“I’m moving,” she said modestly, her voice sounding small. “I need to transfer my phone service.”
“Moving in the same area code?” the woman asked loudly without looking up.
“Yes, ma’am,” Renee answered politely. “Three blocks, actually.” Renee handed her the old billing statement. The woman scrutinized the form for awhile while Renee waited in quiet expectation. Then, the woman, whose nametag said “Pam” typed away at the computer for an impossibly long time giving no indication how long she expected to be occupied. Renee looked around at the outdated office, her mind wandering. Her new apartment was a third of the size of her first one and half the rent. Ostensibly, her reason for moving was to save money, not because I’m running away. I’m not running away, she thought to herself firmly. A month earlier, Renee had quit her job at the Fox Tail. When her depression the previous spring did not lift with the many interventions she had attempted, she set her mind on having an even bigger security net. By working six days a week over the summer, she had earned enough to go a year without working at all if she needed to. Now, she finally felt she needed to. She calculated she might be able to stretch this break out to two years if she got a smaller apartment. She also considered asking Ray for five or ten hours at the coffee house. For now, she just needed to take an inventory of the recent events of her life. She wanted to go to confession for once and not have to recite the phrase near temptation of sin or committing adultery with their minds. The words sent a shiver through her spine as she stood in the unwelcoming waiting area.
“I think we can give you the same phone number,” Pam said gruffly, continuing to type.
“Actually, I’d rather just have a new one.” Finally, Pam stopped typing and looked up at her customer. She looked impossibly young and lost with her knit cap pulled down low over the tops of her delicate white ears. She had a look of frightened optimism, like some one who has seen everything they own destroyed but are still too much in shock to realize how impossible it will be to rebuild. Her innocence made Pam’s heart sink. “I’d like to change my listing in the phone book too,” the nymph added.
“Okay,” Pam said hesitantly, her voice lower and softer. She handed Renee a form and spun one of her earrings around nervously in her nicotine stained fingers. “Do you want to have a message from the old phone number telling people what the new phone number is?”
“No,” Renee said plainly.
“Honey, how will people know where to find you?” the woman asked, seeming concerned.
“Exactly,” Renee answered quietly. Oh, the woman mouthed silently. Good luck, hun, she thought sadly. Good luck, but it won’t work. Pam had had enough trouble with husbands, ex-husbands and violent, lousy boyfriends to know one simple truth. Even the stupidest man can find you if they want to. They don’t need to use the phone book. Pam’s eyes were filled with sympathy and caution. Now was Renee’s turn to look down at the form she was filling out, and she missed the warning entirely. Renee scribbled her identifying information on yet another standardized medium. Date of change, 20 Oct. 1998. Last name Alfred. First name. She hesitated for a moment. When she signed up for phone service the first time, she had just used her legal first name, which was still Tiar, without giving it much thought. But, too many people at school knew that name, as that is how she came up on the attendance sheets for class. She would be far too easy to find as Renee. She quickly wrote Bird and handed the form back to Pam. The only person who she might want to hear from would understand the reference.
“You okay, honey?” The woman asked, setting her glasses onto her head and pushing back her enormous bangs.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Renee assured her.
“’Cause you look like you just saw a ghost.”
48
Max sat at the deserted intersection listening to sleet bounce off his windshield. The sign in front of him had two arrows. Above the one to the right, it said Brighton. Above the one to the left, it said Jamestown. Max had been driving to Hectortown for Christmas break. He no longer thought of it as “driving home.” Preferring the ascetic camaraderie of the seminary to the physical comforts and tense social interactions at his parents’ house, he stalled as long as he could. Aside from his brief, secret despair early in the semester, his silent plea to all supernatural beings, good and evil, the rest of the semester had gone smoothly. After classes officially ended, he volunteered to help the professors at the seminary decorate the chapel for their Christmas vigil mass and scheduled several spiritual advising sessions with his mentor. Now it was Christmas eve and he had to return to his parents and St. Jude’s. He had been driving for a few hours when he ran into traffic stopped dead. A tanker truck full of toxic chemicals over turned on Interstate 90 closing it completely east bound. Near a town called Albion, Max was diverted onto a side road and eventually found Pennsylvania highway 6 which took him past the Allegany Indian Reservation where he picked up 219 and turned north toward familiar, if not welcome territory.
Finally, he hit the intersection where 219 ran concurrently with 17 for several miles. All he needed to do was turn left and break off north at Salamanca and 219 would take him back to his familiar bed in the blue clapboard house. Yet, as soon as he saw the sign advertising Brighton, a little voice started nagging him. Would you give up on me that easily? Max increased the volume of the radio, but the voice echoed with every swipe of his windshield wiper. Would you give up on me? A voice from his past he could not ignore. Max gripped the steering wheel in anger and frustration at himself for the whole foolish situation. He wondered if Prentice was having this much trouble distancing himself from Matt. He wondered if there was some technique his old basketball teammate could share about suppressing the memory of someone once the illusion of youth was cast off and what was left was a horrible shell of what had once been a best friend. Little Bird is dead, he reminded himself. He was comfortable with that idea. There was no logical or ethical reason for him to have loyalty to this body that was left behind. Even then, he had tried to intervene beneficently and now he was allowed to let go. He was supposed to.
