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?
Chapter 116
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.”
Chapter 117
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.