CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

PRIEST

Gina languished in a coma for weeks, but nobody took Zoe away. Gina had a husband. They might have looked suspiciously at me, but I was hers. And she was mine. At least on paper.

Miss D even resumed taking care of her at her day-care center. She didn’t give me a hard time anymore. I guess she saw how dedicated I was to Gina. A little late, but it was all I had.

Once she came to the hospital and we prayed together.

“I’m believing God to raise her up,” she said matter of factly.

“Me too, Miss D. But even if He doesn’t. I’m going to stay right here until He does whatever He’ll do.”

She rebuked me. She was good at rebuking. “Don’t you go talkin’ like that, boy. You gots to believe. Jesus said all thangs is possible if you believe. Now don’t you go doubtin’. That baby need her mama. And she been through enough. I know you like to be all long-faced, but sometimes folk do get a happy ending.”

“I stand corrected.” But she actually made me feel better.

They did a variety of tests on her, including examining the stigmata, which remained. Yes, the medical professionals called what she had stigmata. It’s a valid medical diagnosis used to described unexplained bleeding that corresponds with the crucifixion wounds of Christ. What they refused to say was that it was a miracle. They went with the theory that prolonged fasting may have caused an unusual physical response. I wouldn’t allow them to release any information to the press, and Veronica remained in a psychiatric hospital none the wiser. The doctors said she had a psychotic breakdown and was having delusions of a religious nature.

I thought she was just telling her story. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a very credible story. And I told them so.

I didn’t have to convince them.

Just before Holy Week I had Gina transferred to our home—or rather, our new home with the Companions of Jesus. I still held out hope she would emerge from the coma. She was a fighter. She was amazing.

On Good Friday Gina’s eyes fluttered open as I was praying noon prayers over her. She looked at me and smiled, and I took her in my arms where she promptly, and peacefully, died.

She loved Him most. Her Beloved had come to her. Received her. Loved her, and she went drunk with love. She would say, like her beloved John of the Cross:

In the inner cellar
Of my beloved have I drunk, and when I went forth
Over all the plain,
I knew nothing,
And lost the flock I was following before.

There He gave me His breast;
There He taught me a sweet and living knowledge;
And I gave myself back to Him,
Keeping nothing back;
There I promised to be His bride.

And finally, my beloved wife would say of her Lord, her Love:

If then, I am no longer
Seen or found on the common,
You will say that I am lost
That stricken by love,
I lost myself, and was found.

That’s all I have to say about that.

When I announced her death to the media many brought her roses. Thousands of roses came. In dozens. Single roses. Rose buds. And people wore roses pinned to their hearts in her honor until Easter.

The newspapers had a field day. Stories about her ran for weeks, but eventually it died out. All the players, with the exception of Veronica, engaged in a conspiracy of silence. All of us. Me, Mike, Alessandro. For whether we believed or not, we recognized Gina’s dignity. And her privacy. We happily allowed her to rest in peace.

She was healed. Finally. And I am healed. Finally.

I’m certain of it.

May God grant you peace.