The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one

by Leonard Foglia

  “He left his blood behind, too. On the shroud, yes, and on the sudarium. Blood from his wounds in his side and his head, from his hands and his feet. And now it is discovered that in that blood, as in every cell of the body, is DNA, which contains all the knowledge of that person. Is like a blueprint, this DNA. Is a code. And if we can extract it and put it into a human egg, we can duplicate that person, bring him back. So many people believe that science leads us away from God. But this is not correct. Science is part of God’s plan. It is how He will return to Earth. It is responsible for the second coming. You understand now?”

  She didn’t. Her head was throbbing. If all he was saying was true…but no, it couldn’t be true. She was carrying a boy, an ordinary baby boy who kicked and squirmed in her belly, like all normal babies were wont to do. Dr. Johanson could say whatever he liked. She knew what she felt inside. He was talking craziness.

  She realized he was waiting for her to acknowledge his explanation in some fashion. More than that, he seemed to want her to show how pleased she was, flattered even, by everything he had revealed. His breathing had grown quick and shallow. She sensed she had best keep him talking.

  “Why does he need us? Can’t He come back on his own?” she managed to ask, hoping the questions wouldn’t further inflame him.

  Instead, he smiled, charmed by her naiveté. “Of course He can. But it is our job to bring Him back. To show that we are willing to learn again, to follow him, to prostrate ourselves at his feet. He has chosen us, but we must also choose Him. We must prove this is our will, too. And God has given us all the tools to demonstrate that. He has entrusted us with the holy seed. We are merely planting it.”

  His words made little sense to her, but Hannah nodded pensively to indicate she was in agreement. What else could she do, until she could reach Father Jimmy or Teri, someone who could at least get her away from this house?

  “And what we are doing is good?” she asked.

  “Is the greatest thing that can happen for all mankind! To have Jesus among us again! All my training and study have been to this end. Everybody searches for a purpose. The Whitfields, Judith Kowalski, even you, my dear Hannah. You search, too. And you will soon learn that we have the greatest purpose of all. Don’t you wish to lie down now?”

  “No.”

  His hand took hold of her upper arm so firmly that she could feel his fingernails biting through her flannel nightgown. She suppressed the urge to cry out.

  “Would be best for you, I think. Let me help.”

  She shook his hand off her arm. “No, that’s all right. I can do it myself.”

  He watched her closely, as she climbed back in bed. She told herself not to display any fear, but her legs were trembling under the covers. The weight of the baby - her baby, not theirs - pushed her down into the soft mattress. He was kicking again. She fixed her eyes on the ceiling.

  “Much better, yes?” he said sweetly, once she was still.

  A small voice came back to him. “Why was the door locked?”

  “Perhaps we think that you have not entirely realized the importance of your purpose yet,” he answered. “That is all. But you will. You will. Now do you want the oatmeal? Not good, the cold oatmeal. But can be very tasty when piping hot, yes?”

  Hannah noticed with a shudder that he had reverted to his usual courtly manner.

  1:36

  Like Hannah, Father Jimmy had awakened that morning asking himself how clearly he’d been thinking the night before. After all, he’d concocted a scenario that any sane person would have dismissed out of hand and it seemed no less preposterous now, as he brewed himself a pot of coffee in the rectory kitchen.

  The day had already announced itself as crystalline and chilly, and the sunlight streaming through the window minimized conspiracies that loomed large at midnight. Nevertheless, two cups of coffee and a bowl of cereal later, he found his mind was still on Hannah’s predicament. All he knew for certain was that, until matters sorted themselves out, she would be better off somewhere other than the house on Alcott Street.

  The acidic feeling in his stomach told him that he had made the coffee too strong, unless anxiety was responsible for the burning sensation. He dialed the Whitfields’ number for reassurance, hoping Hannah would pick up, uncertain what he would say if someone else did. But the phone went unanswered and after ten rings, he gave up, his fears unrelieved. Maybe, the Whitfields had advanced their so-called vacation. The term had a less festive ring to his ears now.

  Later that morning in the church, as he listened to confessions - mostly older women, lamenting the same old, dull peccadilloes - his mind kept returning to Hannah and the acidic sensation in his stomach returned, as well. When the last person had left his booth, he remained seated and waited until Monsignor Gallagher was free.

  It was standing practice for Father Jimmy to go into the Monsignor’s confessional afterwards and unburden himself of the week’s transgressions. Since Catholic doctrine recognized both sins of thought and deed, Father Jimmy’s almost always fell into the former category and very often the two priests used their time in the confessional to discuss the nature of sin and their own struggles to resist it. Discussions they could well have had in the rectory seemed to come more easily, when the men were separated by a latticework grill.

  As expected, Father Jimmy slipped into the confessional and pulled the curtain shut. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession. These are my sins…” This time he wasn’t sure how to proceed. What he had to say was delicate and depended on a careful choice of words, words that weren’t coming to him. The pause was so protracted that the Monsignor wondered if the younger priest hadn’t simply left the confessional.

