The Patron Saint of Butterflies(78)

Honey kicks the ground with the toe of her new sneaker and hops from side to side like a boxer getting ready to fight. “These new sneakers might give me some leverage against you,” she says, watching me out of the corner of her eye. “Maybe for the first time.”

I pull on the toe of my own new sneakers, which Lillian bought us a few weeks ago. They’re blue and white, with little swoops on the side. Something called Nike’s. Lillian’s got a lot of money now, since Nana Pete left her everything in her will. I never knew Nana Pete was so wealthy, but then, I guess there were a lot of things about her I didn’t know.

The three of us live with Lillian right now, after a judge in Connecticut said that we couldn’t have any contact with Mom and Dad until the trial starts, which is sometime next year. Emmanuel and Veronica are the ones who are really on trial, but Mom and Dad are considered “accessories,” which basically means that they didn’t do enough to help us when we were being hurt all the time, and so they have to go, too.

I hate thinking about it, but of course I do. All the time. We’d all still be together if I hadn’t stood up that day and showed the policeman the pictures of Honey and then lifted my own shirt to show him the marks on my back. Once I did that, all the other kids began to come forward. Pretty soon the police had people from Children’s Services Center called in and by the end of that day, sixty-four separate charges of child abuse had been filed against Emmanuel, complete with photographs, documentation, and sworn, signed statements. After the investigation, Mount Blessing was shut down completely.

“Okay,” Honey says, placing her fingers on the edge of the grass and kicking her legs out behind her. “This is it, Agnes.”

I stare out at my little brother, who is hopping up and down in the sun, still waiting for us to come toward him. Since we moved to Lillian’s house, he sleeps next me every night. I don’t mind. If you want to know the truth, it actually makes me feel better, too. He keeps a picture of Nana Pete under the pillow and after he falls asleep, I pull it out and tell her good night. And thank you.

Honey was a little freaked out for a while after we moved down here, with no news of Winky or where he ended up. She pestered the pee-willy out of Lillian to find out what had happened to him, and then just a few weeks ago, we found out that Winky and his older brother had reunited and bought a farm in upstate New York. Apparently there’s lots of room for a butterfly garden.

Now I bend over and raise my hips to the sky.

Waiting for the trial has been hard, but not nearly as hard as being separated from Mom and Dad. Emmanuel’s cruel ways may have been exposed, but my parents are still my parents. And no matter how many mistakes they made, that’s not going to change. No matter what. Still, I don’t know what I would say if I saw them just now. For as much as I miss them, I also feel betrayed. All those lies about Lillian and Honey and Nana Pete. It just doesn’t make any sense, especially since we were all supposed to be trying to live like saints and lying is such a terrible sin. Keeping the fact that Honey and Benny and I are all family hidden from us was just so … wrong.

And so maybe the distance between us right now is a good thing. Until I can sort things out, try to make peace with everything that has come between us. Lillian’s been trying to help me do just that by having me talk about everything to a therapist. Benny too. Her name is Dr. Tipper and I’ve been to see her only twice so far, but I think she’s going to be okay. She’s got a huge fish tank in her office, full of blue and orange fish and she lets me feed them before we start talking. Lillian told me that the courts have also ordered Mom and Dad to see a therapist. She keeps using the word “brainwashed” when she talks about them, which sounds like someone went inside their heads and scrubbed their brains clean. But I guess that’s exactly what Emmanuel did to them, making them believe he was so powerful that they couldn’t object to anything he said—even if it was wrong. They lost the ability to think for themselves. I hope the therapist they are seeing helps them figure out how to get it back.

“On your mark!” Benny screams. I lift my face to the sun, stare down the length of track we are about to explode upon.

I’ve even put away The Saint’s Way for now. I haven’t looked at it once since we left. It’s not that I’ve turned my back on saints as a whole; it’s just that I personally don’t think I fit into their group. I don’t want to be Saint Agnes anymore. I just want to be Agnes. Whoever she might be.

“Get set!”

Next to me, Honey tenses. Her red braids hang in front of her shoulders like ropes. She glances quickly at me. “The barrette looks great on you.”

I grin and stare straight ahead, trying not to think about the pink flower petals clipped to the top of my ponytail. “Don’t try to distract me, goof.”

“Go!”

From here, the distance seems long. But as my arms pump up and down and my legs carry me over the soft grass, the space between us gets shorter and shorter until all at once, despite everything, I am there.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I could not have written this book without the support of many people. I am forever grateful to my agent, Jessica Regel, whose faith in me, not to mention her unbelievable persistence, has, in my eyes, set her far above the rest. Thank you to my editors, Melanie Cecka and Elizabeth Schonhorst, whose keen eye for detail and sense of humor helped me create a richer, more sensitive story, and to all the staff at Bloomsbury, whose enthusiasm for my work continues to both awe and humble me. It was my parents who gave me a love of writing, as well as supportive, enthusiastic feedback throughout all my years struggling to get it right, and for that I am forever indebted. Thank you to my dear friend Joe Biondo, who believed in me from the very beginning; Donna and Lou Rader; Judy Plummer; Gina Marsicano; Lynn Chalmers; and Don McMillan, all of whom read early drafts of my work and pushed me to continue. Thank you so much. To my brother, Dr. Samuel Plummer, who helped me with the medical terminology, and P. J. Adonizio, for his specific advice on funeral arrangements. Thank you to my children, who have made my life richer than I could have ever dreamed possible. My husband, Paul, is the one who, with his patience and love, has helped me realize one of my biggest dreams; thank you, love, from the bottom of my heart.