The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one (19 page)

Hannah heard whispered voices behind the closed door. When it opened, Mrs. Greene emerged first, the other two following at a respectful distance. An icy efficiency governed her manner.

“Hannah,” she said. “I believe it’s time we all had a little talk.”

1:34

Father Jimmy’s mind was reeling from all the information he’d down-loaded on his computer and printed out. It was after midnight and he had barely left his chair for three hours, except once to stretch and once to splash cold water on his bleary eyes. Pages were strewn everywhere. He was tempted to call Hannah, but it was too late for that, and he knew he had to think this entire matter through first, before jumping to any conclusions.

He’d actually been able to locate Dr. Johanson’s article, “Looking Ahead: The Future of Genetics and Reproduction,” in the on-line archives of Tomorrow’s Science. Much of it was too technical for his understanding, and he’d been cowed by such terms as “embryology,” “quiescence,” and “biotechnology.” But after reading it three times, he got the general drift.

He learned that in the laboratory experiments a precisely controlled needle could be used to extract the genetic material from a mouse’s cumulus cell. (Thousands of them surrounded the ovary.) This genetic material or DNA could then be transplanted in the egg cell of a second mouse, from which the DNA had been sucked out. Chemically stimulated, the egg cell would then develop into an embryo, which could be implanted in the womb of a third mouse, the surrogate. And eventually, this third mouse would give birth to a baby that was the exact genetic copy of the first mouse. A clone!

If such techniques work on more than one species, the article went on to ask, why won’t they work on humans? And, indeed, Dr. Johanson had concluded by expressing his belief that human cloning was not only feasible, but indeed, desirable, as “an expression of reproductive freedom of choice,” a freedom that “cannot and must not be limited by legislation.”

Intrigued, Father Jimmy read on and soon found himself swamped by material, suggesting that the whole field was far more developed than he would have suspected. Sheep and cows had been successfully cloned, the process was becoming “routine” and the procedures ever more efficient. Stem cell research was flourishing. It was not folly to think that a complete human would be replicated “sooner rather than later.” Doctors around the world were already talking of it openly.

The ethical considerations made for a whole other can of worms, one that legislators and religious leaders had just opened. But already opinion seemed polarized between those for whom such experimentation was repugnant and those who welcomed it as a brave leap into the 21st century. Father Jimmy found he hadn’t given it that much thought. His basic conviction held that the miracle of life and procreation were part of God’s enduring glory, not man’s. And men playing God, he knew, were dangerous.

He rubbed his forehead, hoping to dispel the beginnings of a headache. His shoulders were tight from hunching over the computer. The mysteries of science confused and belittled him, just as the mystery of faith elevated him and made him feel bigger than he was. Limitless possibility, he believed, was found in God, not in science, which could only chip away at the outer edges of the infinite. Scientists were like sleuths who claimed to know the contents of a darkened room, when they’d barely cracked open the door.

He decided to go back and look at some of the shroud sites he had located the other day. There, at least, he felt on firmer ground.

He called up Judith Kowalski’s picture again, and studied her face - warm and sociable. (The site had had 8 visitors since his last visit.) He reread the society’s mission: “to disseminate information about the Shroud of Turin and the Sudarium of Oviedo worldwide, and to promote and encourage scientific investigation into their authenticity.” Nothing suspicious, although he expected that the information and investigation probably came with a certain amount of proselytizing.

After all, if tiny splinters of the true cross could ignite the passion of the faithful, how much greater the potential of these cloths, which had enveloped the body of Christ and bore the very blood of his martyrdom.

At the bottom of the web page, under “Further Readings,” there was a list of publications, available from the society for $9.95 each, plus shipping and handling. Father Jimmy hadn’t noticed them before. He ran his eyes down the list. The titles alone looked dry and academic.

* Pollens of Egypt and North Africa, and Their Implications.”

* Image Formation on the Shroud.”

* Carbon Dating as a Tool”

* The Burial Cloths of Jesus: Is this the DNA of God?

Each one written in deathless prose, Father Jimmy imagined, and guaranteed to put the reader to sleep after the first page.

