face of Mary McAllister, the patient to whom she was currently assigned, that kept sleep from her tonight.
She spent most of each shift with the old woman. Mrs. McAllister had only days left, maybe a week. Today, Jean had hardly been able to look at her. The cancer had left Mrs. McAllister withered and jaundiced, and pain medication ensured that she slept most of the time. Jean had given her a sponge bath, changed her garments, and tried her best to make her comfortable. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do. And tomorrow, Sunday, there would be no visit because she had the day off.
Attempting to console herself with those thoughts, Jean set her empty cup in the sink and walked back down the dark hallway to her bedroom.
~~~
In the parish house next to his church, Father Michael O’Brien was in his office, packing. Not books or files, only spoons. Father O’Brien was obsessed with spoons. He had accumulated close to seven hundred spoons in his eighty-six years. No two were alike. Tenderly, he lifted each one from a tattered cardboard box, examining it before placing it into a sturdy shipping box on his desk.
He collected the spoons in violation of his vow of poverty, and for this he felt guilty. When he thought about how he had obtained the spoons, he felt even worse. Still, there was something about a spoon--silver or stainless, elegant, frilly, or plain--that comforted him. He needed them. He had never been able to part with them.
Until now.
From his top desk drawer, he retrieved one final spoon. He placed it, a shiny silver teaspoon, in the shipping box. For a moment, he looked at it resting atop its box-mates, and then retrieved it. He would not part with this one. On the back of the spoon an inscription read, “ To my dear friend, Love, MHM. ”
The one person who knew of his collection, who had been his closest friend for more than sixty years, had given this spoon to him. It would not be a sin to keep this one spoon.
He eased himself into the chair at his desk. It was late, and his arthritis was acting up. He set the spoon on the desk and put on his reading glasses. There was a small package wrapped in brown paper on his desk, accompanied by a sealed envelope. He didn’t know what was in the package. As for the envelope, he knew that there was a letter inside, written on fine linen stationery. He longed to read the letter, but it was not for him to read...yet. With a sigh, he picked up the envelope and pressed it to his chest.
He looked out the window toward Mary’s mansion on the hill. The darkness and the whirling snow prevented him from seeing the big marble home, but he knew it was there, overlooking Mill River as it had for decades. He closed his eyes. He knew the history of that house, the joy and the suffering, especially the suffering, which had taken place and still took place within it. He knew Mary was there, and wondered if she were sleeping, as he had left her, or awake looking down upon him. Maybe her soul had already departed.
“Dear girl, may you finally be at peace,” he whispered, and looked once more into the storm toward the mansion on the hill.
Chapter 2
They were flying.
On a bright Saturday morning in June 1940, the refined drone of a Lincoln Zephyr coupe compromised the serenity of Vermont’s Green Mountains. After a few minutes, the black, sleek source of the noise appeared. The engine of the car powered it effortlessly along the winding country road. The wind whipped through the open windows of the car, through the blond hair of father and son, Stephen and Patrick McAllister.
The calmness of rural Vermont was in stark contrast to the events occurring in other parts of the world. Across the Atlantic, the Axis powers were bound by a common goal of world domination. Nazi armies had overrun Europe, forcing France into submission. Britain was evacuating soldiers from European countries at a frenzied pace. But these events were an ocean away and, for the moment,
She spent most of each shift with the old woman. Mrs. McAllister had only days left, maybe a week. Today, Jean had hardly been able to look at her. The cancer had left Mrs. McAllister withered and jaundiced, and pain medication ensured that she slept most of the time. Jean had given her a sponge bath, changed her garments, and tried her best to make her comfortable. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do. And tomorrow, Sunday, there would be no visit because she had the day off.
Attempting to console herself with those thoughts, Jean set her empty cup in the sink and walked back down the dark hallway to her bedroom.
~~~
In the parish house next to his church, Father Michael O’Brien was in his office, packing. Not books or files, only spoons. Father O’Brien was obsessed with spoons. He had accumulated close to seven hundred spoons in his eighty-six years. No two were alike. Tenderly, he lifted each one from a tattered cardboard box, examining it before placing it into a sturdy shipping box on his desk.
He collected the spoons in violation of his vow of poverty, and for this he felt guilty. When he thought about how he had obtained the spoons, he felt even worse. Still, there was something about a spoon--silver or stainless, elegant, frilly, or plain--that comforted him. He needed them. He had never been able to part with them.
Until now.
From his top desk drawer, he retrieved one final spoon. He placed it, a shiny silver teaspoon, in the shipping box. For a moment, he looked at it resting atop its box-mates, and then retrieved it. He would not part with this one. On the back of the spoon an inscription read, “ To my dear friend, Love, MHM. ”
The one person who knew of his collection, who had been his closest friend for more than sixty years, had given this spoon to him. It would not be a sin to keep this one spoon.
He eased himself into the chair at his desk. It was late, and his arthritis was acting up. He set the spoon on the desk and put on his reading glasses. There was a small package wrapped in brown paper on his desk, accompanied by a sealed envelope. He didn’t know what was in the package. As for the envelope, he knew that there was a letter inside, written on fine linen stationery. He longed to read the letter, but it was not for him to read...yet. With a sigh, he picked up the envelope and pressed it to his chest.
He looked out the window toward Mary’s mansion on the hill. The darkness and the whirling snow prevented him from seeing the big marble home, but he knew it was there, overlooking Mill River as it had for decades. He closed his eyes. He knew the history of that house, the joy and the suffering, especially the suffering, which had taken place and still took place within it. He knew Mary was there, and wondered if she were sleeping, as he had left her, or awake looking down upon him. Maybe her soul had already departed.
“Dear girl, may you finally be at peace,” he whispered, and looked once more into the storm toward the mansion on the hill.
Chapter 2
They were flying.
On a bright Saturday morning in June 1940, the refined drone of a Lincoln Zephyr coupe compromised the serenity of Vermont’s Green Mountains. After a few minutes, the black, sleek source of the noise appeared. The engine of the car powered it effortlessly along the winding country road. The wind whipped through the open windows of the car, through the blond hair of father and son, Stephen and Patrick McAllister.
The calmness of rural Vermont was in stark contrast to the events occurring in other parts of the world. Across the Atlantic, the Axis powers were bound by a common goal of world domination. Nazi armies had overrun Europe, forcing France into submission. Britain was evacuating soldiers from European countries at a frenzied pace. But these events were an ocean away and, for the moment,
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