child. ’Tis a sin. Our dear Lord came to give us hope,
even in death.”
Judith forced a smile. “It was a turn of phrase, Father. I’m usually an optimistic person.”
198
Mary Daheim
Clasping his hands behind his back, the old priest
shuffled into the room. “Despair—they often call it depression, these modern folk, and hand out pretty pink
tablets—is the spiritual cancer of our age. Not all the
electric lights and neon signs can dispel the gloom.
Such a waste.” He shook his head, but his eyes twinkled. It occurred to Judith that the old priest didn’t seem
quite so vague this afternoon. “Such a pity,” he added,
the wisps of hair standing straight up on his head.
“All I want is a ham sandwich,” Renie said.
Judith winced at her cousin’s remark, but Father McConnaught smiled. “A simple pleasure. But the getting
of things—even a ham sandwich—isn’t as grand as the
giving. Giving up, letting go, surrendering. There’s the
beauty of it.” His gaze wandered around the room with
its plaster cracks, its peeling paint, its scarred wood.
His eyes lingered briefly over the holy statues, but finally they came to rest on Archie the doll. “See that little fellow? He’s happy. He has nothing but that big
smile.”
“He has a suitcase,” Renie said, pointing to the small
brown box on the nightstand.
Father McConnaught’s face evinced curiosity. “And
what might be in that little case?”
Renie smiled at the priest. “It’s empty.”
“Ah. Of course.” Father McConnaught turned
around, his gnarled fingers twisting behind his back.
“They won’t listen, these sad, empty souls. That’s why
Dr. Van Boeck made himself ill.”
“Oh?” Judith sat up straighter. The Demerol seemed
to be working. Or maybe it was Father McConnaught’s
presence.
The priest nodded. “He can’t let go. None of them
can. Not even Sister Jacqueline.”
SUTURE SELF
199
“Let go?” Judith echoed. “Of what?”
Father McConnaught spread his hands. “Of this. The
hospital. Their life’s work. A hundred years of the
order’s dedication. The sisters think it’s wasted. But
it’s not, and even so, nothing is forever in this life. We
own nothing, we belong nowhere. Except to God.”
“Then Good Cheer is . . . doomed?” Judith wrinkled
her nose at the melodramatic word.
“Not precisely,” Father McConnaught replied. “That
is, it won’t be torn down or turned into a hotel.” He
smiled again at the cousins, but his blue eyes had lost
their twinkle. “I don’t understand it, I don’t wish to,
