I nodded again, swallowing hard over a lump in my throat. I couldn’t believe the moment was actually here, that it was finally happening. When Mom and Dad had been presented with their books, it had been such an exciting day for them. They told me how they had spent hours that evening leafing slowly through the pages and then sliding the slender volumes onto their new home on the bookshelf. Each night they would pull their books back out and read another page.
I watched as Emmanuel leaned over and took a small book off the little table. A gold ring on his finger glinted under the light. “Come here,” he said to me. I stepped forward on shaky legs and stared at the book in his hands. “You are an adult now,” Emmanuel said. There was a pause, and I realized he was waiting for me to make eye contact with him. I raised my head and studied the sharp planes of his narrow face, his bushy eyebrows, and his watery gray eyes. Even his beard, which rested—neatly trimmed—against the top of his collarbone, looked virtuous. He smiled at me. “You are an adult now,” he said again. “Capable of leading the life of a saint.” He held out the book. I took it from him with trembling hands. It was heavier than it looked, with a black cover and the title, The Saints’ Way, inscribed in gold lettering. “Study this book,” Emmanuel continued. “Learn all you can from the greatest living examples ever to walk the earth.” I nodded, pressing the book against my chest. “And then live your life accordingly, as a saint would.”
“I will,” I whispered.
Emmanuel nodded and smiled again at me. “I have great faith in you, Agnes. Your name means lamb, which symbolizes purity and innocence. You are capable of doing remarkable things. Do not ever forget that.”
My eyes filled with tears; it was such an emotional thing to hear Emmanuel say he had faith in me, that I could do something remarkable. Imagine! Me! “I won’t forget,” I said, feeling my voice get stronger. “I promise.”
Next to me, Dad beamed.
In the last two years I’ve read The Saints’ Way at least six or seven times all the way through, earmarking the stories I like best. Now I turn to Saint Rose of Lima, who has become one of my favorites. Born in South America, she spent her entire life trying to make up for the sins she committed. Her tolerance for pain and suffering was nothing short of spectacular. Skimming the list of her favorite penances, I try to determine which one I will do tonight:
? Tie a length of rope around the waist until it is tightly uncomfortable. Check.
? Fast for three days. (Only water and the occasional citron seed.) Check.
? Sleep on a bed of broken glass, rocks, or other sharp objects.
Placing the book back inside the front of my pants, I retie the itchy string around my waist, tightening it until it cuts into the soft flesh. I started wearing the waist string three months ago, after I got mad at Benny and yelled at him. Now, every time I feel it chafe against my skin, I offer up the pain for any failings I have committed that day. I also fast pretty regularly—skipping breakfast and dinner at least three days a week. Fasting is a big thing with saints in general. Saint Francis of Assisi and Saint Catherine of Siena used to go weeks without any solid food. My personal record is four days, but then I fainted in the pool and almost drowned, so I had to start eating again. But I have never slept on a bed of broken glass or rocks. I’m sure it will hurt, but like the others, it will be a great test of my will.
Smoothing my robe back into place, I stand up slowly, taking care not to distract anyone, and walk toward Christine in the back of the room. Christine Miller, an older woman in her late fifties, is in charge of all the kids at Mount Blessing. She has three or four young women who help her—especially with the little kids—but she’s the one who calls the shots when it comes to us coming and going. She watches me wind my way through the room, narrowing her eyebrows a little. Her long black braid hangs over one shoulder and little wisps of loose hair curl around the sides of her face. I stop in front of her, hesitating as her lips pause midchant.
“I have to go lie down upstairs,” I whisper, rushing over the words. “My stomach is killing me.”
Christine studies me for a moment. I am counting on her knowledge of what went on this morning, hoping it will persuade her to let me leave. She and I will never talk about what went on inside the Regulation Room—or that the reason the three of us were summoned there at all was because she went and told Emmanuel that we were misbehaving—but I know she feels bad about it. She always feels guilty when one of the kids has to go to the Regulation Room. She’s been in charge of all of us for fifteen years now, but she’s still pretty much a softie.