Godsent

by Richard Burton

  Peter cleared his throat. “Does this make me, like, an apostle?”

  “That was Jesus’s thing. I’m not him.”

  “So I don’t get any special powers or anything?”

  “Pete!” laughed Lisa.

  “Just asking.”

  “Jesus was the first step,” Ethan went on. “Christianity took a lot of stuff from Judaism, but it also opened things up. I’m going to go beyond Jesus, beyond Christianity. What I have to say is for everyone to hear: Jews, Christians, Muslims.”

  “Sounds cool,” said Peter. “But what are you going to tell them, Ethan? I mean, what’s the message?”

  “I’m the message,” Ethan said.

  Back home, Ethan sat on the couch in the living room and watched television. Every channel was covering the “Miracle of Olathe Medical,” as it had been quickly and universally dubbed as if by the operation of a group mind, and at first he and Lisa had watched avidly, sitting side by side, listening as people told their stories and gave their opinions about what had happened, who or what was responsible, the explanations ranging from God to aliens to really out-there stuff that had them laughing or just shaking their heads in amazement. After a while, Lisa had gotten up to take a shower, and now she was napping in her room, worn out by all the excitement. “Being dead really takes it out of you” was how she’d half jokingly put it. Even so, she’d only gone after he’d promised her that there was no danger.

  Of course, that had been a lie.

  Ethan wondered if Jesus had been able to lie. Was that one of the differences between the Son of God and the Son of man? He didn’t know. There was actually quite a lot that he didn’t know about himself and his mission. He had faith that everything would become clear in its proper time, that God would reveal what he needed to know when he needed to know it, but even so, he couldn’t help feeling anxious about what was going to happen. Because, oh yes, there was danger, more danger than Lisa could imagine, but it wouldn’t do any good to tell her that, to frighten her. There was nothing she could do about it anyway.

  He hadn’t understood how difficult it was going to be to possess his power and the knowledge that went with it. When he looked at people, there was nothing hidden from his view. Only his own destiny was hidden from him. Looking at Peter, at Lisa, at the earnest or frightened or exalted faces on TV, he saw all the details of their lives, past, present, and future. He saw their wants, their fears, their hopes and dreams. He saw their sins both grand and small. He saw them as they did, magnified out of all proportion or similarly diminished, and then he saw them as God did: clearly, objectively. Both these viewpoints were his at once, superimposed on each other to make a third point of view, one that saw every joy, grief, and shame, and was moved to pity by all that it beheld, a pity that had nothing of judgment in it, but only love. Perhaps that was what it meant to be the Son of man. It was a torment of sorts, to love so much and see so clearly yet to hold it all back and say nothing, reveal nothing, force himself to respect the autonomy of those who were as transparent to him as glass, and as fragile. A torment, yes, but it was one that he was proud to bear, humbled by the privilege and the responsibility, by the beauty he saw in every soul, a beauty that shone through every sin with a light that could be dimmed but never extinguished as long as there was still life, not by all the devils in the universe or even by Lucifer himself. Though he didn’t know every facet of his mission, though much of his future was shrouded in shadow and uncertainty, one thing Ethan did know absolutely was that he would be the champion of that light in what was to come, no matter what it cost him.

  The buzzing of his cell phone roused him. He pulled it from his pocket, thinking it must be Peter or Maggie. After dropping Ethan and Lisa off, Peter had driven to Maggie’s house to bring her here for a talk that Ethan wasn’t looking forward to, but which he knew had to take place as soon as possible. But the phone call turned out to be from a reporter instead, a woman from the local FOX station named Rita Rodriguez, who was calling from Olathe Medical with questions about Lisa. It seemed his mother had been reported dead but was now missing from her room and from the hospital itself. Did Ethan know anything about what might have happened to her? As Ethan listened to Rita’s questions, he felt another piece of his destiny snap into place, and he understood that he’d been waiting for this call without knowing it.