The Gospel of Matthew, as Max confirmed for himself after sharing it with Prentice, clearly stated that you could give up on people if you tried to get them to change their errant ways and they refused—you could treat them like a pagan or a tax collector. It couldn’t be any clearer. Except, just a few verses before that, Max noticed when he had looked it up six months ago, was the parable of the lost sheep. If a man owns a hundred sheep... will he not leave ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off? Max put on his left turn signal. This is stupid, he thought. I tried to help her. She chased me away. She’s not a lamb. Max accelerated his windshield wipers and listened as they screeched back and forth. He felt a pang of guilt. Had he really tried hard enough? He talked to her once since she moved out of town. Once. He couldn’t count Jen’s wedding. Tiar didn’t know he was there. Jack wouldn’t have this problem, Max chastised himself. He would have just locked her up for lewd behavior and walked away without a second thought. That’s justice, right? That’s what she deserves. That’s what dad would do. Max put on his right turn signal. Except, I’m not Jack. I’m not a police man. I’m a shepherd. He turned on his left turn signal. Finally, he rested his head on the steering wheel.
Why should this be such a chore? he wondered, to visit and old friend? He truly did not want to see her. She was less than nothing to him now. She was a source of shame and doubt in his life, a life already filled with too much of both. Max pulled forward through the intersection and pulled into a gas station just a hundred yards up the road. He pulled up next to the phone booth and quickly got inside, closing the thin glass door against a growing gale. He dialed information.
City and state please.
“Brighton, New York.”
Listing please.
“Renee Alfred.” Max waited and heard several clicks. Finally, a real human being answered.
“I am sorry, sir.
There is no Renee Alfred listed for Brighton.”
“Sometimes she goes by her middle name,” Max explained. “Can you try Tiar Alfred?” The name sounded funny coming out of his mouth. He had rarely tried to say it since he was eleven.
“What was that name again sir?” the operator asked.
“Tiar. T- I -A...”
“I’m sorry, sir, there is no name like that.” Max dropped his head hard against the side of the phone booth.
“Can you try her sister, Bird Alfred?” he ventured.
“Bird, Sir?” the operator asked incredulously.
“Yes.”
“Sorry sir, no Bird Alfred.”
“Is there a ‘B Alfred’?” he asked, feeling desperate.
“There is a ‘Brad Alfred.’ Would you like that number sir?”
“No. No thank you, operator. Thank you for your help.”
“Happy holidays, sir.”
The dial tone droned away in Max’s ear as he stood in the phone booth. He had tried getting Tiar’s number from information before, during the fall of his Junior year. It had been disconnected before, but she had never just not been listed at all. She’s hiding, he thought. There was no other explanation. She wanted to make sure he wouldn’t come looking for her again. Max got back into his car and pulled out to the intersection. He should feel relieved, he thought to himself. He was off the hook. He had tried to find her. She refused to be available to listen to him. She didn’t want to be helped.
Max looked up the road. The bare trees loomed ahead, black branches scratching at the gray sky. Treat him as you would a pagan or a tax collector, the gospel said. A pagan or a tax collector. He had given her his best, and she had rejected it. She was someone else’s problem now. He turned on his right turn signal and headed for home.
Renee stood in the emergency room, two huge grocery bags in her hands. She was still shivering as she stood in front of the swinging double doors and waited for them to open. Finally, Pat came through them, wearing a long white coat over a pair of light blue scrubs. The florescent lights which gave everyone else a pasty, ill looking skin color, seemed to make Renee glow with a divine radiance. He waved her to the back with a big smile and ushered her down the hall to a staff lounge. Pat took the grocery bags from her and started unpacking them onto a table while Renee took off her coat.
“It’s snowing again?” Pat asked.
“Yes,” Renee said with a smile. Snowflakes like tiny crystals ornamented the tips of her hair, which was now long enough to escape her woolen cap. Renee took that off, too, and threw it in a pile on the couch on top of her coat. “It will be a white Christmas after all.” Why in a place where the first snow rolls in in October, Pat wondered, handing her a plate, is everyone so impressed with a white Christmas?
“Thank you for bringing me dinner,” Pat said. “This is a feast.”
“Well, I hate to see an animal go hungry...”
“Even if it is one as lowly as an intern,” Pat finished.
“Something like that.” Renee started piling mashed potatoes on her plate.
“This is delicious, Tiar. Did you cook this?”
“Oh, my goodness, no,” she said modestly. “I can’t cook at all. Well, macaroni and cheese, and that’s about it.”
“Well, thanks anyway. You’re a life saver,” Pat said, stuffing his mouth with turkey.
“Make sure you share with your doctor friends.”
“Oh, I will.”
Renee was embarrassed at Pat’s profuse thank yous. Since the Christmas vigil mass was at 4:00 PM this year, she had no where else she needed to be for the rest of the evening. This was the smallest act of Christian decency she could muster.
