James Patterson - Woman of God

Our driver opened the door, and still the press mobbed us. Their faces were shining with emotion and passion and ambition. They shot endless photos and lobbed more questions.

I boosted Gilly into the backseat and followed her in, saying, “That’s all, everyone. We need to get home.”

We buckled up, and I locked the door.

“Ready,” I said to the driver. And he stepped on the gas.

After a long and jerky ride through morning rush-hour traffic, at last we were climbing the stoop to our home.

After James died, I handed the JMJ Millbrook keys to Bishop Reedy. A week later, Gilly, Birdie, and I moved back to my small brick house in Cambridge. By the congregation’s unanimous vote, I became pastor of St. Paul’s, the very church I’d attended with my mother as a child and where I had met James. St. Paul’s was now JMJ St. Paul’s, and to serve God in this, my lifelong church, was a many-layered happiness.

Now, I jiggled a key in the stubborn lock and opened the door fast, before we were spotted.

Birdie was at the church being minded by the deacon, and Gilly begged to go get her.

“She can wait, Gilly. Please.”

The milk in the fridge was still good after our three-day absence. I made cocoa for Gilly and myself, and we got into my bed, covering ourselves with a handmade quilt. I palmed the remote and turned on the TV news. It was all about the death of Pope Gregory. Millions were grieving around the world.

I was overcome with sadness and couldn’t help sobbing into my hands.

Gilly tried to comfort me, but she was crying, too.

We had only just met him, but we had loved him. And I was missing him as if I had known him my whole life.

I kept seeing myself through the pope’s eyes, seeing him in a many-dimensional view through mine, feeling God’s presence surrounding us. And then, he died.

What would happen now?

I SLEPT in ragged snatches and woke up for real before sunrise on Easter Sunday.

Everything that had been in my mind overnight rushed back to me. I thought about the way Pope Gregory touched my arm and asked that I pray for him. My train of thought was derailed by the buzz of my phone. It was on my dresser, across the room.

It had to be a reporter, and that was an outrage. I kicked off the bedding, crossed the floor, and grabbed the phone.

It was Zach.

He had actually used the phone.

I croaked, “Zach. Where are you?”

“I’m in St. Peter’s with a couple million other people. Can you hear me okay?”

“Loud and clear.”

“There are always educated guesses and wild rumors, but never have there been rumors like this, Brigid. The cardinals are locked up until the vote is in, but there’s been a leak. Your name is being circulated in the College of Cardinals.”

“ My name? What are you talking about?”

“Brigid, your name has come up as a candidate for pope. ”

My legs went out from under me as if I’d been slammed behind the knees by a two-by-four, and I dropped to the floor in a state of stunned shock and denial. There was no way the church would want a woman pope. And I entirely lacked the background to qualify. This story was crazy, frightening, and I didn’t get it. I sat down hard at the foot of the bed, pressed Redial, and heard the ring tone.

Zach answered.

“Brigid,” he said.

“Wait. What you just said? It’s absurd. It’s some kind of bad joke.”

“You don’t understand, Brigid. Something is happening here in Rome. My sources are reliable.”

A tremendous roar came over the phone. The only thing that sounded even close was a game-winning homer at Fenway. This sounded ten times louder.

Zach shouted, “Brigid! I think news is breaking. Keep your phone with you and charged. I’ll call you.”

And the line went dead again.

I tried to blank out what Zach had said. I had to say Easter sunrise Mass in an hour. I had to get ready.

I went to wake Gilly, but she was already sitting up in bed with her iPad. She flashed the screen toward me. “Zach sent this clip.”

“Let me see.”

I sat next to Gilly and watched the images of a roiling mass of people within the confines of St. Peter’s Square.

“What’s happening?” Gilly asked. “It looks crazy. ”

“St. Peter’s is always filled like that on Easter Sunday because the pope goes onto his balcony-somewhere in here-and gives a blessing.”

“But the Pope died. ”

“That’s right. And now, there’s a vote going on in the Vatican to elect a new pope.”

“A new pope? Today?”

“Could happen. But sometimes it takes a few days for the cardinals to reach an agreement. Hey. Are you as hungry as I am? Five minutes until breakfast. And then we’ve got to hustle.

“Let’s go, Gilly. We have to beat the sun.”

THE STREET outside our front steps had been closed to traffic and was jammed with people out to the very walls of the houses. The crowd was chanting my name, holding up babies to be kissed; their expressions were ecstatic, pleading, expectant.

“Brigid, is it true? Don’t forget us when you go to Rome.”

This was how I learned that the rumor in Rome had flashed across the “pond” and that I had become the flesh-and-blood manifestation of hope.

But I had no answers. I opened my mind to God, and I felt a slight breeze that moved around me so faintly, I couldn’t be sure that it was anything but the natural movement of air.

I looked out from my short stoop at the field of people who’d gathered to see me. For a moment, I was paralyzed, but Gilly loved this. Dressed in her second-best dress, blue and embroidered with daisies, and with a bandage over the cut on her hand, she thrilled to the attention. She waved from the top step and was rewarded by people calling out to her.

“Yo, Gilly, did you meet the pope?”

Gilly was still small enough to get trampled. I picked up my little girl, and she gripped her legs around my hips, tightened her arms around my neck. She was getting heavy, but once I had a good hold on her, I stepped down into the street.

Reporters assailed me with questions from all sides. One of them, Jason “Papa” Beans of the Boston Globe, was wearing a button on his jacket, the universal question Y in bold red on a yellow ground.

“Have you gotten the call from the Vatican?” Beans asked.

“Aww, Papa. It’s a rumor, nothing more. And that’s the really big scoop. Now, pleeease pardon me. I have to go to church. I have a Mass to say.”

“Bri-gid! Bri-gid!”

Beans did the gallant thing. He walked ahead of me, parting the crowd so that I could go through. Still, people threw flowers and grabbed at my sleeves and even my hem, and they blew kisses as we moved slowly up the block.

By the time we reached the entrance to St. Paul’s, thousands were funneling from the broader avenues down the narrow streets, toward the entrance to the church.

Only a small number of these people would fit inside, and as this became apparent, panic began. They all wanted to see me.

My vision started to blur. I was walking behind Beans through the crowd, and I could also see myself with Gilly and the restive mob from a great height. It reminded me of the view of St. Peter’s that Zach had sent Gilly this morning.

It was Jason Beans who brought me back to earth. Having cleared a path for me and Gilly right to the sacristy door, he shot his last, desperate questions at me.

“Brigid, has the Vatican contacted you? Have you been told that you’re in contention for pope?”

“No and no. Thanks for the escort. I’ll see you after Mass, Papa, I promise.”