The Patron Saint of Butterflies(46)

“Let’s put Benny and Agnes in that one,” Nana Pete says, pointing to the bed closest to the wall. “And you and I will share this one.”

I help Agnes under the covers as Nana Pete gives Benny one of his pills from Dr. Pannetta.

“Hey,” I say, taking her hand. “Nana Pete just bought us new pajamas. Let me help you change so you’re more comfortable.” Agnes shakes her head and lays her head weakly on the pillow.

“I don’t need anything,” she whispers.

I pull my hand out from hers. “Would you stop acting like a martyr for two seconds and just let me help you?”

Agnes’s face scrunches up like she might cry.

Nana Pete rushes over and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Honey. Please. Be kind.”

I shake my head, defeated, and plop down on the other bed next to Benny.

“Agnes,” Nana Pete says, using her no-nonsense voice. “You must get into some comfortable pajamas. No arguments, darlin’. Now, let me help you.”

Agnes blinks and then brings her arms up weakly alongside her ears. Nana Pete helps her out of her robe and then her shirt as Agnes sinks back into the pillow, arms crossed over her chest. There is a sudden, audible gasp.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Nana Pete points to the string around Agnes’s waist, which is barely discernable among the bruised folds of skin. “No wonder you fainted!” she says, trying to pull the string off. Agnes cries aloud. “My God, Agnes, you can barely breathe with this thing on! Honey, go out to the front desk and ask the man there for a pair of scissors.”

I don’t move. “What’s that, another penance thing?” I can barely hide the rage in my voice. “You get that from The Saints’ Way, too?” Agnes just stares at the floor. I turn away, disgusted, and march out the door.

The skin around Agnes’s waist looks even worse after the string comes off. It’s so raw that it’s actually slimy, and sections of it are tinged with blood. Nana Pete rushes back over to Wal-Mart and returns with two bottles of hydrogen peroxide, bacitracin ointment, and white gauze. I keep Benny occupied on the other side of the room, playing with the new deck of cards Nana Pete got us, as she wipes down Agnes’s wounds. Agnes makes tiny, muted cries as the peroxide and then the ointment is rubbed into her skin.

“Promise me you won’t do something like this to yourself again,” Nana Pete says, as she wraps the last of the gauze around Agnes’s middle. Agnes just looks away from her. “There’s no need for it. God already knows what a wonderful person you are, Mouse. You don’t have to try to convince him.” Agnes closes her eyes.

Later, Nana Pete orders something called room service, which is almost as cool as the McDonald’s drive-through, except that it takes way too long to arrive. Benny and I get grilled-cheese sandwich platters with french fries, coleslaw, and baked beans, and Nana Pete orders a taco salad with beef chili and sour cream. She spends a long time trying to convince Agnes to pick something from the menu, but Agnes won’t talk.

“Just order her a turkey sandwich,” I say exasperatedly. “I’ll shove it down her throat if I have to.” Agnes presses her lips together tightly.

But when the food comes, it’s a different story. Agnes’s meal turns out to be a soup-and-sandwich combo, and when Nana Pete takes the lid off the bowl of chicken-corn chowder and passes it under Agnes’s nose, her eyes actually fill up with tears.

“Eat it,” Nana Pete says gently, pushing the bowl into Agnes’s hands. “Please.”

She takes a tentative spoonful, sliding the utensil between her teeth, and when she swallows, her whole face relaxes. In three minutes, the soup is gone. Ten minutes later, her sandwich, side of potato chips, and three pickle spears have vanished as well.

“Thank God,” Nana Pete whispers, after Agnes finally falls asleep. Next to his sister, Benny is curled up like a little puppy, his face nestled in tightly alongside her ribs. “Maybe now she’ll start feeling normal again.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t bet on it.”

But Nana Pete isn’t listening to me. She’s punching numbers on her cell phone.

“Who’re you calling?” I ask.

“Lillian.” She puts the phone to her ear.

“Lillian?” I repeat. “I think I heard Agnes mention her once, a long time ago. Is she your daughter?”

Nana Pete nods. “My only daughter and Leonard’s only sibling.” She holds up an index finger. “Hold on. It’s the machine. I have to leave a message.” She pauses and then speaks into the phone. “Lillian, darlin’, it’s me. Call me on the cell phone. We need to talk.” She clicks it shut and leans back heavily against the headboard, closing her eyes.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods. “Just tired.”

“You know, Agnes told me she’s never met Lillian. Is that true?”

Nana Pete rubs the deep wrinkles above her eyebrows with two fingers. “Leonard and Lillian had a falling out just before Agnes was born. She didn’t like where he was living and, well, Lillian had her own set of problems that Leonard didn’t—or wouldn’t—tolerate. They haven’t spoken since. One of the rules I had to abide by so I could come visit my grandchildren was that I never talk about her.”