He pushes the stained glass door open and drags himself, exhausted, into the chapel. There are two women there already, one blonde with a red hat, the other grey-haired in a black old-lady dress with shoulder pads. Instinctively they look up at the noise of the door swinging shut. He sits down in the back pew and waits for God to show up.
The old woman begins to whisper. “Lord, protect my Jeanie.” Over and over, she whispers the same words, chant-like.
Below him, the pew rapidly becomes uncomfortable, and the grey-haired woman’s voice becomes a steady hum. I wonder what happened, he thinks, nodding off a bit despite the hard-backed seat. I wonder who her doctor was. Certainly not God.
He looks up as he feels a tap on his shoulder. “Sir?” says the woman in the red hat.
“Yes?” he says. It’s not customary for people to talk in here.
“Do you just come here to sleep?” she asks. She’s young. Maybe 17 or 18 at the most.
“Sometimes,” he says, stretching.
“And the other times?” she asks, sitting down a few feet away.
“The other times,” he says. “The other times I come here to figure out where God is.”
“Is he here, d’you think?” she asks. So many questions I can’t answer today. We both look up as the old woman begins to cry, her shoulder-pads quivering.
“Does that look like God’s doing?” I say, still staring at the old woman.
“Probably not,” she says. “I don’t know.”
They sit a few minutes longer, listening to the woman with the shoulder-pads crying and praying.
He turns to the blonde girl and asks, “Why are you here?”
“You looked sad,” she says with a shrug.
“I mean, why are you in the hospital? Who’s sick?” he says.
“No one. It’s just warm,” she answers. “And I like to watch people.”
“Does your mom work here? Or your dad?” he says, his eyebrows wrinkled.
“No,” she says and looks away.
Folding his hands in his lap, he leans forward to touch his forehead to the cool wood of the next pew. He feels his eyes drooping again after a few minutes. Squeezing them shut, he says, “If you’re homeless you can’t stay here.”
The girl checks her phone and he glances over to check the time. 2:27. Have I been here for… 42 hours? Six more to go. He notices a bruise on her arm.
Reaching for it, he asks, “How long—?”
Their heads snap up in unison as they hear the old woman yell out. He stands up, ears attuned to distress, and pushes past the girl to the woman three rows away.
“Are you alright?” he asks, kneeling awkwardly between the pews. He reaches for her wrist to check her heart rate, and she pulls away, hand to her chest. He motions for the blonde girl to get help. She disappears through the stained glass doors. The woman won’t let him near her.
“You’re the man who hit my Jeanie!” she says.
“No, ma’am,” he says, “I’m a doctor here. Please let me help you.”
“I’m not crazy!” she shouts. “You hit her. You hit her and you came back to insult her.”
“Ma’am, you need to calm down,” he says, finally catching her flailing arms. Her pulse is racing and her blue-veined skin is hot. Her eyes roll back into her head and she faints. Grabbing her before she hits the ground, he looks over to the door, still waiting for the girl to come back with a nurse. Shit.
“Ma’am!” he shouts. “Ma’am! Stay with me. Wake up!” Her eyes flutter and then widen with fear. “Ma’am, it’s okay. I’m a doctor.”
“No!” she screams. “Jeanie’s dead! You killed her! No!” She strikes him square in the nose, and he feels it break, warm blood dripping into his mouth. She stands up, pocketbook in hand and waddles up the aisle and through that damn stained glass.
He wipes his nose on his jacket sleeve, looks at his reflection in the blue-black plastic of the security camera, and sets his nose with a grimace. He turns around, locks the double doors, and lies down again on the well-worn back pew. Pops a few oxy from his coat pocket.
Where are You?
