I had never known anyone whose mother was actually dead. At my old school, there was a girl whose mother had died a long time ago but she had a stepmother and didn’t seem very tragic. But Antoinetta was different, I could tell. We walked through the living room—more plastic-covered furniture and another saint statue—I didn’t recognize this one but I could see it had been broken and glued back together. There were thin lines all over it, like veins.
In her bedroom, Antoinetta handed me a picture from her bureau. The woman had curly hair like Antoinetta’s, and full lips with red lipstick. She was sexy and pretty and full of life. I shivered.
“Wow,” I said, still whispering.
Antoinetta took back the picture, but instead of putting it down she studied it, too. “She was sick forever. Practically my whole life she was sick. I don’t remember her doing very much. My sister does.”
She put the picture down and added, “She’s older.”
“I’m going to Italy,” I said.
“To San Giovanni Rotundo?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. My mother’s planning the trip.” Immediately, I felt bad for saying that. How thoughtless to mention an alive mother to Antoinetta. “She’s divorced,” I said, hoping that made up for the other remark.
Antoinetta was frowning. “Aren’t you Catholic?”
“Sort of. I mean, I am but she’s not.”
“The Pope doesn’t let people get divorced,” Antoinetta said, still frowning. “It’s a sin.”
“She’s Unitarian,” I said.
“What’s that? Protestant?”
“Not exactly,” I said. I was afraid if I said the wrong thing Antoinetta wouldn’t be my friend. “It’s kind of its own thing.”
“So who’s sick?”
“Huh?”
“You go to San Giovanni Rotundo for a miracle. Don’t you know?”
I shook my head.
Antoinetta sighed, frustrated. “Padre Pio was this priest who could heal people. In Italy. Like if your mother or somebody was sick right here he could come to her bedside even though he was saying a mass in Italy at the very same time. He could be in two places at once. If you go there, there’s a whole chapel with the crutches and braces and things from people he healed. And letters from people. I don’t know why he couldn’t heal my mother.”
“Did you meet him?”
Antoinetta laughed. “He’s dead, silly. You pray for him to intercede on your behalf. You know, ask God for the favor. My grandmother said that God wanted my mother with him. So he refused Padre Pio’s request.”
I considered this possibility.
Then Antoinetta spoke in a low voice. “They called us up and told us to come to the hospital. It was only four o’clock in the morning and my father took us in our pajamas and we got there in time to hear the priest give her the Sacrament of the Sick and then just sat there waiting for the miracle to happen, you know? That whole time she would only take a breath every minute or so. I was holding my breath until she took her next one. And then, she just didn’t take another one. It was 5:03. I looked at the clock. Everybody started screaming and my father cursed the Virgin Mary and Padre Pio and the doctors. Because we’d gone all that way. For a miracle, you know?”
I nodded, remembering my own miracle, how I saved my father from the avalanche. This wasn’t the time to tell Antoinetta. But I would. Antoinetta was the one person who could understand.
“My mother’s patron saint was Saint Clare. She was named for her. When we got home from the hospital, my father picked up my mother’s statue of Saint Clare, the one the bishop blessed, and he threw it against the wall. My uncle Joe glued it back together.”
“Saint Clare,” I said. “She’s the patron saint of television.”
Antoinetta smiled at me. “Want to play saints? You pick one to be and I’ll pick one and we’ll pretend we’re dying?”
My heart soared. “Yes,” I said.
Chapter Five
ALL THE MISTAKES
Thanks to my father’s divine intervention, I auditioned for the junior company of the Boston Ballet. If I got picked, I would take the bus into Boston twice a week for class, starting in September. My feet hurt from my toe shoes and my neck hurt from stretching so much. In other words, I felt great. Each of us waited in a big room, and they called our names one by one. When it was my turn, I stood all alone up on the stage and official people with notepads out in the audience asked me to do this or that. Jeté! Arabesque! Jumps in first position! In fifth! Switch! Switch! I had a good audition. I knew it. When I walked off the stage, one of the women shouted, “Thanks, Madeline! You’ll be hearing from us!” in a way that made me think: I got it!
But when I went out to the waiting room where all the mothers were sitting, I acted very cool. I saw them trying to read my face, but I wanted to seem mysterious. I mean, would Marie Taglioni rush out after an audition and start bragging and gushing? No. She would have good posture. She would nod. She would leave.