by Ian Withrow
Apparently doomed to dwell on thoughts of her friend, she tried to put herself in Erin's mind, to think as she would have. Comfort above style. She smiled thinly, remembering a certain pair of too-small boy-shorts. She finally opted for the flute at the foot of the bed. It had delicate beadwork around its calf-length hem, and a low-cut back that would allow her to wear it comfortably with her wings.
Pulling it up over her hips she marveled at its fit. It was as though it was made specifically for her. Although, to be fair it probably was. She thought guiltily about the hours of work that had no doubt gone into tailoring each of these gowns. She felt like a little girl trying on her mother's clothes. Though it fit like a glove, she didn't belong in this dress built for models.
Each dress had come with a pair of shoes, perfectly matched to the gown. Lauren looked them over. She despised high heels. They made her feel like a newborn giraffe, clumsy and loud. She decided to go for the lowest pair that they'd brought, before turning to look at herself in an ornate, gold framed mirror on the wall. The reflection looking back at her was unfamiliar, foreign to her.
“You look like a doll. Overdressed and fake,” she criticized herself.
She was just starting to unzip the gown, feeling foolish and embarrassed, when a soft knock at the bedroom door caused her to turn. She'd been so absorbed with the clothes that she failed to notice a young woman waiting.
“I'm sorry to interrupt, Your Grace, I came to see if you needed any assistance, I'm Renee.”
This girl was Lauren's age. She was staring wide-eyed at the pearly expanse of Lauren's wings in awe. Lauren felt even more like an impostor; this girl was visibly moved by what she thought Lauren was. By what she looked like.
Lauren knew it was a lie. A lie she lived every day. A slight scowl clouded her features, unnoticed by its host.
“Y-Your Grace?”
The girl seemed unsure, as though she was afraid she might offend Lauren and be made to leave. In her hands she held a small, ornately carved wooden box.
“I'm sorry,” Lauren reassured her quickly. “I'm alright, thank you”
The girl bowed slightly and started to leave before remembering the box in her hands.
“Oh, Your Grace, his Holiness asked that we provide you with these, in case you wanted to wear them,” she held the box out before her, clearly afraid to approach uninvited.
This is exhausting, thought Lauren, her irritation growing.
“Please stop calling me 'Your Grace,'” Lauren emphasized. “Just Lauren is fine.”
“Yes your G-, um, Lauren,” another confused look from Renee. “I'll just leave this here!”
She took a big step, set the box on the end of the bed and rushed from the room.
Damn, you're terrible at this stuff.
Lauren swore under her breath as she approached the box.
Opening the lid she saw it was stuffed full of jewelry. Not regular buy-at-a-department-store jewelry, but massive diamonds woven into necklaces, marble-sized pearl earrings, gem-encrusted crucifixes, and the like. Each piece was a unique treasure, a crown jewel worthy of royalty.
Lauren's jaw dropped.
Once the initial shock of seeing a pirate-like chest full of gold, silver, and jewels wore off, Lauren snapped the lid back closed. Not only did she rarely wear jewelry, the last thing she needed to do was lose Mother Teresa’s favorite pearls, or break some saint's treasured rosary.
Looking around wistfully, Lauren left the bedroom and walked delicately into the living room, trying to get used to the heels before she had company to worry about.
As she passed the threshold she met the gazes of the last people she expected to be there; her mother and father.
Lauren misstepped, stumbling in surprise. She managed to recover before toppling over, barely.
“Dad? M-mom?”
Lauren's voice was high with surprise. She was dumbfounded, how could they possibly be here?
“Lolo,” her dad broke out into tears, stepping across the room and gripping her in a bear hug.
Lauren couldn't help but cry as well. Finally she was safe and warm. She felt sheltered like she hadn't for weeks now. The waves of anxiety, anger, and grief that constantly threatened to overwhelm her abated in the safe harbor of her father's arms.
Allison's welcome was more standoffish. Lauren was still torn between hating her for abandoning them when they needed her most, when Gabriel had died, and missing her like only a daughter can miss her mother.
Allison was holding a glass of deep red wine in one hand, with the bottle and an empty glass in the other. In the end it seemed like the drink won out over her daughter, because she smiled weakly and took a large swallow, refusing to meet Lauren's steady, accusing gaze.
“Mom,” her single, pleading word broke the spell for a moment, and they locked eyes.
Allison approached at last, holding her arms out and giving Lauren a quick, superficial embrace.
Lauren felt her mother pulling away. The move had a feeling of finality. Inside, Lauren felt the cold seed of betrayal, planted in her heart months ago, grow into icy anger. Lauren's frustration began to creep across her face once more. Her brow furrowed and a frown replaced her smile.
Allison looked around for something to placate her, to calm the storm she saw brewing.
“Have a glass?”
“Allie...,” John said uncertainly, his voice soft and defeated.
“John, for God's sake it's Europe,” Allison's tone towards her father only deepened Lauren's frown.
Lauren glared at her a moment longer, but the temptation to dull her heartache was greater than her pride. Besides, maybe a stiff drink would drown some of this awkwardness. She reached out and took the offered glass, allowing her mother to fill it for her.
