The Patron Saint of Butterflies(2)

I was both nervous and excited that morning: excited to be turning twelve and nervous about going in to see Emmanuel, who would present me with the book. It is always a huge honor to have a private meeting with Emmanuel, but it also made me a little shaky. Standing in front of him is an intimidating experience, what I imagine looking directly at God would feel like. Anyway, Mom ironed my best dress and helped me pin my hair up into a neat bun, and Dad was waiting for me on the front porch when I came out. The sun had just risen and the air was still cold and purple.

“You ready?” Dad said, inserting his hands into the sleeves of his big blue robe. Everyone at Mount Blessing wears blue robes—all the time.

I nodded and straightened out the folds in my own robe. “I think so.”

“You look nice,” Dad said, holding out his hand. “Especially your hair.” I wanted to tell him that being twelve meant that he didn’t have to hold my hand as we walked toward the Great House, but I didn’t. It’s not every day that Dad compliments me, and I didn’t want to ruin the moment. We stood outside Emmanuel’s room and Dad rang the buzzer that would let him know we were there. In a few seconds, the red light above the door began to blink. My mouth was as dry as sand as we walked inside.

Emmanuel’s room is enormous, even bigger than the whole first floor of the house I live in with Mom and Dad and Benny. At any given time, there are usually between ten and twenty people in there, but this morning it was empty—except for him. He was sitting in his huge chair, a beautiful, hand-carved piece of furniture that had been made especially for him, eating grapefruit sections out of a glass cup. He didn’t have his blue robe on for some reason, and without it, he looked different, almost human. Dad and I fell to our knees, bowed our heads, and waited.

Emmanuel cleared his throat. “Come in,” he said.

Dad and I stood back up and tiptoed over the plush white carpeting, past the baby grand piano and the wall of wooden wine racks, which held numerous slender bottles of wine. Next to the wine racks was an oil painting portrait of the Blessed Virgin, which Emmanuel had painted himself. Her face was a cloudy gray color and her eyes, which were wide and black, stared back at me as I made my way across the room.

“I hear it is someone’s birthday,” Emmanuel said, placing his empty glass on a table next to his chair. It made a light clinking sound against the wood.

I nodded mutely and stared at his pressed white shirt and casual gray slacks. I still couldn’t get over how different he looked without that robe on. He even had slippers on! Dad nudged me with his elbow and I gulped.

“Yes, Emmanuel,” I said quickly. “Thank you.”

Emmanuel wiped his gray beard with a cloth napkin and then raised his eyebrows. “You know what happens on your twelfth birthday, don’t you, Agnes?”

I nodded again, swallowing hard over a lump in my throat. I couldn’t believe the moment was actually here, that it was finally happening. When Mom and Dad had been presented with their books, it had been such an exciting day for them. They told me how they had spent hours that evening leafing slowly through the pages and then sliding the slender volumes onto their new home on the bookshelf. Each night they would pull their books back out and read another page.

I watched as Emmanuel leaned over and took a small book off the little table. A gold ring on his finger glinted under the light. “Come here,” he said to me. I stepped forward on shaky legs and stared at the book in his hands. “You are an adult now,” Emmanuel said. There was a pause, and I realized he was waiting for me to make eye contact with him. I raised my head and studied the sharp planes of his narrow face, his bushy eyebrows, and his watery gray eyes. Even his beard, which rested—neatly trimmed—against the top of his collarbone, looked virtuous. He smiled at me. “You are an adult now,” he said again. “Capable of leading the life of a saint.” He held out the book. I took it from him with trembling hands. It was heavier than it looked, with a black cover and the title, The Saints’ Way, inscribed in gold lettering. “Study this book,” Emmanuel continued. “Learn all you can from the greatest living examples ever to walk the earth.” I nodded, pressing the book against my chest. “And then live your life accordingly, as a saint would.”

“I will,” I whispered.

Emmanuel nodded and smiled again at me. “I have great faith in you, Agnes. Your name means lamb, which symbolizes purity and innocence. You are capable of doing remarkable things. Do not ever forget that.”

My eyes filled with tears; it was such an emotional thing to hear Emmanuel say he had faith in me, that I could do something remarkable. Imagine! Me! “I won’t forget,” I said, feeling my voice get stronger. “I promise.”

Next to me, Dad beamed.

In the last two years I’ve read The Saints’ Way at least six or seven times all the way through, earmarking the stories I like best. Now I turn to Saint Rose of Lima, who has become one of my favorites. Born in South America, she spent her entire life trying to make up for the sins she committed. Her tolerance for pain and suffering was nothing short of spectacular. Skimming the list of her favorite penances, I try to determine which one I will do tonight:

? Tie a length of rope around the waist until it is tightly uncomfortable. Check.

? Fast for three days. (Only water and the occasional citron seed.) Check.

? Sleep on a bed of broken glass, rocks, or other sharp objects.