Redemption

by Nancy Geary

  What better pastime was there than to work on the words he would deliver, the message he would relate, to the congregation? His life was his work in service to God. He’d made that pledge a long time ago, after he’d awoken night after night damp with sweat, panicked by the black abyss of his fate, and understood what it was to have his faith tested. From the dust and ashes of his destruction, he’d repented. Finally his prayers had been answered. After three years running a summer camp for violent boys in Barnstable, followed by a six-year struggle in an impoverished church in Lynn trying to lead a congregation plagued by drug addicts, alcohol abusers, teenage runaways, and single mothers, he’d earned his appointment as rector here, the pinnacle of his career. He’d arrived triumphant, a minister dedicated to improving the spiritual life of even the most desperate. No one in the parish would ever know all he had endured.

  His quiet dreams over the years didn’t begin to measure up to the joy and wonder of this place. This congregation had embraced him and made him their family. Even after the initial wave of social events upon his arrival, the various meet-the-rector cocktail parties, luncheons, and teas, parishioners had continued to call. For the first time in his life, he felt nurtured, appreciated. Certainly there was some status in including the Episcopal minister in one’s social roster, but the members of the Church of the Holy Spirit had become his genuine friends. Mrs. Lundy, an elderly widow who had almost completely lost her eyesight, invited him for her lavish Easter supper. He said grace over the lamb and mint sauce before taking his coveted velvet-cushioned seat to the right of his hostess. He spent each Christmas Eve after the late church service at the home of Lars and Sandra Reardon, drinking champagne from Baccarat crystal and nibbling on triangle toasts with caviar in front of a roaring fire. He was the only nonfamily member invited. These were but a few of the precious privileges he now enjoyed. Hardly a week passed without several invitations.

  The evenings he did spend alone were by choice. He welcomed his solitude, knowing he had a place where he belonged. He took comfort in the familiar surroundings of his office and his church and his concomitant duties and responsibilities. Seven more years until retirement, at which time he’d relax and supplement his pension with an occasional appearance as guest minister or retreat leader. Thank you, God, he prayed, for giving me a second chance.

  He sat at his substantial desk and ran his hands across the leather top. Everything about the Church of the Holy Spirit seemed elegant. His office had plush carpeting, and a leather couch and two club chairs nestled into a bay window overlooking a carefully manicured garden. The ladies of the Flower Guild spent hours each week pruning and tending the plethora of plants so that their blooms and greens could adorn the altar each Sunday. As he looked out, he noticed the delphinium, his favorite, beginning to bud. Good news. He was tired of pink, pink tulips, pink hyacinth, pink roses. The staple color seemed too feminine for the worship of the courageous, protective, and visionary man, Christ the Lord.

  He stood, stretched his arms above his head, and sighed. He was stiff for reasons he couldn’t quite locate, but he refused to scale back on his physical activities. Whether he carried boxes of canned goods that the congregation collected for distribution to the needy, rearranged the folding tables and chairs in the parish hall to prepare for a lecture on spirituality, or hauled stacks of hymnals upstairs for choir practice, labor in service to God was part of his calling. But he didn’t want to throw out his back and be laid up in bed. He didn’t want to become a burden to the people he was there to serve.

  Besides, he was scheduled to lead his annual retreat in less than three months and needed to be in good health. Fasting, hours of silence, and long walks were all part of the week-long vigil that strengthened his faith and that of the people who joined him. During those seven days, he often sat in darkness, imagining life as a troglodyte. He pictured himself buried deep inside a cavern, surrounded by blackness and damp, a deprivation that would heighten his piety and, should he ever venture forth, magnify the beauty of the Loire Valley. It was an image that he turned in his mind: Solitude, scarcity, and extreme discomfort could only lead to a greater appreciation of the pleasure of God and His warm embrace. He couldn’t bear to miss the annual experience.