  “My mom is here,” he said into the phone. “She’s fine.”

  “Here being where? Home?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you say she’s fine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ethan, I’m looking at your mother’s death certificate right now,” Rita’s breathless voice continued. “Are you saying there was a mistake?”

  “No, there was no mistake. She died. I was there when it happened.”

  “Every patient in the hospital was spontaneously healed earlier tonight. Are you aware of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “But your mother is the only one we’ve identified so far who was dead. Are you saying that she was returned to life?”

  “That’s right.”

  A pause. Then, “I’m sorry to ask this, Ethan, but are you on drugs?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m telling the truth. My mother was raised from the dead.”

  “Uh-huh. Care to explain how?”

  “Do you believe in miracles, Ms. Rodriguez?”

  “Son, I’m calling from a place where more than two hundred people who were gravely ill a couple of hours ago are now in perfect health. Does that answer your question?”

  “I brought her back.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I brought her back. And healed all those people.”

  An incredulous laugh. “You are on drugs!”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. Maybe I should talk to another reporter . . .”

  “Wait, can I speak to your mom?”

  “She’s asleep right now.”

  “Come on, Ethan. Am I supposed to believe that you’re Jesus Christ come again? And just on your say-so, without any proof? Maybe I believe in miracles, but it doesn’t mean I’m fucking crazy!”

  “I never said I was Jesus.”

  “Okay, then who are you?”

  “I’m . . . I guess you could say his little brother.”

  “You’re Jesus’ little brother.”

  “Sort of. I’m God’s other son. The second Son.”

  Another pause, longer than the first. Then, “Maybe I am fucking crazy. I’m coming over there, Ethan. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

  “I’ll be here,” he said and closed the phone.

  When he turned around, Peter and Maggie were standing at the entrance to the living room. Peter had an uncomfortable look on his face, but Maggie’s expression was beyond discomfort, all the way into incomprehension.

  “Uh, we didn’t want to interrupt,” said Peter lamely. “Guess I’ll be going.”

  “Please stay, Pete,” he said.

  “Uh, okay. I’ll just wait out in the, uh, kitchen.”

  “Thanks, Pete.”

  After Peter left the room, Ethan and Maggie stood as if rooted in place, gazing at each other in a tense silence that stretched thinner and thinner and finally, like a rubber band, snapped.

  “Mags, I—”

  “Ethan—”

  They spoke simultaneously, their words crashing together, canceling each other out but wiping away some of the tension, too.

  “You first,” Ethan said.

  “No, you.”

  “Are you going to just stand there, or do you want to come in?”

  Maggie was wearing jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt with the logo of last year’s Olathe Balloon Festival. Her hair was unbrushed, and now she pushed an unruly strand back from her forehead. Ethan thought that she had never looked so lovely. “I don’t know what I want,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest as if to put up a barrier between them. “I’m kind of freaked out. Pete told me some crazy stuff on the way over. About th
e hospital and your mom and, well, everything. And then to walk in here and find you on the phone like that . . . It’s a lot to take in all at once, you know?”

  Ethan smiled. “I can imagine.”

  “Can you? I doubt it. I feel like I don’t know you, Ethan. Like everything we shared was a kind of lie. Well, not a lie, maybe, but it wasn’t the truth, either, was it?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But I’d forgotten all of this myself. Did Pete tell you that?”

  “He told me. But I’m not sure it makes a difference. Not if everything else he told me is true. Well, is it?”

  “I’m not sure exactly what he told you, Mags.”

  “He said you healed all those people at the hospital, and that you raised your mom from the dead, for starters.” She spoke evenly, but he could see that she was close to hysterics beneath the facade of calm control. She rolled her eyes. “Raised from the dead. God, I can’t believe I just said that!”

  “It’s true, though. I know it sounds weird, but it’s true.”

  “He said . . .” She gulped, as if the words didn’t want to come out. “He said you’re the Son of God.”

