Woman of God Page 26

  “And an enormous confusion about what the heck has happened.”

  I got into the backseat with Gilly, and she turned her bright, always curious gaze to the countryside, the goats tied to trees, the meager shops lining the streets of the town. Beyond the town, the long dirt road cut through the open plains and over the dusty hills. It all looked solid and real.

  I was hardly surprised when we pulled up to Magwi Clinic at sunset. The clinic was lit up from within, and I heard the loud hum of the generator. This had been a very good place for me. Perhaps Gilly could be happy here, too.

  As I got out of the car and looked around, I took in the tent village under the red acacia trees outside the clinic, much bigger than it had been before. I heard babies crying and the braying of donkeys and saw a new structure beyond the tent city and opposite the clinic.

  It was a church with the name Jesus Mary Joseph, Magwi, on a hand-painted board affixed to the siding. The doors were painted red, symbolizing the phrase To God through the blood of Christ.

  My eyes welled up. Tears spilled over. And when I heard my name, I turned. I recognized her voice before I saw her, and there she was.

  Sabeena, her hair wrapped in colorful fabric, was running down the steps from the clinic, and two tall girls were running right behind her. Sabeena, Jemilla, and Aziza all reached Gilly before they reached me, and they hugged her and danced her around as if she was a long-lost sister as well as my baby girl.

  Sabeena screamed my name again, and when she got to me, she almost knocked me off my feet with her full-body hug.

  “Oh, Brigid, I’ve missed you so much. Come inside. Albert has been cooking all day. Father Delahanty,” she called over my shoulder, “you come, too. Dinner is served.”

  Were we all dead, living on a parallel plane alongside the living? I said, “Sabeena, I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t worry. You are off duty, doctor.”

  I began the climb up the steps to the long porch, my mind racing in circles inside my skull, my arm around Sabeena’s waist. We had just reached the old screen door when a horrible racket cut through the night sounds of babies wailing, young girls laughing, insects chirping.

  “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 sa
id ‘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.

  There was a slight shimmer in the air. I was no longer in pain, but I was surely in a hospital bed, looking at a manuscript for a book about my life. It had started with a boy telling me about his beloved grandmother, Joya, who had been murdered in South Sudan.

  I thanked Zach. I lifted my hands and wiggled my fingers toward him. I said, “Hug, please, Zach. Gentle one.”

  He leaned over me, bracing his arms on the side rails. I hugged him. I remembered sitting behind him on a red scooter in Rome, my arms around his waist, and our talks about this book while sitting on the rectory doorstep. Now, he was here, bringing this tremendous gift, hugging me gently with tears in his eyes.

  I said, “Zach, Thank you so much.”

  “No,” he said, releasing me from the hug, grinning like crazy. “Thank you. You really know how to give a book a good ending,” he said, waving his hand to take in the bed, the flowers, the vital-signs monitors, the photo on the side table of Pope Gregory embracing Gilly and me.

  He sat back down and asked, “So, what’s next for you, Brigid? When you get out of here?”

  I twiddled the edge of my quilt, drawing out the silence as flecks of gold wafted upward in the sunlight behind my dearest friend.

  I thought about my first tour in South Sudan, twenty years ago. Those of us who had fought to be assigned to the hard duty at Kind Hands admitted to ourselves and each other that we were all running away from something. We just hadn’t known what it was.

  Well, I had known. I had been running from my father and the void left by my mother’s death, and I wanted to practice good medicine for people who had nothing. Kind Hands had been more than a job. The work had called upon the best in me. It had been so fulfilling that even after nearly dying, I had gone back.

  Since my first days in South Sudan, my life had taken so many unexpected, unpredictable turns. I thought of those beautiful and wrenching years in Berlin with Karl and the too-short time we’d had with Tre. I had looked for meaning in the Holy Land and, afterward, met my extraordinary James, who had brought love into my life again and Gilly into the world.

  I had become a woman of the cloth and opened myself to the Lord. I was washed over with gratitude for that and was in awe at the sheer magnificence of God.

  When I had asked God what to do, I had heard, You know.

  And, at last, I did know.

  I wanted to heal people as a doctor and serve God in His house. Both—body and soul.

  I turned my head so that I could look at Zach and said, “I’m going back to Africa.”

  “Wow, really?”

  A soft breeze blew tears from the corners of my eyes. Red Sox fans cheered over a radio in the O.R., and a generator kept the lights on. Patients waited, and I knew what I was meant to do.

  I was already halfway there.

