Moar Fic
Because I am feeling industrious, evidently.
Ray and Eddy and the hazards of altar calls.
Even through the fuzz of pain medication, of antibiotics, of chemicals that kept him in a perpetual state of half-dozing, he couldn’t ignore it all. People he’d known growing up, people who’d known him as a child, all people he didn’t know anymore coming and shaking his father’s hand, patting his mother’s shoulder, talking to him as if he were either deaf or two years old. If he heard one more person tell him it was the hand of God that had spared his life he was going to scream. Loudly. Hand of God or not, Ray wasn’t sure he deserved this. He didn’t even try to respond.
Here he was, the prodigal son, returned home and to his homeland, albeit not of his own free will. Unable to do much more that move his jaw and eyes, he could only sit strapped into the elephantine wheelchair of hospital gray and try to pretend he was hallucinating. The whole situation so surreal, it was easier to convince himself that it was all a bad dream than he might have thought. If not for Eddy casting him sympathetic glances from across the aisle, he might have been able to forget it entirely.
The service itself was familiar and inoffensive. It had been a long time since he’d heard the old pipe organ and he let himself drift on the sweetly familiar tunes. Mercifully, his mother didn’t prod him for not singing along. He didn’t see why they had to drag him out of the hospital just for this. Granted Pastor Goodwin, head of Encouragement and Visitation, had come to see him often enough, but the hospital chapel was rather painfully non-denominational. Ray would have been perfectly happy with a radio sermon, but apparently he was needed for this guest appearance.
“We’d like to welcome back a member of our congregation,” Pastor Simms was saying from the pulpit. “The youngest child of the Kalahearn family. Senator, would you care to bring your son forward?”
Oh no.
He cast a frantic glance at Eddy who could only give him a bewildered, sympathetic shrug. There was nothing he could do but try to help his friend and patient face this unintended public humiliation. Rising, he took the handles from Senator Kalahearn and reluctantly pushed Ray toward the altar.
“Senator, Mrs. Kalahearn, Dr. McPherson, Reuben,” Pastor Simms nodded at each of them in turn. With Ray unable to move, Eddy did the cringing for both of them.
“We thank the Lord that your son is here with us again. Praise be to Jesus, Son of the Almighty that Reuben’s life was spared. His body may be broken, but his spirit is alive, and well, and intact, and ready to meet our Savior without fear of Judgment, am I right?”
The congregation responded with loud “Amen’s” and applause. Ray could almost feel himself shrinking within the gargantuan wheelchair.
“With your permission, Brother Senator?” Pastor Simms asked, laying a hand on each of Ray’s shoulders. Ray eyed those hands warily. The last time Pastor Simms had laid hands on him, the results had fallen rather short of what the church elders could have hoped for. Then again, exorcism was Catholic territory and they were all a lot of extra-stodgy Protestants. Ray was fairly certain Dylan could have listed a hundred things they’d done wrong- starting with choosing a subject that was not, in fact, possessed. All that, however, was long in the past and Ray had to scramble to refocus on the pastor as he lowered his head and raised his voice.
“O Father God, how we praise You and thank You for returning this lost son to us.”
Ray closed his eyes with the rest of the congregation, more out of mortification than humility. This was beyond embarrassing, this was…this was…
“We bow before Your awesome power that has saved this boy from the evils of this world, from the schemes and designs of godless men, from the teeth of Satan the roaring lion!”
...pushing “cheesy”. Pastor Simms had an unfortunate habit of waxing poetic when it came to spoken prayer. The man has missed his calling; he should have been a Shakespearian actor.
“We thank you Lord, and we worship You for raising up this young man from the miry clay! For setting his feet- his spiritual feet- upon the rock that is Your salvation! We know that his sins have been forgiven and that his guilt has been washed away by Your precious blood!”
Ray could almost feel himself shrinking, the weight of guilt and embarrassment compressing him smaller and smaller inside his own body. Behind him, his mother burst into tears and wails of “Thank you, Jesus!”, his father echoing gravely “Amen!” at every exclamation. If he could have hung his head in shame, Ray would have done so. As it was, he could only close his eyes and add his own prayer: that it would end soon. Eyes scrunched closed, he didn’t notice Eddy placing a sympathetic hand on his arm.
“Brothers and sisters join me! Join me in praising our Lord God, the Great Physician! Lay hands on this young brother that we may give thanks for his spared life! Come forward brothers and sisters and pray with me!”
If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn he felt Eddy’s hand tighten around his bicep, a thin thread of panic skittering down from his nerves into his own. Apprehension mounted as the congregation left their seats and gathered around him, each clawing for a space on which to lay their hands. Heavy, sweaty palms and perfumed gloves piled on his head; fingers with wedding bands and heavy calluses weighed down his shoulders, more locked his arms in place, and yet more held down legs that could not have been lifted even if he’d wanted. And he wanted. He really wanted; to run, to scream, to do something, anything that would get these people off of him. A strangled sob caught in his throat before he could swallow it completely, it was all he could manage in the way of protest. Those unfamiliar with his current stage of recovery assumed he was either unable to articulate himself any further than verbal noise, or that his damaged jaw limited his ability to speak words, and so provided the “Hallelujah’s” for him.
Eddy had a death-grip on him with both hands, as if trying to pull him out from under the crowd of over-zealous saints. Ray barely noticed, an unpleasant pins-and-needles feeling had begun in his stomach and was bubbling its way up his chest and into his throat. Half afraid he was going to vomit, the cold, creeping sensation passed his mouth and nose and eyes and ascended straight up toward his brain. For the briefest moment, everything stopped. The people, the voices, the wailing of prayers and the weight of hands all vanished into calm, white silence. And then, that vanished too.