  “The second Son,” Ethan said. “I’m not Jesus come again. I’m—”

  “I don’t care about that!” she interrupted suddenly, silencing him. “I don’t care about who you are or why you’re here or any of that crap. All I want to know is, what’s going to happen to us now? Is this the end?”

  “You mean the Apocalypse?” asked Ethan. “Like I told Pete—”

  “No, you idiot,” she interrupted again. “Not the Apocalypse. Us! You and me. Is this the end of us?”

  Ethan took a deep breath. This was the moment he’d been dreading. “Mags, I love you, but . . .” He stopped in shock as her face dissolved into tears.

  “I knew it,” she moaned.

  “Mags, listen . . .” He felt as if he’d stabbed her in the heart, and himself too. He took a step toward her, his arms opening . . .

  “Keep back, Ethan,” she said, raising a forestalling hand. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Please, Mags . . .” He didn’t know what he was asking.

  “You know what I think?” she demanded, swiping away her tears as she spoke. “I think on some level you knew all the time. That’s why you never wanted to have sex or anything. You had to be pure, right? Like Jesus. Only you thought you might as well get some practice at being human while you had the chance. You know, fool around a bit with some stupid human girl, just so you could understand us better.”

  Ethan blushed. Nothing that Maggie was saying was true, exactly, but there were elements of truth in it, as he knew very well. “It’s not like that, Mags.” He pled with her nevertheless, telling himself that he could still make her understand, convince her of what it had meant to him, of what she had meant . . . and always would mean.

  But she brushed aside any explanations he might have offered. “Oh my God,” she said, turning white as a sheet. “This is part of it too, isn’t it? Another little lesson for Jesus Junior.”

  “Mags,” he said again, uselessly. “Don’t you see that it has to be this way? I’m here for just a little while, and I’ve got things to do . . .”

  “Right, things to do, people to see, no place for the girl who was foolish enough to fall in love with you. Well, don’t worry, Ethan. I’m not going to add to your burden.” She turned around.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “But—”

  “Good-bye, Ethan. Good luck with whatever it is you’re here to do. For what it’s worth, I don’t hate you. But I don’t think I can go from girlfriend to disciple. That’s too much to ask.”

  Ethan took a deep breath. It would be so easy to reach out and make her stay, to rewrite the last few moments and make them come out differently. He’d done it before. He could make her decide to stay with him. Or he could go further, cast aside his mission, his purpose, his knowledge of who he really was, and be just another mortal again, Ethan Brown, the son of Lisa and Gordon Brown. He could have Maggie. He could marry her, have kids, live an ordinary life whose joys and grievings would be all of the divine that he required. Or, letting her go, he could heal her pain, wipe the memory of him from her mind, her heart. Fix what he had broken. He could do any of those things. The temptation of interceding in one way or another was so powerful that he shook with the effort of resisting it. But he did resist it. He had made his choice, and he meant to stick with it, regardless of the pain it caused him. And, even worse, far, far worse, regardless of the pain it caused others.

  “Good-bye, Maggie,” he said.

  Sobbing, she rushed from the house without a backward look.

  Ethan was crying himself. Without even realizing it, he had sunk back onto the couch, his legs no longer holding him up. He felt as if the rest of his life were going to be a succession of moments like this one, of goodbyes to people he loved yet was helpless to keep from hurting.

  “Dude, that didn’t go too well, did it?”

  He looked up to see Peter at the entrance to the living room. “No,” he said, sniffling. “It sure didn’t.”

  “I better go after her,” Peter said. “I mean, she doesn’t have any way home. And I figure she could use a friend right now.”

  Ethan nodded. In a flash, the future came to him, what this moment would lead to, but he shut his eyes to it. He couldn’t bear to look that far ahead. He would have to remember that, keep the blinders on, or he would certainly go mad. “Go on, Pete,” he said to his friend, forcing out a smile. “Go after her.”

