text: Disclaimer: This story does not reflect my spiritual or cultural views. It attempts merely to examine the pull of faith when Man gets involved. “Merry Christmas,” John grunted. The doctor looked up from the man’s chart, and did a half-turn back into the room. “Excuse me?” John analyzed the man’s dark face for signs of offense, belligerence. He didn’t know the physician - or for that matter, at this moment, anyone in the conceivable world -- but he realized now his sarcasm was misdirected. “I’m, ah, I’m sorry,” John offered, waving the pulsometer they’d affixed to his index finger. “I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole. I’m just a little discombobulated, is all. Well, a lot, actually.” The doctor smiled for the first time since his patient had awoken to a fresh new universe. “I understand, and I empathize thoroughly. You’ve had a major trauma, and now, you have some significant blanks to fill in. I was a bit discombobulated myself. What did you say a moment ago?” This time, the physician paused, his forehead furrowing even as he maintained his bedside smile. “I just meant Happy Holidays,” John defaulted defensively. “No,” the doctor drawled, crossing his arms over the chart. “What precisely did you say to me?” Christ, one of those . John chided himself. “Look, I said ‘Merry Christmas.’ It’s just instinct, what you say this time of year. I certainly didn’t mean anything, you know, personal by it.” “I, um, didn’t take anything from it. Christmas, eh?” Something in the physician’s expression suddenly jabbed at John’s gut. “Wait a minute. What day is this?” “December 25. Why do you--“ “When did they bring me in?” The doctor stepped forward and adjusted the pulsometer that had slipped when John bolted up in the narrow Hill-Rom bed. “Here, please, just relax. You were brought in at 1:12 a.m. this morning, into the ER, with what appears to be transient global amnesia. You have no knowledge of past events, and you couldn’t process what either the paramedics or ER crew were asking you. It is not an uncommon condition after a traumatic incident like what you experienced last night. What is unusual is that your physical injuries are so minor given the nature of the crash. Of course, the police believe your passenger side took the brunt of the impact, but I might have expected more than a few broken ribs and an ulnar breakage. I can preliminarily tell you you have appeared to have sustained no significant neurological trauma.” “Dr. Giannetti, please report to the nurse’s station.” The doctor glanced up at the PA announcement. “I’m truly sorry, but I’ve been expecting results on a critical patient. “If you wish, we can discuss this further. Now, you really should relax. An orderly should be by with dinner in a half-hour or so. Hope you enjoy chocolate pudding.” “Long as it isn’t figgy,” John quipped. “I’m certain it’s not, though if you require a vegan selection...” John Doe blinked. “Joking. More shitty holiday humor, sorry.” “Well,” Giannetti nodded. ** “Sooo,” the counselor began. “What does ‘Christmas’ mean to you?” John stared at the bespectacled young woman. “Is that really relevant at this point?” She smiled as if contending with lay ignorance were simply an essential step in the intake process. “I’m sure Dr. Giannetti explained that you currently appear to be experiencing what we call global transient amnesia, which as the name suggests is often a short-term condition that can occur in cases of physical, emotional, or mental trauma or extreme stress. The good news is, GTA symptoms normally persist for no more than 24 hours, and usually less. “During an episode of transient global amnesia, a person is unable to create new memories, and the memory of recent events disappears. You can't remember where you are or how you got there. You may not remember anything about what's happening right now. You may keep repeating the same questions because you don't remember the answers you've just been given. It can be frightening.” “I’m not frightened,” John said through his teeth. “I’m confused as fuck is what I am.” “Absolutely, I get it. See, what’s interesting, and perhaps slightly concerning is that in most cases, GTA patients can’t recall short-term events, but they know who they are. You clearly possess basic cognition - you’ve identified familiar objects and can follow reasonably complex directions -- but you profess not to know your name or other basic details about yourself. Though all that may well come back to you within the next 24 hours, there are other issues as well. That’s why I asked you about this ‘Christmas.’” “This Christmas?” John echoed, trying to straighten himself while maintaining his dignity. “What do you mean?” “I mean, what does Christmas mean? To you? You see, at this point, the police haven’t been able to ascertain any details about your identity - your vehicle burned almost beyond recognition after you were very fortunately ejected through the windshield. Anything you can recall might give us a clue to who you are, how we might reach your family. So I’ll ask again, what does Christmas mean to you?” John flopped back on his pillow, more exhausted than exasperated. “What’s it mean to you ?” The shrink collected her legal pad, and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you could explain it to me.” “I get the feeling you’re asking the wrong guy. I don’t have the slightest who I am or how I got here, but the thoughts I have been having are kinda, well...” “Yes?” “Well, if I had to say, kinda dick-ish. I get the feeling I’m not the greatest guy, that I have a pretty poor view of mankind in general. But maybe that’s what Christmas is.” “And that would be?” “A time when we get our faces rubbed in what petty, selfish, ugly, cruel, apathetic ass-wipes we truly all are. We’re held up to this perfect ideal we can’t possibly live up to, and everything shitty in our world or this life just screeches to a halt while we pretend to be the people we can’t seem to be the rest of the year.” “Mm.” The single syllable made John want to throw the remnants of his crappy breakfast at the smug intruder. “Why now?” “Hah?” “Why now?” John wriggled in agitation, and the second slice of uneaten toast jumped on the institutional beige tray. “You an atheist or something?” She was silent. