The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one (20 page)

1:36

Like Hannah, Father Jimmy had awakened that morning asking himself how clearly he’d been thinking the night before. After all, he’d concocted a scenario that any sane person would have dismissed out of hand and it seemed no less preposterous now, as he brewed himself a pot of coffee in the rectory kitchen.

The day had already announced itself as crystalline and chilly, and the sunlight streaming through the window minimized conspiracies that loomed large at midnight. Nevertheless, two cups of coffee and a bowl of cereal later, he found his mind was still on Hannah’s predicament. All he knew for certain was that, until matters sorted themselves out, she would be better off somewhere other than the house on Alcott Street.

The acidic feeling in his stomach told him that he had made the coffee too strong, unless anxiety was responsible for the burning sensation. He dialed the Whitfields’ number for reassurance, hoping Hannah would pick up, uncertain what he would say if someone else did. But the phone went unanswered and after ten rings, he gave up, his fears unrelieved. Maybe, the Whitfields had advanced their so-called vacation. The term had a less festive ring to his ears now.

Later that morning in the church, as he listened to confessions - mostly older women, lamenting the same old, dull peccadilloes - his mind kept returning to Hannah and the acidic sensation in his stomach returned, as well. When the last person had left his booth, he remained seated and waited until Monsignor Gallagher was free.

It was standing practice for Father Jimmy to go into the Monsignor’s confessional afterwards and unburden himself of the week’s transgressions. Since Catholic doctrine recognized both sins of thought and deed, Father Jimmy’s almost always fell into the former category and very often the two priests used their time in the confessional to discuss the nature of sin and their own struggles to resist it. Discussions they could well have had in the rectory seemed to come more easily, when the men were separated by a latticework grill.

As expected, Father Jimmy slipped into the confessional and pulled the curtain shut. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession. These are my sins…” This time he wasn’t sure how to proceed. What he had to say was delicate and depended on a careful choice of words, words that weren’t coming to him. The pause was so protracted that the Monsignor wondered if the younger priest hadn’t simply left the confessional.

“James, are you still there?” He had never been able to call his youthful charge Jimmy. It was too casual. Enough barriers had fallen in the modern world, as it was, and he clung to his belief that a priest stood apart from his flock, a guide and example to those he served, not their friend and confidant. He was Monsignor Gallagher, not Monsignor Frank. He would never be anything else.

“Yes, Father…I believe I may have…may have stepped over the line in ministering to a certain parishioner.”

Without asking, the Monsignor knew that he was talking about the Manning girl and hoped that “stepping over the line” wasn’t a euphemism for a carnal indiscretion. He’d tried to warn him once already to keep his distance. Surely James was too smart, and his future too promising, for him to succumb to the base appetites.

“In what way?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He had to endure another long pause.

“I believe that I have allowed her to become too dependent on me.”

The Monsignor’s sigh of relief was undetectable. “That happens, James. With more experience, you’ll learn to keep your emotional distance. But there’s no sin in that. It is not something to confess. Unless, of course, there’s more.”

“Nothing more, except that I want her to be dependent on me. I like the feeling it gives me. I think about her more than I should.”

“In an inappropriate fashion?”

“Possibly.”

“Does she know of these feelings?”

“I think so.”

“You have discussed them with her?”

“No, Father, never. I just assume that she senses my…concern. I have such a strong need to protect her. It is my need I fear, not hers.”

“Then, I can propose an immediate remedy. Until you understand this ‘need’ of yours more fully and are able to control it, I had best take over the spiritual guidance of this person. Do you have any objection to that?”

“It’s me that she’s confided in, Monsignor.”

“Do not be vain, James. She can confide in another. If she is leading you down a crooked path, it must be stopped. This is how we will stop it.” His firmness invited no compromise.

“I see.”

“I am confident you do. Is there anything else?”

“Just a theological question, if I may.”

The Monsignor allowed himself to relax, happy to be able leave the domain of unruly passions for higher theoretical ground. “Go ahead.”

“With all the medical advances happening nowadays, what would the church do if a scientist attempted to clone Jesus?”