Ray and Eddy and the hazards of altar calls.
Even through the fuzz of pain medication, of antibiotics, of chemicals that kept him in a perpetual state of half-dozing, he couldn’t ignore it all. People he’d known growing up, people who’d known him as a child, all people he didn’t know anymore coming and shaking his father’s hand, patting his mother’s shoulder, talking to him as if he were either deaf or two years old. If he heard one more person tell him it was the hand of God that had spared his life he was going to scream. Loudly. Hand of God or not, Ray wasn’t sure he deserved this. He didn’t even try to respond.
Here he was, the prodigal son, returned home and to his homeland, albeit not of his own free will. Unable to do much more that move his jaw and eyes, he could only sit strapped into the elephantine wheelchair of hospital gray and try to pretend he was hallucinating. The whole situation so surreal, it was easier to convince himself that it was all a bad dream than he might have thought. If not for Eddy casting him sympathetic glances from across the aisle, he might have been able to forget it entirely.
The service itself was familiar and inoffensive. It had been a long time since he’d heard the old pipe organ and he let himself drift on the sweetly familiar tunes. Mercifully, his mother didn’t prod him for not singing along. He didn’t see why they had to drag him out of the hospital just for this. Granted Pastor Goodwin, head of Encouragement and Visitation, had come to see him often enough, but the hospital chapel was rather painfully non-denominational. Ray would have been perfectly happy with a radio sermon, but apparently he was needed for this guest appearance.
“We’d like to welcome back a member of our congregation,” Pastor Simms was saying from the pulpit. “The youngest child of the Kalahearn family. Senator, would you care to bring your son forward?”
Oh no.
He cast a frantic glance at Eddy who could only give him a bewildered, sympathetic shrug. There was nothing he could do but try to help his friend and patient face this unintended public humiliation. Rising, he took the handles from Senator Kalahearn and reluctantly pushed Ray toward the altar.
“Senator, Mrs. Kalahearn, Dr. McPherson, Reuben,” Pastor Simms nodded at each of them in turn. With Ray unable to move, Eddy did the cringing for both of them.
“We thank the Lord that your son is here with us again. Praise be to Jesus, Son of the Almighty that Reuben’s life was spared. His body may be broken, but his spirit is alive, and well, and intact, and ready to meet our Savior without fear of Judgment, am I right?”
The congregation responded with loud “Amen’s” and applause. Ray could almost feel himself shrinking within the gargantuan wheelchair.
“With your permission, Brother Senator?” Pastor Simms asked, laying a hand on each of Ray’s shoulders. Ray eyed those hands warily. The last time Pastor Simms had laid hands on him, the results had fallen rather short of what the church elders could have hoped for. Then again, exorcism was Catholic territory and they were all a lot of extra-stodgy Protestants. Ray was fairly certain Dylan could have listed a hundred things they’d done wrong- starting with choosing a subject that was not, in fact, possessed. All that, however, was long in the past and Ray had to scramble to refocus on the pastor as he lowered his head and raised his voice.
“O Father God, how we praise You and thank You for returning this lost son to us.”
Ray closed his eyes with the rest of the congregation, more out of mortification than humility. This was beyond embarrassing, this was…this was…
“We bow before Your awesome power that has saved this boy from the evils of this world, from the schemes and designs of godless men, from the teeth of Satan the roaring lion!”
...pushing “cheesy”. Pastor Simms had an unfortunate habit of waxing poetic when it came to spoken prayer. The man has missed his calling; he should have been a Shakespearian actor.
“We thank you Lord, and we worship You for raising up this young man from the miry clay! For setting his feet- his spiritual feet- upon the rock that is Your salvation! We know that his sins have been forgiven and that his guilt has been washed away by Your precious blood!”
Ray could almost feel himself shrinking, the weight of guilt and embarrassment compressing him smaller and smaller inside his own body. Behind him, his mother burst into tears and wails of “Thank you, Jesus!”, his father echoing gravely “Amen!” at every exclamation. If he could have hung his head in shame, Ray would have done so. As it was, he could only close his eyes and add his own prayer: that it would end soon. Eyes scrunched closed, he didn’t notice Eddy placing a sympathetic hand on his arm.
“Brothers and sisters join me! Join me in praising our Lord God, the Great Physician! Lay hands on this young brother that we may give thanks for his spared life! Come forward brothers and sisters and pray with me!”
If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn he felt Eddy’s hand tighten around his bicep, a thin thread of panic skittering down from his nerves into his own. Apprehension mounted as the congregation left their seats and gathered around him, each clawing for a space on which to lay their hands. Heavy, sweaty palms and perfumed gloves piled on his head; fingers with wedding bands and heavy calluses weighed down his shoulders, more locked his arms in place, and yet more held down legs that could not have been lifted even if he’d wanted. And he wanted. He really wanted; to run, to scream, to do something, anything that would get these people off of him. A strangled sob caught in his throat before he could swallow it completely, it was all he could manage in the way of protest. Those unfamiliar with his current stage of recovery assumed he was either unable to articulate himself any further than verbal noise, or that his damaged jaw limited his ability to speak words, and so provided the “Hallelujah’s” for him.
Eddy had a death-grip on him with both hands, as if trying to pull him out from under the crowd of over-zealous saints. Ray barely noticed, an unpleasant pins-and-needles feeling had begun in his stomach and was bubbling its way up his chest and into his throat. Half afraid he was going to vomit, the cold, creeping sensation passed his mouth and nose and eyes and ascended straight up toward his brain. For the briefest moment, everything stopped. The people, the voices, the wailing of prayers and the weight of hands all vanished into calm, white silence. And then, that vanished too.