  Reverend Whitney walked over to the closet and opened the door. He ran his fingers down each of his official vestments: his two cassocks, starched albs, and elegant chasubles in the various liturgical colors of red, green, white, and purple. His cinctures hung on two pegs just inside the door, and he gripped the rope for a moment. It felt soft and smooth against his coarse hands. Everything was in place, just as he’d left it when he’d departed after midnight the previous evening. Then he moved to the small storage closet and turned the knob. Much to his surprise, it opened. He glanced inside and felt relief as he realized nothing had been disturbed. He thought he’d been careful to lock it, but this brief experience reminded him that he always needed to double-check.

  He returned to his chair, opened the drawer of his desk, and removed a package of trail mix, dried apricots, cranberries, and cashews, the weekly stash that he bought by the pound at the health food store in Beverly Farms. Even though she had never been to his services, the clerk with the brown pigtail who rang up his purchases addressed him as “Father,” spoke in a soft tone of deference, and threw him a gum-filled smile as he departed with his brown bag. He liked the sound. He felt blessed to have a paternal role in young lives.

  He split a cashew between his teeth and chewed slowly. His secretary had left him a pile of messages from the prior week—a parishioner wanting to add a family member to the prayer list, a request that funds be allocated for the Youth Group’s trip into Boston, a postponement of the Buildings and Grounds Committee’s annual inspection of the facilities, minutes from the last vestry meeting that required his review and signature. Nobody expected responses from him today, but he liked to look at the blue slips with his secretary’s perfect handwriting. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint a parishioner by a tardy reply or an oversight.

  His planner was open to the upcoming week, and he glanced at the checkerboard page. Hope Lawrence and Jack Cabot were coming in for their third and final premarital preparation session on Thursday. He leaned back, exhaled, and cupped his hands behind his head. It would be a difficult meeting. Sadly, Jack had no real interest in life as an Episcopalian. Hope was the opposite: pious, devout, precisely the kind of meek person whom God rewarded with an abundant inheritance. Her life had been a series of sufferings, poor girl, and she’d had more than her fair share of torment, but she’d managed to make a meaningful life within the church. “My faith has saved me from myself,” she’d said. “It is the only component of my life I truly trust.” How well Reverend Whitney understood her words. If anything, he worried that she was too puritanical. It was painful to hear how she chastised herself for her perceived shortcomings. He’d tried to explain that the Lord forgives, but he knew she hadn’t really heard his words or his explanation.

  His task as marital adviser presented a difficult challenge. It was his duty to highlight the spiritual differences between Hope and Jack and the hurdles she would have to face in a relationship of one-sided faith. Although an unbelieving husband could be sanctified through the believing wife and produce clean children, he feared that Jack would prevent her involvement with just those factors that drove her life of faith. The noise of his agnosticism would drown out the whispers of belief.

  Although he wanted her to understand, he had to be careful. In this community, all couples married in a church regardless of their feelings toward organized religion. The father of the bride paid the fee, filled the pews, and got the pleasure of walking his daughter down the aisle, her last saunter of innocence. A secular alternative for those without faith would be the subject of scorn. Weddings were a huge source of revenue to the Church of the Holy Spirit, and if Reverend Whitney were seen as an obstacle, people would simply go elsewhere. He didn’t want to jeopardize in any wa
y the fiscal health of his church.

  This week’s session was supposed to address issues of sexuality and procreation, difficult subjects with any audience. He opened his copy of the New International Version of the Holy Bible, the translation he preferred. “It is better to marry than to burn with passion,” Paul wrote in his letters in 1 Corinthians. Perhaps Father Whitney could use these words as a starting point.

  A knock ended his musing. He recognized Hope’s voice through the door and called out for her to enter.

  “What brings you here today?” he asked, rising from his chair. Although she was a frequent volunteer at the church, he never expected to see a soul on Mondays.

  “I was hoping to find you.”

  “Please, have a seat,” he said, steering her into a chair and resting his hand gently on her shoulder. He hated that in the politically correct world he had to be concerned about inappropriate physical contact. She looked miserable, and he wanted to hug her, to comfort her, but such touching was out of the question. He had to maintain boundaries. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Hope dropped her head and put her face in her hands.

