and vasoconstriction occurs, and both tend to stop the bleeding. They also lead to a loss of palpable pulses in the extremities-which is why the psychiatrist couldn't find one in his wrist.'
'So,' I said, pinkening. 'You don't think it's possible that Mr. Smythe was... well... resurrected?'
'No,' he chuckled. 'Now, in medical school, I saw patients who'd frozen to death, in the vernacular, come back to life when they were warmed up. I saw a heart stop beating, and then start up by itself again. But in neither of those cases-or in Mr. Smythe's-did I consider the patient clinically dead before his or her recovery.'
My phone began to vibrate, as it had every ten minutes for the past two hours. I'd turned the ringer off when I came into the hospital, as per their policy. 'Nothing miraculous, then,' I said.
'Perhaps not by your standards... but I think that Mr. Smythe's family might disagree.'
I thanked him, set the statue of Ganesha back on my chair, and left
Dr. Choudhary's office. As soon as I exited the hospital building, I turned on my cell phone to see fifty-two messages.
Call me right back, Maggie said on her message. Something's happened to Shay. Beep.
Where are you?? Beep.
Okay, I know you probably don't have your phone on but you have to call me back immediately. Beep.
Where the fuck are you? Beep.
I hung up and dialed her cell phone. 'Maggie Bloom,' she whispered, answering.
'What happened to Shay?'
'He's in the hospital.'
'What?! Which hospital?'
'Concord. Where are you?'
'Standing outside the ER.'
'Then for God's sake, get up here. He's in room 514.'
I ran up the stairs, pushing past doctors and nurses and lab technicians and secretaries, as if my speed now could make up for the fact that I had not been available for Shay when he needed me. The armed officers at the door took one look at my collar-a free pass, especially on a Sunday afternoon-and let me inside. Maggie was curled up on the bed, her shoes off, her feet tucked underneath her. She was holding Shay's hand, although I would have been hard-pressed to recognize the patient as the man I'd talked to just yesterday. His skin was the color of fine ash; his hair had been shaved in one patch to accommodate stitches to close a gash. His nose-broken, from the looks of it-was covered with gauze, and the nostrils were plugged with cotton.
'Dear God,' I breathed.
'From what I can understand, he came out on the short end of a prison hit,' Maggie said.
'That's not possible. I was there during the prison hit-'
'Apparently, you left before Act Two.'
I glanced at the officer who stood like a sentry in the corner of the hospital room. The man looked at me and nodded in confirmation.
'I already called Warden Coyne at home to give him hell,' Maggie said. 'He's meeting me at the prison in a half hour to talk about additional security measures that can be put in place to protect Shay until his execution-when what he really means is 'What can I do to keep you from suing?'' She turned to me. 'Can you sit here with Shay?'
It was a Sunday, and I was utterly, absolutely lost. I was on an unofficial leave of absence from St. Catherine's, and although I had always known I'd feel adrift without God, I had underestimated how aimless I would feel without my church. Usually at this time, I would be hanging my robes after celebrating Mass. I would go with Father
Walter to have lunch with a parishioner. Then we'd head back to his place and watch the preseason Sox game on TV, have a couple of beers. What religion did for me went beyond belief-it made me part of a community.
'I can stay,' I answered.
'Then I'm out of here,' Maggie said. 'He hasn't woken up, not really, anyway. And the nurse said he'll probably have to pee when he does, and that we should use this torture device.' She pointed at a plastic jug with a long neck. 'I don't know about you, but I'm not getting paid enough for that.' She paused in the doorway. Til call you later. Turn on your damn phone.'
When she left, I pulled a chair closer to Shay's bed. I read the plastic placard about how to raise and lower the mattress, and the list of which television channels were available. I said an entire rosary, and still Shay didn't stir.
At the edge of the bed. Shay's medical chart hung on a metal clip. I skimmed through the language that I didn't understand-the injury, the medications, his vital statistics. Then I glanced at the patient name at the top of the page:
I. M. Bourne
Isaiah Matthew Bourne. We had been told this at his trial, but I had forgotten that Shay was not his Christian name. 'I. M. Bourne,' I said aloud. 'Sounds like a guy Trump would hire.'
I am bom.
Was this a hint, another puzzle piece of evidence?
There were two ways of looking at any situation. What one person sees as a prisoner's babble, another might recognize as words from a long-lost gospel. What one person sees as a medically viable stroke of luck, another might see as a resurrection. I thought of Lucius being healed, of the water into wine, of the followers who had so easily believed in Shay. I thought of a thirty-three-year-old man, a carpenter, facing execution. I thought of Rabbi Bloom's idea-that every generation had a person in it capable of being the Messiah.
There is a point when you stand at the edge of the cliff of hard evidence, look across to what lies on the other side, and step forward.
Otherwise, you wind up going nowhere. I stared at Shay, and maybe for the first time, I didn't see who he was. I saw who he might be.
As if he could feel my gaze, he began to toss and turn. Only one of his eyes could slit open; the other was swollen shut. 'Father,' he rasped in a voice still cushioned with medication. 'Where am I?'
'You were hurt. You're going to be all right. Shay.'
In the comer of the room, the officer was staring at us. 'Do you think we could have a minute alone? I'd like to pray in private with him.'
The officer hesitated-as well he should have: what clergyman isn't accustomed to praying in front of others? Then he shrugged. 'Guess a priest wouldn't do anything funny,' he said. 'Your boss is tougher than mine.'
People anthropomorphized God all the time-as a boss, as a lifesaver, as a justice, as a father. No one ever pictured him as a convicted murderer. But if you put aside the physical trappings of the body something that all the apostles had had to do after Jesus was resurrected-then maybe anything was possible.
As the officer backed out of the room. Shay winced. 'My face...'
He tried to lift up his hand to touch the bandages, but found that he was handcuffed to the bed. Struggling, he began to pull harder.
'Shay,' I said firmly, 'don't.'
'It hurts. I want drugs...'
'You're already on drugs,' I told him. 'We only have a few minutes till the officer comes back in, so we have to talk while we can.'
'I don't want to talk.'
Ignoring him, I leaned closer. 'Tell me,' I whispered. 'Tell me who you are.'
A wary hope lit Shay's eyes; he'd probably never expected to be recognized as the Lord. He went very still, never taking his eyes off mine. 'Tell me who you are.'
In the Catholic Church, there were lies of commission and lies of omission. The first referred to telling an outright falsehood, the second to withholding the truth. Both were sins.
I had lied to Shay since before the moment we met. He'd counted on me to help him donate his heart, but he'd never realized how black mine was. How could I expect Him to reveal Himself when I hadn't done the same?
'You're right,' I said quietly. 'There's something I haven't told you... about who I used to be, before I was a