  “Hmm, you’re not exactly what I was expecting.” Rita Rodriguez sized him up coolly from the other side of the front door, her cameraman behind her.

  “What were you expecting?” Ethan asked. “A halo?”

  Rita laughed at that, flashing perfect white teeth. She was a small woman, barely over five feet; though Ethan had seen her numerous times on TV, he’d never realized before just how short she was. But despite her size, she seemed larger than life, in that way television personalities have. Her head, with its perfectly coiffed brown hair, perfectly shining brown eyes, and perfectly smooth light brown skin, seemed slightly too big for her slim body, and so, now that he noticed it, did her breasts, the perfect cleavage of which peeked from the top of a low-cut beige blouse. She marked the direction of his gaze with amusement, then raised her confident eyes to his again; he saw intelligence there, ambition, vanity, and a fundamental decency her profession had yet to fully erode. She was divorced, with two children, a Catholic who went to Mass every Sunday but hadn’t taken Communion in more than three years. Nestled deep in her brain, known only to her doctor and herself, an inoperable cancer was growing. She smiled brashly “Can we come in?”

  He blinked, and the cancer was gone. “Sure, Ms. Rodriguez.”

  “Call me Rita.” She tipped her head to one side to indicate the cameraman, a burly black man with a trim goatee and a gold hoop in one ear. “This is Hobie.”

  Hobie nodded around the camera. Twenty-nine, a veteran wounded in the first big push on Tehran, he had an artificial leg that he was both ashamed and proud of, a taste for heroin he’d picked up in Afghanistan, and nightmares that jolted him screaming awake in the middle of the night and left him blubbering like a baby. He had loved Rita secretly, desperately, hopelessly, for the two years that he had been her cameraman. He hadn’t breathed a word of his feelings to her in that time and never would. He imagined himself as a knight in shining armor, a paladin . . .

  With an effort, Ethan looked away, stepping to one side to let Rita and Hobie enter the house. It was so easy to look past the skin, harder not to see than to see the secret places of the soul. Looking was hypnotic, almost like a drug, not because of its voyeuristic aspect but because the souls of human beings had been created to reflect their creator, and in them, more than anything else, Ethan could see traces of his father, who remained a mystery to him even now: a mystery, he sensed, whose s
olution would come only through his embrace of the mission he had been given, the task he’d been sent to accomplish—though he scarcely knew what was expected of him, only that he must follow this path he’d embarked on all the way to the end, just as Jesus had followed his own path. Would the path he was on now lead to the same destination? He didn’t know. He prayed that, wherever he was bound, he would make the journey with half the courage and compassion his brother had shown.

  “My mom’s still sleeping,” he said as he conducted Rita and Hobie into the living room, Hobie filming all the while. “Can I get you a glass of water or anything?”

  “Only if you change it to wine,” said Rita teasingly but also seriously.

  “If I could quench your thirst for miracles that easily, I would,” he told her. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?” she asked without missing a beat.

  Ethan had already decided that he wasn’t going to mention the long and ongoing conflict between Conversatio and the Congregation. Nor was he going to bring up the existence of Grand Inquisitor. What he had to say was going to be difficult enough to believe already, and omitting these things wouldn’t detract from it; really, they were distractions. Though he didn’t dismiss their importance in the here and now, ultimately they were unimportant, fleeting manifestations of an enduring power that had set itself against his father from the beginning of time.

  “My father has sent me to shake things up,” he said, echoing his earlier answer to Peter.

  “Your father . . . that would be God. Do you claim to be the Son of God?”

  “One of them.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Just two.”

  “What, no daughters?”

  “Not yet,” he said with a smile.

  “You claim to be responsible for the Miracle of Olathe Medical.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you say that you raised your own mother from the dead.”

  “You can ask her about that yourself when she wakes up.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that she was sleeping. I imagine it’s pretty exhausting, being raised from the dead.”