The Chaplain
By Vickie Moseley

I've seen her four mornings in a row. It's a pretty sparse crowd during 
the week. A few of the ER nurses; Lynn, the radiologist; and Kevin, the 
respiratory ward orderly, are the stalwarts. One or two of the doctors 
manage to make it in if the surgery looks tricky or if the patient went 
sour during the night. That is, those few who still think of God as a 
Supreme Being and not just a colleague. 

Occasionally, there are family members, but not every day. Once the 
immediate danger is past, they usually occupy their time supporting and 
caring for their loved one on the floors above. I've seen a couple of 
'gratitude visits', but sadly, not nearly as many as I'd hoped I'd see 
when given this assignment. It's awfully easy to ask please, it's often 
times much harder to remember to say thank you. 

The first day I saw her, I could tell immediately that it was a 'please' 
she was uttering low and quiet, along with the Hail Mary's of her rosary. 
Lynn clued me in on her story. She's in law enforcement and her partner 
was brought in with a severe gunshot wound to the leg. He's been in ICU, 
but according to my sources, he's now in a regular room. And yet, here 
she is, still coming to Mass. 

I wonder about her as I gather the chalices and the water, wine and 
hosts for the Mass. She's young. She looks too young to be a policewoman. 
I gather from her bearing that this isn't the first crisis she's faced, 
that beyond the immediate there is something bothering her. I make up my 
mind to try and catch her before she leaves today. 

Six-thirty a.m. Chapel is never that long. I know everyone is busy so I 
keep the homily short and light. No songs, I left my voice somewhere in 
seminary. Communion is the reason most of them are here anyway. Communion 
with Christ and with each other. 

Usually, I just go to the little room off to the side and change out of 
my vestments, but today, I step off the altar and walk to where she's 
still kneeling. As I approach, I see a tear streak down her face and 
realize I probably picked a good day to talk to her. Divine intervention 
is a wonderful thing. 

"Good morning," I say quietly. She looks up at me and smiles through the 
tears. "You're becoming a regular. I'm Father Dan. Daniel McAfee. Mind if 
I sit down?" 

The smile quivers a bit, but she shakes her head no and reaches into her 
pocket, presumably to find a tissue. She comes up empty. I grab the 
handkerchief I know I placed in my pocket this morning. Our secretary at 
the rectory, who can someone mimic perfectly my mother's voice, is always 
reminding me to carry one for just these occasions. I offer her the 
pristine cotton cloth. She takes it and it seems to speed up the tears. 

I sit beside her, watching her fall to pieces, and for some reason, I 
rest my hand on her shoulder. I'm not a demonstrative person. Oh, I'm 
told I'm outgoing, but I don't hug, even in my family. I can sense that 
she isn't a hugger, either. But she needs contact, some reassurance that 
she's not as alone as she's feeling right now. 

After a couple of moments, she calms down to sniffles. She blows her 
nose in a most ladylike fashion and then looks forlornly down at the 
handkerchief. 

"I'll get you a new one, Father," she offers with a weak smile. 

I shake my head. "You'll do no such thing. Now, what's the trouble. I'm 
a pretty good listener. Someone here in the hospital?" 

She shakes her head, but shrugs one shoulder, so I'm pretty confused by 
the answer. "My partner's here. But he's doing better." 

I nod. "Well, sometimes when the crisis is over, that's when our 
emotions have a chance to catch up. It's pretty normal, just a little 
disconcerting when it's happening to you." 

"That's not all, I guess. I mean, yes, it was... awful the other night. 
Mulder was bleeding out and the ambulance took forever and that damned 
dock... oh, sorry, Father, but the dock was so cold. But I knew once they 
had him on blood substitutes and O2 in the ambulance, it would just be a 
matter of time till the surgery and arterial reconstructs can be tricky, 
but he runs 4 miles a day, his vascular system is top notch." 

She lost me somewhere around the cold dock, but I don't think I'm 
supposed to keep up. I'm just here to be a shoulder. 

"But, well, then Boggs kept looking like my father and he promised that 
he'd let me s-s-speak with h-h- him and I wanted that, Father, I wanted 
it so bad. I know it's against Church teachings to try and contact the 
dead, but it was an important question and I really needed the 
answer...and Mulder told me not to deal with Boggs and I knew he was 
right...but I couldn't stop myself..." 

