Digital Winter (35 page)

Jose Lopez was one such hero. Recuperating from surgery that removed cancer and a good bit of his stomach, he began to make rounds as soon as he was able to walk. At first, he just went from room to room and offered to pray for any who would let him. Those who blamed God for the crisis often swore at him. Especially those who had lost loved ones. He never walked out. He listened. He nodded. He wept with them. If they allowed it, he read aloud from their favorite books. He never took offense. Jose found a way to make the most depressed person laugh. He had even drawn a few guffaws from Roni, who had begun her own war with depression.

Jose spent part of his days doing menial work, including mopping vomit from the floors or helping run the laundry. Shamed at her own stereotyping, Roni wondered if the Hispanic did this kind of work for a living. Turns out, he held a PhD in civil engineering. “I wish I had specialized in mechanical or electrical engineering. I would be more useful. Not much need for what I do.”

“You do plenty, Jose. You have the superpower of humility.”

“I never thought of it that way. Mostly, I want to do what Jesus would do in this building.”

Roni had just smiled, but the words grew roots in her mind. She might have been able to dismiss it as naive religious talk, but the words of Jeremy's letter kept them alive.

Still, she might have compartmentalized the Jesus-talk, chained it in the dungeon of her mind, had Dr. Clarence Southwell not come on the scene. Dr. Southwell was a tall man with a bald head, a semicircle of white hair that reached from ear to ear, white skin that indicated he spent more time indoors than out, and a thousand-watt smile. He moved through the hospital as if it were his second home.

In some ways, it was.

Southwell was the lead pastor of a megachurch not far from the hospital. Roni had heard of it. They advertised on television, showing images of a large sanctuary filled with happy people lifting their hands and singing upbeat songs. In the ads, Southwell was well dressed and dapper, wearing natty blazers and casual slacks. He spoke with a smooth, steady pace, seasoned with a hint of a Southern accent.

He came to help around the hospital nearly every day, walking six miles each way. The walk was dangerous and often grueling. He carried food with him, handing it out as he went. More than once he had been robbed. Twice he had arrived with cuts and bruises on his face and neck.

“You're lucky to be alive,” Roni told him as she helped out in the ER.

“Blessed, Doctor. I'm blessed.”

“If you say so. I'm afraid one of these days they're going to kill you.”

He shook his head. “Probably not. They want the food. If they kill me, they won't be able to rob me in the future.” He laughed. Roni would have cursed.

She gently placed a butterfly bandage over the cut on his forehead. There was little she could do for his black eye. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what? Pass out food?”

“You spend—what, two or three hours walking here and run the risk of being pounded to the ground coming and going.”

Southwell shrugged. “It needs to be done. I can do it. My church shares from the limited supply of food. The least I can do is try to put it in the hands of people.”

“Where is the food coming from?”

“The government provides some of it. It's not much. At first it was produce from storage areas, and then it became canned goods. Then MREs. Now we're seeing C-rations.”

“What's the difference?”

“MRE means ‘meals ready to eat.' They're prepared packages of food used by the military. The older ones were called C-rations. They have a long shelf life. They don't make C-rations anymore, but there are still some in military and FEMA storage areas.”

“So, the fact that they're using C-rations means they're running out of the newer stuff?”

“Probably. The only people getting fresh food are high-priority institutions like hospitals and key military facilities.”

Roni had stepped away, newly depressed. “What you do is noble, Pastor, but I'm going to advise you to stop. One of these beatings is going to go too far, and all your good intentions will be for nothing.”

“Good work is never for nothing, Doctor. Through time, Christians have been persecuted and beaten for many things. They crucified Jesus—what are a few bruises compared to that?”

“I'm not worried about bruises, Pastor. I'm concerned about a crushed skull.”

“I have a Baptist head. It's hard to crush.”

“Funny as that is, you need to stop. The work you do in the hospital is appreciated, but I fear for your life.”

“We're all dying, Doctor. No one gets out of this life alive. If I'm going to die, I'd like to do so while doing something worthwhile, something with eternal value.”

“Do you still carry your driver's license?”

“Um, yes. Out of habit. Why?”

“May I see it?”

Southwell gazed into her eyes as if he might find her thoughts there. He shifted on the exam table and removed a well-worn wallet. He extracted his license and handed it to her. Just as she thought.

“It says here you weigh 250 pounds. I'm guessing you weigh 180 now.”

“I've trimmed up some. All that walking, you know.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Last night. I had supper.”

“Supper, huh? MRE?”

“Yes. Most of one.”

“You shared your meal?”

“I don't need much.”

“You need more than you're getting. You can't help others if you don't help yourself.”

He slipped from the table, wobbled for a moment, and then steadied himself. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“You should rest for a while. How's your pain level?”

“I'm fine.”

“Ministers shouldn't lie, Pastor. How's your pain level?”

“I've got a headache, but nothing too bad.”

“I'll give you a pain reliever—”

“Save it, Doc. There are those who need it more than me.”

