He was also with God, both of us were, together. I felt almost consumed with love for him.
I said, “Be with Gregory.”
His face crumpled with emotion. He crossed himself and kissed the plain cross he wore on a heavy chain around his neck. As I struggled to stay with Gregory, His Holiness said, “Will you pray with me?”
We prayed, the pope in his ornate armchair and flowing vestments, I in the more austere seat and black clothing, across from him. I folded my hands and kept my feet flat on the ground as the pope asked God for peace and unity in the world. A breath of air whispered through my clothes and hair and whirled around my ankles.
We said “amen” in unison, and just then, Gilly ran into the room, her shoes clattering on the polished floor, her face flushed with excitement.
The pope stood and reached out to her, and Gilly went directly to him and threw her arms around his waist. He gave her a hug she would never forget for the rest of her life.
She said, “Thank you for letting me see your wonderful home.”
The pope looked down at her fondly and said, “I love having you and your mother as my guests. God’s blessings on you both.”
Father Raphael took photos, and then the pope kissed the top of Gilly’s head and put his hand on my arm.
“Please keep me in your prayers,” he said. “Go safely with God.”
Chapter 113
THE CHURCH of the Sacred Heart was at the juncture of two narrow, winding cobblestoned streets. The street was choked by protesters and some who supported JMJ.
I was torn. I didn’t want to bring Gilly into this chaos, but, at the same time, it was Maundy Thursday. I felt compelled to go to this church that had received an unspecified but still credible threat.
“Gilly, stay in the car with Alberto, okay?”
“Not okay,” she said. “Mom. I’m coming, too. No one is going to hurt us. I’m sure of it. Besides, the pope has given us his protection.”
“Gilly, stay.”
“No.”
Giuseppe and Alberto, big men with guns, were still with us. They cleared the way as we waded into the constricted, crowd-filled Via di Santa Maria Maggiore. I was recognized immediately. There was just nothing subtle about my tall frame, my flame-red hair, and my mini-me, tripping along beside me. People gathered around us.
I squeezed outstretched hands and said “Buongiorno” and “God bless you” as our bodyguards urged us forward.
We entered the church, an architecturally perfect ninth-century basilica with Byzantine mosaics in the apse and granite columns forming the side aisles. Behind the high altar was a magnificent oil painting of the Crucifixion.
Gilly and I genuflected before the altar, and then Sacred Heart’s priest, Father Vincenzo Mastronicola, introduced himself.
I said, “Father, I only heard about the threat last night. I am so sorry.”
“Thank you for coming here to say Mass. So many people have come to receive Communion from you.”
Within a few minutes, the crowd on the street filled the church out to the walls. After I was introduced, I spoke to the congregation about how much it meant to me to be with them during Easter week.
I had just begun Mass when a cracking boom reverberated throughout the church. People screamed and hit the floor. I ran down to where Gilly sat in a front pew and covered her body as I had done at JMJ Millbrook when Lawrence House had pulled his gun.
As I crouched on the floor, waiting for bullets to puncture flesh and ricochet off stone, I feared for Gilly and for myself. Had we lived the full extent of our lives? Was this the meaning of the visions I had experienced in the presence of the pope and of God? Was I ready to die?
I felt no breeze, no vortex, no shifting of place or time. The creaking of rusted door hinges cut through the moans and frightened sobs. Giuseppe had come through the sacristy doorway into the transept.
He shouted, “Everyone! A bomb exploded on Via San Giovanni Gualberto. This exit is the safest way to leave the church.”
Giuseppe helped Gilly and me up from the floor and out the side door, saying, “A car will pick us up on the next street. We have to get you out of here before all traffic is detained.”
As the big man led us out, people touched me, kissed my scarf. Tears wet their cheeks.
I said, “God protect you,” but I thought, I’m Brigid. Just Brigid.
“Vai con Dio, Brigid,” Father Mastronicola called out to me. “Go with God.”
Chapter 114
ZACH WAS pacing near the curbside check-in at Alitalia. Once I was out of the car, he hugged me, hard, and he picked Gilly up into his arms. Zach and Giuseppe accompanied the two of us to the flight lounge, where we sat with our backs to the wall until our flight was called.
Both men walked us to the check-in desk, Zach saying, “I’m glad to say good-bye to you, Red. Do you hear me? I’m happy. Keep your head down, will you, please? Call me when you get home.”
The flight to Boston was scheduled to leave on time.