The Vatican has no comment. Jennifer’s memories were scattered and fleeting.
They came suddenly, triggered by a smell or a glimpse of light dappled
through stained glass. The aroma of freshly baked mince pies repulsed
her nostrils. Scented candles, like the ones in the small San Antonio,
Texas church she attended as an elementary school girl, made her gag
with disgust.
Jennifer’s mother couldn’t understand these abrupt
fits of revulsion, or the angry outbursts that accompanied them. For
years, her daughter had been slipping into chaos, flunking classes,
running with a bad crowd. The once happy-go-lucky child had changed
beyond all recognition.