No miracle.
Was the devil speaking through Dr. Pannetta, trying to get me to doubt the validity of Emmanuel’s work? It’s entirely possible. Emmanuel says that the devil has a tendency to be more clever than God, since he has to work so much harder to get people to listen to him. I think of one of my favorite saint stories, Saint Juliana of Nicodema, who was tormented mercilessly by the devil. He tried to trick her, appearing as an angel dressed in white robes surrounded by light. Disguising even his voice, he tried to convince her to worship the stone idols and to turn away from Christ. If the devil could disguise himself as a messenger angel, I think to myself, why couldn’t he conceal himself as a doctor?
No miracle.
“Lord God,” I whisper. “Suffer me not to be lost, but of thy grace show me the way and the truth.” I wait facedown on the scratchy surface for what feels like hours. No voice comes out of the sky, the way God did for Juliana, telling her to turn away from the diabolical angel. No shimmering light appears, like the Virgin did for Bernadette. Why can’t someone up there just show me? Just once? I am not strong enough to know on my own. It is too hard. I cannot even detect who is telling the truth, deep in my chest, the way it sometimes feels. Closing my eyes, all I can see are a thousand exploding pinpoints of light. I wonder if my brain is actually disintegrating behind my eyes. Everything else around me is falling apart; why shouldn’t my brain? A parade of images perforates my mind’s eye, marching before me in a kaleidoscope of color: HARLOT, Benny running to us in the field with news of Nana Pete’s arrival, the frog pond, Claudia screaming for tape and bandages, the look on Benny’s face when he woke up in the back of the car … My eyes swell with tears.
“No crying,” Emmanuel said to me once inside the Regulation Room. “If you cry, I will start over and keep going again until you stop.”
Wiggle, wiggle.
I reach up and hold on to the consecration beads around my neck.
Wiggle, wiggle. Getting up on my knees, I hold my arms out on either side and start to chant evening prayers. “Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem … ” The block of pain does not lessen inside my chest, but I can feel my breathing start to slow as the familiar words flow through my lips.
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.
Nana Pete pokes her head into the room. “Mouse?” I keep praying. “Mouse? The nurse said Benny just got out of surgery. We can go see him now, darlin’.”
Benny’s room is all white with blue and pink curtains hanging over a single window. For some reason, it smells like mashed potatoes and gravy. A television floats from an angled metal arm above the bed, and a small picture of orange marigolds hangs on the wall. Benny is in the middle of the bed. He looks terribly small. Green plastic tubes snake out of his nostrils. His hand, which is wrapped in gauze all the way up to the elbow, reminds me of a butterfly cocoon Honey showed me once.
I stare at him for a minute, thinking back to the day last year when he came out of Emmanuel’s room wearing his glasses for the first time. They were much too big, and although Emmanuel had fashioned an elastic strap that anchored them around the back of his head, they still slipped forward along the bridge of his nose.
“They’re horrible, Ags,” he’d said, staring down at his shoes. “All the kids are gonna make fun of me. I hate them.”
I got down on one knee. “They’re a little big. But they’re not horrible, Benny. You’ll grow into them. And you let Honey know about any kids that make fun of you, okay? She’ll take care of them.”
Benny looked at me. “And you too?”
I nodded, although I knew very well I would do nothing of the sort. Getting into physical altercations with the bullies of the playground was not saint-wannabe behavior. Now I take his little hand in mine. Why haven’t I been a better sister? What is wrong with me?
Nana Pete steps inside the room, rubbing the sides of her arms. “I just talked to Dr. Pannetta. He said the surgery went better than expected and that he was very pleased. He expects Benny to gain full use of his fingers again in another month or so.”
“When will he wake up?” I ask.
“Probably in a few hours. At least that’s what the nurses said.” She looks at me. “He’s okay, Mouse. Really. It’s just from the anesthesia. He’ll wake up soon.”