Seeing Jesus

by Jeffrey McClain Jones

  Even Ray could sense Philly’s mood change and knew enough to ask, “How is she?”

  “Not good,” Philly said, making a muted attempt at the sandwich again.

  “Hmmm, she was always a good grandma,” Ray said, remembering particularly how tolerant Philly’s grandma had been when the boys got caught throwing water balloons at innocent pedestrians in her neighborhood.

  Philly nodded as he chewed. He kept a cover on his feelings, sure that if he uncapped them there would be a gusher. He said little for the rest of the lunch and listened politely to Ray’s latest romantic conquests and work complaints—the usual.

  When Philly finally finished his sandwich and iced tea, Ray followed him outside. They both paused to bask in the welcomed sun for a brief moment. Ray pulled sunglasses out of the breast pocket of his light gray suit. Glancing briefly at his friend in those shades, with that suit and a winter cruise tan, Philly thought Ray looked pretty good. It seemed to Philly, however, like a disguise, attempting to conceal the weasel inside that suit.

  Philly looked away and then switched into polite mode. “Okay, Ray. Sorry I wasn’t good conversation today. My grandma, ya know.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Philly. You know I like to talk anyway.” Ray laughed at himself. “You take care now and tell your grandma I said ‘Hi’.”

  Philly nodded, trying not to roll his eyes at Ray’s unintended irony. They turned and walked their separate ways, Ray to his new Camaro, parked up the block and Philly back to work, where he would struggle to focus through his anxiety about his grandma.

  Just before he left that evening, Brenda stopped by the network room, where Philly was testing some new equipment. He looked up and brightened for just a blink, when he saw Brenda wandering into the maze of racks and cables, apparently dazed by the array of flickering LEDs of green, red, blue and amber.

  “Hey, I didn’t see you all day,” Brenda said, as if complaining to the fates for arranging the universe against her.

  Philly shrugged, “You were gone from your desk when I stopped by earlier.”

  Brenda looked impressed that he had actually tried to make contact. She had sent an email, which he had not noticed, his attention buried in the setup instructions for a new firewall device. “Oh, did you go out for lunch?” she said.

  “Yeah, I met Ray-Ray.”

  “When you getting off?”

  “Soon, I gotta go to the hospital and see my grandma,” he said, inadvertently preventing a spontaneous hookup that evening. “She’s in a coma now,” he said, as if forgetting to put on the breaks before sliding right back into that anxiety.

  “What?” Brenda squealed slightly. “Oh, my God. When did this happen?”

  “Last night, I guess. I talked to my ma today.”

  “Oh.” Brenda felt her own brakes easing down, with no screech, but a little bump at the end. “Okay, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she said, surrendering the fantasy she had constructed for that evening.

  In a sweeping effort to express some of the romance she had been imagining as she typed proposals all day, Brenda stepped up to Philly and kissed him on the cheek, placing her right hand on his shoulder as she did.

  Philly smiled with half of his mouth and raised an eyebrow, his face the definition of pleasant surprise. “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe I’ll call and tell you how she is, after I visit,” he said, sensing the need for some small consolation.

  “Oh, that would be nice,” she said and then waved and made her exit, just as Philly’s boss appeared at the door.

  After work, Philly didn’t even stop for supper first, feeling the pull to his grandma’s side, with an urgency that wouldn’t yield to practicalities. After getting the room number from the kindly attendant at the information desk, a gray-haired woman who seemed to know how to say room numbers in a sympathetic fashion, he scuffed down the marble-tiled hall to the elevators and then through the faintly nauseating odors of the patient floor. He should have eaten first; a full stomach would have been less vulnerable to the power of those smells.

  Hesitating at his grandmother’s room, suddenly wishing he had checked that his mother wouldn’t be there, he gently pushed the dark, wooden door with one hand and peeked through the slowly-widening opening. He stopped for a second, when he saw that someone was there, but then lurched forward, when he realized it was just a man visiting the other woman in his grandma’s room. Except for the medical equipment, and a sort of reading light above her roommate, Grandma’s room was dark. Philly eased into the darkness, like a swimmer determined to do his laps in Lake Michigan in late spring.

