The Shepherd’s Song Read online

  Nothing came. Where was a good prayer when you needed one? Kate was the one who prayed for everyone else. But who prayed for Kate?

  The image of Kate lying hurt in the old station wagon came unwanted into his mind. Don’t think. He must not think. Why did she keep that old thing anyway?

  “Just get there,” he said under his breath. “There will be a way to fix this. There is always a way to fix things.” He had learned that in law school. He hoped it was true.

  “This is WBAL bringing you news and updates on the worst blizzard in the history of Baltimore.”

  John punched off the radio and turned his full attention to the road ahead.

  * * *

  AS MATT DROVE toward the hospital, he heard the sirens blaring across town. He shivered in his light sweater. Traffic moved slowly, inching through the snow and ice. Matt felt like he was in a dream, moving in slow motion.

  It couldn’t really be happening. It was all a mistake. When he got to the hospital, they would straighten everything out. They would laugh about it at dinner. He tried to imagine his family, warm and cozy, sitting around the table eating together, making jokes about ambulances and hospitals, but that image wouldn’t come into focus.

  He tried not to think of his last words to his mother. He had been so angry. No one had known this morning what the day would bring.

  “Come on,” he spoke to the traffic in frustration. “Come on.”

  He made his way around another fender bender, driving carefully, hoping not to slide in the icy slush on the road. His phone buzzed, and he punched it on.

  “Dad?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way . . . the traffic.”

  “Be careful, Matt. It’s bad out here. Just take your time.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  His voice broke, and suddenly the first tears came. It was becoming real.

  * * *

  THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD. The psalm brought peace as Kate lay on the stretcher, helpless to move or speak. She heard the voices around her, but it seemed like a movie or a TV show about someone else.

  Dr. Belding maintained a voice you might use while discussing the weather.

  “Someone call orthopedics. And let’s get an X-ray of that leg. Get an X-ray of the chest, too. And let’s get a chest tube in. I think we have a hemothorax.”

  The pain began to subside as the morphine did its job. Kate drifted.

  When she opened her eyes again, she was being wheeled down the long green hall. She heard the voices back and forth over her stretcher.

  “What happened?”

  “A big pile-up on I-95.”

  “No kidding. She doesn’t look so good. Is she going to make it?”

  “You never know with these trauma patients. I’ve seen ones in worse shape make it . . . but not many.”

  Kate closed her eyes again. I might die. Oddly, now the idea of dying wasn’t so frightening or even upsetting. It was just a thought, surfacing in the haze of her mind.

  She did not want to leave her family yet, especially after her morning conversation with Matt. His angry face came to mind.

  “Mom, I found the psalm you put in my pocket. I wish you’d leave me alone about that.” He was slamming his books into his backpack. “You just want to control my life. You always have. Why don’t you back off?”

  “But, Matt, it’s the twenty-third psalm,” she had said, as though the significance should be obvious.

  “Give it a rest.”

  “Matt, God wants to be your shepherd. And He is an unbelievable shepherd. He will provide everything you need and protect you and . . .” She knew she should stop talking, but she couldn’t.

  “Stop it, Mom. Stop it.”

  “But, Matt—”

  “Enough!”

  He tossed his peacoat carelessly into the pile going to the dry cleaner’s. It wasn’t until later, after she dropped off the cleaning, that she remembered the psalm and wondered if it had been in the pocket.

  It was strange to worry about the paper now, while she was in the hospital, maybe dying. But she had copied it so carefully and prayed over each phrase. Where was it now?

  “Orthopedics just called. They can take her in surgery now.”

  Dr. Belding grabbed the end of the stretcher. “Okay, people. Let’s get her down to the OR.” He turned to the nurse. “Has the family been called?”

  “They’re on the way.”

  “Good. Let me know when they arrive.”

  Kate’s mind was slowly winding down. The family had been called. John was coming, and Matt.

  Take care of them, she prayed. John was so helpless without her. Take care of them.

  She was moving again. Down the green hall.

  Fewer and fewer thoughts made their way into her consciousness. However, the first phrase of the twenty-third psalm played over and over.

  The Lord is my shepherd. The Lord is my shepherd . . . shepherd . . .

  Ding. Elevator doors opened.

  Shepherds take care of their sheep. They feed them. They get water for them. They protect them. They . . .

  Ding. Off the elevator. Down another hall. Through double doors. More people. More masks.

  The Lord is my shepherd. . . my own personal shepherd. My very own caretaker. My . . .

  Into a room with bright lights.

  She could trust God with her life. She could trust God to take care of Matt. She could trust God to take care of John.

  Peace descended on Kate, and she let go of all struggles.

  * * *

  “DAD.”

  John wrapped his arms awkwardly around his son. For a moment neither could move as they embraced outside the ER.

  The sliding glass doors opened, and John and Matt entered a flurry of chaos, pain, and confusion. John moved forward with a surge of confidence. They would go in and figure out what needed to be done. He was good at that. Organizing. Fixing. They hurried toward the information desk.

  “I’m John McConnell. You called me. My wife, Kate McConnell, was in an accident.”

  The attendant behind the counter glanced up.