  “James, are you still there?” He had never been able to call his youthful charge Jimmy. It was too casual. Enough barriers had fallen in the modern world, as it was, and he clung to his belief that a priest stood apart from his flock, a guide and example to those he served, not their friend and confidant. He was Monsignor Gallagher, not Monsignor Frank. He would never be anything else.

  “Yes, Father…I believe I may have…may have stepped over the line in ministering to a certain parishioner.”

  Without asking, the Monsignor knew that he was talking about the Manning girl and hoped that “stepping over the line” wasn’t a euphemism for a carnal indiscretion. He’d tried to warn him once already to keep his distance. Surely James was too smart, and his future too promising, for him to succumb to the base appetites.

  “In what way?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He had to endure another long pause.

  “I believe that I have allowed her to become too dependent on me.”

  The Monsignor’s sigh of relief was undetectable. “That happens, James. With more experience, you’ll learn to keep your emotional distance. But there’s no sin in that. It is not something to confess. Unless, of course, there’s more.”

  “Nothing more, except that I want her to be dependent on me. I like the feeling it gives me. I think about her more than I should.”

  “In an inappropriate fashion?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Does she know of these feelings?”

  “I think so.”

  “You have discussed them with her?”

  “No, Father, never. I just assume that she senses my…concern. I have such a strong need to protect her. It is my need I fear, not hers.”

  “Then, I can propose an immediate remedy. Until you understand this ‘need’ of yours more fully and are able to control it, I had best take over the spiritual guidance of this person. Do you have any objection to that?”

  “It’s me that she’s confided in, Monsignor.”

  “Do not be vain, James. She can confide in another. If she is leading you down a crooked path, it must be stopped. This is how we will stop it.” His firmness invited no compromise.

  “I see.”

  “I am confident you do. Is there anything
else?”

  “Just a theological question, if I may.”

  The Monsignor allowed himself to relax, happy to be able leave the domain of unruly passions for higher theoretical ground. “Go ahead.”

  “With all the medical advances happening nowadays, what would the church do if a scientist attempted to clone Jesus?”

  “James!” The Monsignor couldn’t suppress the urge to laugh. “Are you reading those science fiction novels again? This is not something to waste good time thinking about.”

  “It’s not science fiction anymore. The knowledge is there. Human cells have already been cloned. Anyway, all I am asking is, What if?”

  “What if the sky were to fall! What if I were to grow a third leg! Really, James. How could this be? You cannot clone someone out of thin air. You have to start with something. Am I not correct? What would that be in our Lord’s case?”

  “His blood.”

  “His blood?”

  “The blood He left on the shroud of Turin or the cloth at Oviedo.”

  It was Monsignor Gallagher’s turn to fumble for his words. What kind of nonsense was this? He had a pretty good idea where it came from, though. All the time James spent on the computer would be better devoted to more practical pursuits. He would have to put some limits on its use.

  “The relics are repositories of our faith, James. They are not…test tubes.”

  “I know that. I am simply asking what the ramifications of such an act would be, if it were to happen. How would we deal with it? How would you deal with it, Monsignor?”

  “How would I deal with the unimaginable?” The Monsignor didn’t try to hide the scorn in his voice, hoping it would carry to the other side of the wooden partition. The parish had too many problems of its own, real problems, for him to be concerned with a scenario that was not even worthy of Hollywood, a place that had never figured high in his estimation. This was the bad side of James’s youth - his openness to the fantasies of popular culture. “If someone did undertake such a…project, I suppose that it would have to be stopped.”

  “Stopped? You mean aborted?”

  “No, James, I did not say that. The scientists would have to be stopped. Such an experiment would be condemned before it was ever allowed to take place. Is that a satisfactory answer?”

  “But what if the child were already growing in the woman’s womb. What would we do then?”

  The Monsignor’s patience snapped. “James, I think that is quite enough. What is this all about? You seem obsessed by this subject.”

  “Because I think it may have already happened.”

  “You what?” Monsignor Gallagher instinctively crossed himself. “Perhaps it would be better to finish this talk in the rectory.” Abruptly, he stood up and left the confessional.

  If Monsignor Gallagher thought that continuing the discussion, face to face, in the rectory kitchen would curb some of Father Jimmy’s zeal, he was soon abused of the notion. In the open, Father Jimmy’s earnestness was even more apparent. For nearly an hour, he laid out the situation, as he perceived it, brandished documents taken off the internet, spoke passionately of photographs and shroud societies.

  The Monsignor’s arsenal of skeptical looks, knitted eyebrows and derogatory snorts proved no more effective than spitballs against chain-link armor. Finally, the older man threw up his hands in a gesture of futility.

  “It’s too fantastic, James. That’s all I can say. Too fantastic to believe.”

  “But we have to find out if it’s true.”

  “What are you suggesting? That I, as the pastor of Our Lady of Perpetual Light and representative of the Catholic Church, drive up to the house, knock on the door and say, ‘Excuse me, is that the baby Jesus growing inside this young woman’s stomach?’ I would be thrown out of here in an instant. We would become objects of derision, both of us. And rightfully so. I always knew you had an original mind and have valued it up to now. But you have let your imagination run away with you. And need I say I hope it is only your imagination. I’m sorry, James. This is too absurd.”

