Chapter 18
Holy Tuesday, March 30, 6:17 p.m. Passion Ministry
As Rachel settled down to dinner with the Jacobs, she jumped on the offensive. “So, you don’t have foot wounds? Many stigmatics seem to have all five injuries.”
Maggie shot a quick look at Jimmy. “Rachel, darling, we don’t—”
Jimmy interrupted. “You don’t say having the wounds, Rachel—by the way, they’re called the Marks of Passion—you say carrying the stigmata. Right, Father?”
Stunned silence.
Jimmy looked around. “What’s with everybody? Don’t you think I know ‘bout this stuff?” He chugged his milk. “Not a baby.”
“Of course you’re not, Jimbo,” John replied when he found his voice. “It’s just that...well, receiving the stigmata’s complicated. I...we…” He attempted a smile. “Didn’t want to frighten you by too much detail.”
“Who’s frightened? Think it’s honking.” Jimmy stuffed spinach into his mouth. “You’re gonna love this, Rachel. Lightning kills a thousand people a year...a bolt’s hotter than the surface of the sun!”
“But some people survive,” replied Rachel.
“Yeah. Don’t get that.”
“Simple, darling,” Maggie said. She stroked John’s hand. “Miracles do happen.”
Involuntarily, Rachel winced at her mother’s use of the endearment.
Jimmy screwed his eyes shut. “What’s for dessert?”
“Ice cream.”
John took a sip of water and grimaced.
“You’re not eating?” Rachel asked, now aware of the scent of roses. This’s ridiculous. There’re no flowers anywhere. It wasn’t her mother’s perfume. She sniffed, considering. Could it be the odor of sanctity? The supposed telling sign of the stigmatic? Can’t be. Can it?
“Never does when the marks’re present,” Jimmy answered, turning to his father. “Why is that?”
“Not really sure,” John replied. “Just can’t keep food down.”
“What do you do?” Jimmy mumbled through a mouthful of pasta.
“Me?” Something about the boy attracted Rachel. She wanted to touch him. Don’t be so stupid. “I’ve got two passions, Jimmy. First and foremost, I’m a sculptor.”
“Oh, Rachel,” Maggie broke in. “That’s wonderful!” She reached across to pat her hand. “Your great-grandfather was a well-known painter.”
“He was?” Rachel was silent for a moment, looking at her hands. “So that’s where it came from.”
“And the other?” asked Jimmy.
“Other?”
“You said two passions.”
“Oh, yeah.” Rachel hesitated. “I write about the religious experience.”
“You what?” Maggie exclaimed.
They all gaped at her.
Flushing, Rachel fiddled with a fork. “I…uh…examine people’s faith. Try to understand why they believe.”
“Do you?”
“Sorry, John. Do I what?”
He watched her. Rachel felt like she was falling. “Believe.”
“Aww, this’s boring,” Jimmy whined, kicking the table. “Tell us more about the stigmata, Father. I’ve read about Padre Pio and Therese Neumann, humongously hot.” He spun round to Rachel. “They had visions and could bilocate!”
“Bilocate?” Maggie whispered.
Balancing a leaf of spinach on his fork, Jimmy grinned. “Being in two places at the same time.” He munched vigorously. “Far out, huh? Kinda like Cylons. D’you, Father?”
John shifted position. “No, son. This isn’t a topic for dinner, especially with Rachel here.”
Rachel noticed John’s frayed breathing. A fine mask of sweat covered his face. “We’re here to welcome her as family—” He looked lovingly at Maggie. “—and to ask her to stay as long as she’d like.”
“Yes, darling!” added Maggie. “Please say you’ll stay, won’t you?”
“I’d be delighted to introduce you to my...” John grinned self-consciously. “My inner sanctum. I’m very fortunate. Got an amazing team of advisors.”
Rachel’s radar was confused by John’s offer. Effusive affection wasn’t uncommon in cult leaders, but openness? Never. Found herself almost believing him. And made a mental note to question her mother. There had to be deception somewhere.
“C’mon, you guys! Rachel studies the religious experience. You’d kill to hear about Father’s stigmata, wouldn’t you?”
“Well,” Rachel replied, “I wouldn’t put it like that, Jimmy, but...it is fascinating.”
“See? Please, Father,” the boy pleaded. “I’ll do anything you want. Clean my room, your room, even Rachel’s room. Please.”
John looked at Maggie. She nodded. “Okay, but remember. Receiving the stigmata’s not cool and it’s not Battlestar Galatica. Got that?”
“Uh huh.”
John took Maggie’s hand. “Okay, it started eighteen years ago. I was still in college, trying to pay my way by singing in rock bands.” He smiled briefly at the memories. “Lousy ones. Anyway, one day, I was walking to a gig when my wrists started to itch, then to burn. It was really weird.”
He unconsciously stroked a wrist bandage. Dinner forgotten, his companions hung on every word. “By the time we took the stage, my side was aching. It was hard to hold the microphone. Between sets, I went to the men’s room and looked.”
John’s eyes shone with wonder. “There was a nickel-sized reddish mark on each wrist and a thin red line under my right rib cage.” He unraveled the bandages covering his left wrist, wincing slightly as he reached skin.
“No, John,” Maggie cried. “You’ll frighten him.”
“Not knowing, love, that’s frightening. I see that now.” He held out his bare wrist.
Rachel and Jimmy stared in disbelief at the small, blood-encrusted wound. Rachel’s ears began to ring.
“For some inexplicable reason, I’d been chosen. I don’t know why.” John exhaled deeply. “I’ve asked myself that question thousands of times. You...you don’t experience the wounds of Jesus Christ’s death and remain the same. It took me awhile to figure it out but finally, I knew I was blessed for a reason. To help people. That’s why I started the Ministry.”
“I’ve seen pictures,” Jimmy said. “Why’re your wounds in your wrists and others, like Padre Pio, carry them in their palms?"
John shrugged.
Saliva squirted into Rachel’s mouth. She gripped the table.
“What’s it feel like?” Jimmy asked, reaching.
John shook his head. Rewrapped his wrist. “It’s hard to describe. It’s like getting the best and worst present all wrapped up in one.”
“Dessert time!” Jimmy squealed. “I’ll get it, ‘kay?”
Rachel heard the suck of the fridge door. She was desperate for a drink and fresh air. “I’m sorry, but would you excuse me?” She stood, too quickly. Leaned against the chair.
The phone rang.
“On it!” Jimmy shouted.
“Rachel, darling,” asked Maggie. “What’s wrong?”
“I...I’m fine…just a headache. Thank, ooh—” Rachel started to gag. “Bathroom?”
Maggie gestured.
“Hey, Rachel!” Jimmy announced, poking his head out. “Your friend Harry’s coming.”
Rachel ran to the washroom. Slammed the door. Moments later, with her chin resting on the cool porcelain toilet, she heard the familiar voice.
Oh God! What’s he doing here?