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business, and I don’t care if you are or not. It was a weird question is all, and maybe my brain is still jumbled. I hope I didn’t sound like some holy roller.” The counselor pursed her lips, seemed to consider another inquiry, then abruptly arose. “I think that may be enough for right now, and as I said, we could soon have all the answers we need. Just keep trying to remember anything you can.” “Sure.” “I’ll send someone for your dishes. You sure you don’t want to try to eat just a little more? Protein can help accelerate cognitive function.” John glanced at the cold eggs, the dancing toast and the unopened strawberry jam and the discarded butter pack with the Happy Holstein logo that had predated his short-term recall. “Excuse me?” His head snapped up, and he realized he’d spoken aloud. “Butter Cow,” John repeated. “Sorry, just something from my childhood. Some county fair when I was a kid.” The shrink leaned back against the door. “And just what is a Butter Cow?” “You know,” John said. “One of the dairy groups hires some dude with too much time on his hands to sculpt a life-size cow out of butter, and they put it in a refrigerated display case so people can see what a cow made out of butter looks like, I guess. It’s just some dumb thing I remember.” The counselor’s brows rose, and John could see her jaw tighten, but she quickly composed herself. “Interesting. And it’s not dumb at all. Even these small recollections might give us a clue to your identity.” “Or we could wait until dinner. I see lunch is roast turkey. A little early, don’t you think?” “For what?” she asked. ** “Sounds like a longshot,” the neurologist murmured, sipping his Diet Pepper. “Though I do seem to remember some controversy a few years back.” “Well, yeah,” the shrink breathed. “How would you think people would react?” The physician chortled. “No offense, but I guess those kinds of things don’t bother me so much. I’m a man of science.” “Well, as you are fond of reminding me, I am not,” the counselor responded, light but tight. “In jest,” he emphasized, though noting her customary plate of raw veggies. “You got something?” The Google search results were reflected in her wide lenses, and as she clicked at her pad, a vaguely familiar image materialized under a reversed headline and a splash ad for some new, must-have tech. For a split-second, he got it. “Three years ago,” the psychiatrist noted. “’Thousands of Midwest faithful packed the Obulewe County Fairgrounds in Southeastern Indiana to protest what they deemed an act of ‘outrageous blasphemy’ by local farmers.’ Surprised they ran the photo, though there is an advisory.” “Ridiculous,” the neurologist said. “Insensitive, possibly; pretty boneheaded. But obviously an unintentional blunder.” “Oh, I’m sure. But it’s the only such instance I could find - not surprisingly, the art form seems to have perished -- and as I said, it took place a little more than three years ago. Three years ago. Doe referred to the ‘Butter Cow’ as a childhood memory, but he’s in, what, his mid-‘30s? It’s likely he was at this county fair three years ago.” “I took my son’s children one time to see the cows and lambs and chickens. There were no butter animals of any species. Your point?” “I believe our amnesiac may have been a local resident - Obulewe County is almost entirely agrarian, and the few towns are small - fewer than 2,000 people. If he lives there, or lived there, I would guess people would remember him. And if he had a family, doubly so.” The doctor smirked as he drained his soda. “I know you’re very excited about this patient. That crazy outfit he was wearing, the strange references. But we very well could have all our answers by tomorrow morning.” “Which would be a wonderful time to have family around.” The neurologist made a three-pointer into the breakroom garbage - a gesture of surrender. ** She was somewhat surprised by the sheriff suggesting a ZOOM call. Not as surprised by the sheriff himself - the psychiatrist had read Obulewe was a religious county, as was much of the rural Midwest. Corkscrew locks fell to either side of a hard, flat-planed face, and a silver star anchored his immaculately knotted tie. “We got the usual mix of the faithful here,” the sheriff smiled, “and usually, everybody gets along fine. But when those idiots at the Federated Milk Council decided to put that damned thing - no disrespect...” “No, I’m reform,” the shrink murmured. “Well, anyway, a few of the fundamentalist types over to the First Canaan Temple got in an uproar, decided the dairy folk were, um, mocking their religion. And I’m not sure what happened next wasn’t a sign they weren’t right.” “How so?” “Well, we got our own old-timey types, too. Had a lot of crazy revivalists and cult folks though here 50-60 years ago, and a few set down roots. Every once in a while, we’d get talk about some group called The Mass kicking up trouble. They’d meet in an old Animist lodge out by the fairgrounds, and folks would talk about seeing them in their red robes, chanting and lighting candles and shit.” The sheriff unconsciously leaned back as the headshrinker’s face nearly filled his screen. “I want to show you something - I’m texting it now. You said red robes?” “Yeah, with this crazy headgear. The leader was obsessed with some