The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one

by Leonard Foglia

  “Quick,” she barked. “We’ve got to get her out of the car.”

  While Jimmy supported Hannah’s upper body, the doctor guided her lower body onto the mats and promptly ripped away the encumbering clothes. Once again, Jimmy cradled Hannah’s head in his lap. Dropping to her knees, the doctor spread Hannah’s legs and saw that the infant’s head had begun to emerge.

  “This one’s not about to wait for anybody,” she said. “The baby’s crowning.”

  The irresistible urge to push came over Hannah and a rhythmic intensity seized her pelvic muscles. Perspiration drenched her face.

  “Atta girl! You can do it. Breathe deeply. You’re doing a great job.”

  With one final push, Hannah let out a cry and the child dropped into the hands of the doctor. A gush of blood flooded the top mat.

  The hush in the garage seemed to extend to the world outside. The wind died down momentarily and the tall pines stood still and stately. The doctor lifted up the baby and massaged its back. There was a gasp, as the baby sucked in its first breath of air, followed by a healthy wail.

  The doctor laid the child on Hannah’s stomach and tied off the umbilical cord. “Congratulations,” she said. “You have a beautiful baby boy.” Then she wrapped him in a white towel with Colby Mt. Cabins embroidered in script along the edge and placed him gently in Hannah’s arm.

  The shock of black hair was what Hannah saw first, then the blue eyes, and the little hand scrunched up into a fist… and then she stopped seeing details and felt the wholeness of the tiny being, who was nestled against her breast.

  “No matter how many times I witness it, it’s still a miracle,” marveled the doctor.

  “I think he looks just like his father, don’t you?” the older woman cooed.

  It was then that Jimmy noticed that other people were present in the garage, too. Word had spread through the cabins that a child was being born that very minute and curiosity had brought them out to verify it for themselves. In the doorway that connected the garage with the office, there was a couple with a boy of nine or ten. A group of college kids hung back awkwardly and watched from the driveway. Nobody spoke, content to admire the blonde mother, the handsome dark-haired father and their shining child.

  The young boy, who had been straining for a better view, ventured forward timidly.

  “This is for the baby,” he said. He held up a blue ball with small silver stars on it. “I have another one just like it.” He placed the ball on the mat beside Hannah, stepped back and asked, “What’s his name?”

  Hannah looked down at the baby, and the bright eyes seemed to look back at her. Then she tilted her head so she could see Jimmy.

  “What are we going to call him?”

  There in the garage of the Colby Mountain Cabins, somewhere in New Hampshire, while the snow fell silently, everybody waited for the answer.

  2:1

  (twenty years later)

  “He walks the earth,”

  Monsignor Gallagher stared deep into the eyes of his assistant, Father Mathias, and although he was having trouble breathing, the words came out with perfect clarity.

  Over eighty, the old priest lay on the floor of the church in East Acton, Massachusetts that he had served faithfully for nearly sixty years. His face was a spider web of wrinkles and his body a spindly version of what had once been strong and imposing. But the voice showed no signs of age.

  “He walks the earth,” he repeated, amazement coloring his frail features this time.

  Father Mathias had just pulled the priest from the confessional, where he had collapsed in the midst of absolving Mrs. Connelly of her usual inconsequential sins. Mrs. Connelly stood by, momentarily speechless with the fear that her confession might have provoked what appeared to be a heart attack or an impending one. Father Mathias wiped beads of perspiration off the monsignor’s brow with the back of his hand, reassuring him that help was on the way and that everything would be fine. Outside, the siren of an approaching ambulance grew louder.

  Mrs. Connelly had kept her distance, since running to get Father Mathias in the rectory with the news that Monsignor Gallagher seemed to have fallen and injured himself. The dull thud had been followed by silence, and when she’s asked, “Are you okay, Monsignor?” there had been no response.

  “The monsignor was in there for so long with that young man,” the woman muttered, as much to herself as to anyone else. “Maybe the heat got to him. Those heavy curtains shut out every last breath of fresh air. I can’t imagine what that young man had to confess that took so long, but it seemed like hours. I get short of breath in there after a few minutes. And the monsignor is getting on in years, after all.”

  Father Mathias looked up. “What young man?”

  Mrs. Connelly, caught up short in her monologue, took a moment to recover her bearings. “The person before me…a young man…Well, youngish…Twentyish, I’d say…The Monsignor is going to be all right, isn’t he?”

  “‘Hours,’ you said?”

  “Well, maybe not hours. But forty-five or fifty minutes, at least. I checked my watch? When the young man finally left, I went in and said the act of contrition, but I heard nothing back. Then there was this thump and I realized that Monsignor Gallagher had fallen over or hit his head or something…I loved him so, Father Mathias.”

  “Monsignor Gallagher is still with us, Mrs. Connelly.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course he is. Thank the Lord…”

  Outside Our Lady of Perpetual Light, an ambulance skidded to a stop and a team of rescue workers burst down the church aisle and lifted the Monsignor onto a stretcher.

  “It must have been the heat,” Mrs. Connelly informed no one in particular. “It’s hotter than blazes in that confessional.”

  “Scuse me, lady,” one of the workers said, as they maneuvered the stretcher back up the aisle. The old man’s breathing was irregular, but there were no signs of physical distress on his face. To the contrary, thought Father Mathias, as he followed behind, his features had a strange peacefulness about them.

  The rescue workers slid the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, and Father Mathias prepared to climb in beside his mentor.

  Before the doors were closed, Mrs. Connelly gave a tug on his sleeve. “Heat prostration isn’t serious, is it?”

  “No, Mrs. Connelly. The Monsignor will be good as new in no time. But tell me something. This young man, did you recognize him?”

  “I never saw him before. He’s not from this parish, that’s for sure.”

  “And he was in the confessional for nearly an hour?”

  “I’m sure of it. I checked my watch several times. I even thought of going home and coming back later. What could he have had to confess, I wonder? He seemed like such a sweet young man. He smiled at me when he left. Lovely smile. As if we’d known one another all our lives. I’ll never forget it.”

  The ambulance doors closed and the vehicle ground up the gravel driveway, producing a cloud of dust that enveloped Mrs. Connelly. The woman had stopped talking and was waving a handkerchief in the air, as if the Monsignor were about to take a long voyage and she had inadvertently been left behind on the dock.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  LEONARD FOGLIA is a theater and opera director as well as librettist. His work has been seen on Broadway, across the country and internationally.

  DAVID RICHARDS a former theater critic for The New York Times and The Washington Post is the author of PLAYED OUT: The Jean Seberg Story.

  www.thesudarium.com

 

 

 
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