But Benny’s face darkens at the mention of Mount Blessing. He crawls back off my lap and rearranges his legs so they are crossed over each other again.
I watch as he starts to rock back and forth, fiddling once more with his shoelace. Leaning my head against the window, I fight back tears. God, I miss her. Oh my God, it’s been only three hours and I miss her. A tear rolls down the side of my face and I lift my hand to wipe it.
But Benny reaches out as I do and pulls my hand into his. Without looking at me, he lifts up the armrest between us, scooches himself down against my thigh, and curls around it like a little squirrel.
At the airport, I spot the midnight blue Honda Accord with the sunroof on top and the orange rust stains along the edge of the front wheels, and something settles a little in my stomach. I’ve never been inside Claudia’s car before, but I’ve seen it a hundred times parked alongside the Field House. Its familiarity is comforting. Dad gets in the front with Claudia, while Mom arranges herself between Benny and me in the back. The car smells like peanuts and lemon peel. There is a tiny rubber hummingbird hanging down from the rearview mirror. It swings gently from side to side as the car begins to move.
Dad talks the entire time about getting back to work at the mattress place, what he had to tell his boss about the time off he took, and the possible sales he missed during his absence. He’s worried about not making his monthly quota. Claudia listens next to him, her jaw clenched so tightly I wonder if she will crack her teeth. I reach down and unzip the front pocket of my book bag, looking for the pink barrette. I just want to hold it. But my fingers come into contact with something else, something flat. I pull out the Polaroids as carefully as I can, staring at the pictures of Honey’s lacerated back with horror. Where did these come from? And how did they find their way into my bag? Did she do this? Is this how she wants me to remember her? Mom turns her head, glancing in my direction, and I hide the pictures as quickly as I can under my leg, away from her prying eyes.
Claudia cuts Dad off midsentence suddenly, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “How’s Benny’s hand, Agnes?”
Mom shifts uncomfortably in her seat and looks over at me. Dad frowns at Claudia and then gives me a look.
“Oh, it’s great,” he answers for me. “I checked it out just a little while ago.” He gives a short, harsh laugh. “I can’t tell anymore which is Emmanuel’s work and what they did in the hospital, but it looks pretty good, I’ll tell you that.”
I fold my hands in my lap. “Actually, they had to undo everything Emmanuel did,” I hear myself saying slowly. “I talked to the surgeon. He said Emmanuel butchered Benny’s hand. And that there was no miracle. None at all.”
The silence in the car is so loud that I am aware of the whoosh of tires coming from a car twenty feet behind us. Then Dad smiles, one of his bright, quick smiles that makes me cringe inside. Fear flickers in his eyes.
“Of course he said that. He’s not a Believer, Agnes! Non-Believers can’t see miracles, even when they’re staring at them in the face. You know that.”
I look down. Close my eyes. Wait for the voices battling inside my head to stop:
But I asked him! I asked Dr. Pannetta. Twice! Right to his face! And he’s gone to medical school. He knows. He must know! He fixed Benny up right.
Did he? Or was he already healed? There are many temptations out in the real world, which, if I embrace them, will cause my faith to weaken and then disintegrate. Was Dr. Pannetta a temptation, trying to turn me away from all I believe in?
What do you believe in?
I don’t know.
Yes, you do.
No. I don’t.
“Agnes?” It’s Dad. I raise my face to look at him. His face is shiny, practically glowing with my anticipated response.
“Why did you call your sister Naomi?” I ask.
Dad’s fake smile fades against the dark interior of the car. Next to me, Mom freezes.
“Naomi?” Claudia says. “Now, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. You’re talking about Lillian, right?”
Frightened, I try to hold Dad’s gaze. But his eyes are cutting through me. “I don’t know,” I croak out. “I think so.”
“Yeah,” Claudia says, unaware that Dad’s breathing has become rapid and shallow. “I remember her.” She glances over at Dad. “How’s she doing, anyway? She still play the violin?”
Dad turns toward Claudia. “You mind your own business, Claudia,” he says in a terrible voice. He points a finger at me. “And you are not to utter another word until I permit it.” There is a pause. “Do you understand me, Agnes?” Something in me folds in on itself, like a pair of wings closing. I nod, silent and obedient. It’s what Saint Agnes would do.
Dad sits forward anxiously as flashing red and blue lights slice through the darkness at the top of the hill in front of the Great House.
“It’s the police,” he whispers. “Why in God’s name are they here?”