Mount Blessing is the religious commune just outside of Fairfield, Connecticut, where I was born. I live here with my parents and my little brother, Benny, along with about two hundred and sixty other people, including Honey. Mount Blessing was founded by our leader, Emmanuel, who wanted to create a community of holy people, separate and apart from the sinfulness of the rest of the world. There is no one in the world quite like Emmanuel. My dad told me once that the reason so many people keep coming to live here is because Emmanuel can make broken people whole again. And it’s true. There have been people who have come here messed up on drugs, feeling lost or even suicidal. After spending a week or so with Emmanuel, they become completely new people, striving to live good, religious lives. He heals them from the inside out. And sometimes from the outside in. After Emmanuel laid his hands on little Frankie Peters, who has been stuttering since first grade, he began to talk just as well as the rest of us. And just last year, Grace Willoby’s facial tics vanished completely after Emmanuel prayed over her. Dad tells us all the time how lucky we are to be living with such a saintly man, and I know he’s right.
Now I glance at the clock on the wall. One thirty. Taking a deep breath, I look back at Peter and nod my head. His whole face relaxes as he closes his eyes and resumes chanting. But I cannot even look at the crucifix when I turn back around. Bowing my head, I make the sign of the cross over my chest and try to control the quavering in my whispered voice.
“I know telling a lie is a sin, but I have to go find Honey and I just can’t think of any other way to get out of here right now. I will make it up to you with an extra penance tonight. I promise. Please forgive me.” I squeeze my hands so tight that my knuckles turn white. “Please.” Reaching under my robe, I pull out The Saints’ Way from inside the waistband of my jeans. The Saints’ Way is a book about how to live our lives, using the life stories of saints as examples. All the adults at Mount Blessing have the book, but Emmanuel gives each child a personal copy on his or her twelfth birthday. I got mine two years ago, and I’ll never forget it.
I was both nervous and excited that morning: excited to be turning twelve and nervous about going in to see Emmanuel, who would present me with the book. It is always a huge honor to have a private meeting with Emmanuel, but it also made me a little shaky. Standing in front of him is an intimidating experience, what I imagine looking directly at God would feel like. Anyway, Mom ironed my best dress and helped me pin my hair up into a neat bun, and Dad was waiting for me on the front porch when I came out. The sun had just risen and the air was still cold and purple.
“You ready?” Dad said, inserting his hands into the sleeves of his big blue robe. Everyone at Mount Blessing wears blue robes—all the time.
I nodded and straightened out the folds in my own robe. “I think so.”
“You look nice,” Dad said, holding out his hand. “Especially your hair.” I wanted to tell him that being twelve meant that he didn’t have to hold my hand as we walked toward the Great House, but I didn’t. It’s not every day that Dad compliments me, and I didn’t want to ruin the moment. We stood outside Emmanuel’s room and Dad rang the buzzer that would let him know we were there. In a few seconds, the red light above the door began to blink. My mouth was as dry as sand as we walked inside.
Emmanuel’s room is enormous, even bigger than the whole first floor of the house I live in with Mom and Dad and Benny. At any given time, there are usually between ten and twenty people in there, but this morning it was empty—except for him. He was sitting in his huge chair, a beautiful, hand-carved piece of furniture that had been made especially for him, eating grapefruit sections out of a glass cup. He didn’t have his blue robe on for some reason, and without it, he looked different, almost human. Dad and I fell to our knees, bowed our heads, and waited.
Emmanuel cleared his throat. “Come in,” he said.
Dad and I stood back up and tiptoed over the plush white carpeting, past the baby grand piano and the wall of wooden wine racks, which held numerous slender bottles of wine. Next to the wine racks was an oil painting portrait of the Blessed Virgin, which Emmanuel had painted himself. Her face was a cloudy gray color and her eyes, which were wide and black, stared back at me as I made my way across the room.
“I hear it is someone’s birthday,” Emmanuel said, placing his empty glass on a table next to his chair. It made a light clinking sound against the wood.
I nodded mutely and stared at his pressed white shirt and casual gray slacks. I still couldn’t get over how different he looked without that robe on. He even had slippers on! Dad nudged me with his elbow and I gulped.
“Yes, Emmanuel,” I said quickly. “Thank you.”
Emmanuel wiped his gray beard with a cloth napkin and then raised his eyebrows. “You know what happens on your twelfth birthday, don’t you, Agnes?”