  The monitors, equipment lights and nurse’s night light sagged beneath the weight of the darkness. That belabored light made it hard for Philly to feel comfortable with the notion that the old woman in that bed was really his grandma. For a moment, he thought of his mother telling him once, at a funeral, that the body was not really Grandpa. He wondered if a coma was a step in that same direction. He sat down in the chair on the window side of her bed, keeping his eyes on her constantly, as if afraid he would miss some fleeting sign of life if he looked away.

  On the other side of the golden colored curtain, he could hear the middle aged man talking to his wife in Spanish. Philly couldn’t understand what they were saying and blocked them out of his mind.

  Sitting there, looking at the still form entangled in plastic tubes, he felt as if he should do something. Prayer came to mind, because that’s what Grandma would do in that situation. She had told her children and grandchildren of her prayers for them as often as she got a chance. Philly wondered if she told him this so that he could be looking out for the answers to her prayers. He assumed he would have a hard time recognizing them. Philly decided to talk to her about this, perhaps out of desperation over what he should say.

  “Hi, Grandma. It’s Philly,” he said. Then he thought how silly that sounded. Of course, she could recognize his voice, if she could hear him at all. He almost gave up on his plan at that point, but silence seemed more ridiculous than talking.

  He continued in a low voice, hoping the man and his wife on the other side of the curtain couldn’t hear what he was saying. “Grandma, I know you say you always pray for me. And I sort of feel like I should be praying for you here, but you know I’m not too comfortable with that sorta thing. And I’ve always wondered how you can tell if something you prayed ever worked out like you wanted because you prayed. I don’t think I ever asked you that before, but I often wondered about it. Then again, I’m not really sure exactly what sort of things you pray for me, anyway. Is it just that I’m safe? Or maybe for all the things I need to be provided?”

  Not one to monologue in any situation, Philly felt like he was rambling. But he told himself that this was good for Grandma. So he continued.

  “If you can hear me, can you pray for me even now? Or is it just listening that you can do when you’re in a coma? I guess you’ll have to tell me when you wake up.”

  Sadness, like a wave of vertigo, rose up in Philly at the unspoken question, “What if she doesn’t wake up?” He sat in silence for over a minute. The voice of the man through the curtain rose a bit as he seemed to be saying his parting words. Philly stopped listening to that detached voice and leaned forward, trying to keep his composure. He found Grandma’s hand under the blanket and held it gently, feeling the warmth of her life seep through that thin layer of cloth.

  “I know what I need you to pray for me now, Grandma,” Philly said in a melancholy voice. “I need you to pray that I survive not having you with me, not having you to talk to, to listen to. That’s what I need you to pray for me now.”

  Philly sat silently again, listening to the faint breathing of the body in the bed, the only sign of life and barely enough to assure that he wasn’t alone. He sat there for half an hour, until his mother arrived and he pretended to be on his way somewhere.

  He forgot to eat supper that night, staring at the television for a couple of hours and then going to bed e
arly. He also forgot entirely about calling Brenda, his head spiraling with inarticulate fears for his dearest relative, still wondering about Grandma’s prayers.

  Chapter Two

  Philly’s alarm clock rang at six-thirty, as usual. But he already lay awake, staring at the pastel patterns of light emerging on his ceiling, as the sun levitated off of Lake Michigan. He idly itched his chest, as he sat up and flipped the alarm to off, ending the piercing protest from the little plastic guardian of his employment. Irving stood at the foot of the bed examining Philly for signs of intent, regarding the very important matter of canned cat food.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I got you covered, old boy,” Philly said, in response to Irving’s impatient mewing.

