“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.