The Patron Saint of Butterflies(62)

But I stop cold as I turn toward Nana Pete. Something is wrong. There is no snoring coming from the bed, in fact, no sound at all. It is so quiet that it’s like someone turned off a switch. Slowly, I put down the violin case and walk up to the bed. I know even before I crawl up on top of her. I scream and holler, beg her to wake up, but I know.

Agnes doesn’t believe me when I tell her Nana Pete is gone.

“Get off!” she screams again. “You’re hurting her!”

I slide my straddled legs off slowly, one by one, without taking my eyes off Nana Pete’s face. Her eyes, frozen in their sockets, are slightly open, and there is a faint, blue pallor to her skin. I reach out to close her eyelids, but Agnes shrieks.

“Don’t touch her! Don’t you touch her! You don’t even belong to her!”

My heart cleaves in two when she says that. It’s the meanest thing she’s ever said to me. Ever. I catch sight of Benny suddenly, who has awakened from the noise and is standing behind Agnes.

“Benny … ,” I start, but he runs into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Agnes comes around to Nana Pete’s side, almost on tiptoe, as if she is afraid of waking her. She sits down next to her grandmother and reaches out for her hand, running the tip of her finger over a large green vein on the surface. “Hey, Nana Pete.” Her voice is just above a whisper. “Hey, I know you’re tired, but just sit up for a minute and tell us you’re all right. Come on, now. Sit up.” She pats Nana Pete’s hand over and over again as she talks.

I’m horrified. Can’t she see the parted, unmoving eyes? The sickly shade of Nana Pete’s dead skin? Does she not realize that the entire time she has been talking, her grandmother has not taken a single breath? She cannot possibly be this far gone. No one can be so out of touch with reality that they do not realize they are sitting beside—and talking to—a dead person.

“Stop it,” I say, taking a step closer to the bed. “Agnes, stop it. She can’t hear you. She’s dead. Stop talking to her.” But Agnes doesn’t seem to notice that I’m even in the room anymore. She keeps talking in the exact same tone of voice, keeps rubbing the top of Nana Pete’s hand over and over again. “Come on, Nana,” she whispers. “Let’s go now. Come on. Wake up.”

And then she makes the sign of the cross over her, as if the gesture will somehow breathe new life into her. It’s pure Emmanuel, and it freaks me out. It does. Before I can stop to think about what I’m doing, I reach out and shove Agnes as hard as I can off the bed.

“Stop it!” I scream. “Stop talking to her like she can hear you, you freaking lunatic! She’s dead, Agnes! And nothing’s gonna bring her back!”

Agnes cowers for a moment on the floor a few feet away from me. As I take a step toward her, I catch a glimpse of myself in Lillian’s mirror on the wall. My face, flushed with rage, is framed by wild red hair, still unbrushed from the night before. My shoulders are hunched, my fists clenched, and there is spit in the corners of my mouth. Maybe I’m the lunatic, I think to myself. Maybe we both are.

I hear Agnes crying beneath me and I move toward her, sinking to my knees.

“Oh, Ags,” I start, reaching out to touch her trembling shoulder. But she raises her face and smacks my outstretched hand away from her. I don’t mind being smacked. I probably deserve it, shoving her the way I did. But I’m not prepared for the look that creeps into her eyes as she starts talking to me.

“That’s the last time you’ll ever push me around, Honey Harper.” Her voice is eerily calm, with a power behind it that I don’t recognize. “I’ve spent the past fourteen years of my life putting up with you because I thought you were my best friend. But now I know the only reason is because I felt sorry for you.” She spits on the floor, right between us. Some of it lands on my knee. “Emmanuel was right all along. You’re nothing but trash, Honey. That’s why you’re always getting into trouble and being dragged into the Regulation Room and why my parents don’t even want me associating with you.” She glares at me with those new eyes of hers. I swear to God, they’re practically pulsing with whatever weird energy is flowing through her. “And it’s probably even why your own mother left you.”

I haul off and punch her right in the face when she says that. It’s the second worst thing she’s ever said to me. There is a horrible sound as my fist connects with her jaw and then a scream as Agnes falls back, clutching her face. I lunge toward her again, ready to do God knows what, when Benny comes barreling out of the bathroom. He flings himself against the two of us, holding his bad hand in the air, grunting wildly like a baby pig. I back off then, not wanting to hurt him. But Agnes gets to her feet. Her eyes are still crazy. She’s clutching the side of her mouth where I hit her with one hand and holding Benny behind her with the other.

“We’re going,” she says flatly. “This whole nightmare is over. I’m calling my parents and we’re going home.”

My teeth start working my lower lip until I taste blood. I decide to try again. Rationally, this time. “Agnes. Please. I’m sorry I called you a lunatic. I’m sorry I hit you.” I take a deep breath, struggling to control my voice, which is on the verge of tears. “But please, we’ll work something out. We’ll call Lillian, okay? Please don’t call your parents, Agnes. We’ve got to stick together. You know I can’t go back there. Please.”