He saw Lena wanted to argue, to have him stay there with her where she could keep an eye on him. He could only imagine how long she’d dine out on the drama of it all, and then he recalled her fingers on his pulse, felt ashamed at the smallness of this thought. He crossed to the door before she could utter a word of protest.
“And it is important that you stay hydrated. Drink plenty of water.” Her voice followed him, and for a moment he feared she would pursue him and so quickened his steps. In his room, weaker than he had admitted to Father Burns or Lena or even to himself, he stripped off the cassock, taking note of the dampness of the fabric. His hands trembled slightly as he folded the robe and surplice. It occurred to him that perhaps he should see a doctor, just a checkup. The church had good health insurance, and the priests were encouraged to undergo annual physicals, but Father Gervase avoided them. His father had distrusted doctors and, unreasonably, he knew, he had inherited this prejudice. He switched on the oscillating fan, slipped off his shoes, and reclined on his bed, not bothering to fold back the covering. Of course, Lena was right and he should drink some water, but that could wait. For now he just wanted to rest, to block out the memory of fainting in front of the congregation and then coming to with MacDougall leaning over him. Overhead, the fan whirred on and on, rhythmic and steady as a metronome.
A rap on the door woke him, and he was surprised to find the light in the room was now that of late afternoon.
“Father Gervase?” It was Father Burns.
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.” He cleared the rust from his throat. “Just resting.”
“I hate to disturb you, but the family is waiting for you in the chapel.”
“The family?”
“The Medeiros.”
It came to him then. Gloria Medeiros. Following a year of treatments, her last tests had shown the cancer to be in remission, and she had returned home to an exultant family. Her children had requested the use of the chapel for a small service of prayer and thanksgiving.
“Shall I meet with them?” Father Burns asked.
For a moment he was tempted to turn his obligation over to his fellow priest but realized this would reveal a weakness he preferred to keep private. “No, no, I’ll be right along.” He took a fresh cassock from his closet and dressed. Mindful of Lena MacDougall’s directive to hydrate, he detoured by the rectory kitchen and drew a cup of water, drank half of it, then went to his study to pick up the brief notes he had made for the service. On the walk to the chapel his steps were steady. Just a passing spell then. Caused by the heat. That was all. Inside the chapel, a small gathering awaited. Three generations. Gloria, her two sons and their wives, their four boys, her daughter Mary Margaret along with her husband, and, in Mary Margaret’s arms, the baby girl who was the newest addition to the family. They turned to him, the faces of all but the youngest buoyed by relief and hope and faith. The chapel air was sweetened by the vase of honeysuckle and roses someone had brought to place by the altar.
“Oh, Father Gervase,” Gloria said. “We were worried about you.”
He smiled and said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, “No need. No need.” He reached out a hand to stroke the baby’s brow. He’d christened the infant just two months ago and attempted to recall the name. Something unusual, he thought. Kiara? Kiley? But those names were faintly Irish, and perhaps he had confused this child with the O’Shea baby, whom he also recently christened. Unsure, he didn’t chance a name. He looked now at Gloria, slip-thin from her treatments, her hair newly grown into short silver curls that haloed her skull, and he saw beneath the lingering ravages of illness the pure and shining essence of her.
“Father Gervase?” one of the sons prompted.
“Ah, yes,” he said. For the occasion, he had chosen two readings. Some scripture, of course, Psalm 96, and then several lines of poetry. While meditating on the occasion he had recalled Frost’s quote “the best way out is through,” and that had led to pulling a slender volume of the poet’s work from the shelf. When he came to “Birches,” he’d stopped reading. Just the thing. Now he unfolded his notes. “Shall we begin?” he said. He opened with the scripture and spoke for a bit about this gift to the family of having their mother and grandmother returned to health and led them in prayer. Looking out at the gathering, at the infant and the young boys fidgeting on the pew, at the six adult children and Gloria, he was suddenly moved by the truth of life and was struck with the need to convey the fleeting preciousness of life to them. He leaned forward and veered off his prepared script. “No matter what span of days we are given,” he began, “they are too few. An accident or illness. A single phone call. We never know when He will call us home, only that it is a call each of us will receive.” One of the sons scowled and cleared his throat, and his obvious displeasure sent Father Gervase back to his text. But as he recited Frost—the lines about fate snatching one away not to return—he realized he had somehow misjudged his selection, and what had seemed perfectly appropriate in the privacy of the rectory had now missed the mark. In confusion, he returned to Psalms, repeating the verse he had already read. The scent of honeysuckle, so pleasant just moments before, now seemed too sweet, too thick in the air. And the faces tilted up toward him, which so recently had been filled with expectation, now reflected disappointment and anxiety. He should have let Father Burns substitute.