Death of the Body (Crossing Death) (13 page)

“Are you ill, child?”

“No!”

She sat on the foot of my bed, and I could feel her looking at me, but I didn’t meet her stare. Instead, I studied everything I could about the room. My eyes settled on the face of a young girl I had seen the last time I was here just a few days before. At the same time, they started to brim with tears.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked, purposely derailing the subject from me.

“She’s sick and the doctors don’t know why. She sleeps all day and all night, is barely awake long enough to eat, and when she is awake, just lies there with an empty look in her eye. If I don’t get her out of bed soon, she’ll have to be taken to the hospital.”

I couldn’t help but notice the giant winged human in the painting above her head. What were those things called? Angels. I found the painting oddly soothing and hoped the girl, when awake, felt the same.

I allowed my frustration to overwhelm me and found myself grieving, yet again, for the loss of my former life. I clenched my teeth and pursed my lips in an attempt to hold back tears, but a single drop managed to escape from the corner of my eye. I wiped it away angrily as soon as I felt it start to roll down my face.

Sister Mary Rafaela’s presence wasn’t helping. I wished she would just go away but at least her patience afforded her silence.

I don’t know how long we sat there but it was long enough for me to run out of irrational thoughts, which included the many ways I could think of to murder Sister Mary Elizabeth. I only
slightly
understood the meaning of blasphemy but I was quite sure it applied to that particular train of thought. Still, it made me feel better.

“Sister Rafaela,” a high, soprano voice sang more than said, “Father Michaels would like to see you and the other Sisters in the chapel.”

To see Sister Mary Chantale standing in the doorway was like seeing the first signs of dawn after a long winter’s night. I needed her beam of hope, love, and kindness—she was the type of person that resulted from overcoming a horrific past—the hope, love, and kindness of a changed heart.

There was a difference I could see between someone who had always been good because they were expected to be good, and someone who had been confronted with evil but chose good anyway; I settled on
humility
to define the difference. Sister Mary Elizabeth had been good for so long that her haughtiness and assurance of righteousness before God was unbearable. Sister Mary Chantale, however, was good because she didn’t want to be anything else.

I sighed in relief as I met her eyes, which were as hopeful and bright as ever. There was no judgment in them.

Sister Mary Rafaela bustled out the door as Sister Mary Chantale sat down at the foot of my bed. She gave my leg a little squeeze.

“You know, Alexander,” she said softly, “you and I have always been pretty open with each other. I’ve always trusted you. I’ve never doubted your love for God or your fellow man. I can’t remember you having ever lied.”

I knew where this was going.

“Won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

The question was asked so quietly that I almost didn’t believe it was the same voice I had heard earlier directing the choir class. Even still, somehow I knew she had a marvelous singing voice.

“Sister,” I answered, “I cannot tell you what I don’t know.”

“Have you really lost your memory?”

“Not exactly, but it is hard to explain. I remember facts, words, even scripture. I could sing you the songs you have taught me, but the memory of learning all those things is missing.”

“Tell me what you do know.”

This woman was sincere but I swallowed back any words I was about to say. I was afraid. I didn’t know where to start.

“Alexander, please tell me. Whatever it is, I’ll be on your side.”

I bit my lower lip, raising my eyes to meet hers. “First of all,” I said, “my name isn’t Alexander.”

From there, the recounting of my life as Edmund burst out of me. I told her about my home, Orenda, Hailey, and Ralph. I told her about Joshua, the betrayal, and finding my father dead in his study. She listened without interruption while I stumbled over the parts of my story that didn’t make sense, like the fact that I experienced death, the seven levels of
something
that were important to my father, and his ring, which was the only physical representation that I currently had to validate my story.

When I finished, Sister Mary Chantale looked at me intently. She had only one question: “What of your mother?”

The response brought a tear to my eye. “I don’t know.”

The nun then did something I did not expect; she hugged me.

She smelled like wild eucalyptus. The smell and the embrace caused me to feel a sense of relief. Instead of letting go, my arms clung to her while I cried into the folds of her black habit. She stroked her fingers through my hair and rocked me gently until I pulled myself together.

When I sat back up, Sister Mary Chantale held her hand out to me. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“You taught me something valuable a few years ago,” she said. “You and a friend of yours showed me a place you liked to go to think down by the river. I would like to sit there with you for a moment so that I might ponder your circumstances. Perhaps the Lord will be kind to us there if we pray before we go.”

I took her hand and we kneeled at the side of the bed while she offered a prayer of supplication, asking that I be delivered from whatever challenges I was facing. The only thing she asked for herself was that she might have understanding.

We both remained silent as we walked across the large grassy grounds toward the river. It felt good to get outside again and the evening breeze was just cool enough to be refreshing. The air outside was light and crisp, not like the heavy and foreboding atmosphere found inside the cathedral.

The trees were alive and buzzing in the evening glow, the sound of their gentle whispers calming my nerves until I was at a point of relaxation.

Sister Mary Chantale and I sat down together on a log along the river near Nicholas’s makeshift shelter.

“You know, Edmund,” she started, “I’ve often sat in this spot and pondered on my life.”

As soon as she started talking, something odd happened; the trees went suddenly silent, as if they were listening to her.

“I’ll sit in this spot and have conversations with myself about what my life could have been like, and ask myself whether or not I am happy where I am.” She paused. “See, I have had some struggles of my own. Not with my faith, or my calling, but just with life.”

