10:20 a.m. Passion Ministry

Harry released Rachel when she assured him that she was going to meet her mother. Now as she roamed, trying to decide if she was losing it or if Harry really was dangerous, she found the Ministry’s corridors very active. Everyone who she met, looked her in the eye. Smiled. Wished her ‘Good morning’.

She eyed each, searching for signs of brainwashing: exhaustion, malnutrition, fear. Nothing. She felt worse than they looked! The Passionates could very easily be taken for university students, sporting event attendees, even pharmacy shoppers. Strange kinda cult.

She headed into a room where a trio of women were chatting around a table. They glanced up. Smiled warmly. Seconds later, her mother arrived and hugged her.

Rachel looked at the others, hesitated. Asked softly, “How’s John?”

Her mother’s eyes, puffy and bloodshot, told the tale. “He...he’s better, praise be to God.” She and the others quickly crossed themselves. “Andy, that’s Dr. Somerville, managed to stem the blood flow after you and your friend left,” her mother added. “He’s sleeping now.”

Maggie took Rachel’s sleeve and began introductions. “Sheila, our legal counsel and PR queen, whom you already know.”

Rachel recognized the red-headed woman from their chat following the Welcome. “Guess now we’ve both met a ghost,” Sheila said.

Rachel chuckled at their inside joke.

“And this’s Susan, one of our addiction counselors.” Susan stood. Offered her hand.

“And,” Maggie added, “last but not least, Pat, who’s been with the Ministry since the beginning and who co-ordinates all our counseling.”

The tiny woman bowed, clasped both of Rachel’s hands. Bright green eyes searched her face. “Welcome, Rachel.”

What has she seen? Rachel longed for a drink.

“The resemblance is remarkable,” said Pat, releasing Rachel. “You’re right, Maggie. She’s lovely.” Rachel flushed. “Come, child. Have a cup of tea.”

“I asked you to join our regular morning chat ‘cause I thought you’d like to know more about the Ministry,” Maggie said, disappearing into another room. Her voice floated out. “My friends know pretty much everything.”

Rachel edged onto a chair. Looked blankly at the others.

“Maggie tells us you’re a sculptor,” Pat said.

Distracted, Rachel nodded, wondering if her mother was avoiding being alone with her. There’s so much I want to know.

“I’ve always wanted to create,” Pat continued, “but life gets in the way.”

Sheila snorted. “Don’t believe that! Behind those innocent cat eyes lies the brain of a renowned pioneer in grief counseling. She’s created three best-selling books to boot.”

Rachel blinked. “You’re Patrice O’Brien, author of The Grieving Soul?”

Pat nodded.

“I...I read it when...” Rachel tugged at her hair. “Doesn’t matter. Helped a lot. Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome, child.” Pat glanced up. “Is that the time? Oh, dear, I’m sorry, but I have to go. So glad to have met you, Rachel. I know we’ll be chatting again soon.” Another quick bow, and she slipped from the room.

Rachel watched as the remaining women shared tea, showing true affection and respect. She had never thought of her mother as having friends.

As a child, her strongest memories of Maggie were of fear and insecurity. It had taken years of therapy before Rachel learned to hold her head high and unearth the courage to speak publicly. How had her mother, humiliated by the cult mentality for many more years, done it?

Swallowing a lump in her throat, Rachel poured milk. “How’s Jimmy after all that—” She hesitated. “—ice cream?”

“Not too well,” Maggie replied. “Had another attack last night, after John’s...”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“He complained of a stomach ache when I put him to bed. I...I was a little distracted...” Maggie’s voice faded. “He’s been different, more vulnerable somehow lately. I...I can’t put my finger on it.”

Fearing the conversation would head her way, Rachel said, “So, ladies, tell me. What do you get out of working for the Ministry?”