandmother from the other side of the world. Subtle questions in their letters and emails. How are things with the two of you? Anything interesting planned? Any news to tell us? Neha would roll her eyes when Suresh relayed these questions, but lately she'd seen something new in his gaze when he read the notes, saw the furtive glances across the room after taking an overseas phone call. Doubt, perhaps. Fear of dishonor.