The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  “During the course of your training to become a priest, did you speak with parishioners about their religious beliefs?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is it part of your duty as a priest to help others become familiar with God?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about deepening their faith in God?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She turned to the judge. “I’m going to offer up Father Michael as an expert on spiritual advice and religious beliefs, Your Honor.”

  The other attorney shot up. “Objection,” he said. “With all due respect, is Father Michael an expert on Jewish beliefs? Methodist beliefs? Muslim ones?”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Father Michael may not testify as an expert on religious beliefs outside of the Catholic faith, except in his role as a spiritual advisor.”

  I had no idea what that meant, and from the looks on their faces, neither did either attorney. “What’s the role of a spiritual advisor in the prison?” Maggie asked.

  “You meet with inmates who would like a friend to talk to, or a voice to pray with,” I explained. “You offer them counseling, direction, devotional materials. Basically, you’re a priest making a house call.”

  “How was it that you were chosen to become a spiritual advisor?”

  “St. Catherine’s—my parish—received a request from the state prison.”

  “Is Shay Catholic, Father?”

  “One of his foster mothers had him baptized Catholic, so in the eyes of the Church, yes, he is. However, he does not consider himself a practicing Catholic.”

  “How does that work, then? If you’re a priest and he’s not Catholic, how are you able to be his spiritual advisor?”

  “Because my job isn’t to preach to him, but to listen.”

  “When was the first time you met with Shay?” Maggie asked.

  “March eighth of this year,” I said. “I’ve seen him once or twice a week since then.”

  “At some point, did Shay discuss his desire to donate his heart to Claire Nealon, the sister of one of his victims?”

  “It was the very first conversation we had,” I replied.

  “How many times since have you discussed with Shay his feelings about this transplant?”

  “Maybe twenty-five, thirty.”

  Maggie nodded. “There are people here today who think that Shay’s desire to become an organ donor has everything to do with buying himself time, and nothing to do with religion. Do you agree with that?”

  “Objection,” the other attorney said. “Speculation.”

  The judge shook his head. “I’ll allow it.”

  “He’d die today, if you let him donate his heart. It’s not time he wants; it’s the chance to be executed in a way that would allow for a transplant.”

  “Let me play devil’s advocate,” Maggie said. “We all know donating organs is selfless . . . but where’s the link between donation and salvation? Was there something that convinced you this wasn’t just altruism on Shay’s part . . . but part of his faith?”

  “Yes,” I said. “When Shay told me what he wanted to do, he said it in a very striking way. It almost sounded like a weird riddle: ‘If I bring forth what’s inside me, what’s inside me will save me. If I don’t bring forth what’s inside me, what’s inside me will destroy me.’ I found out later that Shay’s statement wasn’t original. He was quoting someone pretty important.”

  “Who, Father?”

  I looked at the judge. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Nothing further,” Maggie said, and she sat back down beside Shay.

  Gordon Greenleaf frowned at me. “Forgive my ignorance, Father. Is that from the Old Testament or the New Testament?”

  “Neither,” I replied. “It’s from the Gospel of Thomas.”

  This stopped the attorney in his tracks. “Aren’t all gospels somewhere in the Bible?”

  “Objection,” Maggie called out. “Father Michael can’t respond, because he’s not a religious expert.”

  “You offered him up as one,” Greenleaf said.

  Maggie shrugged. “Then you shouldn’t have objected to it.”

  “I’ll rephrase,” Greenleaf said. “So, Mr. Bourne quoted something that is not actually in the Bible, but you’re claiming it’s proof that he’s motivated by religion?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”

  “Well, then, what religion does Shay practice?” Greenleaf asked.

  “He doesn’t label it.”

  “You said he’s not a practicing Catholic. Is he a practicing Jew, then?”

  “No.”

  “A Muslim?”

  “No.”

  “A Buddhist?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Is Mr. Bourne practicing any type of organized religion that the court might be familiar with, Father?”

  I hesitated. “He’s practicing a religion, but it isn’t formally organized.”

  “Like what? Bourneism?”

  “Objection,” Maggie interrupted. “If Shay can’t name it, why do we have to?”

  “Sustained,” Judge Haig said.

  “Let me clarify,” Greenleaf said. “Shay Bourne is practicing a religion you can’t name, and quoting from a gospel that’s not in the Bible . . . and yet somehow his desire to be an organ donor is grounded in the concept of religious salvation? Does that not strike you, Father, as the slightest bit convenient on Mr. Bourne’s part?”

  He turned, as if he hadn’t really expected me to give an answer, but I wasn’t going to let him off that easy. “Mr. Greenleaf,” I said, “there are all sorts of experiences that we can’t really put a name to.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The birth of a child, for one. Or the death of a parent. Falling in love. Words are like nets—we hope they’ll cover what we mean, but we know they can’t possibly hold that much joy, or grief, or wonder. Finding God is like that, too. If it’s happened to you, you know what it feels like. But try to describe it to someone else—and language only takes you so far,” I said. “Yes, it sounds convenient. And yes, he’s the only member of his religion. And no, it doesn’t have a name. But . . . I believe him.” I looked at Shay until he met my gaze. “I believe.”

  June

  When Claire was awake, which was less and less often, we did not talk about the heart that might be coming for her or whether or not she’d take it. She didn’t want to; I was afraid to. Instead, we talked about things that didn’t matter: who’d been voted off her favorite reality TV show; how the Internet actually worked; if I’d reminded Mrs. Walloughby to feed Dudley twice a day instead of three times, because he was on a diet. When Claire was asleep, I held her hand and told her about the future I dreamed of. I told her that we’d travel to Bali and live for a month in a hut perched over the ocean. I told her that I would learn to water-ski barefoot while she drove the boat, and then we’d swap places. How we would climb Mt. Katahdin, get our ears double pierced, learn how to make chocolate from scratch. I imagined her swimming up from the sandy bottom of unconsciousness, bursting through the surface, wading to where I was waiting onshore.

  It was during one of Claire’s afternoon drug-induced marathon naps that I began to learn about elephants. That morning, when I had gone down to the hospital cafeteria for a cup of coffee, I passed the same three retail establishments I’d passed every day for the past two weeks—a bank, a bookstore, a travel agency. Today, though, for the first time, I was magnetically drawn to a poster in the window. EXPERIENCE AFRICA, it said.

  The bored college girl staffing the office was talking to her boyfriend on the phone when I walked inside, and was more than happy to send me on my way with a brochure, in lieu of actually telling me about the destination herself. “Where were we?” I heard her say as she picked up the phone again when I left the office, and then she giggled. “With your teeth?”

  Upstairs in Claire’s room, I pored over pictures of rooms with beds as wide as the sea, covered with crisp whit