  “What is it?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”

  He’d seen her upset before, many times, but she’d always been eager, almost frantic, to confide in him. Her reluctance today was different.

  He remembered a conversation they’d had more than a month before. Through tears and garbled prayers, she’d asked him, “Will brimstone and fire be sent from heaven to destroy me?” The question had been off-putting, and he’d tried to find out what lay behind her fears, but she’d offered nothing more. He’d failed for not being able to reach her. Now, as he watched her shoulders shake and listened to her sobs, he wondered whether something new had upset her or whether the same sadness had been resurrected. “You can tell me anything,” he urged. “Whatever it is.”

  “No. No.”

  “Your secrets are safe. You can trust me. You know that.”

  She raised her eyes to stare at him, and he could see the puffiness in her face and the dryness of her lips. “It’s… it’s… I don’t want to believe it.” She hugged her knees to her chest. Looking at her bony arms and rail-thin legs, Father Whitney could see what a wisp of a woman she’d become. “Tell me it’s not possible.”

  He took a step back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I wish I could read your mind right now, but I can’t. Only God knows your pain. To me you have to explain.”

  “You do know. I know you do. I found… I saw—” Her tears prevented further words.

  Father Whitney took a deep breath and felt the air pass through his lips as he exhaled. “Found what? Saw what?”

  “The box,” she whispered. “All the documents. How could you let it happen?”

  He felt a sudden shortness of breath as he understood her reference. He didn’t know why she would have gone in the storage closet or what would have prompted her to open the sealed box, but the reasons hardly mattered. She’d misunderstood. He’d done nothing wrong. What had happened wasn’t his fault. He just needed to explain, to put the information in context so that she wouldn’t be afraid.

  “The church is supposed to help people.”

  “It does. Hope, listen to me. You mustn’t lose faith. We all make mistakes. We’re all mortal.” His mind searched for words to begin but found none. Please, God, he prayed. Help me once again.

  6

  Dr. Frank will see you now.”

  Fiona Cabot replaced the well-thumbed copy of People that she’d found in a pile of otherwise strictly medical journals, issues of New England Journal of Medicine and Psychiatric Annals. As she stood up, she glanced around the sunny office. An elderly man wearing a checked shirt picked at the cuticles on his left hand. Beside him, a young woman with dark circles under her eyes and lips carefully outlined in red pencil clutched her coffee cup. But for two potted palms, the room was otherwise empty.

  Fiona nodded to the man and woman. They’d been there when she arrived, yet she was being seen first. Perhaps their problems were more pressing, emergencies even. Then again, hers was, too.

  Fiona followed the blond receptionist in her flowered sundress through a set of double doors into a wide corridor. The hall was impressive, with high ceilings and chair-rail molding. A faded Oriental runner somewhat muffled the sounds of their shoes on the wooden floor. Fiona glanced at the rows of doors, each marked with a different name followed by its series of credentials, M.D., or R.N., or M.S.N., or C.S., or I.A.A.P., or some combination thereof. To the right of the name, a small rack held a card indicating whether the therapist was “in” or “out.” One door was partially open, and despite the placement of the “out” card, Fiona could see a red-haired woman in a white medical coat slouched over with her elbows on her desk and her cheeks in her palms.

  The receptionist must have caught her glancing inside. “It’s been a particularly difficult day.”

  “Why is that?” Fiona asked.

  “We lost a patient last night. A young girl.”

  “How?” The question came out automatically.

  “She hung herself. That’s how they usually do it. Oh, my God—” The woman covered her mouth with her hand. “I can’t believe I said that. I just wasn’t thinking, you know. I’ve only been here six months. Oh no, and Dr. Frank’s talked to me repeatedly about patient privacy and all.” She forced a smile and quickened her gait. “This is truly a wonderful place. Most patients are able to get real help here. The kind they need to change their lives.”

  Fiona nodded, wanting to seem reassuring.

  “Dr. Frank’s a remarkable man.”

