Without ever seeing Savio in the flesh.
He needs me.
I need to go to him.
And that means the surgery has to work.
When someone needs me, I never let them go.
Ever.
And his soul?
It’s crying out for mine.
The wings, the path, the choices I made—all of a sudden, it all makes sense.
He’s been there, on every step of my journey, and now? I need to be there for him.
Savio
The second I touch down in Italy, it’s like I can breathe again.
It’s intense. Overwhelming.
Behind me, the impatient folk traveling to the Eternal City are jostling, trying to shove me out of the way, but I don’t stop them. I just stand on the top step of the airplane, waiting to descend toward the buses, sucking in the scent of jet fuel as I absorb where I am.
The church doesn’t know what to do with me, so they’re bringing me back to the Capital.
I’m not about to complain.
I haven’t been brought here because someone has discovered my habit of punishing sinners the way they deserve, but because the bloodstains on my cassock had become noticeable.
I understood why a small town a few hours away from Geneva would be disconcerted at the sight of blood oozing through their priest’s cassock, but self-flagellation isn’t something the church technically approves of anymore either.
Neither is killing parishioners who aren’t adequately penitent...
Doesn’t put a stop to my behavior.
It’s not like I do it every damn day of the week. Just here and there to those who truly deserve being delivered into the Devil’s embrace.
They commit the gravest sin imaginable— taking a life. So I take theirs as payment. Put their soul into Satan’s hands. And each time?
Mine feels lighter.
Not light enough to whitewash the past—I wish—but enough to keep me going, to stop me from doing something stupid.
The pain of my past is something I live with every day. Night terrors, flashbacks. They call it PTSD, but I call it an endless nightmare.
They say I’m borderline suicidal, I say I’m past the border, but only my cause keeps me going.
Only knowing that I make a difference, a true difference, keeps me away from the point of no return.
I still hope, foolish though it may seem, that God will embrace me in his open arms upon my ascent to heaven. I work in his name, to honor him, but I’m well aware that, to Ishmael and his men, they, too, had been working under that guise.
That I’m as evil as them disturbs me. I would never do what they did, but still, I’ve committed grievous sins, and some day, I’ll have to pay for them. Judgment will come, and I know that, no matter how hard I work to atone in other ways, my fate is with the Devil too.
Finally, the jostling from behind me grows to be too much and an attendant shoves her way forward. “Father? Is everything okay?” she inquires politely, even though I see the strain on her face as the grumbling passengers at her back begin to grow restless.
I shoot her a kind smile, and apologize, “Forgive me, my child.”
I don’t wait for a reply, and instead, begin my descent.
As I step onto Italian soil, something fizzles inside me. Like this is where I’m supposed to be.
I hold no vain hopes that Rome is going to cure me. That being this close to the Vatican is going to ease my issues, but there’s the vague anticipation that here, things will be different.
I will be among my own kind.
Crossing the tarmac, I head for the bus that will take us to the terminal, and I seat myself and wait for it to fill. When a woman hobbles on, her hand shaking as she maneuvers a walking cane, I climb to my feet and let her take my place. She smiles at me, her eyes tired, and murmurs, “Grazi, Padre.”
I hear the American accent and smile back at her. “You’re more than welcome.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re American?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m French.”
“Your accent—”
“I spent a few years in the States.” My smile grows tight. I’ve been all over the world as the Church tries to find a place to fit me in—thus far, I’m surprised they’ve tried so hard.
But I know they’re attempting to save face. If they force me out, then I could only imagine the press.
For some reason, the media is interested in me and my past. I’ve had several articles written about me, and someone is even writing a book on the subject. I’ve had film offers, for goodness sake! It boggles my mind.
So, yes, the Church trying to shuffle me out wouldn’t look good, and call me a cynic, but I know their patience has more to do with that than anything else.
I turn my focus onto the runway where planes are taxiing to park, and even though it’s the antithesis of holy, I feel good being back here.
Italy and I have a connection. My father is Italian, my mother is French, and we visited the place often throughout my childhood. I see neither of them that much anymore because they were against my becoming a priest, but the fond memories put a smile on my face when I walk into the terminal. Then, as I collect my baggage, I head for the termini, walking down the various moving sidewalks to get to the train station that’s annexed to the airport.
For each path I take, there’s a TV screen above, and while I don’t take much notice of TV, not since I’d become a bizarre celebrity thanks to my ordeal, the face splashed onto the screen catches my attention.
There’s no sound, but I don’t have to understand what’s being said to read it. I speak fluently in both Italian and French, English too, so the headlines are no issue.
‘Famous author makes it through perilous brain surgery. Family thanks anxious fans for outpouring of concern and asks for prayers.’
The woman is beautiful in a way that takes me aback, because her face is so...
What?
Open?
That’s the only way I can describe it. She has wide eyes, and the pale green orbs are candid, like she’s looking straight at me and seeing all my flaws.
Her nose has freckles on it, her cheeks too, and they’re high, tapering into a soft, pillowy mouth that makes me think things no priest should consider. She has no lipstick on, no makeup either. She’s free from artifice in all things. Her button nose is cute, and her wide brow makes her look, of all things, curious. Like she wants to understand everything. And the sandy blonde hair that dances around her shoulders in bouncy waves makes me feel like she’s moving. Running toward me even though she’s still.
Just like in Spain, where I’d spent a year two years ago, the Italians have a ton of daily panel shows. I could see them discussing the woman’s rise and fall.
Apparently, though I’d never heard of her, she’s a massive author. Her books flash on screen, and I could see the covers, even recognized some of the titles. My brows rise as I see clips from movies that have been produced from her stories.
Then, there are more flashes on the screen, like cards with a pen that scrolls exactly what she’s enduring. A cyst. In her brain.
My stomach tightens at the thought of that beautiful head, a brain so filled with tales and stories that caught the hearts of millions of people around the world, being cut open.
The panel seems to be dissecting her as much as the surgeons are—wondering if, after the surgery, she’ll be the same.