F Paul Wilson - Novel 03 (36 page)

           
 
THE
NEW YORK
POST

           
IN
THE PACIFIC

           
15°
N, 136° W

           
 
Quantas flight 902 out of
Sydney
encounters a massive storm along its route
to
Los
Angeles
.

           
 
Faced with a raging front of swirling black
clouds, the pilot pushes the L-1011 to another 5,000 feet in altitude and
angrily radios back to
Sydney
. He was told there was no weather on this flight path and here he is
facing a monster.

           
 
The reply comes that radar shows no sign of
the slightest storm activity at flight 902's location.

           
 
The pilot tells
Sydney
to get its radar fixed because the mother
of all supercells is moving northeast along his course.

           
Manhattan

           
 
Carrie turned away from the steaming stove and
wiped the perspiration from her face. Hot down here. Already fall, but
September was rarely a cool month in
New York
.

           
 
She saw Dan sitting in the corner staring at
the floor.

           
 
"Why so glum, Father Dan?" she said.

           
 
He looked up at her. The usual sparkle was
gone from his eyes, replaced by a haunted look.

           
 
"I don't know," he said, sighing as
he leaned back in the chair. "Don't you get the feeling that everything's
spinning out of control?"

           
 
"No," she said, and meant it.
"Just because we can't see where events are leading doesn't mean they're
out of control. We may not be in the driver's seat, but that doesn't mean we're
on a runaway bus."

           
 
"Is
anybody
in the driver's seat?"

           
 
"Always."

           
 
"I'll tell you something," he said,
jerking his thumb toward the ceiling. "No one's in charge up there in St.
Joe's. It's chaos."

           
 
"Confused, maybe, but it's not
anarchy."

           
 
"Talk to Father Brenner about that, why
don't you. He's got a slightly different take on the situation."

           
 
They'd both received a dressing down for
opening the church to the Mary-hunters. They'd expected that. Father Brenner
had lost control of his church—he couldn't close it at night, couldn't say Mass
for his regular parishioners, couldn't get on with the day-to-day business of
the parish. Every square inch of
St. Joseph
's, from the rear of the sanctuary to the
vestibule, down the front steps and into the street, was occupied by a
restless, weary mass of humanity in every imaginable state of dress and health.

           
 
Father Brenner placed the blame on Dan and
Carrie.

           
 
Carrie's order had restricted her to the
convent until proper disciplinary action could be taken. Carrie refused to
submit to what she saw as house arrest and, much to the dismay of Mother
Superior, went about her usual duties at Loaves and Fishes. She'd broken the
vow of obedience so many times already she couldn't see what difference it made
if she kept on breaking it. Besides, she'd made a vow to the Virgin to protect
her and always stay near—that vow superseded all others.

           
 
"Father Brenner should be honored this is
happening in his church. So should you. This is the most wonderful thing that's
ever happened to any of us. Or ever will."

           
 
Dan shook his head slowly and smiled. "I
wish I could look at everything like you do. I wish I could work a room like
you do."

           
 
"What do you mean?"

           
 
"I mean I wish I could get people to
respond to me like you do. You move through those people upstairs like an
angel. They're hot, tired, sick, irritable, and hurting. Yet you squeeze by,
say a few words as you pass, and suddenly they love you."

           
 
Carrie felt her cheeks reddening. "Come
on . . ."

           
 
"I'm serious. I watch you, Carrie. And
believe me, you leave a sea of happiness in your wake. Sounds corny, I know,
but I see the smiles that follow you. I see the love in their eyes, and they
don't even know you. You have that effect on people."

           
 
Carrie hesitated, trying to frame a reply, and
then the phone rang. Dan picked it up.

           
 
"Hello? ... Hi, Brad. Fine. Yeah, she's
right here. Hang on."

           
 
He passed the phone over to Carrie, then waved
as he took the tunnel back to the rectory.

           
 
"Hi, Brad," Carrie said.
"What's up?"

           
 
"It's Dad."

           
 
Carrie groaned. "Now what?"

           
 
"He could be on his way out."

           
 
I've
heard that before.
"What is it this time?"

           
 
"They were just getting ready to send him
back to the nursing home when he had another heart attack. A bad one. They've
moved him into the coronary care unit."

           
 
Carrie said nothing, felt nothing.

           
 
"He's asking for you," Brad said.

           
 
"What else is new?"

           
 
"The doctors say he's not going to make
it this time. He's on a respirator, Car. He looks like hell . . ."

           
 
That's
where he's going.

           
 
". . . and I just wish, before he dies,
you could find some way to forgive—"

           
 
"How can I forgive what he did to
me?" she said in a fierce whisper.
"How?"

           
 
"God forgave—"

           
 
"I'm not God!"