  “He and my husband went to college together. Harvard,” Fiona added, eager to be able to contribute something to the conversation.

  “Is he a psychiatrist, too?”

  “My husband? Oh… no. Not at all.”

  “Too bad.” The girl smiled. “I hear they make great spouses. Then again, mine’s a math teacher, so I really couldn’t say.” Her melodic voice reminded Fiona of a lullaby. She paused in front of a door marked PETER FRANK, M.D. “Here we are.”

  Just as Fiona was about to turn the brass knob, the door opened. “Peter,” Fiona said, startled. He looked different from the way she remembered, taller, gaunter. He had loosened his tie and rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbows.

  “Come in.”

  Fiona stepped into the cramped office. Stacks of papers, journals, and files buried a large rolltop desk. Books stuffed vertically and horizontally into shelves covered two walls. Light from the single window splashed onto an armless couch with a piece of paper towel covering the headrest. Dr. Frank indicated a chair, one of two plaid wingbacks, and settled himself opposite with his feet on a small stool.

  She smoothed her pink skirt under her and sat with her cream handbag on her lap. She was nervous and wanted something to hold to stop her hands from fidgeting.

  “How long has it been?” Dr. Frank mused, running his fingers through his thinning hair. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Jim and I had our thirtieth reunion. Hard to imagine so much time has passed.”

  “It is,” Fiona agreed. Her eyes drifted above his head to where his medical diplomas and various certificates hung, each slightly askew. The clutter made her claustrophobic, and she questioned how anyone could find emotional stability in this disorganization. Then again, she knew almost nothing about psychiatric medicine or how it worked, if it even did. Hope was hardly a model of its success.

  But she could certainly understand why the Lawrences had selected Dr. Frank to help with their daughter. He had both impressive credentials and an excellent reputation in the greater Boston area. He’d gone to Harvard as an undergraduate, then to the medical school, after which he’d been awarded a fellowship at Yale–New Haven Hospital, was appointed to the staff there, and returned to Boston only when he was asked to become chief of the psychiatric unit at Massachusetts General Hospital. For the past
two decades, he’d run the Avery Bowes Institute of Mental Health, one of the largest private psychiatric hospitals in the country. He was also a tenured professor at Harvard Medical School, had published dozens of papers, and had received several awards from the American Psychiatric Association. Fiona knew she had a tendency to be overly impressed with Ivy League degrees—she hated to admit that she’d barely survived junior college—but by any standards his résumé was overwhelming.

  “And how’s Jim?”

  “Busy. He’s always busy. Healthy. Still works out every day.”

  “I won’t quickly forget his one-armed push-ups.”

  Fiona tried to laugh. Her husband’s daunting exercise regimen seemed compulsive, although she wasn’t about to admit that in the company of a psychiatrist. “Our son’s getting married.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that. I understand you wish to discuss something about his fiancée.” Dr. Frank leaned back, removed his glasses, and briefly massaged the bridge of his nose.

  “That’s right. Yes. And I know you’ve treated her, so now I’m hoping you can help me. To understand, that is.”

  Dr. Frank reached into his pocket and removed a folded piece of taupe stationery, which Fiona instantly recognized. Having struggled over what to say, she recalled precisely the note she had sent the previous week:

  I’m sorry to impose upon what I’m sure is an overly demanding schedule, but I truly need advice. Your patient, Hope Lawrence, is our future daughter-in-law. Given her emotional difficulties, Jim and I are concerned for our son. We’re also extremely concerned about our future grandchildren. I don’t have personal experience with psychiatry, but your friendship with Jim makes me trust you. Any time you could give me would be greatly appreciated. Of course, I expect to provide more than appropriate compensation for your services. I suspect we can both benefit by the discussions.

  The part about a friendship with Jim was a bit of an exaggeration. Although they’d been college roommates and both members of the Porcellian Club, they hadn’t kept in touch other than the briefest exchange of pleasantries at reunions. But she wouldn’t be the first person to exploit a distant connection.