  “Just a minute.” Her hair was disheveled, and she had a frantic look as she spoke into the receiver. “Can you hold, please?”

  She pushed the hold button and turned to John. “Now, who is it you’re here for?”

  “Kate McConnell.”

  John felt his heart pounding in his chest. Time stood still as the woman typed into the computer in front of her. It was taking too long.

  “Surgery. They have just taken her into surgery. You can wait in the trauma ICU waiting room. It’s on the third floor.” She pointed to the elevators.

  “Can you tell us anything, anything at all?” John begged.

  The girl shook her head. “I’ll call the doctor and let him know you’re here. You’ll have to wait.”

  That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Waiting wouldn’t accomplish anything. He wanted to make strategic phone calls. Contact the right people. That’s usually how he solved problems. He thought of the important clients he had. All the powerful people he knew who could get things done with just a phone call. None of them could help him now.

  “Dad? What can we do?” Matt asked him.

  “Wait.”

  For the first time in his life John McConnell felt totally helpless.

  * * *

  THE ELEVATOR WAS CROWDED. Matt pushed 3 and immediately began drumming his fingers nervously on his leg. Everything was moving too slowly.

  They stopped on the second floor. Doors opened. People got off. People got on.

  “Come on.”

  Finally, the elevator stopped at the third floor, and the doors opened to reveal a distinguished-looking, white-haired doctor.

  “You’re the family of Kate McConnell?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m her husband,” his father answered. “How is she?”

  Matt stared at the man in the white coat, trying to read something from his gr
ave expression.

  “I’m Dr. Belding. Right now, she is stable. She has a collapsed lung, some broken ribs, and a badly broken leg, which the orthopedic surgeons are working on now.”

  “So she’s going to be all right,” Matt said.

  Dr. Belding’s face maintained the same serious expression. “It’s too early to know. Her body has undergone a major assault, and she is very fragile. But we will continue to keep a close eye on her and do everything we can.”

  “But she’ll be all right.” He knew he was almost yelling, but he couldn’t stop.

  Dr. Belding looked into his eyes.

  “We are doing everything we can. You need to be calm and wait.”

  “When can we see her?” his father asked.

  “When she’s finished in surgery, they’ll bring her to ICU. You can see her then. Wait in there.” Dr. Belding pointed to the waiting room. “I’ll be back as soon as I know something.”

  Matt watched Dr. Belding walk briskly down the hall.

  As they sat in the waiting room, he kept replaying the argument he’d had with his mother. He could not get comfortable in the vinyl chair.

  “Dad?” His father sat beside him leaning forward, his head resting in his hands.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think we get second chances?”

  His father looked up from his hands.

  “I don’t know, Matt. I just don’t know.”

  * * *

  KATE LAY ON THE SURGICAL TABLE. The lights of the operating room were bright above her. Shadows moved about. The only noise was the ventilator slowly breathing in and out, in and out.

  The Lord is my shepherd. The Lord. The Lord God Almighty. The Creator of the Universe. He is my shepherd.

  Gentle hands moved her arms into position and covered her with drapes.

  Someone whispered in her ear, “I’m going to give you something to make you sleep.”

  Before Kate’s mind went completely blank, she silently sent up a final prayer.

  Please, let my life count.

  LOVE CAME unexpectedly to Chris Bennett.

  It started with a wanting that surprised him with its intensity. He did not see it coming that afternoon as he slid open the glass door of the drive-through lane at Tomasi Cleaners for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  Snow fell on his face as he gathered a load of shirts from the backseat of a BMW.

  “Monday okay?” he asked over the pile of oxford button-downs.

  The driver waved, never stopping his conversation on his cell phone.

  Chris loaded the shirts into a garment bag and typed the phone number into the computer. He printed the slip and once again swung the door open to present the tag to the driver. No response. To the customers Chris was invisible. The BMW drove off, and a red Jeep pulled up. Another pile of clothes, another printed slip.

  As he sorted the clothes, he fingered a soft yellow cashmere sweater. Noticed the brilliance of a woman’s red scarf. Why did some people have so much and others so little? He sorted the clothes, taking care to look for stains and spots, putting the dry cleaning in a separate bag from the laundry.

  A memory came from his childhood—a bag of used clothing that he and his brothers called the “jumble” bag. In the small, dirt-road town of Hayville, a wealthy family would drive through each summer on their way to the lakes for vacation. Chris could see them in their shiny, clean station wagon loaded high with suitcases bound to the top, two perfect children in the backseat providing a stark contrast to the kids playing in the dirt yards of Hayville.

  The father would get out and leave the jumble bag on the doorstep of the duplex. The two wide-eyed children would press their faces to the backseat window, watching Chris and his brothers and the others rip open the black garbage bag and dig through the shirts and pants, socks and old underwear. Thinking about it brought back the tightness in his stomach, the scramble for the clothes and the wanting. Everyone trying to get something that fit.

  One year he had pulled out a perfect leather moccasin bedroom slipper. But only one. He still remembered the beauty of the soft leather, the perfect fit on his small foot. In desperation he had dug through the bag for the mate, and for years he looked in each jumble bag for the matching moccasin. He never found it.