The sobs overtake her again, and this time I overcome both our emotional 
barricades and let her cry on my shoulder. Fortunately, the vestments are 
about ready for the cleaners anyway. 

"Um, Officer...you know, I don't know your name," I say lightly and she 
pulls back and smirks at the preposterousness of my statement. 

"Agent Dana Scully. I'm with the FBI," she explains and offers me her 
hand. 

"Ah, FBI. I didn't think you were a local cop," I tell her. "I know most 
of them." 

"Get thrown in the slammer a lot, do you, Father McAfee?" she teases. 
I've seen this before, the emotional rollercoaster ride, so I play along. 

"Never on Saturday nights," I tease back. "Sunday's my big day at work." 

She smiles a little, and then closely examines the handkerchief in her 
hands. "I sound like an emotional cripple," she says sadly. 

"No, you sound like a person who's had a very hard week. When did your 
father die?" I ask. 

"What day is it?" she says with a self-mocking smile. 

"Thursday." 

"He died a week ago yesterday." 

That knocks me for a loop. I thought the federal government was a little 
more sensitive than that. By rights this woman should still be on 
bereavement leave. But then, it's not my place to judge, just to listen. 

"I'm sorry for your loss. I can tell you were very close." 

She tilts her head and struggles against the tears still choking her. 
"He was my father." 

"I lost my father when I was seventeen," I offer. "That was almost 30 
years ago and I still miss him." 

She nods and swallows. "When I was a little girl, he was everything to 
me. I mean, he was gone a lot, he was in the Navy, but when he was 
home..." 

I smile at the light in her eyes as she remembers happier times. 
Something she said earlier finally makes it's way to my mind. A question 
she wanted answered. 

"But you had unfinished business?" I ask. The sigh she lets go can only 
be found in someone with a very heavy heart. "It's stupid, really. And 
selfish. But I just wanted to know." Again, the tears choke off her 
words. 

"Know what?" I ask again, because I realize until she talks this out, 
she won't find any peace. 

She bites her lip and looks off to where the altar candles are still 
burning. I'm my own server in the chapel and I haven't finished my work 
yet. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. 

"I wanted to know...if he was proud of me." 

Not what I expected by a long shot, but then, not so out of the park 
really. 

"Let me see. You're in law enforcement, you have a job with the most 
respected justice office in the world. You're very loyal and very caring. 
And you loved him very much. If I had to make a guess, I'd say he was 
very proud of you." 

"You don't know me, Father," she replies with a sad shake of her head. 
"And you never met him." 

"Ah, but from what I've seen, I can't see how any man wouldn't be proud 
to have you as a daughter." I can tell she's going to be a hard sell. The 
best ones usually are. 

"Look, you've been coming to Mass for the last four days. I don't mean 
to pry, but that shows me how loyal you are, to your partner and to God. 
From our conversation, I can tell that you care very much for your 
partner, and that you loved your father very deeply. The very fact that 
you are worried about what he thought of you tells me that your have 
sought his approval before. But I think you misunderstood something once. 
Sometime you must have fought over something, probably a decision, and 
you never got over the feeling that you failed him." 

She looks at me with a serious expression. "I need to take you upstairs 
to meet my partner," she says. "You two would get along very well." 

I smile, I can tell a jab when I see one. "Did I say anything that's out 
of line?" 

"No," she admits reluctantly. "You pretty much hit the target on the 
first try. Dead on, I'd have to say. So, are you the psychic priest?" 

"No, the one who listens," I say with a grin. I take her hand in mine 
for a minute. "Trust me on this, Agent Scully. Your father was very proud 
of you. But like many fathers, he ran out of time to tell you." 

She takes the handkerchief and wipes at her eyes. When she looks back at 
me, she's smiling, and it's a very good look on her. 

"Better?" I ask, but I already have my answer. 

She nods anyway. "Thank you, Father." 

"Think nothing of it. All in a day's work," I grin back at her. 

I don't know if she'll be back at Mass, but I suspect she will until her 
partner is well enough to go home. I doubt if we'll take more than just a 
nod and a hello after today. I'm just glad I've had the chance to deliver 
that message. 

 The end.


 Season's Greetings,
 Peace and Joy in the New Year!

 vm. 

 vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com