“James!” The Monsignor couldn’t suppress the urge to laugh. “Are you reading those science fiction novels again? This is not something to waste good time thinking about.”

“It’s not science fiction anymore. The knowledge is there. Human cells have already been cloned. Anyway, all I am asking is, What if?”

“What if the sky were to fall! What if I were to grow a third leg! Really, James. How could this be? You cannot clone someone out of thin air. You have to start with something. Am I not correct? What would that be in our Lord’s case?”

“His blood.”

“His blood?”

“The blood He left on the shroud of Turin or the cloth at Oviedo.”

It was Monsignor Gallagher’s turn to fumble for his words. What kind of nonsense was this? He had a pretty good idea where it came from, though. All the time James spent on the computer would be better devoted to more practical pursuits. He would have to put some limits on its use.

“The relics are repositories of our faith, James. They are not…test tubes.”

“I know that. I am simply asking what the ramifications of such an act would be, if it were to happen. How would we deal with it? How would you deal with it, Monsignor?”

“How would I deal with the unimaginable?” The Monsignor didn’t try to hide the scorn in his voice, hoping it would carry to the other side of the wooden partition. The parish had too many problems of its own, real problems, for him to be concerned with a scenario that was not even worthy of Hollywood, a place that had never figured high in his estimation. This was the bad side of James’s youth - his openness to the fantasies of popular culture. “If someone did undertake such a…project, I suppose that it would have to be stopped.”

“Stopped? You mean aborted?”

“No, James, I did not say that. The scientists would have to be stopped. Such an experiment would be condemned before it was ever allowed to take place. Is that a satisfactory answer?”

“But what if the child were already growing in the woman’s womb. What would we do then?”

The Monsignor’s patience snapped. “James, I think that is quite enough. What is this all about? You seem obsessed by this subject.”

“Because I think it may have already happened.”

“You what?” Monsignor Gallagher instinctively crossed himself. “Perhaps it would be better to finish this talk in the rectory.” Abruptly, he stood up and left the confessional.

If Monsignor Gallagher thought that continuing the discussion, face to face, in the rectory kitchen would curb some of Father Jimmy’s zeal, he was soon abused of the notion. In the open, Father Jimmy’s earnestness was even more apparent. For nearly an hour, he laid out the situation, as he perceived it, brandished documents taken off the internet, spoke passionately of photographs and shroud societies.

The Monsignor’s arsenal of skeptical looks, knitted eyebrows and derogatory snorts proved no more effective than spitballs against chain-link armor. Finally, the older man threw up his hands in a gesture of futility.

“It’s too fantastic, James. That’s all I can say. Too fantastic to believe.”

“But we have to find out if it’s true.”

“What are you suggesting? That I, as the pastor of Our Lady of Perpetual Light and representative of the Catholic Church, drive up to the house, knock on the door and say, ‘Excuse me, is that the baby Jesus growing inside this young woman’s stomach?’ I would be thrown out of here in an instant. We would become objects of derision, both of us. And rightfully so. I always knew you had an original mind and have valued it up to now. But you have let your imagination run away with you. And need I say I hope it is only your imagination. I’m sorry, James. This is too absurd.”

He pushed back his chair, signaling that the discussion was at an end.

“Why have the Whitfields kept so much from her? They are obsessed with the circumstances of Jesus’ crucifixion. They have whole files on it.”

“James!” In the Monsignor’s mouth, the name rang out like a sharp reprimand. “People with all kinds of interests are allowed to have children. Surrogate or otherwise. I have heard enough on this subject.”

He took a deep breath before continuing.

“There will be a second coming, James, but it will unfold according to God’s plan, not that of some mad scientist. To think otherwise is to put His omnipotence in doubt. And now I am afraid I am going to have to lay down a rule for your own sake. You are not to see this woman any more. Under any circumstances. If she needs spiritual help, I will minister it. If it is psychological counseling she requires, I will arrange for her to get that, too. But you are no longer involved. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Father,” he murmured.

“Good.” Monsignor Gallagher turned and strode briskly out of the kitchen.

Numbed, Father Jimmy heard his click of feet going up the staircase and the retort of a door closing on the second floor, before he found the will to stir.

