The Patron Saint of Butterflies(37)

“Mother.” Mr. Little’s voice is shaky and light. “Just wait a minute, all right? Just hold on. Before you jump to any kind of conclusions, just let me explain … ”

“Nothing you say to me right now, Leonard, could possibly explain what you have been putting your children through. Nothing.”

“Mother!”

But Nana Pete clicks the phone shut again and turns the ringer off.

“Wow,” I say softly. “That was great. You were really strong.” But she is trembling. “Hey, it’s all right.” I put my arm around her and lead her over to the chair. “C’mere. Sit down. You’re gonna fall over.”

She sits down heavily and puts her purse on her lap. I keep my mouth shut, just in case I end up saying the wrong thing. After a few minutes, she turns and looks at me. Her eyes are sort of glassy-looking. “This is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, Honey. And I don’t even know what we’re going to do next.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “We have to get Benny fixed up and then we’ll just start driving to Texas. Okay? Just like we talked about.” Nana Pete swallows and nods her head, but I don’t know if she’s really listening. She’s getting scared; I can tell. Quickly I grab hold of her arm. “You know what else? You should probably take some pictures of my back with that camera you brought.”

Nana Pete looks at me, bewildered. “Your back?”

“Yeah.” I nod, pushing back the dread that is beginning to rise in the back of my throat. “I have belt marks on my back from the Regulation Room. Maybe you should take a picture in case we have to show anyone. You know, later, if we have to prove our case.” Nana Pete starts fanning herself with her handkerchief.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods, moving the handkerchief faster. “Little lightheaded all of a sudden. I’ll be okay in a minute.” After a few minutes, she drops her handkerchief back inside her purse and pulls out the camera. “Okay.” Her voice is shaking. “Let’s do this.”

I turn around and, before I lose my nerve, lift up my shirt and lean against the wall. Nana Pete gasps. I stare at a groove in the blue wall, try to imagine myself sliding into it, disappearing completely.

“That word,” she whispers. “Why did he write that word on you?”

The soft part behind my eyes burns, like I have a fever. Why does it feel that Emmanuel has, after all this time, managed to take a little part of me? “I kissed a boy,” I murmur. “Please. Just take the picture.”

I can hear Nana Pete bring the camera up to her face. She clicks once, twice, three times. The camera makes a whirring sound as each picture slides out. I pull my shirt down and sit in one of the blue chairs. Nana Pete puts the photos in her bag and sits next to me.

“Honey,” she whispers, drawing the backs of her knuckles against my arm. “We are doing the right thing.” I nod and keep my head down low, hoping she doesn’t notice the splash of tears that dampen the front of my pants. When she takes my hand in hers, I lean in a little so my head rests against the top of her arm.

After a while I close my eyes.





AGNES

To doubt is human. Even Saint Thomas the Apostle, after Jesus himself appeared to him and allowed him to place his hands in his crucifixion wounds, refused to believe that it was the actual risen Christ.

No miracle.

Was the devil speaking through Dr. Pannetta, trying to get me to doubt the validity of Emmanuel’s work? It’s entirely possible. Emmanuel says that the devil has a tendency to be more clever than God, since he has to work so much harder to get people to listen to him. I think of one of my favorite saint stories, Saint Juliana of Nicodema, who was tormented mercilessly by the devil. He tried to trick her, appearing as an angel dressed in white robes surrounded by light. Disguising even his voice, he tried to convince her to worship the stone idols and to turn away from Christ. If the devil could disguise himself as a messenger angel, I think to myself, why couldn’t he conceal himself as a doctor?

No miracle.

“Lord God,” I whisper. “Suffer me not to be lost, but of thy grace show me the way and the truth.” I wait facedown on the scratchy surface for what feels like hours. No voice comes out of the sky, the way God did for Juliana, telling her to turn away from the diabolical angel. No shimmering light appears, like the Virgin did for Bernadette. Why can’t someone up there just show me? Just once? I am not strong enough to know on my own. It is too hard. I cannot even detect who is telling the truth, deep in my chest, the way it sometimes feels. Closing my eyes, all I can see are a thousand exploding pinpoints of light. I wonder if my brain is actually disintegrating behind my eyes. Everything else around me is falling apart; why shouldn’t my brain? A parade of images perforates my mind’s eye, marching before me in a kaleidoscope of color: HARLOT, Benny running to us in the field with news of Nana Pete’s arrival, the frog pond, Claudia screaming for tape and bandages, the look on Benny’s face when he woke up in the back of the car … My eyes swell with tears.

“No crying,” Emmanuel said to me once inside the Regulation Room. “If you cry, I will start over and keep going again until you stop.”

Wiggle, wiggle.

I reach up and hold on to the consecration beads around my neck.