10. Savio
CHAPTER 10
Savio
Everybody’s Changing - Keane
W hen the plane touches down in Italy, I can breathe again.
Behind me, the impatient folk traveling to the Eternal City attempt to jostle me aside as I stand on the top step of the airplane, sucking in the scent of jet fuel as I absorb where I am.
Rome.
More than that, home .
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’s restlessness mushrooms.
“Forgive me, my child,” I rasp and begin my descent.
Crossing the tarmac, I head for the bus that will take us to the terminal. I sit and wait for it to fill. When a woman hobbles on, her hand shaking with fatigue as she maneuvers a walking cane, I climb to my feet and let her take my place.
She smiles at me, her eyes tired but relieved as she sags onto the uncomfortable seat, murmuring, “ Grazie, Padre .”
“You’re more than welcome,” I tell her in English, hearing the accent beneath her words.
“You’re American?”
“No. French.”
“Your accent?—”
“I spent a few years in the States.”
I’ve been all over the world as the Church tries to find a place to fit me in. Sometimes, I only spent weeks in a parish before I was moved on.
In all honesty, 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 been featured in several articles, and someone is even writing a book on the subject. I’ve had film offers, too.
I’d never say yes to such a macabre project, but they’re my saving grace.
The journey to the terminal takes place in silence—the faint jostles have pain creasing the woman’s expression so I leave her in peace.
Once we arrive, I help her off the bus. “Can you manage on your own, my child?”
She pats my hand. “My daughter’s waiting for me past Customs.”
“I can take you there,” I offer.
“Do you have luggage?”
“It can wait.”
Her genuine smile soothes something in me. “I’ll be fine, Father. Thank you. You take care of yourself. Say a prayer for me, hmm?”
“Willingly.”
Watching her limp off, I head to the carousel, collect my suitcase after an interminable wait, then start the familiar walk to the termini .
I traversed this path often as a boy when my parents would bring me on trips here, but it’s my first since I took holy orders.
Drifting onto the various moving sidewalks to reach the train station that’s annexed to the airport, I notice there’s a TV screen overhead airing a talk show. While I don’t take much notice of television, not since I’d become a bizarre celebrity thanks to my ordeal, the news splashed on the screen catches my attention.
There’s no sound, but I don’t have to hear it to understand it. I speak Italian, French, and English fluently, so the headlines are no issue.
‘Bestselling author survives perilous brain surgery.’
I wouldn’t have thought that would be headline news until there’s a montage of her books, titles even I’ve heard of.
Then she flashes on the screen.
The woman is beautiful in a way that takes me aback because her face is so open. It’s almost childlike but there’s nothing else about her that is.
She has wide eyes, and the pale green orbs are candid, as if she’s looking straight at me and seeing all my flaws. Yet there’s no judgment to be found there.
Only acceptance.
Aware I’m projecting, I take note of the freckles on her nose. They splash onto her cheeks too, which are high, tapering into a soft, pillowy mouth that makes me think things no priest should. She wears no lipstick, no makeup either. She’s wholly free from artifice.
Her button nose is cute, and her wide, slightly furrowed brow makes her look, of all things, curious. As if she wants to understand everything .
The sandy blonde hair that dances around her shoulders in bouncy waves makes me feel like she’s moving. Running toward me even though, in these pictures, she’s still.
I swallow when I see clips from movies that have been produced from her stories.
Then, there’s a discussion on what she’s fighting—a cyst in her brain.
My stomach tightens at the thought of that beautiful head, a brain so filled with tales and stories that captivated the hearts of millions of people around the world, being cut open.
The hosts of the TV panel appear to be dissecting her as much as the surgeons have—wondering if, after the surgery, she’ll be the same.
I find myself sending up a quick prayer to God, hoping that she will.
Andrea Jura.
I savor her name for a second before I’m spit off the moving sidewalk and have to shuffle onto the next one.
For what feels like miles, I follow her journey.
And each time, they flash her image between segments. Andrea at an award ceremony, on the red carpet. Shots of her in a city as she goes about her business.
On every occasion, she’s alone.
And, God help me, that pleases me.
I bite the inside of my cheek when I make it to the termini at long last, and it’s strange because there, where I purchase my ticket, I see a sandwich shop and a newspaper stand.
Her face is on the front page.
I find myself collecting a paper to entertain myself with on the hour-long trip into the city from the airport, and as I travel, I read more about this Andrea Jura.
When I finish the paper, I could toss it away.
But I don’t.
I keep a hold of it and don’t throw it out until, weeks later, I hear on the news she’s in recovery.
As relief for this update on her well-being fills my heart, I purchase one of her novels in a libreria and open my soul to the wonder of her written word.
My shame knows no bounds when her stories fill up every waking moment of my day. Whenever I’m not in church, I read her books, feeding the black and white of my life with the color of her imagination.
When, one week, I consistently choose Revel over the Bible, I know I have to stop, that my obsession must fade.
But even as I try to throw her books away, I can’t.
I leave them on a shelf behind my desk in the church where I’ve been placed, tucked amid seminal texts.
My dirty little secret.