10
It was Good Friday, and Maggie had sat with Zack throughout much of the night. There were no changes, and he had not repeated his mutterings. She was exhausted, and on the nurse’s suggestions, she went down to the cafe on the ground floor. She had coffee and a muffin, feeling numb, as if the core of her body had been infused with Novocain. While in the cafeteria, she tried to get lost in a copy of
The news of the wars and the economy filled most of the front pages, so she turned to Section B and the local news. A strange headline caught her eye: SUICIDE BY FRIEND: VICTIM HAD RARE PUFFER FISH TOXIN IN HIS BLOOD.
The story went on to explain that a homeless man was found dead with the toxin in his system. He had been killed with a baseball bat while sitting on the rail of Harvard Bridge. Because of surveillance cameras, the batman had been apprehended, claiming that his friend had asked to be killed because he had been plagued by “demons” in his head, the result, according to the assailant, of scientists doing experiments on his brain. How he had acquired “tetrodotoxin” was unknown, but authorities assured the public that it was not a new street drug, nor was puffer fish legal in American cuisines. “The perpetrator could not give any explanation of who the scientists were or what experiments were performed on the victim, only that they paid well.”
Maggie folded the paper, thinking how she, too, had a demon in her head—the sick certainty that she would never have her son back.
After half an hour, she finished her coffee and walked to the elevators. Ahead of her were a middle-aged couple and their teenage daughter in a wheelchair. The girl appeared to be a victim of some neurological disorder. Her mouth hung open and her head moved loosely on her neck, and she made inarticulate sounds. Clutched in her fingers was a string of rosary beads.
Maggie went to push the button to the seventh floor, but it was already lit.
“Are you here to see Zachary?” the father asked.
The question caught Maggie off guard. “Pardon me?”
“Zachary Kashian. Are you going to him?”
“Yes,” she said, wondering about his strange wording. He was about fifty and was dressed in brown pants, blue blazer, and plaid shirt buttoned to the top. She did not recognize him. “Do you know him?”
The elevator door closed as they started to ascend. “We’re friends with Zachary in Jesus. We’re here to pray for him.”
Before Maggie could respond, the woman looked at Maggie. “We’re bringing Agnes to him.”
The man held out his hand. “I’m Burt Wickham, and this is my wife, Judy, and my daughter, Agnes. Are you here to be healed?”
“I’m his mother, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man made a sheepish smile. “Oh well, we’ll pray for you too in your suffering. The Word of God penetrates where nothing else can go.”
“Look, I don’t know your intention, but my son is in a coma in a private room and no visitors are allowed.”
“But this is very important,” he said. “We’ve been praying for a sign like this for years.”
“What sign?”
The man looked at her in surprise. “How can you not know? God is speaking through your son, announcing to the world that he’s been chosen to do God’s healing.”
“What are you talking about? My son’s in a coma.”
“We know. We saw him.”
“What do you mean you saw him?”
Then the daughter muttered, “On YouTube.”
The elevator door opened and they stepped into an empty foyer. “YouTube?”
“He’s a chosen,” the wife said. “He’s got the power.”
The mother produced a BlackBerry and held it up to Maggie. On the small screen was a brief and shaky video of Zack in bed muttering nonsense syllables. The moving banner beneath the image read: “God Speaks Through Coma Patient.”
“He’s speaking the tongue of the Lord.”
Maggie looked at the image, dumbfounded. Her first thought was Damian. He had shot the footage of Zack muttering nonsense syllables with his cell phone. How could he do that to Zack? Violate his privacy in his most vulnerable state?
“God chose Zachary to work His miracles, which is why we’re here,” the wife said, and she looked toward her daughter in the wheelchair.
“I’m sorry for your daughter, but you cannot visit my son. He’s in a private room, and no one but family are allowed. Is that clear?” She ran down the hall to the nurses’ station to ask for security, but the station was empty. Then she heard a commotion down the cross-corridor. Her heart nearly stopped. Outside of Zack’s room was a small crowd of people arguing with Nurse Beth Howard, two other nurses, and a resident physician, all trying to keep people from pushing inside.
“What is going on?” Maggie said to Beth. “Call security.”
“We did.”
Maggie pushed her way inside the room, where maybe a dozen people were pressed around Zack’s bed— elderly, young, old, white, brown. A small woman with Down syndrome was pawing at Zack’s arm as a camera flash went off. Through the bodies, she could see with relief that Zack was still breathing and that the monitors still registered his vital signs. But his blanket was covered with rosary beads, prayer cards, religious trinkets, statues, and photographs. And around him were people muttering prayers and crossing themselves, touching his hands and face.
Maggie felt insane. “Get out of here!” she screamed. “This is my son. Get out of here!”
“I have a tumor,” one woman said. “All I want is to be healed.” Her mouth quivered as she pleaded.
Another beside her said, “Jesus is here to make me better. I don’t want to die.”
A man pressed against her insisted that a divine presence was in Zack. “We want Jesus to save my wife. She’s very sick.”
“Then get a doctor and leave my son alone.” As Maggie pushed her way deeper, she spotted a tall white woman looking out of place in a navy blue suit. She stood in the corner behind the others, staring at Maggie intently. There was a reddish birthmark on her cheek or maybe a melanoma.
The shouting of security guards filled the room. “Okay, everybody clear out.” Half a dozen guards were pulling people out of the room as protests rose up.
“You have no right,” one woman cried.
“The Lord Jesus Christ is speaking through Zachary,” cried another. “It’s in the video. I saw it with my own eyes.”
But the guards cleared the room in spite of the pleas and protests. As the people were led out, one woman grabbed Maggie’s arm. “She’s here! She’s here!” The woman’s eyes were huge.
“Who?” Maggie asked.
“The Blessed Virgin. I smell roses. They’re her flower.” The woman looked crazed.
Maggie pulled away toward the bed when a guard caught her arm. She turned. “I’m his mother!”
From the hall, Nurse Beth shouted confirmation to the guard. He let Maggie go and continued removing the others. She gasped when she reached Zack. He had not been disturbed by the melee, and the monitors blinked stable life functions. But the bedcover was strewn with religious objects and dozens of photographs of people, making it look like the shrine of a dead saint.
Beth took her arm. “I’m so sorry. We’ll clean it up. They must have come up through the back stairwell.”
“There’s a video of him on the Internet.”
“Shit.”
Less than twelve hours had passed, and a fifty-second YouTube video of his nonsense mutterings had summoned a small mob hungering for miracles. “I think it was Damian.”
“No. It was Stephanie, my aide.”
