A Death in Duck: Lindsay Harding Cozy Mystery Series (Reverend Lindsay Harding Mystery Book 2) (5 page)

After arguing with Rob for years about her punishing work schedule, she was now one shift away from a solid week at the beach with almost nothing to do. And the prospect filled her with a creeping sense of dread.

Chapter 5

“Nice quiet day. Nothing too vexing.” Lindsay’s fellow chaplain, the wise and wizened Geneva Williams, was handing over case notes as Lindsay began her overnight shift. Geneva had passed a quiet afternoon, giving communion to a patient who’d requested it and chatting at length with an old friend of hers as he underwent chemotherapy. Often, the days of the chaplains at Mount Moriah Medical Center were filled with urgency—long lists of patients to see, emergency summons to bedsides, intense conversations with the sick and the dying. There were slow days, though. Days of paperwork, sermon writing, knocking on patients’ doors to see if any spiritual solace was required. Such days always seemed to fall at the worst times for Lindsay—times when she had some creeping tiger of worry or self-doubt stalking through her mind, times when she desperately needed the distraction of someone else’s crises, someone else’s mess. Overnight shifts could be particularly quiet. If there were no emergencies, then the chaplain on duty was welcome to catch whatever sleep they could manage on the narrow cot in the chaplain’s quarters.

As the older woman buttoned up her jacket, Lindsay said, “Geneva, can I ask you something?” Although Lindsay was technically a senior chaplain, and Geneva was still a trainee, when it came to personal matters, Lindsay frequently sought the older woman’s unique brand of no-nonsense advice. Geneva’s life experience included long careers as a schoolteacher, a minister at a local A.M.E. church, and a mother to seven children. There wasn’t a single corner of human nature that she hadn’t thoroughly explored.

“You know you’re gonna ask no matter what I say.” Geneva rifled through her giant white leather purse as she spoke. With a triumphant “A-ha!” she pulled out a full-sized bottle of cocoa butter lotion and proceeded to rub a large dollop over her tiny, nut brown hands. “You waiting for me to write you an invitation?”

Lindsay inhaled deeply. “Do you think I’m losing it?” Lindsay asked.

“Losing what? You lost your phone again? Did you look in the break room fridge? You know you always leave your phone up in that fridge.”

“No. It’s not my phone. Although actually I did lose it, and I already checked the fridge, so keep an eye out, okay?” Lindsay paused. “Do you think I’m going crazy, like having an early mid-life crisis or something? I just feel that I’m not myself lately. I keep picking fights with Warren. Or maybe he’s picking fights with me. I don’t even know. And Rob asked me to be his fake wife, and I’m seriously considering it even though I know it’s totally nuts. And I’m trying to be happy for Anna and Drew. I mean, I
am
happy for Anna and Drew, but I feel weird about going to their wedding. It’s like I’m losing her, but I’m also losing myself. Does that even make sense? And I’ll be staying with my aunt for the first time in forever, and I’m not sure that I can handle it.”

Geneva sat down, gesturing for Lindsay to do the same. “Here’s what I think. Number one: your man. Do you love him? Does he treat you right? If so, then marry him. You’re not getting any younger. If not, then get rid of him and move on because, like I said, you are not getting any younger. Number two: Rob. That boy is a fool. John is a much better cook than you and he’s better looking. He doesn’t need you as a wife, even as a fake one.

“What else you ask? Oh, yeah. Anna and Drew’s wedding. If you’re jealous because she found someone, you need to get over it. Anna’s your friend and she’s happy. Find your own man and get married. If you’re not jealous, are you sad because she’s not gonna be around all the time anymore? If so, you need to get over that and be happy for her. You’re a grown woman. You should be out finding your own man and marrying him, having babies and naming them after me. And as for staying with your aunt, the woman is old. She’ll be dead soon and then you’ll be in here whining to me that you didn’t get to spend enough time with her and make peace before she died.” Geneva rose from her chair. “Speaking of dead soon, I’m tired and I’m going home.”

“Thanks a lot, Geneva,” Lindsay said wryly.