He was prepared to turn off the computer and go to bed, when all at once several pieces of the puzzle came together in his head. He wasn’t even conscious of it happening. It just did. Nothing and then something. Like lightening out of a cloudless sky. He sat up straight in his chair. The computer screen was blurry, but what he was seeing in his mind’s eye was clear and sharp.

He told himself it wasn’t possible. The scenario that had leapt into his mind, nearly full-blown, was entirely too crazy to be true. The hour was late. His imagination was acting up. Or else he was dreaming. He pushed away from the desk and stared at the crucifix on the wall, willing himself back to reality. The only noise in the rectory was the low hum of his computer and the light snoring of Monsignor Gallagher in the bedroom upstairs. But the quiet only magnified the horror Father Jimmy was starting to feel. The pieces -Dr. Johanson, the sudarium, DNA, the photographs in Jolene Whitfield’s file, Partners in Parenthood - all made terrible sense to him. They fit!

And Hannah was caught right in the middle!

1:35

It was still dark out, when Hannah stumbled to the bathroom. She was feeling unusually groggy, but she didn’t want to turn on the light, afraid that she would be unable to fall back to sleep, if she did. She peed in the darkness, and then groped her way, like a blind person, back to the four-poster. The covers were tangled and it took some effort to straighten them out. All the while, she could sense consciousness returning in tiny increments, so that by the time she had managed to get herself between the sheets, the pillows in a comfortable position and the comforter pulled up to her chin, she was more awake than asleep.

She lay there thinking that the dynamics of the house were different now. Her position in it had shifted. She heard the words, “You have been chosen,” echoing in her ears. Was that possible? Had someone actually said that to her last night? Then she recalled someone else telling her everything had been “pre-ordained.”

For a moment, she thought it was just fragments of a dream that she was remembering in her semi-somnolent state. Like translucent soap bubbles, they would pop, as soon as she arose and took charge of the day. Even now, they were floating away from her, upwards, disappearing in a heavenly brightness.

Slowly, she became aware that the brightness was actually the morning sun coming through her blinds. She got up again and made another trip to the bathroom, this time to splash some cold water on her face. She needed to clear her head so that she could sort out the events of last evening. A strong cup of coffee and a few moments by herself to think, before the rest of the household was up, were all she required.

The floorboards creaked gently, as she went to the door. She turned the doorknob and was surprised to find that the door was stuck. She pulled it hard. There was still no give, so she yanked with both hands. And then yanked a third time before realizing that the door wasn’t stuck at all. They had locked her in.

Slowly the “bon voyage” dinner party came into focus and she remembered that Mrs. Greene had looked her right in the eye and told her she was a vessel. The vessel. And rambled on about how she had been led to them, just as they had been led to her.

“You are blessed among women,” Jolene had added, her voice rising in pitch. Hannah remembered that distinctly. And when she had asked how? why?, an ecstatic glaze had come over the woman’s eyes and she had simply replied, “It’s a miracle. Can’t you see that? A miracle!” Over and over.

“It is not for us to question God’s wisdom,” Mrs. Greene had insisted. “He has brought us together. He will watch over us.”

It was all coming back. Her thoughts had immediately gone to the strange midnight episodes in the garden, where Jolene had spoken words very much like those, kneeling on the grass, transfixed not by the dark pine trees at the garden’s end or the racing night clouds, no, but by something else, someone else. And so she had asked bluntly, “Is that who Jolene talks to late at night in the garden? God?”

“Not God,” Jolene had replied, still in an ecstatic state. “His mother. Just as you shall be his mother, this time.” Then she had started to sway back and forth, eyes moist and shiny, and the swaying had grown so pronounced that Hannah feared the woman might actually fall. Marshall and Mrs. Greene had both reached out to steady her, but Hannah had little doubt now that the occasion had been just as momentous for them, too.

At long last, they had let her go up the stairs to her bedroom. As she had reached the second floor, Mrs. Greene had called after her. “It is a singular honor that has been bestowed upon you. Never forget that Hannah. An honor for eternity.” The words, echoing in the stairwell, had sounded almost disembodied.

