Wednesday, July 26, 3:00 p.m.
My heart was racing and my mind blank. I felt no sense of awe, skepticism, or anything else. I was totally numb and dumbfounded.
I must have gasped because Emily asked, “What is it, Jake? What’s wrong?”
She swept her cane across the sandstone floor until she reached me and took my arm. I snapped out of my trance but didn’t know what to say.
“Em, there’s … a drop of blood. It appeared on Mary’s cheek.”
“Appeared? What do you mean by appeared?”
“Just that. It wasn’t there and … then it was.”
“How is that possible?”
Emily squeezed my arm, but I didn’t look away from the Holy Mother. I couldn’t. My attention was fixed on the crimson drop slowly rolling toward her lips.
“Jake, talk to me. Is this real? Did you witness … a miracle?”
“I’m not sure. There has to be a logical explanation.” I studied the ceiling. It was quite high and earth-brown in color, supported by thick roughhewn beams. I saw no evidence of moisture or red staining. “Stay here, Em.”
I scanned the empty church, skirted around the votive candles, and climbed up onto the low pedestal supporting the statue.
The substance was oozing down the Virgin’s cheek too slowly to be colored water. I touched it. It felt lukewarm and sticky like blood. I brought my finger close to my nose but couldn’t smell anything distinctive.
Although the statue was nearly my height and quite old, Mary’s face was unmarked and intact. Her dark eyes seemed to follow me as I examined her. I saw no evidence of cracks, crevasses, or pits through which the material might have seeped.
“What are you doing up there? Get down this minute!” Father Marek lumbered up the main aisle toward us, clutching adjacent pews for balance. He stopped, fury reddening his face. “You of all people, Father, should know better!”
I climbed down from the pedestal, walked over, and showed him my red-stained fingertip, then pointed at the statue.
Marek’s expression transformed from anger to confusion, then to recognition. “Praise God!” he exclaimed, crossing himself. “I’d begun to think Mary had forsaken us.”
He suddenly slumped into a pew. His eyes drifted down and he whispered, “Lord, why today? I don’t understand. Why now?”
It wasn’t clear if he was talking to himself, me, or God.
“Father Marek, are you okay?”
He nodded. “Sorry. It’s silly and … selfish of me.”
“What is?”
“It’s just that …. Why you? Why now? You walk in, a complete stranger, yet I’ve been here all these years and she … I don’t understand.” He raised his gaze to mine, his eyelids puffy. Marek threw his hands up in frustration “I’ve given my life to the Lord and this parish. But the Holy Mother has never shown herself to me.” He cradled his head in trembling hands for a moment, then stood. “Sorry. Forget it. I’m a foolish old man.”
“Father Marek, have you reported this to Bishop Lucci?”
“Of course, several times. His Excellency, however, is skeptical and too busy to be bothered with … my problem.”
“Problem? Whatever I witnessed, problem is not the word I’d choose to describe it.” I shook my head. “I was praying to Mary, looking directly at the statue when the blood simply … materialized.”
“I know, I know.” The flush had faded from Marek’s complexion, but his eyes retained their sad, basset-hound appearance. “Exactly like the other times.”
I heard the cane tapping behind me before Emily spoke. She had removed her sunglasses and her eyes were wide.
“Jake, is it really blood?”
“Good question. I’m not sure. Father Marek, have you had this substance analyzed?”
“Bishop Lucci did. It’s definitely blood. Ask him. His people crawled all over the Virgin’s statue, probing her, tearing my church apart for days. They were … downright sacrilegious.” Marek’s cheeks flared red again. “Believe me, this is no hoax. It’s a sign from God!”
“What did the bishop tell you?”
“He said he’d get back to me, but never did. That’s the way our fearless leader operates: say nothing, delay as long as possible, hope the hoopla will die down, and if need be, issue a vague statement. It worked. And Mary stopped revealing herself … until today. Truth be told, I don’t think His Excellency believes a word I say, even though his own investigation confirmed that it was human blood. He loathes the publicity and isn’t interested at all in my tiny church. Could you speak with him?”
“I may not be the right person to ask. My involvement could backfire, Father Marek.” Lucci considered my medical practice a distraction from the priesthood, and the risk of a malpractice suit a threat to his treasury. He was also nervous about my troubled youth and background as a soldier. His Excellency detested waves of any kind, and I was a potential tsunami that might upend his ecclesiastical cruise to becoming a Cardinal. Only saving his life had removed me from the diocesan doghouse. “The bishop and I have … a love-hate relationship.”
Marek popped a stick of gum in his mouth and stepped forward. I smelled alcohol on his breath before I caught the scent of peppermint.
“But you actually witnessed an occurrence,” he said. “You’re not some hysterical parishioner or publicity seeker. Lucci’s got to listen to a priest. Please, tell him exactly what you saw.”
As shaken as I was, there was no question that I had to report this to Church authorities.
“All right, Father Marek, I’ll contact His Excellency.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate that. Bishop Lucci wants to close several churches, including St. Wenceslaus. It’s all about money with him. He lives in a world of red and black ink. The possibility of a genuine miracle here, however, might delay his plan to shut us down.”
Emily stepped between Marek and me.
“Jake, could you bless me … using the blood?”
Father Marek pretended not to hear her, walked to the front pew, opened the cardboard box, and began filling the candleholders.
I stared at my fingertip and my mind flashed back to the war. This wasn’t the first time that I literally had blood on my hands. And as a physician, I worried about placing Emily at risk for hepatitis, HIV, or blood-borne toxins.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Em. We don’t know for certain what this substance is, let alone whether it’s dangerous or infectious. I don’t want—”
“I’m begging you!” she said, her lips trembling. Her soft blue eyes wandered over my shoulder as her desperation washed over me. “Please, Jake, anoint me with the blood. I have nothing left to lose.”
She was wrong. Although she was blind, she’d built a thriving, productive life with a family, friends, and plenty at stake. And the recent rebirth of our relationship meant I also had something to lose.
When I didn’t respond, anger scudded across her face like a storm cloud, and she stamped a foot. “Damn it, Jake. For the love of God, do it for me!”
While the substance didn’t burn my skin and I didn’t feel ill, the last thing I wanted to do was endanger her in any way.
A tear rolled down her check and my resolve melted.
“Okay, Em. For you.”
I touched her forehead and anointed a tiny cross below her hairline as I recited, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” I considered daubing her eyelids or near her lips, but they were open portals to infection so I stopped, hoping I hadn’t already crossed too many medical and religious lines.
This satisfied her, yet only added to my frustration and concerns.
Bleeding statues. Dying babies. My sister, and what remained of my family, fading away with each passing day. The desperate need for miracles, both scientific and supernatural. Christ!
It was bad enough that Tina and Miguel were praying for a miracle for their baby, Dr. Taylor was searching for a medical one, and my sister desperately needed both. Now with no medical options available, my dearest friend had staked all her hope on the longest of long shots—divine intervention. How in the world had I been sucked into the vortex of all these storms? And what would be left standing when these tempests had passed?