When the call came in that afternoon, Mary Katherine was sitting in her bedroom, dreading her life. Christmas break was right around the corner, and she was woefully behind on her Notre Dame application essay. Not only that, but she had the late shift at the old folks home. She had already volunteered long enough to get her certificate for college. But she felt guilty that she was only volunteering for her college application, and if that was true, it wasn’t real charity work. And if it wasn’t, then God would punish her by making her not get into Notre Dame like her father and mother and grandfather and grandmother and so on and so forth did. So, she was determined to keep volunteering to help the old people to prove that she wasn’t just volunteering to get into college so that God would help her get into college. It was a perfectly reasonable plan, but there was only one problem.
She really hated the old people.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she whispered to Jesus in prayer. “There are some nice ones. Mr. Olson is sweet and funny. And Mrs. Epstein taught me how to bake snickerdoodles and make something called matzah balls. But it’s hard to focus on them when Mrs. Collins’ mother screams ‘We’re all going to die’ at the top of her lungs for four hours straight. I could manage when Doug was there, but then he quit volunteering. He’s already finished his application to MIT and Cornell. I asked if he would ever go to Notre Dame with me, and he said he would apply to it as a ‘safety school.’ I could have killed him. I know it’s wrong to ask You for this, but I just have to get into Notre Dame. Am I going to get into Notre Dame?”
She waited, but no sign came. Just the wind blowing through the trees outside her bedroom window. Mary Katherine thought more about her night shift at the old folks home. Her stomach churned with the guilt that she really didn’t want to go. They were just so old. And they smelled. And the demented ones frightened her. Sometimes, she would stop and look at the hall and think…“Jesus loves every one of these people. Every single soul.”
“How do You love everyone, Jesus?” she asked. “Give me a sign.”
When her cell phone rang, she let out a little scream.
“Hello?” she said, half expecting Jesus to be on the other end of the phone (hopefully with good news).
“Mary Katherine,” Mrs. Reese said. “Is there any chance you are available to babysit Christopher tonight?”
Mary Katherine weighed her options. Take care of nice Mrs. Reese’s son or listen to Mrs. Collins’ mother scream about how the “witch lady” is going to kill us all on Christmas Day.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Reese, but I’m signed up to volunteer at Shady Pines,” Mary Katherine said sadly.
“I can cover your shift. I need someone to come to my house right away. Please. You’d be a lifesaver.”
“Then, of course! I’d love to babysit your son!” Mary Katherine beamed.
She wrote down the address and hung up. She knew that Jesus would notice that she chose the old folks home first. The fact that Mrs. Reese needed her to watch her son was outside of her control. And Mrs. Reese knew what the old folks home needed more than she did. So, this was a win win. Mary Katherine was respecting her elders by babysitting instead of volunteering. And she would have hours of babysitting time to work on her Notre Dame application.
She took all this as a very good sign.
As she drove over to Mrs. Reese’s house, she quickly scanned the side of the road for deer. She felt like she had made a good decision to babysit. After all, Christopher was the missing little boy that she had saved, and Father Tom said that in some cultures, once you save a life, you are responsible for it. But still, she couldn’t be too careful.
“Jesus, if I made a mistake, make me hit a deer.”
When no deer came, Mary Katherine turned on the radio to enjoy the rest of the drive. She was planning on listening to Christian rock, but Doug had left the dial on 102.5 WDVE. The station was playing a song by The Doors that she was uncomfortable admitting she liked as much as she did.
This is the end, my only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
She arrived at the house before the song ended without seeing a single deer.
“He has a fever,” Mrs. Reese explained. “So, he’s not allowed out of bed. Understood?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Reese. I took first-aid courses at youth group, and I’m a trained lifeguard. He won’t leave the bed.”
“But Mom, it’s still daylight,” Christopher pleaded. “Can’t I go outside?”
With a cold “no” and a warm “I love you,” Christopher’s mother kissed her son and left his bedroom. Mary Katherine followed her down to the garage. Mrs. Reese went through her checklist of emergency contact numbers and instructions and rules.
“I just gave him some Tylenol. You can give him some Advil in two hours with his dinner. Hopefully, he’ll fall asleep, but if he doesn’t, his bedtime is eight thirty. Don’t let him work you a minute past nine,” she said.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Reese. I’m tough on bedtimes. I won’t let you down.”
After Christopher’s mother drove away, Mary Katherine went back inside the warm house. She walked through the kitchen and living room, trying to figure out the best place to work on her Notre Dame application. Once she settled on the kitchen table, she put down her books and went to the refrigerator.
As she grabbed the carton of milk, she thought about her Notre Dame essay. They wanted her to write about a hero, but she couldn’t figure out which one. Her mom and dad were too obvious. Political ones were too risky. It would be great to write about Jesus, but since Notre Dame was a Catholic school, she was worried that too many kids would pick Him. But if she didn’t pick Jesus, then who would she pick? Pope Francis? John Paul II?
The Virgin Mary.
The thought came to her from out of nowhere. Jesus’ mother. Of course. What an inspired choice. That would be perfect!
She finished pouring the milk and closed the carton. She looked at the picture of the missing girl, Emily Bertovich. Poor thing. She wondered if Emily Bertovich would ever be found. Would she ever apply to college? Who were Emily Bertovich’s babysitters?
That thought chilled her blood.
Mary Katherine stopped and looked around the house. Suddenly something felt wrong. It was too quiet. Too warm. Like something was in the house. The cuckoo clock clicked away the seconds on its march to 4:00 p.m. Tick tick tick.
“Hello?” she said. “Who’s there?”
Mary Katherine waited for a response. None came. She looked back at the carton of milk. The picture of Emily Bertovich stared back at her. Smiling with those missing front teeth. Mary Katherine’s heart began to pound. She didn’t know what was wrong, but she could sense something. Like her father’s knee that knew there would be a storm an hour before the weatherman did.
“Christopher? If that’s you, you better go back to bed,” she said.
The silence was deafening. Mary Katherine quickly returned Emily Bertovich to the cold refrigerator. Then, she hurriedly walked through the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. But there was nothing there. Just that feeling. She was about to go upstairs to check the bedrooms when she looked through the sliding glass doors to the backyard. And there it was, standing in the snow, staring at her.
A deer.
The clock struck 4:00 p.m. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Mary Katherine knew something was terribly wrong. She raced upstairs to Christopher’s room.
“Christopher!” she said. “Christopher! Answer me!”
She opened his bedroom door and saw that Christopher was not in the bed. His window was open, the curtain fluttering in the breeze. Mary Katherine rushed to the window and stuck her head out.
“Christopher! Where are you!?” she screamed.
She looked down and saw the trail of his little footprints through the snow.
Right past the deer.
And into the Mission Street Woods.