"No." Odeon chuckled again; it was easy to lose track of time in a hospital! "That was yesterday; I just thought you might want to join me. I talked to the Academy chaplain, and he's going to offer a special Mass of Thanksgiving for your recovery."
Cortin stared at her tea, turning the cup in her gloved hands. "That's a little premature," she said at last. "And I'm not at all sure it's something I'm thankful for. It might've been better if you'd been just a few minutes later."
She meant it—and that was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "You shouldn't feel that way, Joanie. God had a reason for keeping you alive; you've got to believe that."
"Why?" Cortin asked tiredly. She'd spent quite a few hours thinking about that, when she should've been sleeping but the pain wouldn't let sleep come and nothing seemed to matter except an end to her torment. "I'm no saint, but I've never done anything really terrible, either. Certainly nothing bad enough to deserve this living Hell."
That was true, Odeon thought. Still—"We can't hope to understand His reasons for what He does," he said. "We can only accept. Offer the pain to Him, Joanie. Come to Mass with me tomorrow, dedicate yourself to Him, and ask Him what He wants of your life."
He looked so hopeful she couldn't refuse him. "All right, Mike. I'll go with you, and I'll try to do what you say. Just don't expect too much."
"I'll settle for anything that'll help you." Odeon smiled at her, raising his cup. "To your recovery."
"Thanks—are you going out tonight?"
He'd been planning on it, but he quickly changed his plans. "No, why?"
"I'd like some company, then, if you don't mind." She grimaced. "Though if you'd prefer a woman who can do something for you instead of a counterfeit, I'd certainly understand."