           
 
"At least give him a chance to say he's
sorry."

           
 
"Nothing he can say—"

           
 
Brad's voice rose. "You're better than he
is, Carrie! Act like it!"

           
 
And then he hung up.

           
 
Carrie stared at the receiver, stunned. Brad
had never yelled at her before. Never lost his temper.

           
 
She replaced the receiver on the cradle and
shoved her hands into her pockets.

           
 
Poor Brad. Always the peacemaker—first between
that man and Mom, now between that man and her. But how could he think she
could ever . . .

           
 
Carrie's right hand pressed against the two
little Ziploc bags in her pocket. The powdered nail clippings and the ground-up
hair . . .

           
 
The stuff of miracles.

           
 
She decided to make a pilgrimage to the
hospital.

           
 
Carrie stood outside the door to C.C.U. and
trembled like one of her homeless guests in the throes of DTs.

           
 
How bad could this be?

           
 
She didn't know. And that was what terrified
her. Fourteen years since she'd last seen that man. Half her life. Sixteen
years since he'd started sneaking into her bedroom at night . . .

           
 
And Brad . . . how much had her older brother
known?

           
 
He'd never said. They'd never discussed it,
never laid it out on the table between them and stared at it. He always
referred to it as "the trouble" between her and that man. Brad could
have been discussing wrecking the family car or getting sick drunk. "The
trouble" . . .

           
 
Some
trouble.

           
 
At first, as a child, Carrie had been afraid
Brad would hate her if he found out, hate her as much as she hated herself. And
then she'd thought, he
has
to know.
How can he
not
know?

           
And if he knew, why didn't he say
something? Why didn't he help her? Why didn't he do something to stop that man?

           
 
Carrie was pretty sure Brad had spent the
years since she ran away asking himself those same questions. She wondered what
answers he came up with. She wondered if he'd ever really faced what that man
he called Dad had done to his younger sister. Probably hadn't. Probably had it
hidden in some dark corner of his mind, buried under a pile of other childhood
and teenage memories where he couldn't see it.

           
 
But he could smell it. Carrie knew the stink
of those two hideous years had affected the rest of Brad's life. Incessant work
... a life so filled with deadlines and meetings and shuttling between coasts
that there was no room for old memories to surface ... a life alone, without a
wife or even a steady live-in, because a lasting relationship might lead to
children and God knows what he might do if he ever fathered a little girl. . .
.

           
 
Carrie half turned away from the CCU door,
ready to leave, then turned back as Brad's final words echoed through her
brain.

           
 
You're
better than he is, Carrie. Act like it!

           
 
She set her jaw, numbed her feelings, and
forced herself to push through into the CCU.

           
 
White . . . white walls, white curtains
between the white-sheeted beds, white-clad nurses gliding from bed to bed,
bright white sunlight streaming through the southern windows . . . flashing
monitors, hissing respirators, murmuring voices . . .

           
 
Carrie turned to flee. She couldn't do this.

           
 
"Can I help you, Sister?" said a
young nurse with a clipboard.

           
 
Carrie mechanically handed her the visitor
pass. "W-Walter Ferris?"

           
 
A smile. "Bed Two." She pointed to
the far end of the unit. "He's stable now, but please limit your visit to
no more than ten minutes."

           
 
Ten minutes? Might as well say ten eternities.

           
 
The air become gelatinous and Carrie had to
force her way through it toward Bed Two. She couldn't breathe, her knees
wobbled, her hands shook, her intestines knotted, she had to go to the
bathroom, but she kept pushing forward. Finally she was standing at the foot of
the bed. She compelled her eyes to look down at its occupant.

           
 
The room spun about her as she stared at a
pale, grizzled, wizened old man with thin white hair and sunken features. His
hospital gown seemed to lay flat against the mattress. Wires and tubes ran
under that gown, a clear tube ran into his right nostril, a ribbed plastic hose
protruded from his mouth and was connected to a respirator that pumped and
hissed as it filled and emptied his lungs. His eyes were closed.

           
 
He looked dead.

           
 
She moved to the side of the bed, opposite of
where a nurse was swabbing the inside of his mouth with some sort of giant
Q-tip.

           
 
"What are you doing?" Carrie asked.

           
 
The nurse looked up, another young one, blond.
They all seemed young in here. "Just running a lemon swab over his oral
membranes. Keeps them moist. Makes him more comfortable. You must be his
daughter. Your brother's mentioned you a lot but he said you couldn't
come."

           
 
Carrie could only nod.

           
 
The nurse dropped the swab into a cup of water
on the bedside table. "I'll leave you two alone."

           
 
Carrie fought the urge to grab her and hold
her here.

           
 
No!
Please don't leave me alone with him!