Pat had barely seen Renee since the previous September, and then not under the best of circumstances. He’d spoken to her only once since then, although he checked every week in the hospital computer system to make sure she was keeping all the outpatient appointments he had made for her with a psychologist in the behavioral health clinic. Pat was relieved to see she had kept them all and he kept his fingers crossed that she was being honest with the psychologist. When he finally bumped into her on the quad a week ago, she looked happy. He had never seen her look quite so optimistic, not even when they had first met her freshman year. He was thankful for what ever had caused the change and hoped it would be lasting. Yet, his relief was guarded, as he knew how quickly this little girl could fall apart. It was because of this fear about her innate instability and the fact that he knew the behavioral health clinic, which catered mostly to students, would be all but closed the next few weeks for the holiday season, that Renee was here in the emergency room staff lounge now. In their short conversation a week earlier, Pat had complained that he had to be on call on Christmas eve. Renee offered to bring him dinner. He immediately felt uncomfortable with the idea. Renee was no stranger to the ER and could easily be recognized by the medical staff there. If somehow someone made the connection that he had treated her in the past and was now seeing her socially, the rumors would be terrible for his career. Yet, with the nagging concern for her in the back of his mind, and her friend Salome on a ski vacation with her new boyfriend, he feared that Renee would be in the emergency room tonight either way. Whether as a friend or a patient would be up to him. He permitted her to come visit him. Since he didn’t have any patients waiting for him in the ER for the trauma surgery team he was now rotating on, he stayed with her in the lounge and watched It’s a wonderful life.
By time George Bailey’s uncle was folding $8,000 into a news paper and handing it to his business nemesis, Pat’s beeper went off. He rushed off down the hall in his scrubs. The snow had caused a serious car accident, and a number of passengers needed to be urgently stabilized. Donning a surgical mask and goggles, he set to work inserting chest tubes and clamping cut arteries.
I never thought I’d be here again, Max thought to himself, sitting outside the Fox Tail. He had been to Ms. Alfred’s old apartment in an attempt to be thorough. The current occupant, who had been very surprised to have any unexpected visitors on Christmas eve, had been less than helpful. No, there was no Teresa Alfred who lived here, only a girl named Renee. She must still live close by, because she showed up from time to time to see if any of her mail didn’t make the transition. But, no, she did not know exactly where. Max had spent the next hour driving around in the snow looking for a sign. Finally, he drove to the Fox Tail. Looking on the poster outside the door, there was no Herodias, no Salome, no Magdalene, no Jessabelle, Gethsemanes, Bethanys, Abaddons, Apollyons, or any other name from the pages of the bible. There was a Cleopatra, but that seemed far too flashy and obvious to be the woman he was looking for.
Max walked back to the warmth of his car. Whether because of his influence or some other benevolent force in her life, the lamb wasn’t working at the Fox Tail anymore. His whole purpose in coming here was to try to convince her to leave, but someone else already had. She wasn’t his responsibility anymore. That was all this orphan was to him now. She was not a friend, a lover, or a sister. She was just a lamb he had been told to look after eleven years ago. She wandered off, and he had gone looking for her. He had looked on every hill and valley, in every dark cave and deep well. She was no where to be found. Some other shepherd had claimed her. He could only hope that that shepherd would treat her as well as she deserved. But, as for him, she was not his anymore to feel joy, fear, anger, or jealousy over. Instead, Max felt free. Now, with no mission to focus on, he became acutely aware of a rumbling in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since he left St. Andrews ten hours earlier. He headed off to find someplace that would be open on Christmas eve.
Four hour later, his scrubs splattered with other people’s blood, and desperately in need of coffee, Pat and one of his co-workers planned to make a run down to the vending machines out side the closed cafeteria. Hospital policy dictated that once a doctor left the emergency department into a public space they had to wear their white coat over their scrubs. Pat we
nt looking for his coat and realized that he had left it in the doctor’s lounge. When he returned, he saw that Renee had fallen asleep on the couch, curled up in a ball, using his coat as a blanket. She looked so lovely and peaceful. He got two blankets from the blanket warming locker in the hall and covered her with those. A tiny smile spread across her full lips.
Pat watched her chest rhythmically rise and fall, as regularly and gently as the swells on a calm sea. He would never ask for more in life if he could come home from a long night on call and know she would be sleeping peacefully in his bed. But, he knew he could never have this. Go ahead, his mind urged. You already started down this slope. Destiny had defied Pat’s attempts to keep a crisp line between friendship and therapy with Ms. Alfred from their first meeting to their most recent. Last September, fate had once again called him to her bedside. But, instead of writing orders or leaving notes, he sent his medical student home and told the nurse on call that he could not interview this patient who had just gotten a sedative. He would pass the job on to the morning team, he promised. He did not interview her. He did not ask her what lead to the admission. He merely untied one of her restrained hands, holding it in his through the night, begging her with his eyes to see what he knew—that the light she shone on the world was too precious for her to choose to extinguish. She needs your love more than your stupid words, he thought. Ethical rules be damned. No one will ever find out.
The Paper Shepherd Page 35