The Patron Saint of Butterflies(9)

“Did you see it?” I hear Peter ask. “I think it’s called a Mercedes. My dad told me Emmanuel was ordering it from somewhere in Long Island.”

I roll my eyes. Out of all the boys in my group, Peter is definitely the most gullible, which is why I dared him to stick his tongue in my mouth this morning. Thinking about it now, the way he nearly lunged at me with his mouth wide open, I feel sick to my stomach. I should have picked someone with a little more backbone, someone who at least would have made going into the Regulation Room afterward worth it. Peter was too easy. Plus, he gave me up in a heartbeat when Emmanuel demanded an explanation, pointing at me from across the room with a trembling finger. “It was Honey’s idea,” he whispered. “I didn’t even want to.” What a jerk. His little ears, which turn pink when he gets embarrassed and had appealed to me earlier, now just looked stupid. To tell you the truth, though, I wasn’t really surprised. Peter is a carbon copy of his parents, especially his mother. Mrs. Winters practically kisses the ground Emmanuel walks on. She’s been telling that poor kid what a godlike person Emmanuel is since he was old enough to talk.

You know, some days I think I am going to lose it when I think about the fact that I don’t have the faintest idea who my mother (or father) are, but other times I seriously believe that their absence has given me an advantage over the rest of the kids here. Think about it: I am the only kid in this place who doesn’t have a second set of authority figures yammering in my ear day in and day out about how divine Emmanuel is. And while everyone around me seems to think that my parentless “situation” is pitiful, I think it has actually provided me with room to think for myself. Poor Agnes and Benny and Peter and all the rest of the kids don’t have any room left in their heads to have an original thought. Not only are their brains crammed with all of Emmanuel’s and Veronica’s crap, but they have their parents’ crap on top of it. They can’t win.

Now I look at my group, which is made up of the twelve-to fifteen-year-olds, over in the corner, rubbing their knees and stretching. The littlest kids are wandering around the room in a kind of daze, their eyes rheumy from staring at the cross on the wall for so long. Six-year-old Iris Murphy, who is always making a fuss about something, is crying about the shooting pains in her legs. Christine rubs her back, trying to console her.

Ducking into the bathroom across the hall, I splash cold water on my face and then look at myself in the mirror. Horrible. Swollen, puffy eyes, splotchy skin, three bright red pimples on my chin. I squeeze one of them until it bleeds and decide against squeezing the rest. Pulling the rubber bands off the bottom of my braids, I shake my hair loose, snatching out pieces of grass. Christine told me once that when I was born, my mother laughed and laughed to see her hair on me. Saffron red, with the same tiny curls just around the ears. Of course at Mount Blessing, red hair, like everything else red, represents Satan and hell and all that good stuff. So while my mother may have thought my hair was cute, my flame-colored tresses have only added to my already damaged reputation here. I guess I can’t win either.

I’ve had exactly one conversation about my mother with Christine, who told me that aside from the red hair, Naomi was just eighteen years old when she arrived, and that she played the violin. Really well. In fact, she was so good that Emmanuel himself took notice and invited her on more than one occasion into his room to play for him. Which is no little thing. Emmanuel used to be a classical pianist, and while I’d personally rather stick needles under my fingernails than have to sit in his room listening to him play, I have to admit, the guy knows his stuff. For real. I mean, he doesn’t even have to look down at his fingers or anything when he plays. So Naomi must have impressed him quite a bit with her own musical abilities.

“Actually, she was taken into his spiritual inner circle almost immediately,” Christine had said, getting a faraway look in her eyes as she remembered. (Even after twenty-five years, Christine has never been made a part of Emmanuel’s inner circle. I don’t know why she hasn’t, but sometimes I wonder if that made her jealous of my mother.) “Like a month after she got here, which is practically unheard of. But Emmanuel was so taken with the way she played the violin that no one was really surprised when it happened.”

“But then what?” I asked. “What happened that made her run away, especially if Emmanuel was so amazed with her?” I paused and bit my lip. “Was it me?”

“Honestly, Honey,” Christine said. “I just don’t know. One day she was here, visiting you in the nursery, and the next morning she was gone. No one ever saw her again.”

I didn’t press things after that. For one reason, I believed Christine, who, when I really thought about it, didn’t have any reason not to tell me the truth. But there was another smaller part of me that didn’t really want to know. What reason could ever be good enough for abandoning your own child?

Now, braiding my hair again quickly, I blow my nose, run my tongue over my lips, and slide my arms back inside my robe. Fastening the silk cord loosely around my waist, I glance down. Where the heck are my shoes? When did they come off and how did I forget to put them back on? Well, I’ll have to look for them later. Thank God my robe just barely covers my feet. I stroll nonchalantly back into the room, taking small steps so my feet don’t stick out, and look around. Peter spots me instantly and breaks away from the little group at the window.