“Dr. Douglass. You are needed in room four forty-one. Dr. Douglass. You’re needed-”
And that was when my reality split.
God. Are You here?
I was standing on the the long porch of Magwi Clinic, Sabeena’s arm around my waist and mine around hers.
And at the same time, I watched myself lying in a hospital bed. My eyes were closed. There were tubes in my arms, and a doctor was sitting on the edge of my bed, saying and repeating my name.
Sabeena was saying, “We’ll take the night shift, Brigid. Just like old times.”
I stopped on the stairs and looked out past the JMJ church, the cross at the top of the steeple silhouetted against the cobalt-blue sky. I saw long lines of people streaming toward Magwi Clinic with baskets on their heads, babies in their arms, their bare feet stirring up the golden dust as they made their way down the road. I couldn’t see the end of the line. There were so many people, and there was so much to do.
The doctor sitting near my feet adjusted the valve on the IV line.
“Brigid. Dr. Fitzgerald. This is Dr. Douglass. Can you hear me?”
God. What should I do?
There was a vibration inside my mind, the hum that was almost a voice. You know.
I was so warm, I thought I had a fever. A hot wind came up and blew at my clothes.
I opened my eyes and gasped.
I hurt all over.
Chapter 121
I WAS in a hospital bed with needles in my arms and a cannula in my nose. I ripped that out and blinked.
“Okay. Good,” said the doctor. He looked to be in his sixties. The name tag on his white jacket read J. Douglass.
He asked, “How do you feel?”
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“That’s right,” said the doctor.
“Five. It hurts to breathe. What happened to me?”
“You took a couple of bullets, doctor. One passed through your left shoulder and your back and exited under your shoulder blade. The second bullet was a doozy.”
“New medical term?”
“Just coined.”
“You’re my surgeon?”
He nodded, told me to call him “Josh.”
“After you were shot in the arm, you dropped to your knees and put out your hand to stop the bullet. It didn’t stop. It went through your palm, traveled along your humerus, broke rib number three, missed your heart by a millimeter. After that, this misshapen lump of lead zigzagged as it hit several ribs and came to a stop at your right hip bone. Your major organs were spared. I call this both a doozy and a kind of miracle. I take it you pray.”
“I do.”
“Don’t stop. You came through the surgery beautifully. I’ve kept you moderately sedated in the ICU, and, although you’ve opened your eyes a few times, you didn’t want to wake up.
“I had you moved to this private room a couple of hours ago and turned down your Versed. I’m going to take a look at you, okay?”
Dr. Douglass examined me, and when he was finished looking at my wounds, listening to my heart and my lungs, flashing a light into my eyes, he said he’d be back in a few hours to check on me again.
Then he opened the curtain with a flourish.
He said, “Your friend has been waiting for you to come out of it.”
I stared around at the flowers around the room, enough of them to fill a flower shop. My quilt from home covered my bed, and there were balloons tied to the foot rail with a sparkly ribbon and a note reading Get Well, Mommy. The TV was on. I looked up. Baseball. Sox versus the Yankees. Fourth inning. Sox were up by two.
The TV went black.
That was when I saw Zach sitting in a chair against the window, backlit by sunshine coming through the glass. He had the remote control in hand and tears in his eyes.
“Welcome back, Brigid. You made it,” he said. “I knew you would.”
Chapter 122
IT WAS coming back to me. Easter Sunday. The bearded man in the back of the church shouting, Look here, Brigid. Look at me, followed by Gilly’s scream. Lawrence House had shot me.
“Zach, where’s Gilly? Is she all right?”
“She’s perfect. Congregants are fighting to take care of her, and she’s been here to see you every day and twice on Sunday.”
I let out a huge sigh. Then, “What happened to House?”
“Three guys slammed him to the ground before he could empty his gun. He’s in jail. No bond. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Thanks for being here, Zachary.”
“Of course.”
He reached over and squeezed my hand.
“How long have I been out?”
“A week. You breezed through the surgery. Well, this wasn’t your first rodeo, was it?”
I laughed. It hurt. “No jokes, please.”
Zach said, “Okay, no joke: I’m sorry to inform you, you’re not Pope Brigid the First.”
I couldn’t help laughing again. Pain racked my chest and shot through my right arm. Even my head hurt. When I finally got my breath, I told Zach that I could not adequately express my relief that his reliable sources were wrong.
“They were wrong. But you were right. The new pontiff is a Frenchman. A progressive. Bishop Jean-Claude Renault is now Pope John XXIV.
“And you’re going to love this,” Zach went on. “In Pope John’s first public speech to the world, he made a big announcement. He said, ‘I’ve long been aware of certain inequities.’ He was quite sincere.”
“Zach! What inequities?”
“He said he was inspired by Pope Gregory-and by a woman priest from America. You, Brigid. He said your name.”
Zach looked proud and a little choked up.
He pushed on, saying, “The pope believes that the Catholic Church should allow-no, he said ‘welcome.’…He said the Roman Catholic Church should welcome woman priests.”
“Nooo.”
“Yes. And Pope John believes that priests should be allowed to marry. That God would be glad for this. It would be très bon.”
“You’re not making this up?”
“I’ll send you the link to his speech. Okay, Brigid? Happy?”
“Very happy. It is sooo très bon.”
I must have fallen asleep.
When I opened my eyes, Gilly was sleeping under my good arm. I said, “Gillian. Gilly, are you awake?”
She cuddled in closer and made little kissing sounds. When I opened my eyes again, Gilly was gone. Dr. Douglass looked into my eyes, wrote on my chart. “How do you feel, Doctor?”
“Chest pain.”
“Your ribs?”
“Yesss. Will I be able to use my arm?”
I thought I heard him say, “Yes. You’re doing fine.”
Chapter 123
IT WAS morning when I came out of a drugged sleep again.
There were more cards and flowers in the room. The balloons were touching the ceiling, and the nurse who had changed my dressings said, “You’re healing well, Doctor. Your little girl said to say that she loves you to pieces.”
“Oh, thank you.”
She said, “I’ll be back to read you your cards in a little while,” and she drew back the curtain.
Zach was wearing different clothes, and he was back in the chair in front of the window. He had a box in his hands.
“I brought you a little something,” he said.
“Aw, you shouldn’t have.”
“Actually, yes, I should have. I’ll open it, okay? Stay right where you are.”
“Hah. Okay.”
Zach ripped through paper and cardboard and pulled out a thick sheaf of paper. He said, “This is the manuscript. You can go over this and mark it up to your heart’s content.”
He held it at an angle so that I could read the title page: Woman of God.
The words under the title were By Brigid Fitzgerald Aubrey, as told to Zachary Graham.