  Standing in the kitchen, with the bright light beaming from the basketball-sized, white orb in the middle of the yellow stained ceiling, Philly squinted and scratched, while Irving sought to satisfy tactile urges by winding in and out of the man’s bare ankles. When he pulled a new can of cat food from the cupboard and set it on the counter, Philly noticed the empty coffee jar in the garbage can next to him. This time, he considered brewing half a pot of coffee and even thought of carrying an extra cup with him for Brenda, in case she ran out of time again. That would be really nice of him, he thought.

  Irving’s mewing finally reached a crescendo. He followed his plate from its frustrating elevation, past his nose, to its usual spot on the old, green linoleum tile. The ringing clatter of the Corelle plate on the floor harmonized with the enthusiastic purring of the cat, as it did every morning. This service, to the only other occupant of the apartment, deposited a sense of purpose in Philly’s heart, one that boosted him into the routine for venturing out into the wide world.

  By the time he was showered and shaved, the coffee brewed, his clothes on and his hair mostly dried, Philly had once again witnessed the mysterious disappearance of nearly an hour. He wondered if some day he would find those escaped hours, perhaps lurking in a dark corner with several dozen delinquent socks.

  This morning, he grabbed two travel mugs for the coffee and added some vanilla flavored creamer to each, knowing that this was how Brenda would like hers and deciding to accompany her this time. He had to first sniff the alloyed cream, to make sure it was still fit for consumption.

  Philly tightened the lid of Brenda’s mug, his peace offering for not calling the night before, and took an awkward sip from the scarred, black, plastic lid of his mug. He had to double back to grab his keys, checking for the third time that he had his phone. He planned to text Brenda about the coffee as soon as possible, though she would already be on the train by now. He slipped Brenda’s firmly-sealed mug into his jacket pocket, hoping to use his free arm to keep it from swinging wildly as he walked.

  Walking and drinking proved challenging for Philly, the tan coffee filling the top of the travel mug nearly to the brim, as he tipped it to drink and missed repeatedly. When he reached his bus stop, he sheltered his face in his phone and texted the offer of coffee to Brenda. She didn’t answer before the bus arrived.

  As usual, Philly boarded the bus last and found a seat on the right hand side. He decided to slip his phone into his other jacket pocket, with his wallet, so he could catch Brenda’s return text. As soon as he settled himself, sucking the last bits of escaped coffee off the top of the travel mug, he noticed a man sitting in front of him on the bench facing the aisle. The Middle Eastern looking man, with long hair and a beard, wore a long, white robe and a long, blue sort of coat.

  Philly tried to look at the stranger without being detected, thinking that he would usually have to go to Evanston, or New Town, to see a character like this. But the stranger startled Philly by turning toward him and speaking to him.

  “Hello, Philly. How are you this morning?” the man said in the most sincere and friendly tone.

  Philly stared at him, now afforded a perfect view of the eccentric’s face. The man appeared to be a bit over thirty years old, his dark eyes greeting Philly and the whole bus, it seemed. Such public friendliness from a stranger concerned Philly deeply, as it would most urban dwellers. But the most disturbing aspect of this meeting had just nestled into Philly’s brain. The man had called him by name.

  Philly said, with the stilted rhythm of a man reading a cue card that someone else has hand-written, “Ah, how do you know me?”

  The stranger smiled and said, “Oh, I know everybody, but I’m here to see you, just now.”

  Philly heard something dripping on the floor and then he heard a kid say, “Hey, mister, you’re spilling on the floor.”

  Philly jerked his cup upright, looking down at the new little river of opaque, tan liquid on the dirty, black floor. He glanced at the kid, but said nothing, feeling that he had bigger problems to deal with. As he turned back to the stranger, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, presumably the answer from Brenda.

  “That’s Brenda,” said the stranger. “She’s very grateful for the coffee. That really WAS nice of you,” he said.

  Philly stared at the smiling man, fumbling for his phone, hitting the on button and reading the text:

  “Wow, thats really nicd of yu. Thx a bunch!!!” it read.

  “T-H-X a bunch,” said the stranger, who couldn’t possibly see the phone display from where he sat.

  “How do you know that? Who are you?” Philly said in a voice one might hear on a late night movie about a serial killer.