  “Monday okay?” Another load of shirts and sweaters. Another distracted wave.

  The snow was really coming down now. His apartment would be cold. There was little food in the fridge. A jar of pickles. A bottle of ketchup. A half-eaten pizza. But he was thankful for his apartment and its furnishings. After years of sharing a room with four brothers, it seemed like a palace.

  Chris printed out the receipt for a woman in a black Volvo and opened the door to another blast of cold. He sighed as he turned back and looked around at the mess. It had been a hard day at Tomasi Cleaners—a steady stream of customers all day bringing piles of shirts, jackets, dresses. Endless loads for him to wash and steam and press. He liked working hard and was thankful for the job and the money in his pocket.

  He had left Hayville five months ago after he’d graduated from high school. No one was present to see him shake the principal’s hand and take his diploma. His mother had been gone since he was a baby, and his father was at work.

  Chris had saved $450 from his job in the school cafeteria, a job that gave him free food and some pocket money but earned him the scorn of the other students. It didn’t matter. He was happy to leave Hayville and ready to make his way in the world. Even in the act of leaving, though, he stifled the hope inside. He steeled himself for disappointment, as he had all his life.

  “It’s really coming down out there,” Chris called out as he began to sort through the clothes. There were piles everywhere from the rush of customers trying to make it home.

  Mr. Tomasi came out of the back rolling a rack of freshly pressed shirts.

  “Let’s sort the last loads and close early.”

  Chris nodded. “Looks like it’s getting bad.”

  Chris tackled a pile brought in earlier by Mrs. McConnell. She was such a nice woman. One of the few who didn’t look right through him. She would sometimes ask about him. Once she gave him a small card with a Bible verse on it. He couldn’t remember what had happened to it.

  He separated her laundry from her dry cleaning and began to go through the clothes. He picked up a navy peacoat from the pile. It was nice, probably belonged to her son. Chris looked out the large plate-glass window at the flakes of snow falling steadily now. It was cold out there. The wool coat looked warm. He tried it on. Perfect fit.

  No big deal. He would have it back in the morning and cleaned before they opened. It wasn’t the first time he had borrowed clothes from the cleaner. There was something almost irresistible about nice clothes. It was like he could become someone else, someone worthy.

  As he set the coat aside, Chris felt something inside the pocket. He wondered what it was, but the buzzer for the drive-through sounded and he hurried to get one more load.

  Finally Mr. Tomasi shooed him out. “Go on. Get home before it gets any worse.”

  Chris didn’t really care. He had nothing to do tonight, or any night, for that matter. Mr. Tomasi went in the back, and Chris pulled on the coat and headed out into the snow.

  The sidewalks were still crowded, and he could see people with grocery bags, probably buying all the milk and bread to stock up for the storm.

  The temperature had dropped unexpectedly, and he was glad he had the peacoat. He pulled it tighter. It fit his long arms perfectly and looked good with his old jeans and worn sneakers. He ran his fingers through his curly brown hair to brush off the snowflakes, smoothed the front of the coat, then tucked his hands in the pockets for warmth.

  There it was, the paper he had felt earlier. He paused under an awning in the entranceway of an office building. His fingers closed around the paper, and he pulled it out and opened it.

  The Lord is my shepherd.

  It was a Bible verse. He re
ad the next line.

  I shall not want.

  That’s when it came—the wanting, the ache inside. He rubbed his chest and took a deep breath. The ache was still there as he stood on the sidewalk in his borrowed coat, confused about the tears welling up in his eyes.

  A long time ago in Hayville he had learned that it is safer not to want. If you didn’t want, you couldn’t be disappointed. It was the expectation of dinner that made you hungry . . . and mad when there was nothing to eat. It was the yearning to go to the movie that made you hurt when others had money for the ticket and you stayed home. It was the longing to be included in the party that made you disappointed when the invitation didn’t come.

  He rested back against the columns of the building and looked out at the city and the world and the people. Cars moving, honking. People hurrying. The world in motion. Chris felt like he alone was standing still, invisible and empty. He had thought that when he moved here, everything would change. His surroundings had changed, but he was the same inside. Empty.

  What was it that he wanted? What did he ache for? Not to be invisible? Not to be empty? That was not likely to happen. Here in the city he was getting by. He could pay his rent and eat. That was incredible. But he still could not enjoy it. The want was still there. Looking out from the store windows around him stood a cast of mannequins, dressed in fine suits and silk dresses, but plastic, unfeeling.

  He tucked the psalm into the inside pocket of the coat. It lay on his chest like a hand placed over his heart. The words stirred up feelings long ago suppressed.

  Chris started down the sidewalk moving with the flow of people. A woman in a fur coat walked a Yorkie. A man in a double-breasted suit walked briskly past, holding a newspaper over his head to catch the wet snow. In the middle of all these people, Chris was alone.

  He passed a large church. Stone steps led up to the dark wooden doors that were closed tight—offering no warmth against the chill outside. The verse in his pocket, however, was comforting, inviting.

  “Are you up there, God?” he said to the gray sky.

  No answer. There was no God in his world, and there hadn’t been for a while.