  He pushed back his chair, signaling that the discussion was at an end.

  “Why have the Whitfields kept so much from her? They are obsessed with the circumstances of Jesus’ crucifixion. They have whole files on it.”

  “James!” In the Monsignor’s mouth, the name rang out like a sharp reprimand. “People with all kinds of interests are allowed to have children. Surrogate or otherwise. I have heard enough on this subject.”

  He took a deep breath before continuing.

  “There will be a second coming, James, but it will unfold according to God’s plan, not that of some mad scientist. To think otherwise is to put His omnipotence in doubt. And now I am afraid I am going to have to lay down a rule for your own sake. You are not to see this woman any more. Under any circumstances. If she needs spiritual help, I will minister it. If it is psychological counseling she requires, I will arrange for her to get that, too. But you are no longer involved. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Father,” he murmured.

  “Good.” Monsignor Gallagher turned and strode briskly out of the kitchen.

  Numbed, Father Jimmy heard his click of feet going up the staircase and the retort of a door closing on the second floor, before he found the will to stir.

  1:37

  Stay calm, play along. Stay calm, play along.

  Hannah recited the words under her breath, like a mantra.

  There was nothing to be gained from the anger she felt when she thought of how these people had exploited her; nothing helpful, either, about the panic that dried her mouth, whenever she tried to imagine what lay ahead. It was essential to appear docile and concentrate on the present. Teri was coming tomorrow at noon to pick her up. Teri would take her away from all this. And she would never come back. It was as simple as that.

  Stay calm. Play along. Stay calm.

  A change had come over the house. Judith Kowalski had taken charge, which meant that she was entrusted with the key to Hannah’s bedroom and looked in periodically, her eye peeled for any signs of insurrection. The gregarious personality she had displayed as Letitia Greene had been retired in favor of no-nonsense officiousness. Judith Kowalski was hard, efficient and without humor. Her gray wool skirt and matching sweater, while expensive, now gave her the air of an upscale prison matron.

  “Do I still call you Letitia,” Hannah asked, when the woman came into the room around ten to pick up the breakfast tray.

  “Whatever you prefer,” she replied crisply, discouraging further conversation. “You didn’t eat much breakfast.”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  Judith gave a non-committal shrug, then tray in hand, left the room and closed the door behind her. Hannah waited to hear the turn of the key. When it didn’t come, her first thought was that Judith had forgotten to lock her in. Then she realized that they were probably testing her. So she purposefully stayed in the room and made a pretense of her toilette, lolling in the bath tub, until the water had gone cold, and brushing her hair for a full quarter of an hour, until her scalp tingled.

  Judith Kowalski checked back at eleven and announced that lunch would be served downstairs in an hour.

  “Maybe I’ll skip it,” Hannah replied casually. “I’m not very hungry this morning.”

  “As you wish. There will be a place for you, if you change your mind.”

  Again, she left brusquely. And again, Hannah noticed that the door remained unlocked.

  It was true that her appetite was gone. But even more, she needed the time alone to reflect on the events of the past 24 hours and what they meant to her and her child. She wasn’t sure she understood all the scientific mumbo-jumbo that had been paraded in front of her, or even if she wanted to. The talk of DNA and embryos, mixed in with the religious prophecies, bewildered and scared her. Only one thing was clear to her: if the egg in her womb had somehow been altered before the implantation, if it had been genetically doctored in some w
ay, then Marshall and Jolene weren’t the parents at all. It wasn’t their child. The baby belonged to her, as much as it did to anybody. Wasn’t she the one who was growing it, nurturing it, and sheltering it?

  She lay back on the bed and ran her hand over the stomach, imagining the outlines of the baby’s head, his tiny hands, the round belly, growing fatter every day, and the legs, already pumping with unpredictable vitality. As she had done earlier, she sent silent messages of love to him, her soon-to-be-born son, told him that she would protect him, protect him with her own life, if necessary.

  All this time she had been waiting for a sign, and now, she realized, the sign had been inside her. Whoever the father was, she was the rightful mother. However the child had come to her, she was responsible for his care in the world. She lay perfectly still, but every fiber of her being seemed to be responding to the call. No one would ever take him away from her.

  Noise from below drew Hannah to the window. There were comings and goings in the studio. She watched as Jolene carried out canvases and stacked them in the back of the mini-van. Marshall followed behind with boxes. Hannah speculated that they contained the folders from the filing cabinet. The studio was being closed up and its contents transported elsewhere.

  There had been no mention of the vacation since last night, so Florida probably wasn’t the destination. With Jolene at the wheel, the loaded-down mini-van soon drove off and returned an hour later. All afternoon, the activity continued apace.

  Judith Kowalski put in an appearance in Hannah’s bedroom late in the afternoon, as a pale sun was beginning its descent beneath the cold horizon. She flicked the light switch by the door.

  “It’s getting dark. You should put on a light in here,” she said. “Are you having dinner with us tonight?”

  Hannah told herself to act as if nothing was unusual. She had to appear her normal self, at least until noon tomorrow, when she would get away from these people. Irritating them or provoking their suspicions in the meantime would serve no purpose.