The older woman smiled at her with a surprising tenderness. “Lindsay, honey, you do everything too hard. You work too hard. You think too hard. You worry too hard. Book of Matthew, Chapter Six, ‘Can worrying add even an hour to your life?’ Give your problems to the Lord and He will take care of it all.”

“I just can’t believe that’s how God works. I mean, I’ve ministered to people who thank God for finding them a good parking space. It’d be comforting to think that there was someone up there making sure things turn out okay for me all the time. But that would mean that that same God was up there making a lot of people’s lives turn out pretty crappy. Is it God’s plan for somebody’s baby to be stillborn or for their daughter to slit her wrists? If that’s what they believe and it gives them comfort, then I’ll support them in that because this job’s about helping them, not about what I believe. But personally, I think we just have to trust that God has given us the tools to work things out for ourselves.”

“I know you do, baby.” Geneva squeezed Lindsay’s hand. Her skin was smooth and warm, like freshly-oiled leather. “I’m gonna have to have a word with your father about it. You the most disbelieving minister I know. How did Jonah Harding manage to raise this Doubting Thomas?”

“He asks himself the same thing all the time, believe me.”

###

Lindsay watched the minutes on the digital clock tick by. 3:22 a.m. 3:23. One of the springs in the mattress of the chaplain’s room cot was doing its best to pierce her spleen, and the hospital’s central heating system seemed to have been cranked up to the temperature of a pottery kiln. The physical discomfort only added to the disquiet of her mind. She rose, deciding to take a walk around the hospital grounds to cool off and clear her head. If she stayed close by, she could still respond quickly if she was paged.  

The pocket of unseasonably warm air that had ruined her Yule log had continued to hang over central North Carolina. Temperatures had hovered in the low 60s each day, and even the predawn chill lacked its usual wintry sharpness. Inside the chaplains’ room, Lindsay had been lying, overheated, in her clothes. Now, the pleasantly cool air slowly unstuck them from her body. She wandered out past the bright lights of the ambulance bay and circled all the way around the hospital until she reached the small meditation garden that was situated outside the recently-completed oncology wing. It was much darker in the garden, shielded from the hulking concrete building by rhododendron and azalea bushes. She stood still, letting the cool night air wash over her. The crickets and cicadas were silent this time of year; only the hum of the hospital’s overzealous heating units broke the stillness.

Alone in the small garden, Lindsay inhaled deeply, trying to get a bead on the source of her mind’s unrest. She sat down on a concrete bench. Geneva was right about one thing—she had turned the scraps of her thoughts over in her brain so often that she’d created a mental compost heap. She decided to try a different tack. She cleared her mind completely, closing her eyes and focusing on her breath. As her mind emptied, she fell into a trance-like state, peace settling over her like a warm blanket. She focused on her breathing. Gradually, she became aware of a warm presence alongside her. “Do you need help?” a soft voice whispered in her ear.

Her eyes flew open. “Jesus Christ!” she shouted. But the person whose eyes met hers was decidedly not Jesus. Probably for the best, considering she had a bad habit of taking his name in vain when she was startled.

A teenage boy with a leather jacket and a tight crown of dreadlocks crouched over her, shining a penlight keychain into her face. “Sorry. Did I scare you? I just wanted to know if you need help,” the boy repeated, using the kind of tone that was usually reserved for frightened animals or small children. “Do you want me to call somebody for you?”

“Who are you?” Lindsay asked. She put her hand to her throat in a reflexive gesture of self protection.

“My name’s Owen.” The boy paused and looked at the lanyard dangling from her neck. “Wait. Do you work here?” He gestured to her staff ID badge. “Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m a chaplain at the hospital.” She gathered up her jacket, which was crumpled into a makeshift pillow on the bench beside her. Her meditation session had apparently turned into a full-fledged nap.

“Oh. I thought you were homeless.”

“I guess I can see how you’d get that impression.” Her outfit choice that day—a boxy knitted cardigan and wrinkled 90’s-era khaki pants—did nothing to dispel the notion that she obtained her clothing from the castoffs at Goodwill.

The boy flopped down on the bench next to her and took a sip from a paper coffee cup he was holding. “Nice night.”