ancient Jewish prophet nobody ever heard of - some guy supposedly raised the dead and did all kind of magical shit before a crowd hung him. So, anyway, thing is, a lot of these Mass guys were farmers from outside town, thought the rest of us had lost our way, and especially the Canaan folks, who are by the way, my wife’s people. So when the old-school Canaan folks showed up to protest outside the dairy pavilion, a bunch of these red robes turn up out of nowhere with weapons, and the thing turns into a riot. Five dead, including the head of these Mass people, and they closed the pavilion until last summer. All over some dumb butter statue. Again, no offense intended.” “And again, none taken. This is 4023. Did you get my text?” The sheriff located his smartphone, peered at the screen for a moment, and seemed to pale. “Wow, yeah. Your guy was wearing this?” “You recognize it?” “Not only that,” the sheriff mumbled, looking up. “I know your guy. Haven’t seen John since his dad’s burial rites. And that’s Nick Baptiste’s Mass get-up he has on. Thought he was shed of all that after the shootings -the Red Robers disbanded soon after, and John got his company to transfer him to your neck of the woods. I’ll inform the wife, but don’t expect a guest appearance. Anything else we can do for you?” “Does the term ‘Christmas’ mean anything to you?” “That was the name of their order. The Christ Mass. What they called their prophet guy most of the time. That and, uh...” The counselor paused. “Jesus,” she whispered. “Wow,” the lawman breathed. “That is one phenomenal guess.” ** Since the relocation of Integrated Health Systems adjacent to the East Wing wards, the neurologist and the therapist reached Room 347 as the Code Indigo alarm echoed through the beige halls. The intravenous feed was dribbling its last on the tile floor, and the bedspread was splattered and pooled with the blood of stitches torn and shunts removed and flight taken without consideration for finite fluids. It was impressive that John Baptiste had been able to make it out of the room, but it had been right after shift change. “I suppose I should have anticipated something like this,” the shrink muttered. “Ridiculous,” the physician said as he skirted to the window overlooking the parking deck and Hubbard Street. “All that garble about his made-up religion and imaginary holiday had us spinning on mud.” “Neither crazy nor imaginary to John,” the counselor countered. “Sheriff Abebe told me Baptiste was raised by a religious zealot who kept a tight rein over his family. I talked to one of the profs in Interfaith Studies at The College - she told me this ‘Jesus’ likely existed, and was attributed with some seemingly mystical deeds and abilities and a message of compassion and mercy.” “Sounds awful.” She smirked. “Yeah, but Nick Baptiste had had some dark influences himself - John’s grandfather, had envisioned this Christ Mass as a racial crusade. He’d felt the Great Black Plague’s virtual eradication of Europe’s religious scholars had erased the global impact of ‘Northerners,’ and Nicholas felt spreading his version of this Jesus’ word might displace Judaism and Hinduism and the Animist denominations and elevate European Americans into societal leadership. John broke free, and in fact married a Canaanite woman against his father’s wishes. But the Christ Mass traditions and rituals Nick inoculated his family with died hard. Tunde - the sheriff - said John had started quoting this Jesus at the Canaanite temple, and after his father died, his spiritual conflict led to a psychotic break, divorce, and his moving as far away as he could get.” “So what happened? He’d made a break. Why the red suit?” “The best I can guess is some form of seasonal disassociative disorder. That John’s feelings about his estrangement from his family are particularly acute during the season he grew up sanctifying. Now that it’s all gone, he may have suffered another psychotic break. Where he was heading last night, though, is anyone’s guess. And what might have brought him back to present reality.” The neurologist, perched on the window sill, rapped on the double pane. “Might have answers to both quandaries. Take a peek.” The counselor frowned, but joined him, followed his outstretched finger down the block, toward the gastrological clinic and, beyond, the temple. “Faith has a powerful pull,” Giannetti observed. “Sometimes toward love, sometimes toward hate. That Public Safety commander, Mede, told me there was no way Baptiste’s little hydro-ionic tin can should have gone up so ferociously last night. Unless the hold was full of some kind of chemical accelerant.” But his colleague was already out the door. ** A crowd was gathered - the congregation was holding its monthly meal for the unhomed. The monument that flanked the temple steps was floodlit, casting deep shadows on both the gleaming head inclined toward the cosmos, and the failing man in the hospital tunic at its granite base. She kneeled beside Baptiste, whose face was spectral and glistening in the moonlight, and attempted to mop his cheeks with her headshawl. He smiled up, but the pain of his pilgrimage drained the energy from his lips. “The Butter Cow,” the shrink murmured. “The lights just came on down here, and that’s what brought it back, right?” “I wouldn’t have done it,” John protested weakly. “That’s wrong. I was going to do it. Then the accident - it was almost like some kind of...” The counselor glanced back at the sprawling Soggogoth Health Preservation Center, the form of Cthulhu towering over the admissions court as a symbol of the universe’s knowledge and healing potential. Then up at the golden calf that had been here since her mothers’ childhoods. “It’s all right,” she comforted, though John Baptiste was now gone to this world. “You can say it.”