She took a bold sip. Not having had wine before, she was surprised by the dry, woody flavor of the liquid. It wasn't at all what she expected, and her face must have shown it because her mother let slip a tinkling laugh. Some of the tension started to clear between the two women.
Allison was clearly several glasses ahead of Lauren, and she wasn't slowing down. The trio sat down on a pair of small couches with a low marble coffee table between them serving as a resting place for the quickly emptying wine bottle.
“How did you get here,” she finally blurted out.
“I went looking for Allie, for your mom,” John began. “I went back to Galesburg. When no one had seen her there, I tried to get in touch with your grandmother in Chicago. She said Allie had stopped by, that she had talked about going back to the City.”
He gave Allison a strange look, which she pointedly ignored in favor of her wine glass.
“She reached out to... an old friend of ours. He put her in touch with the diocese. He tried to get her some... help.”
Allison snorted, briefly interrupting his tale.
Lauren nodded slowly, surprised that her mother had gone to the church. She didn't expect that her mother had wanted any help.
Especially if it meant sobering up.
“John is exaggerating, obviously,” Allison slurred drunkenly.
“I visited your grandmother and then went into the city to meet an old friend, yes. We went to dinner, he suggested I go to rehab, I told him to fuck off. So, he said I should go to confession and 'straighten out' instead. The end.”
Allison rolled her eyes at this last piece and fell silent again, giving John a moment to pick the story back up.
“Yes, well. At any rate she got in touch with the bishop there and he apparently contacted the Vatican.”
As John spoke, Lauren finally saw the toll the that the past few months had taken. How old he suddenly looked. Where once there were laugh-lines, now a slight, ever-present frown had taken up residence.
“I was contacted by the diocese there through your grandmother about a week ago. I've been here ever since,” he shrugged.
“They said you were coming, that you'd be here. We saw you on the news every day! God L
auren we've been so worried. A-and then, this morning...”
His voice trailed off, and he cast her a helpless, frightened look.
“I'm so, so sorry Lolo. I never wanted this for you.”
“Daddy, please don't be sorry. This isn't your fault.”
Lauren hated to see her once-proud father cry. He was a broken man now, small and unsure.
Allison snorted derisively again, casting a hateful, jealous look at the two of them.
“John's not your father, Lauren,” she said spitefully, downing the last half of her glass of wine and rising to her feet.
“Allison,” John yelled with unbridled anger.
“What, John?” she continued, snapping at him and pouring herself another deep glass of wine.
“She's not an idiot, she has to have figured out by now that's why she can heal you.”
The silence in the room was absolute.
“What the fuck,” the words slipped from Lauren's mouth before she could stop them. Her hand tightened so hard on her wine glass that the bulb shattered and her hand was showered with broken glass and Cabernet.
Lauren grasped her wrist, hissing in pain as her hand was sliced open, spattering the marble tabletop with wine and blood. Glass tinkled to the floor as her hand stitched itself closed. She was stupefied, her other troubles forgotten in the wake of Allison's words.
A firm knock at the door caused all three to jump, and the intercom clicked audibly.
“Your Grace, we've sent someone to fetch you and escort you to the dining room.”
Lauren couldn't be sure, but it sounded like Johanna's voice.
“H-hello, um can we have a minute? I'm uh, not ready just yet,” Lauren stammered.
“Yes, ah... yes Your Grace. As you wish.”
The intercom clicked off again as the knock at the door repeated.
The three looked silently at each other, no one seemed to want to move first.
At the third knock Lauren stood unsteadily and rushed to the door.
“I'm coming, sorry!”
She opened the door to see Dustin. He was wearing a dark gray suit and a pair of slick black dockers.
“Lau-” he sniffed the air, “Dammit have you been drinking? Are you kidding me!”
“Dustin I-”
“Lauren do have any idea how that looks? You're going to what, stumble drunkenly through dinner with the goddamn pope?”
“Dustin!”
He was fuming, a vein throbbing in his forehead as he whispered furiously at her. He stepped past her into the room and froze. His eyes fell on her parents, who were in the midst of their own whisper-quiet shouting match.
“Are you out of your damn mind, woman?”
Allison had an ugly look on her face, she was unused to being on the receiving end of verbal abuse. Lauren had never heard her father take that tone with her before, it usually went the other way around.
“Excuse me? Don't take that tone with me, John, it's about damn time she found out. I'm surprised the whole goddamn world doesn't know about it at this point!”
“Mr. and Mrs. Corvidae-” Dustin tried to interject.
The two ceased their squabbling.
Allison had a surprised look on her face and quickly emptied another glass of wine. John, on the other hand, approached the doorway and turned even redder.
“Back off, Jim,” John jabbed at Dustin with his outstretched finger, poking him hard in the chest as he spoke.
John's words only furthered Lauren's angry confusion.
“Jim?”
Another low but firm knock came to the door, cutting the argument short. Lauren looked helplessly from John to Dustin and back again. Finally Dustin reached out and grabbed the door handle, opening it a little too roughly.
Kaspar was there, bowing low.
“Your Grace, it is my honor to escort you to dinner. I was told you needed a little more time. Is there anything I can...”