“Uh-huh,” Lindsay agreed. She checked her pager to make sure that she hadn’t missed any calls while she slept. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning, and there was still no hint of a sunrise. “I know I’m not really in a position to ask, but what’re you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

“I’m in town visiting my uncle. We just flew in from Thailand yesterday—the jetlag is pretty bad. I really needed a cup of coffee, but Mount Moriah doesn’t have a 7-11. You don’t have anything actually. I just started walking until I found somewhere that was open.” He held up the coffee cup from the hospital cafeteria as proof of his veracity.

“You live in Thailand?”

“For the past few months, but I’m from Chicago.” Owen took another sip from his cup. “So, you’re a chaplain. I met a lot of chaplains when my mom was sick. She died last year. Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss. That must’ve been awful.” Lindsay had seen only one case of the rare, degenerative disease in her career. It caused a rapid loss of muscle control. The sufferer wasted away until they were left wheelchair-bound, unable to eat or breathe for themselves.

“It sucked,” he said, titling his face upwards. It was momentarily illuminated by one of the lights mounted on the exterior wall of the hospital, and Lindsay could make out the tones of his amber skin and coal-black eyes. “It’s weird. You’d think I’d hate hospitals, doctors, all this medical stuff. But it makes me feel close to her.”

“I don’t think that’s weird. It makes sense.”

“My dad won’t go anywhere near a hospital. That’s how we ended up in Thailand. My mom was always really careful about money and stuff, so she had a bunch of life insurance lined up. When she died he quit his job and pulled me out of school. We’ve been travelling all over—a few months here, a few months there.”

“That’s a lot of change for you. Losing your mom and then losing your home and friends.”

“It’s okay. My dad’s the one I’m worried about. He tries so hard to be upbeat, so that I won’t be sad. He wants us to appreciate every moment. If he points out the fleeting beauty of the sunset one more time, I might have to punch him. Seriously, sometimes I just want to play Xbox and space out. And he’s all like, ‘Savor the moment. Let’s go kiteboarding and eat dehydrated shark testicles.’”

“He makes you eat shark testicles?”

“Actually, I don’t even know if sharks have testicles. But you get the picture.”

She smiled. She knew more than Owen could guess about living with an overcompensating single father. When Lindsay’s mother had abandoned them, her father had also buried his grief and confusion in a flurry of activity. While Owen seemed to be on a treadmill of non-stop adventure, Lindsay had been force-fed a diet of selflessness and religion. She’d participated in tent revivals, volunteered in soup kitchens—if there was a soul to be saved, her father had dragged her out to help him save it. She felt a pang of shame when she contrasted her own reactions to Owen’s. He seemed world-weary, deeply caring, and wise beyond his years. She’d spent her own teenage years doing her damndest to derail her life with excessive drinking, partying, and hooliganism.

“Anyway, I think he’s getting better. He just needs time.” Owen downed the last of his coffee and threw the cup away in the adjacent trash can. “I’d better be getting back home. My dad and my uncle will probably be up soon. I don’t want them to worry.”

“Thanks for waking me up. It was really nice of you to be concerned.”

“Sorry I thought you looked homeless.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been meaning to get rid of this sweater. And these pants. Anyway, it was nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” Owen walked away in the loping, haphazard way of teenage boys, as if his limbs were made of rubber bands being pulled in different directions. Lindsay watched him until he evaporated into the darkness.

###

When Rob came in to take over from her at 7 a.m., Lindsay told him about her encounter with the oddly self-possessed teenager in the garden. “He was so much more together than most teenagers. Heck, he was way more together than most adults,” she said. “It made me sad, though. A kid that age shouldn’t have to deal with that much stuff.”

“I thought you usually dated teenage boys, not befriended them.”

Rob was referring to a disastrous blind date that Lindsay had been on the previous summer with a 19-year-old Civil War re-enactor.

“Obadiah Dong Larry J. Robinson Wu,” she said, addressing Rob by his deeply embarrassing given name. “That’s plain old slander. First off, I never actually dated that guy. And secondly, you swore that you would never mention that incident again.”