1:37

Stay calm, play along. Stay calm, play along.

Hannah recited the words under her breath, like a mantra.

There was nothing to be gained from the anger she felt when she thought of how these people had exploited her; nothing helpful, either, about the panic that dried her mouth, whenever she tried to imagine what lay ahead. It was essential to appear docile and concentrate on the present. Teri was coming tomorrow at noon to pick her up. Teri would take her away from all this. And she would never come back. It was as simple as that.

Stay calm. Play along. Stay calm.

A change had come over the house. Judith Kowalski had taken charge, which meant that she was entrusted with the key to Hannah’s bedroom and looked in periodically, her eye peeled for any signs of insurrection. The gregarious personality she had displayed as Letitia Greene had been retired in favor of no-nonsense officiousness. Judith Kowalski was hard, efficient and without humor. Her gray wool skirt and matching sweater, while expensive, now gave her the air of an upscale prison matron.

“Do I still call you Letitia,” Hannah asked, when the woman came into the room around ten to pick up the breakfast tray.

“Whatever you prefer,” she replied crisply, discouraging further conversation. “You didn’t eat much breakfast.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

Judith gave a non-committal shrug, then tray in hand, left the room and closed the door behind her. Hannah waited to hear the turn of the key. When it didn’t come, her first thought was that Judith had forgotten to lock her in. Then she realized that they were probably testing her. So she purposefully stayed in the room and made a pretense of her toilette, lolling in the bath tub, until the water had gone cold, and brushing her hair for a full quarter of an hour, until her scalp tingled.

Judith Kowalski checked back at eleven and announced that lunch would be served downstairs in an hour.

“Maybe I’ll skip it,” Hannah replied casually. “I’m not very hungry this morning.”

“As you wish. There will be a place for you, if you change your mind.”

Again, she left brusquely. And again, Hannah noticed that the door remained unlocked.

It was true that her appetite was gone. But even more, she needed the time alone to reflect on the events of the past 24 hours and what they meant to her and her child. She wasn’t sure she understood all the scientific mumbo-jumbo that had been paraded in front of her, or even if she wanted to. The talk of DNA and embryos, mixed in with the religious prophecies, bewildered and scared her. Only one thing was clear to her: if the egg in her womb had somehow been altered before the implantation, if it had been genetically doctored in some way, then Marshall and Jolene weren’t the parents at all. It wasn’t their child. The baby belonged to her, as much as it did to anybody. Wasn’t she the one who was growing it, nurturing it, and sheltering it?

She lay back on the bed and ran her hand over the stomach, imagining the outlines of the baby’s head, his tiny hands, the round belly, growing fatter every day, and the legs, already pumping with unpredictable vitality. As she had done earlier, she sent silent messages of love to him, her soon-to-be-born son, told him that she would protect him, protect him with her own life, if necessary.

All this time she had been waiting for a sign, and now, she realized, the sign had been inside her. Whoever the father was, she was the rightful mother. However the child had come to her, she was responsible for his care in the world. She lay perfectly still, but every fiber of her being seemed to be responding to the call. No one would ever take him away from her.

Noise from below drew Hannah to the window. There were comings and goings in the studio. She watched as Jolene carried out canvases and stacked them in the back of the mini-van. Marshall followed behind with boxes. Hannah speculated that they contained the folders from the filing cabinet. The studio was being closed up and its contents transported elsewhere.

There had been no mention of the vacation since last night, so Florida probably wasn’t the destination. With Jolene at the wheel, the loaded-down mini-van soon drove off and returned an hour later. All afternoon, the activity continued apace.

Judith Kowalski put in an appearance in Hannah’s bedroom late in the afternoon, as a pale sun was beginning its descent beneath the cold horizon. She flicked the light switch by the door.

“It’s getting dark. You should put on a light in here,” she said. “Are you having dinner with us tonight?”

Hannah told herself to act as if nothing was unusual. She had to appear her normal self, at least until noon tomorrow, when she would get away from these people. Irritating them or provoking their suspicions in the meantime would serve no purpose.

“I think I will, thank you,” she said, brightly. “I was a little under the weather this morning. I’m sorry about that. But I managed to get in a good nap this afternoon and I feel much better now.”