  Acknowledgments

  Our thanks to these good friends who shared their time and expertise with us in the writing of this book: Dr. Humphrey Germaniuk, Coroner and Medical Examiner, Trumbull County, Ohio; Chuck Hanni, IAAI-Certified Fire Investigator, Youngstown, Ohio; Thomas D. Kirsch, MD, MPH, Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine; and Christopher J. Finley, MD, FACEP, PeaceHealth Southwest Medical Center. Thanks also to top attorneys, Philip R. Hoffman and Steven Rabinowitz of Pryor Cashman, NYC, for their wise legal counsel. Our great appreciation to the home team, John Duffy and Lynn Colomello for their many contributions, to Mary Jordan for managing all the moving parts, and a big round of applause to our amazing researcher, Ingrid Taylar, West Coast, USA.

  It’s easy to go missing

  in the middle of

  nowhere.

  Never Never

  By

  James Patterson

  For an excerpt, turn the page.

  Chapter 1

  “IF YOU reach the camp before me, I’ll let you live,” the Soldier said.

  It was the same chance he allowed them all. The fairest judgment for their crimes against his people.

  The young man lay snivelling in the sand at his feet. Tears had always disgusted the Soldier. They were the lowest form of expression, the physical symptom of psychological weakness. The Soldier lifted his head and looked across the black desert to the camp’s border lights. The dark sky was an explosion of stars, patched here and there by shifting clouds. He sucked cold desert air into his lungs.

  “Why are you doing this?” Danny whimpered.

  The Soldier slammed the door of the van closed and twisted the key. He looped his night-vision goggles around his neck and strode past the shivering traitor to a large rock. He mounted it, and with an outstretched arm pointed toward the northeast.

  “On a bearing of zero-four-seven, at a distance of one-point-six-two kilometres, your weapon is waiting,” the Soldier barked. He swivelled, and pointed to the northwest. “On a bearing of three-one-five, at a distance of one-point-six-five kilometres, my weapon is waiting. The camp lies at true north.”

  “What are you saying?” the traitor wailed. “Jesus Christ! Please, please don’t do this.”

  The Soldier jumped from the rock, straightened his belt, and drew down his cap. The young traitor had dragged himself to his feet and now stood shaking by the van, his weak arms drawn up against his chest. Judgment is the duty of the righteous, the Soldier thought. There is no room for pity. Only fury at the abandonment of honor.

  Even as those familiar words drifted through his mind, he felt the cold fury awakening. His shoulders tensed, and he could not keep the snarl from his mouth as he turned to begin his mission.

  “We’re greenlit, soldier,” he said. “Move out!”

  Chapter 2

  DANNY WATCHED the Soldier disappear in the brief, pale light before the moon was shrouded by clouds. The darkness that sealed him was complete. He scrambled for the driver’s side door of the van, yanked it, pushed against the back window where a long crack ran upwards through
the middle of the glass. He ran around and did the same on the other side. Panic thrummed through him. What was he doing? Even if he got into the van, the keys were gone. He spun around and bolted into the dark in the general direction of northeast. How the hell was he supposed to find anything out here?

  The moon shone through the clouds again, giving him a glimpse of the expanse of dry sand and rock before it was taken away. He tripped forward and slid down a steep embankment. Sweat plastered sand to his palms, his cheeks. His breath came in wild pants and gasps.

  “Please God,” he cried. “Please, God, please!”

  He ran blindly in the dark, arms pumping, stumbling now and then over razor-sharp desert plants. He came over a rocky rise and saw the camp glittering in the distance, no telling how far. Should he try to make it to the camp? He screamed out. Maybe someone on patrol would hear him. Danny kept his eyes on the ground as he ran. Every shadow and ripple in the sand looked like a gun. He leapt at a dry log that looked like a rifle, knelt, and fumbled in the dark. Sobs racked through his chest. The task was impossible.

  The first sound was just a whoosh, sharper and louder than the wind. Danny straightened in alarm. The second whoosh was followed by a heavy thunk, and before he could put the two sounds together he was on his back in the sand.

  The pain rushed up from his arm in a bright red wave. The young man gripped his shattered elbow, the sickening emptiness where his forearm and hand had been. High, loud cries came from deep in the pit of his stomach. Visions of his mother flashed in the redness behind his eyes. He rolled and dragged himself up.

  He would not die this way. He would not die in the dark.

  Chapter 3

  THE SOLDIER watched through the rifle scope as the kid stumbled, his remaining hand gripping at the stump. The Soldier had seen the Barrett M82 rifle take heads clean off necks in the Gaza Strip, and in the Australian desert the weapon didn’t disappoint. Lying flat on his belly on a ridge, the Soldier actioned the huge black rifle, set the upper rim of his eye against the scope. He breathed, shifted back, pulled the trigger, and watched the kid collapse as the scare shot whizzed past his ear.