  The bus stopped and a young woman, who had been holding onto the handle on the back of Philly’s seat, stepped toward the door. She looked hard at Philly, as if examining a crime scene that both concerned and disgusted her. She looked away quickly when he noticed her gaze.

  “You might not want to respond to me out loud,” the stranger said confidentially. “No one else can see and hear me as you can.”

  Philly took a moment to comprehend what the stranger had said and suddenly he understood the implications. He glanced around the bus and caught three or four people watching him suspiciously. Then he retreated mentally, trying to find the moment his alarm clock woke him. Surely he must be dreaming, so he wouldn’t be able to find that moment. But he could. He remembered sitting up. He remembered the early light on the ceiling. And he remembered the belated alarm attempting to wake the already awake. But that must have been all part of the dream. He smelled the coffee, looking down at his hand, which had collected a few drops of the leaking liquid. Philly couldn’t remember smelling anything in a dream before.

  “It’s not a dream, Philly. I’m really here, as you are, but I’m only visible to you and to no one else,” the stranger said, his voice sympathetic and reassuring.

  “Who . . .” Philly started to say aloud, but then stopped himself, looking around again. Again he found those haunted, vigilant looks on the faces of his fellow passengers.

  For a second, he considered how to communicate without speaking.

  “It’s just like when you talk to yourself, when you play out those conversations in your head,” said the stranger. “Just do one side of that conversation and I’ll do the other.”

  “Okay,” Philly said inside his head. “Who are you and what are you doing to me?” he said, with inaudible panic.

  “I’m Jesus and I’m here to keep you company.”

  “You’re Jesus?” Philly said, still managing to keep the conversation internal, which was complicated by the fact that the stranger seemed to answer with audible words.

  “Yes. Your grandma prayed for me to keep you company and to talk with you.”

  Philly attempted to recall his exact words to his grandmother the night before. Would she do that? Could she do that?

  “She prayed? When?” Philly thought.

  “Last night. She could hear you and was concerned about you. She knows she’s not always going to be around for you, so she prayed for me to accompany you.”

  “Accompany me to work?”

  “Yes, and to be with you at work and at home. Everywhere.”

  �
��And no one else sees you?” Philly looked around again, more surreptitiously this time. He found his fellow passengers only watching him out of the corners of their eyes now.

  “This is your stop,” Jesus said.

  Philly looked up and then scrambled to his feet, slipping slightly in the coffee spill. He looked down briefly but quickly made his exit, along with three regulars who got off at the same stop. Jesus followed him off the bus. The extra mug of coffee, in Philly’s jacket pocket, banged against his hip like another hallucination vying for his attention, pulling his jacket askew and adding to his imbalanced feeling.

  Adjusting his jacket, remembering to hold his own coffee upright and walking to his second bus as if chased by a stalker, Philly forced himself to not look left or right, in case his impossible companion was still with him. He tried to remember what he had said to Grandma and what his Jesus illusion had said to him, but struggled to remember accurately. Instinctively, he turned to his right, to check with Jesus about exactly what he had said and there he was, striding along beside Philly, a smile on his face and his eyes taking in all of the people around them.

  Philly rode the LaSalle Street bus in silence, sorting out the disaster scene that his mind had become, bits of reality scattered about on the ground where they never should have been, blown apart by a crushing earthquake or rushing tornado. Then he looked up at that stranger, who seemed to have no problems and who had taken a seat on the second bus just like the first, where Philly couldn’t help seeing him.

  When he saw him, Philly’s heart-rate accelerated. He was still there. What about work?

  One should note here that—while Philly didn’t attend any sort of church and his parents had avoided church for his entire life, having lapsed from the disparate faiths with which each grew up—he couldn’t conceive of simply telling his Jesus mirage to go away and leave him alone. That just didn’t seem the way to talk to someone who might actually be the Son of God, as far as Philly could tell. Additionally, Grandma’s vibrant faith worked covertly inside his mind to restrain any temptation to such irreverence.