Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

82 :: JOHN R. MABRY
“I need to check in on my brother...” she began.
He waved towards the phone on the wall with his spatula.
Her fingers shook slightly as she dialed, and she sipped at
the coffee as a conscious gesture of normalcy. She was connected
to the nurses’ station quickly, and asked for an update
on Randall Webber’s condition.
“No change,” a nurse told her, matter-of-factly. “He’s stable,
but he’s not conscious.”
She thanked the nurse and fought back twin waves of
panic and depression. “Where is everyone?” she asked Brian.
“Chapel—morning prayer. Why don’t you go in and see?
They’ll be done soon, and I’ll serve you all together.”
“Can I take my coffee?”
He smiled big at her. “Why not? I hear Jesus loves coffee.”
She furrowed her brow at this silliness and tentatively
walked out of the kitchen. A plaque beside the door
announced that she was entering the Montague Summers
Memorial Chapel. She gasped. Last night, it had been dark,
and she had not noticed it at all. But with the sun streaming
through the window above the altar, she was almost paralyzed
by its gaudy glory. Just below the window was what
appeared to be a community altar, with more candles and
sacred objects than she could count: crucifixes, scrolls, icons
of saints as varied as St. John of the Cross and Harvey Milk,
a framed Rolling Stone cover of Jimi Hendrix, statues of
Shiva and Ganesha, and even a posable figurine of Homer
Simpson were positioned lovingly on the deep blue altar
cloth.
Just in front of this was a free-standing altar, dressed but
uncluttered except for two candles on its right and left sides.
The friars were seated in chairs lining the walls to her right
and left, facing each other, fully vested in albs, with some in
stoles as well.