Maggie lowered herself into the chair and put her face in her hands as the three visitors mumbled good- byes.
Damian put his hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “He’ll wake up,” he said. “God has faith in him.”
Then he exited the room behind the others, his words echoing in Maggie’s head.
4
Roman Pace swallowed hard. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Would you care to confess your sins, my son?” said Father Timothy Callahan.
“I will if you assure me that what I confess will be held in strict confidence.”
“My son, confessional priests are bound by the holy sacrament of penance to be sworn to secrecy. Your sins are between you and God, and I am an intermediary who has no legal obligation to report anything beyond this confession booth.”
“You’re saying I have your word, because I don’t want any repercussions.”
“Yes, you have my word. Our vows are sacred. Feel free to make your confession, my son.”
There was a moment’s pause as the silence of the church filled the dim space. “I’m guilty of murder.”
“Of murder?”
“I killed nine people.”
“You killed nine people! Is that what you said?”
“Yes, Father, and I’m very sorry.”
“Was this in military combat?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Are you a policeman?”
“No.”
“So what were the circumstances?”
“Business.”
“Business?”
“I used to be a professional assassin.”
“A professional assassin?”
“Yes. I was a hit man for criminal organizations.”
A long pause filled both sides of the grate.
“Why did you kill these people?”
“For money.”
“This is very, very serious. Murder is a mortal sin.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did you know the victims personally?”
“No.”
“Did it bother you to … to take their lives?”
“At the time, not really. I was doing a job.”
There was another long pause as the priest turned something over in his head. Then he said, “I assume you no longer need the money and feel contrite?”
“No, I still need money. It’s just that I’m concerned about, you know, what’s going to happen when I’m gone. To be perfectly frank, I had a mild heart attack a few months ago, and that made me think about dying—you know, about the afterlife and stuff. I just don’t want to go to hell, is all.”
“I see. Do you believe in hell?”
“I don’t really know, but if there is one, I don’t want to end up there.”
“Do you believe in God the Father Almighty?”
“I think so. And just in case there is a God and a heaven, I want to open up a clear path, if you know what I mean.”
“You’d like to make amends.”
“Yeah, I want to be forgiven if I can.”
“The men you killed, were they bad?”
“To the people who hired me they were.”
“Are you a member of this parish?”
“No.”
“Another church in the diocese of Providence?”
“I’m sorry to say this is the first time I’ve been in a church in years.”
“I see.” Then, after another long pause, the priest said, “What’s important is for you to regain God’s love and forgiveness.”
“I would like that, Father. Very much.”
“Fine. I would like you to return in three days so we can talk again. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Father.”
“In the meantime, say ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Roman Pace.
“Together we will find a way to salvation for you.”
“That’s all I ask.”
And Roman left the church feeling buoyed in spirit.
5
On the fourth day after the accident, they moved Zack to a step-down unit in another ward of the Shapiro Building.
Maggie met with a neurologist, Dr. Peter McIntire, and the head nurse, J. J. Glidden, in a small lounge near Zack’s room. Dr. McIntire, a handsome man who looked too young to be a physician, led the discussion. “The good news is that the pressure in his brain has finally normalized.”
“What a relief,” Maggie said. Yet she could sense a “but” coming.
“We are going to keep him ventilated, however, at least until we’re certain he can protect his own airways.”
“To breathe on his own,” Nurse Glidden added. “At that point, we’ll extubate him—remove the respirator.”
Maggie nodded.
“Unfortunately, we’ve taken him off the barbiturates, so it’s still a waiting game.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do … you know, some kind of stimulation to wake him. I mean…” And she trailed off.
“If there were, we’d do it,” Dr. McIntire said. “Technically, he’s still in a coma, which is not like being asleep. The brain wave activity is completely different, and we really don’t fully understand the comatose state. The thing is, you can wake the sleeper but not the coma patient.”
“But,” Nurse Glidden added, “Zack could wake up any day now.”
Later that day, Maggie rented a room in a nearby motel and came in every morning, despair and hope racking her soul.
Concern for Zack and Maggie poured in. An article appeared in the Northeastern University newspaper about Zack. The school president sent out a global e-mail expressing the university’s hope for a speedy and complete recovery. Well-wishers sent flowers and cards. But Maggie allowed only a few close friends and relatives to visit— not until he woke up, she kept saying.
* * *
The next week passed, and Zack remained in a coma. But because he was stable, his medical staff had him