“We’ll be eating in forty-five minutes.”

“Let me freshen up and I’ll be right down,” she said, with a smile.

She changed into a fresh blouse, pulled her hair back into a pony tail, and fixed it with an elastic band. A little rouge rubbed into her cheeks took away the pallor. As she started down the stairs, she heard Judith barking orders. A plate dropped in the kitchen and shattered.

Stay calm, play along. Stay calm, play along.

All through dinner no one said much, other than to comment on the food or ask for a condiment. Without the pretenses of the past, there wasn’t all that much to say. Roles seemed to have been redefined and the sense of togetherness that used to characterize mealtimes was revealed for what it had always been: a fiction.

Jolene shuttled back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, but she did so now out of sheer nervousness. Marshall had abandoned the air of benevolent authority with which he usually presided over the table, dispensing commentary on the day’s happenings. Hannah had always seen him as a man of some elegance and sophistication. Now he struck her as mousy with his wire-rimmed glasses.

It was Judith, sitting opposite Hannah, who brought palpable tension to the table. The Whitfields seemed to be constantly looking to her for behavioral clues, while Judith concentrated, hawk-eyed, on Hannah. Sometime during the day, she had gone off and returned with some clothes, and had moved into the spare bedroom on the second floor.

The woman lay her fork and knife on her dinner plate and dabbed her mouth with her napkin, a signal that she was ready to move on to business.

“How was your meeting with Dr. Johanson, this morning, Hannah?”

Hannah swallowed a last bite of food. “He did most of the talking.”

“Yes, and how did you feel about what he had to say?”

The air seemed to go out of the dining room. Jolene shifted on her chair, which creaked arthritically in the stillness.

The subject had been broached! Hannah knew she had to pick her words carefully - and the fewer, the better. She tried not to appear ruffled.

“It was a lot to take in,” she said, after a pause.

“Of course, it was, you poor thing!” Jolene spoke up for the first time. “We’ve been preparing for this moment for years and years, and all of a sudden you are—”

“Enough, Jolene,” snapped Judith. Jolene obediently lowered her chin and stared at her dinner plate.

Judith had barely taken her eyes off Hannah. It was as if she was trying to bore through the layers of skin and bone, penetrate the girl’s skull to the innermost chambers of her mind. “And did you? Take in everything he said?”

“As best I could.” Hannah saw Judith’s jaw tighten and knew that the answer was unsatisfactory. They were all waiting for more. What was she supposed to say? That she was thrilled by the way they had manipulated her? Inspired by their plan? Excited by their madness? All that came out was “I hope…I have the strength…to fulfill…my part properly.”

It wasn’t much. Jolene and Marshall eyed Judith out of the corner of their eyes, hoping to decipher her reaction. For the longest time, the woman’s face gave away nothing. Then the hard set of her mouth thawed.

“I hope you do, too,” she said. “We would all be so terribly…disappointed, if you didn’t.”

Hannah went right up to her room after dinner, pleading that she wanted to get a good night’s sleep. Dr. Johanson had reminded her only this morning that there was no substitute for sleep, she said, especially in these final weeks, so if no one objected. No one did.

Hannah kept her feelings in check until she reached the second floor landing and was out of sight. Then, she acknowledged the strain she’d been under all through the meal. How had she been so easily taken in all these months by Jolene and Marshall? By Letitia? Even the name sounded phony to her now. Had she been that desperate for their acceptance?

She pressed her lips hard against each other to keep from crying. Crying was useless and childish. What she had to do now was hold on until noon tomorrow. Less than 24 hours. Surely she could manage that. Tomorrow morning, she would have breakfast in her room, then around 11:30 she would drift downstairs. She wouldn’t take anything with her, lest she raise suspicions.

She’d make a point of acting friendly with everyone, Judith above all. But as soon as Teri’s car pulled into the driveway, she would bolt out the door. Before any of them realized what was happening, Teri would have her away from this mess. She might even go by and see Ruth and Herb…

She dozed off, thinking of her old town and the Blue Dawn Diner, and never heard the key being turned in the lock.