None of it had been a dream.

The light coming through the blinds was growing stronger, which meant the sun had risen above the barn. Hannah turned her back to the bedroom door, leaned up against it and shivered. How had this happened?

She wrapped her arms around her belly, as if to caress the child inside. “He,” they had said. So she was carrying a boy. How did they know that? The sonogram, of course. That much, at least, she could believe.

But what about the rest of it? All the stuff about God and vessels and destiny bringing them all together for the birth of this child. Were they deluded? Did they actually think she was carrying the son of … The panic rose in her, sour and cold, before she could complete the thought. She tried the door again, then began pounding on it, until her fist hurt. No one was stirring below, so she pounded even louder, until she finally heard footsteps on the stairs.

She stepped back and waited. A key turned in the lock and the door slowly opened to reveal Dr. Johanson. Standing behind him, a breakfast tray in her hands, was Letitia Greene.

“How are you feeling this fine morning?” Dr. Johanson asked, as if this were just another office visit.

“I’m fine,” Hannah mumbled, backing up until she bumped into the bed.

“Good, good. More than ever now, the sleep is important.” He allowed Mrs. Greene to maneuver past him and place the breakfast tray on the bureau.

“Irish oatmeal,” she explained. “Just the thing for a cold winter morning.”

“Thank you, Judith. You can leave us now.”

Reluctantly, the woman deferred to Dr. Johanson’s wishes and started to withdraw. She paused at the door and, asserting her authority, which had been temporarily eclipsed, instructed Hannah, “Don’t let it get cold. Oatmeal’s no good cold, you know.”

Dr. Johanson waited until she had gone. “So,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly, washing them, as it were, under an imaginary spigot. “I hear you have quite the evening last night.” Still the same jovial attitude, same crinkles around his eyes, when he smiled. But there was something else, too, something Hannah couldn’t exactly define. He seemed denser, more compact, as if his ample flesh had been packed down, like earth. The twinkle in his eyes no longer projected antic charm, but seemed more incisive, like the glints off mirrored glass.

She averted her gaze. “You’re all in this together, aren’t you?”

“Yes, we are. But that includes you, Hannah. You are the most important of all.”

“I never asked to be a part of it.”

“None of us asked, Hannah. We have all been called, each to provide according to his abilities. Yours is the most intimate and crucial contribution. Surely you understand that.”

“Why did you lie to me? Why did Mrs. Greene? All of you?”

“Lie? You were asked to carry a child for the Whitfields, that is all. You agreed. Now you discover that it is not just their child, it is a child for all ages. How does that change things?”

He took several steps toward her, Hannah inched away, hoping he wouldn’t touch her.

“Why me?”

“Why Mary? Why Bernadette of Lourdes, an innocent 14-year-old girl? Is there a reason she was chosen and not another? We cannot answer such questions? Can you tell me why you, 19-year-old waitress, no boyfriends, no family, felt compelled to be a mother? Or what drew you to the newspaper ad? You cannot. It is important for each of us to accept our role and be thankful for it.”

He was confusing her with such talk. Yes, she had been looking for something to give direction to her life. And, yes, the idea of having a baby had filled her with joy, not fear. But it had been her choice, after all, nobody else’s. And the ad, well, she had spotted it in Teri’s newspaper, so did that mean Teri was part of God’s plan, too? No, it was preposterous, all of it.

“I can see you do not believe me,” Dr. Johanson said, unhappily. “I perhaps do not do the explaining so well. The English! So tiring sometimes. Sit down, Hannah.”

“I’d rather stand.”

“As you wish. Let me try the explaining another way. Jesus told us He would be with us forever. Until the end of time. We read this in the Bible and always we think this means his spirit would watch over us, no? And it does. But when he said he would be with us always, He meant it literally, not just spiritually. First, he leaves behind his image on a piece of linen cloth, The Shroud of Turin. Nobody can see it for 1800 years. Not until man invents photography, takes a picture of it and the negative reveals the face and body of Jesus that was there all along. 1800 years!

“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.