He was right, of course. His pain was minor compared to some, and the supply of meds was diminishing despite FEMAs efforts to keep operating hospitals supplied. Rationing was the policy. Use only what must be used. Nothing more.

“We're going to hold another worship service in about an hour. I would love to see you there.”

“I'm afraid I'm a little busy.” Three weeks earlier, Southwell had started a church service for any who could attend. He visited those who couldn't. The small hospital chapel filled the first week. They moved the service to the large lobby at the front of the hospital. Once, Roni had walked by and saw the place filled wall to wall with patients and medical staff. The room was cluttered with wheelchairs and gurneys. She hesitated for a few moments to take in the scene.

Jeremy once told her the sick were attracted to Jesus. They came in hope of healing. “Of course they do,” she had said. “Who wouldn't want to be well? Unfortunately, I don't see much miraculous healing going on these days.”

Jeremy explained that Jesus had a greater ministry, but He did heal wherever He went. Roni had been feeling argumentative that day and quipped, “I guess Jesus is a homebody these days. Not doing much travel and healing.”

The words had hurt her husband. She saw it on his face and immediately wished she could take them back. She apologized, and he forgave her. He always forgave her. Forgiving herself had been the challenge. That hadn't changed over the years.

“You're always going to be busy, Doctor. Always. This is the kind of thing one makes time for.”

“Thank you for the invitation.” Roni walked from the cubicle.

The music from Southwell's service rolled down the halls. It was sweet and uplifting. Once again, the staff had set him up in the large lobby of the first floor. The ER had settled, and her services were no longer needed. Roni set out to find Cody. The weeks had brought them closer together than she imagined possible, especially under the circumstances. She was often busy for hours at a time, and Cody was left to entertain himself. He proved adept at that, dividing his time between reading and playing with the children in the pediatric ward. No child was allowed outside without several adults supervising. The madness of the city continued to grow.

Cody was nowhere to be found. She checked all the usual spots: her office, the children's ward and playroom, and the cafeteria. No Cody. She asked around. No one had seen him. Not prone to anxiety, Roni found herself in a wrestling match with her imagination.

Having checked the surgical waiting area and the doctor's lounge, where he sometimes waited for her, she trotted down the stairwell and back to the first floor again. Cody liked crowds, maybe…

Roni moved to the lobby. As before, the place was jammed. She arrived as Southwell was leading prayer. The congregation of medical personnel and patients held hands, forming an unbroken chain of human contact. Those strapped on gurneys held the hands of those in wheelchairs who held the hands of those standing or sitting nearby.

The room was quiet, a tableau of reverence, of the wounded worshipping with the wounded; the damaged with the nearly whole. Here and there, IV stands stood like narrow chrome soldiers watching over the crowd.

The scene broke Roni's heart. She was used to seeing the broken and bloodied on her operating table. Doctors developed calloused hearts and cataracts that allowed them to see only the work they needed to do, not the human whom the body parts comprised. It was self-defense. Madness waited for those who cared too much.

She scanned the group and saw Cody by the wall. Like the others, he had bowed his head. Why was he here? Something new to see? The opportunity to be with others in her absence? At least he was safe. Along the wall stood Jose, his hands folded, his head down. She could see his lips move in silent prayer.

The quietude ended with the baritone voice of Dr. Southwell. Roni bowed her head out of respect for the man and the patchwork congregation.

“Our heavenly Father, we thank You for this day of life and for Your love. We come before You with hearts filled with gratitude for all that You've provided—”

Really? He's lost seventy pounds for lack of food. What provision?

“We are also thankful that in these difficult times we have You as our foundation and our continued strength. In our weakness Lord, You have made us strong. In this darkness, You have given us the light of Your Son, Jesus Christ.”

He paused and took a breath and then continued. “This day, O Lord, many will leave this world. We pray that You will welcome them into eternal life. Father, we are not blind to the great need around us. Help us help others and thereby help ourselves. Father, we remain confused but acknowledge that You remain at life's helm, Your mighty hand on the tiller. We remain confident in Your love.”

Roni felt like a Peeping Tom spying on the private activities of others. She was an outsider crashing their party.

“We pray for the doctors, nurses, and hospital staff who continue to make great personal sacrifice for our benefit. Bless their minds, hearts, and hands. We are thankful for them. Father, we also pray—”

“Nobody move!”

The voice was loud, harsh, and laced with fear and anger. Roni snapped her head up and opened her eyes. A man in dirty clothes marched toward the crowd. He held a gun in a trembling hand. His black hair was matted and wild, his eyes wide and tinged with yellow, his gaunt face robed in a scraggly beard.

He moved the gun from side to side as if looking for just the right target. Roni started for Cody. An eardrum-splitting crack filled the space, and the wall next to her seemed to explode. A hole existed where once plaster had been. Several in the group screamed.

“I said don't move.” The man spewed obscenities.

Like all doctors, Roni had done a rotation in the psych ward as part of her medical training. She had seen crazy before, and this was it. She had also seen drug-induced psychosis. She had no doubt this man was in severe withdrawal.