Friday, September 1, 10:00 a.m.
As I walked into the rectory after morning Mass, Dr. Taylor called with the follow up report I’d requested on Father Marek. I was heartened to hear that Marek continued to see Taylor for vitamin B1 injections and was attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings regularly. His physical symptoms of Wernicke’s disease were slowly resolving. The Virgin Mary statue may not have wept blood, but maybe a small miracle had occurred at St Wenceslaus Church after all.
With my impending deposition hanging over me, I broke with my routine, gave Colleen the day off, and drove RJ to the Cleveland Clinic so that we could spend more time with Justine.
After her son gave her an in-depth update on his world, my sister and I spoke for a while on mundane topics, avoiding any mention of leukemia. When she asked about life with RJ, I confessed that even with his beloved blue blankie, I was having a hellish time getting him to sleep at night.
“There’s a trick that usually works when he’s cranky.” She leaned forward and whispered. “You know the hankie embroidered with lavender flowers that I often carry?” When I nodded, she continued. “That was my mother’s, his grandmother’s. It’s in my top dresser drawer. Add a drop of my perfume, give it to RJ, and tell him that Nana is waiting to see him in his dreams.”
It was a simple and elegant solution that undoubtedly would come in handy. We had begun discussing preschool when Justine’s oncologist and his entourage entered her room. Their bedside manner was decidedly more businesslike than it had been previously, their demeanor less warm. I’d seen these subtle signs before. They were distancing themselves emotionally.
Justine also seemed to sense this. After her doctors left, she said, “Come here RJ. I have something to tell to you.” He walked over, and she held his gloved hands and said, “Because I’m sick, your Uncle Jake is going to take care of you. So listen to what he says and be a good boy, okay? He’s my best friend and … your special friend. He needs your love too. This is very important to me. Do you understand, RJ?”
“Yes, Mama.”
He gave me a quick hug before returning to his toys. Justine signaled me closer.
“Jake, don’t let Children’s Services take RJ. The poor kid’s life has been hell since I got sick. Please don’t let that happen!”
“No one’s going to take him away. I’ll care for him till your better, Sis. Not to worry.”
“One other thing, Jake. You know I’m not … a believer. RJ and I never were baptized or anything. Never went to church.” She gazed at the ceiling tiles for a long time. “But maybe … you could baptize me and R.J?”
“Now?”
“Yeah. I think now would be a good time. Can you?”
Given Justine’s critical condition, I was permitted to forgo the usual Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults. The Church allowed priests considerable leeway in death bed cases.
Death bed. I choked up and my eyes moistened. I wiped them and cleared my throat. “Of course, Sis.”
Justine lowered her voice. “Do I need to confess my sins to you first, Jake? I don’t think I could do that.”
“That’s not necessary. Baptism washes away all sins.”
She called RJ over again and explained that I was going to do something to help them, and that he would get a little wet but shouldn’t be afraid. RJ stiffened and took a step away from me.
With my sister’s compromised immune system, I feared infection, so I flagged down a passing nurse, asked for a bottle of sterile water, and began.
“Justine, I ask that you turn your life and your fate over to Jesus today. In St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans he promised that if we die with Christ, we shall live with Him.” I blessed the water and poured a small amount on their foreheads saying, “I baptize you, Justine and Randall James, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
My nephew startled at the first drop, jerked away, and bumped my hand. I spilled several ounces of water in his hair and on his forehead. He shook like a dog who’d run through a sprinkler, then put his hands on his hips and gave me a petulant four year old glare.
“Stop it, Uncle Jake! Stop!”
“Sorry, RJ. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Justine chuckled. “If I’d known you were gonna try to drown him, I’d have had RJ build an ark with his Legos.”
With our emotions jumbled, we ran out of things to say. My nephew’s confusion, however, was short-lived. After a few minutes, General RJ waved me over to his plastic army and awarded me a field promotion, placing me in command of a machine gun squadron. We parachuted from the windowsill and went on the offensive, recapturing the high ground of a Kleenex box.
My sister glanced back and forth between us, her two soldier boys. She closed her eyes, moaned, and sobbed softly. I prayed that she hadn’t somehow glimpsed the future.
As visiting hours ended, Justine’s doctors entered and informed us that she would soon be transferred to the Intensive Care Unit.
I told her Oncologist that I was a priest and asked if there was time to perform the Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick.
“The what?”
I leaned in and whispered, “Last Rites.”
“Oh, sure, but make it quick. Okay?”
Since the day Justine had first asked me to pray with her, I’d brought my ritual book and Holy Oil to the hospital in my pockets. I took them out, read the prayers, and anointed her forehead. The Sacrament seemed to provide her with some comfort and courage. Then I opened my small gold-plated pyx containing the Blessed Eucharist, placed the Host on her tongue, and offered First Holy Communion to my sister. Other than my love, I had nothing more to give her. I held her hand until the transporter arrived to wheel her to ICU.
As we left the hospital, RJ was confused and upset. I couldn’t delay telling him how serious things were. Fearing that this day would come, I’d read several books on bereavement and spent two hours with the hospital grief counselor learning how to approach a child with devastating news.
But nothing could have adequately prepared me for that conversation. When we arrived at the rectory, I began cautiously explaining to RJ how dire the situation was, treading like a man walking across red-hot coals—and it was every bit as painful. When I’d finished, we cried together for a long time, and the only way that I could get him into bed was to move my twin mattress onto the floor in his room and promise to spend the night there.
The day had been one of the hardest of my life, yet as tired as I was, I couldn’t imagine sleeping. I found a mindless sitcom on the TV, but the media wouldn’t allow me to forget about Tina. Between shows, the station aired a promo for the evening news promising a “breaking update” on her impending trial.
I had no doubt that Tina was a textbook psychopath. She showed poor impulse control and a willingness to take risks, no fear of the authorities, complete disregard for the welfare of her husband and children, and no evidence of remorse for what she had done.
Legal and medical insanity, however, were not synonymous. Although an insanity defense rarely succeeded for psychopaths, her lawyers entered a plea of diminished capacity anyway in an attempt to avoid or reduce prison time.
I was relieved when the news anchor reported that two independent psychiatrists had declared Tina competent to stand trial. In the short video clip that followed, the District Attorney promised a death penalty verdict, no doubt building a law-and-order platform that he hoped would elevate him to higher office.
Politics, money, and justice—a highly volatile combination that unsettled my stomach.
I clicked off the TV and stared at the black screen, suddenly exhausted. Knowing that I would need all my wits tomorrow for my deposition, I collapsed onto my mattress in RJ’s room and let a restless oblivion swallow me.