Brian O'Grady - Hybrid

I’m in shock , he thought. Nothing more . He wrapped the towel tighter around his throbbing thumb and turned back to the door. He reached for the knob, and a loud click made him jump. He whirled back towards the mirror, only to find his crucifix swinging upside down from its rosary. He stared at the handmade, polished silver cross, which was his most prized possession. It had been a gift from the members of the very first church he had ever worked in. It had taken six people over a week to carefully mold each bead and to shape the crude figure. An unknown artist had long ago inscribed Mamhda, Kenya across the crossbar, the lettering barely legible after nearly three decades of use. It was precious to him, and it had been lost for more than a week. It clinked again as it tapped the glass of the mirror. The unseen presence had crossed the threshold that separated imagination from reality.

Believing in ghosts was of course a prerequisite for a Catholic priest, but this was Oliver’s first experience with one. His heart was thundering in his chest, and he felt the first squeeze of angina.

“Be gone, unclean spirit,” Oliver commanded, but the phantom ignored the order. He took his crucifix down and started to pray aloud. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. .” He closed his eyes and concentrated on his God, ignoring everything around him. Before he reached the end of the prayer, Oliver realized that he was alone. He thanked God and opened his eyes. The room had started to cool down, but not yet enough to clear the mirror. Oliver’s heart then gave another squeeze. Written in the dissipating steam was a message: MARY SAYS HELLO .

Perhaps if that had been the only message, Oliver could have gotten past it. He was still kneeling, his head down, avoiding the eyes of the crucified Christ. It was funny; for the last month, his mind and soul had been repeatedly assaulted, yet his body seemed to grow stronger. For years, his doctors had told him that his arthritic knees needed replacement, yet he could now kneel and even run short distances, two things he hadn’t been able to do for decades. Even his heart seemed to be working better. The last time he had felt the all-too-familiar squeeze of angina had been a morning three weeks ago when he had awakened to the vision of his sister burning in unquenchable flames. She writhed in agony at the foot of his bed, calling his name, cursing him for her torment. He had reached for her, and a tongue of flame shot from the pyre and scorched his hand, and then she was gone. The skin of his hand was burned off, and only charred muscle and bone remained. He tried to scream, but the shock had stolen his breath. The pain was, in a word, beautiful. It was all encompassing, filling every fiber of his being. Oliver had never experienced anything so absolute; not even the love of God was as complete.

He pleaded for it to stop, and then it was gone. Oliver examined his hand and was amazed to find that it was back to normal, right down to the age spots that covered his wrist. Intellectually, he knew it had all been just a hallucination, another manifestation of his ordeal, and that there was no reason to be surprised.

He put his arm down and stared through the now-vanished apparition. Illusion, nothing more, he told himself. Mary, his hand, the pain, they were all a trick. Only this illusion had a purpose — an intent. It tore away his façade of intellect and belief and exposed him for what he really was: a hypocrite and a fraud. A real pain in his chest began to intrude upon his reflection, and he reached for his Nitrobid. It was the last time he would need it, despite five more equally horrific and revealing visits from his dead sister.

Oliver stood. He had to get back to work. Morning mass was scheduled to begin in less than twenty minutes, and he still hadn’t gotten everything ready. The bishop was coming at Oliver’s request. Father Coyle would also be there. Oliver planned to celebrate the small weekday mass and then confess to both of them. He should have done this weeks ago, but all his life he had dealt with personal problems in his own very private way. It had been one of his father’s defining traits, and Oliver carried on the tradition. Apparently, even priests weren’t immune to living the stereotype of the strong, silent type.

This would be the last mass he would celebrate. He couldn’t go on playing the part of the devout priest after his faith had been systematically deconstructed by whatever or whoever was haunting him. Frances Coyle wouldn’t be too surprised. He knew something was bothering his colleague. On three occasions, he had violated their unwritten code of silence and tried to pry it out of Oliver. The bishop probably was also aware that something was wrong; he had accepted Oliver’s invitation without question or comment, which was quite extraordinary for the usually loquacious cleric. Oliver guessed that they both would try and talk him out of his decision, offering a vacation or some therapy as an alternative, and in the end, they would all agree on an extended leave of absence that Oliver knew would prove to be permanent. He would return to Chicago, where his sister’s estate had passed to him and instead of selling it and donating the proceeds, he would stay there for a while and collect himself. After that, he had no plans.

Oliver was collecting the last of the missals when he heard voices in the back of the church. Larry Ham, the parish’s deacon, was laughing with one of the church’s lay ministers. Oliver looked up, and the two men waved.

“Good morning, Father,” said Greg Flynn.

“You beat us in again, Father,” Larry Ham said. “You know, it would be okay for you to sleep in every once in a while. Greg and I can get things set up, and you can just come waltzing in at the last second as Father Coyle does. But then again, he’s so old, and you are in the flower of youth.” The two men chuckled, waiting for Oliver to take the bait so they could start the day with some good-natured ribbing of their pastor, but all Oliver could offer was a weak smile.

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Oliver said. Greg Flynn smiled back, and Oliver suddenly almost remembered something. A fragment teased just below his consciousness, something he was supposed to tell Greg or maybe ask him. Oliver waited for it to bob to the surface, but it disappeared.

“You okay, Father?” Greg asked. “You look somewhat preoccupied.”

Greg Flynn was a good man, a very good man in Oliver’s eyes. He had had his share of tragedies, but instead of becoming scarred and bitter, he seemed to have gained some perspective, some inner peace that so few people ever realized. Greg lived his faith, while Oliver only preached it. It was for the Greg Flynns of the parish that Oliver was stepping down. “Nothing serious,” Oliver replied, hiding behind the smile that he had refined so well these past two months.

“I was wondering if I might have a word with you before mass?” asked Greg.

“Can it wait until after mass?”

“I’m afraid I can’t stay for mass. I promise that it will only take a few moments.” Greg’s face had darkened.

Oliver guessed that something important must be going on in his life for him to miss morning mass. “Of course, let’s go to the sacristy.” As the two men walked into the priest’s changing room, he realized that this would probably be his last official confession. Oliver locked the door and showed his guest a seat. “What’s on your mind, Greg?” he asked.

“It’s my daughter, Amanda. Actually, she’s my daughter-in-law, but we’re. . close.”

Oliver was surprised by how nervous Greg seemed; he couldn’t ever remember the retired policeman being so hesitant in his manner. The stirrings of a memory struck Oliver a second time; he was supposed to ask Greg something — that was it. No, that wasn’t it. He was supposed to tell him something. His mind went back and forth, but couldn’t come up with it. He cursed his leaky memory.