The trees roared at this statement. All around me I could hear them whisper,
Simon
,
Simon
,
Simon
.

My eyes widened. “Simon!” I echoed.

Sister Mary Chantale jumped at the name. “What did you say, boy?”

“Simon,” I repeated. “How did you struggle with him?”

For a moment, she just stared at me blankly. Finally she said, “Oh, Simon was a wonderful young man. He had great spiritual potential, just like you…”

But I was no longer listening to Sister Chantale; the trees were answering my question too.

The melodic tone of Sister Chantale’s voice set the tempo for the story the trees were telling me, like the undertow of a perfectly synchronized river of thought.

The story was so vivid that I could see it take place as the words formed in my mind. I could see Sister Chantale, much younger at a church similar to this one. She stood outside, alone, with her back to a heavy wooden door while her damp eyes gazed reverently into the night sky. It was cold but her discomfort came from within. Her hand reached toward her swollen belly.

The heavy wooden door opened, spilling bright light onto the icy, concrete pavement. Father Michaels appeared in the doorway but quickly stepped out and shut the door behind him.

“Your ride is almost here,” he whispered hoarsely. “After you have the child, I will have you transferred to an orphanage in Los Angeles. I will meet you there as soon as I can so that I can oversee your penance.”

“And the child?” Sister Chantale asked.

“He is not your child. You are to give him to God as repentance for your immorality.”

His words felt like a physical attack to Sister Mary Chantale.

“Now, until I arrive, how is it that you will behave?”

“I will spend my days in prayer and fasting,” came her response.

“And the rosary?”

“Only at night, while no one is watching, so that they might not know of my… sin.” She hesitated on the last word.

“Ten times,” Father Michaels said as though he were repeating himself.

Sister Mary Chantale nodded her head.

A soft honk echoed in the distance.

“There is your ride. Go.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The rest of the story came in fragments. I saw Sister Mary Chantale arriving at Saint Vincent’s with a child in her arms. I saw Father Michaels arrive and take over the duties as Father at the orphanage. I saw the child grow and play while Sister Mary Chantale hovered longingly in the background. I even saw myself as a young child, interacting with the boy.

“Simon was your son!” I exclaimed aloud.

I didn’t know what Sister Chantale was talking about, but whatever it was, she stopped her story mid-sentence. Then, just as if you could remove the undertow from a current, the thoughts of the trees fell silent and my vision closed.

Pain. That is the only word to describe the look on Sister Chantale’s face. “Who told you that?” she snapped.

I recoiled at the tone, fumbling across my words. After stuttering for a response, I finally shook my head. “How did he die?”

I didn’t know what Sister Chantale was going to say, but she opened her mouth as if to respond. When she did, I held up my hand and gave her a quick “Shh.” The question was not meant for her.

The trees suddenly sprung back into conversation and I could see Nicholas, Simon, Ruth, and I playing in the river with a group of other children. I could almost feel the hot summer air on my damp skin as we jumped and splashed each other. Simon sat lazily on the large white rock Nicholas had shown to me earlier, while the rest of us wrestled to keep ourselves upright in the current. I was a good swimmer, I could remember, so I didn’t fear the swift moving water. Simon, although not possibly older than eleven, looked so large and strong that I was sure he didn’t have any fear of the river either.

Then, as I watched the trees tell the story, I saw a large black figure emerge from beyond the river. His yellow eyes swept over the playing children and fell on me, filled with venom. Though the figure had the shape of a man, it was clearly something else—something that I had never seen before—but whose eyes definitely flashed like those of an energumen.

Why didn’t I see this creature? Why didn’t Simon or the other children see him?

Because this demon has no body of flesh and blood
, the trees responded in their fluid whisper.
Human eyes cannot see them.

I watched as the creature charged hungrily after me. His movements made no sound and the water flowed through him as if he weren’t there. The current didn’t seem to slow him down as he barreled toward me.

I watched as his ghost-like hand pushed me under the water. I struggled against the unknown force and kicked my legs in hopes of gaining another breath. I thrashed about as the other children looked on with horror and surprise.

“Cut it out, Alexander,” I heard Ruth scream.

“This isn’t funny!” Nicholas added.

Simon’s eyes just grew large. “Guys! I don’t think he’s joking.”

“What?” I heard Nicholas cry as Simon threw himself off the rock into the quick moving water. He allowed himself to be carried by the current until he was near me. He then stroked hard to get his body in line with mine.

By this time my thrashing had slowed and I was growing weak. Simon grabbed my body and pulled me toward the bank of the river.

The dark figure’s eyes pulsed with unnatural power, a power I had never seen. He turned his wrath toward Simon. I listened to the trees in horror as they told me how this dark creature used that unnatural power to rip Simon’s soul from his body, leaving his limp remains to be swept away by the river.

I was so startled when Sister Mary Chantale placed her hand on my knee that I flipped backwards off of the log. I saw her worried face appear over mine as she shook me violently.

“Breathe!” she demanded.

I had been so paralyzed by the story the trees had been telling me, and so horrified by the vision, that I hadn’t dared to breathe. I took a loud gulping breath so Sister Mary Chantale could hear.

It must have worked because she stopped shaking me. Instead, she pulled me to my feet.

“Dear child!” she exclaimed. “What is wrong with you?”

The fear I had felt was not subsiding, and adrenaline still pumped through my veins. “It was horrible!” I sputtered, gasping.