Seeing the small crowd in the apartment his words trailed off in confusion.
“Thank you, Lauren was just finishing something up, we're ready now,” Dustin interjected before anyone else could speak.
Kaspar took it in stride and beamed at Lauren, unaware of the minefield he had walked into.
Turning on his heel he motioned with his arm that they should follow him, and stepped off down the hallway. As she walked behind him she cast an angry look at Dustin, he wasn't going to squirm out of this.
With every step they took, however, her worry turned to the coming meal. What do you say to a Pope? How do I tell him I'm not God's chosen anything, let alone His instrument of divine power?
Her thoughts ran in circles, tiring her already burdened mind. Her feet felt like they were made of lead, and she had long since fallen into a brooding silence by the time they reached the third floor landing.
The group came to a large door, which Kaspar reached first. He held it open, allowing her to pass before him.
Lauren entered the room, keenly aware of the stares of the other occupants.
They can totally tell. Dammit Lauren what the hell were you thinking? She covered her worries with a small, nervous smile.
A delicate cough from the head of the table caught Lauren's attention in the otherwise silent room. An aged man in large, ceremonial robes was standing there, looking her over with a mix of amusement and interest on his face.
“Welcome, please come in.”
“”H-hello sir,” Lauren started, unsure of how to address the man.
They were saved an uncomfortable silence by cardinal Fafoglia, who slid seamlessly into the conversation and tried to diffuse the awkwardness.
“Your Holiness, let us present to you Lauren Corvidae.”
The group filed in behind her and she caught Dustin's eyes. His look begged her to behave. She managed another weak smile as she approached an empty chair.
“Your Grace, it is my pleasure to meet you.”
The pope didn't bow, but he did nod to her as he spoke.
“L-likewise,” she managed.
Besides her group, the only other guests at dinner were the cardinals she'd met before. Everyone else was standing behind the chair marking their place at the table, so she moved to do the same.
“Let us pray.”
The pope spoke, and the group all bowed their heads as he recited solemnly in Latin. Lauren snuck a peak around the table, seeing that only Dustin still had his head raised. As she watched he looked at her out of the corner of his eye and, catching her gaze, he winked at her.
Lauren had to choke back nervous laughter. Her waning confidence rose a little, she trusted him to get her through this.
“...and finally Heavenly father,” the Pope said, switching to English.
“Let us give special thanks to your messenger. Our guest here in these humble surroundings. Your Seraphim, the instrument of your will, amen.”
With his prayer complete the pope sat down, and the cardinals followed suit afterwards.
Lauren's eyes widened at the pontiff's words. She didn't know which of the two titles was less appropriate.
Her mouth popped open and closed like a fish as she tried to sort out the introduction she'd been given. She shot Dustin a startled look, but he only said a soft amen and took his seat nodding to her and indicating she should do the same.
Lauren mumbled a quiet amen as well and reached for her wineglass as she sat down, taking a deep gulp of the chilled white wine that filled it.
Dinner was anything but comfortable and stuffy silence was the mainstay during the meal. The guests exchanged small talk, but no one addressed the herd of elephants in the room.
Sarajevo.
How her parents had gotten here.
Lauren's divinity, or lack thereof.
These and other serious subjects were avoided like the plague, replaced instead with trivialities like the weather and the food.
Lauren calmed her nerves with the wine. By dinner's end she'd had three glasses, only slightly be
hind her mother. She pointedly ignored Dustin's stern gaze and the concerned looks from her father.
Eventually the meal wound down, and as footmen came in to clear the dishes and bring coffee the pope finally broached a more delicate subject.
“Your Grace, I imagine you have questions,” he intoned. “I assure you I do as well.”
Lauren fidgeted with her hands below the table. She felt a strong buzz now, and it was making it hard to organize her thoughts.
“Yes sir,” she said, her voice weak.
“Please, allow me to answer any questions you might have first.”
She looked around the table, her cheeks flushed from the wine and from being the uncontested focus of everyone present. The wine made her bold, and she decided to speak her mind.
“With all due respect sir, why am I here?”
Dustin coughed loudly, nearly choking on his coffee. He cleared his throat and kicked Lauren beneath the table.
The question hung for a moment before the pontiff cleared his throat delicately, commanding the attention of the group.
“Your... Grace, perhaps we should speak further on that particular subject in private,” his tone was serious, almost menacing.
Her neck hairs prickled, a warning that her wine-fogged mind ignored.
“I'm sorry sir, I'm just trying to understand. I don't know what it is that you want from me.”
The pope pondered her words for a moment, looking at each member of the dinner party in turn before answering carefully.
“God often speaks to me through His Word. As his mouthpiece on Earth it is my duty to relay His Will to the people. As a living testament to that will, I'm asking for your help to bring the message of our God to the people. Starting tomorrow. We've made arrangements for you to lead the people of Rome in prayer.”
“But I'm not a living testament to anything! I don't know anything about ‘His will.’ He has never spoken to me.”
Lauren knew immediately that she'd messed up. The guests at the table were staring slack-jawed at her. Dustin, the exception, was stiff as a board and tense as a tightly coiled spring.
