The recliner was the sole chair in a living room with one flat-screen television, a bicycle, a workout bench, a set of dumbbells, and a retro Pac-Man pinball machine in the corner. She knew there was nowhere for him to sit, but throwing him off-kilter seemed right somehow. This was to be a special day.
As his murmurs grew louder, she slipped one hand under her shirt, pressing the skin over her left breast. A month ago, muscle would have pressed back. Now, the skin was thinner. She closed her eyes and envisioned his face, the curve of his brow over his dark eyes. Her chest was still. She breathed deeply and imagined him holding the back of her hand, marveling over her wounds, calling her special and gifted and touched. Her heart beat harder. She felt the pump and the rush, felt the papery skin moving under its pulse. Her stomach growled at the exertion. It had been twenty-eight hours since she’d allowed herself a cup of broth. Saints starved themselves so that the flesh would melt away and their hearts would be left beating behind racks of ribs for God to see. Her father had barely noticed at first; when he had, she’d argued back, expounding long and hard on how fat Americans understand self-indulgence, but are disturbed by self-denial. It was an argument worthy of a seasoned trial lawyer. Eventually he gave up, waved her away, swearing, and stormed off to the club.
Francesca arranged her shirt again so that Mr. Falso could see her heart beating for him. She lowered her eyes to a focal point to keep from blacking out, set a weak smile on her lips, and waited.
Mr. Falso bounded down the stairs apologizing and stopped short at the sight of Francesca. In her mind, he was startled by the vision of her, made purer by her fasting. She was certain he could see her heart as it rose and fell, glowing beneath her paper-white skin.
“Are you sick?” he asked, drawing closer in the dim light. He reached underneath the shade of a floor lamp and flicked it on.
“I’m fine,” she said, suddenly conscious of her chapped lips. “I thought we might talk in here for a change.”
Mr. Falso searched for a place to sit. Francesca closed her eyes and placed her palms on her knees, facing upward. Mr. Falso froze, then realized what she expected. He kneeled on the floor in front of her and took her hands in his. Francesca took a deep breath, her chest rising, inside, her heart like a bird banging against a cage. She could hardly contain her joy, that he had so willingly assumed his position—a supplicant in front of the divine. For the first time, she sensed she was capable of making him do what she wanted.
He peeled away the right bandage.
“You’re certain it doesn’t hurt?” he said quietly.
Francesca smiled serenely. “You ask me every time. And every time, I say no.”
Mr. Falso repeated his examination on the other side. He took pictures with his phone, then scribbled notes. Francesca relaxed into the calm space hunger made for her once she had passed the point of anxiousness. Finally he sat back on the rug. He seemed pensive. Francesca crawled off the chair and sat next to him, smiling benignly, something she had perfected and taken to applying when she sensed Mr. Falso moving away.
She adjusted her shirt. “What are you thinking about?”
“I wonder. Do you have any other signs like these, or is this the only one?”
Francesca felt as though someone had hit a Pause button. “What do you mean?”
“I wondered if anything else unusual was happening in your life, that’s all. I’m trying to put it into context. For my research.”
Francesca licked her lips. The birds proved nothing. Her ability to speak in tongues was the equivalent of a party trick. And reading someone’s heart? Girly-sounding drivel that she wasn’t willing to risk.
“Unusual like what?” she asked.
“You know, things you can’t help. Have you seen anything unusual, for example?”
Francesca scuttled back an inch. “You mean, have I had visions? No. Not yet. I mean, I don’t think I have. Why?”
“No reason. I wanted to know if this is happening in isolation from other miraculous events. That’s all.”
“What is it that you want me to do?” She flipped through her mental Rolodex of research she’d done on saints, looking for guidance. The lives of the Italian saints were particularly unhelpful, if not downright revolting. Saint Maria Maddalena de’ Pazzi lay naked on thorns. Saint Catherine of Siena drank pus from a cancerous sore. Veronica Giuliani cleaned the walls and floor of her cell with her tongue, swallowing spiders and their webs. Francesca pressed her palms into the floor to remain steady.
“There’s nothing I want you to do.” He reached out to touch her face, caught himself, and pulled back. “I wondered if anything else had happened to you, that’s all. Historically speaking, certain things have happened to individuals like you, things common to their stories.”
“You mean to saints. Things that have happened to saints.”
“Now, no one said saints. I don’t think it’s helpful to label what’s happening to you. Our job is to gather information and let the Church make sense of it. If and when you decide you’re ready, that is.”
Francesca gathered her skirt around her knees and stood too quickly. The room went white and a tinny buzz filled her ears. She felt around, stumbling, and there were Mr. Falso’s arms, steadying her.
“You’re faint!” he exclaimed.
She was about to wave him off, uncomplaining, like she always did. Like she imagined the saints did. Yet something stopped her. As her eyes filled in, sparkles reformed into shapes, and she leaned her head against his chest. She was shocked at the way it felt under her cheek, firm and soft, and warm through his T-shirt. She closed her eyes and whispered against his chest.
“I’m not ready.”
Mr. Falso drove Francesca home that afternoon. He wouldn’t allow her to ride her bike: it was absurd, the sidewalks were slush, and she seemed to be coming down with something. His car smelled manly, and he seemed happy to have her there with him. She imagined he was getting used to the idea of her by his side. Yet every time she allowed herself to relax and enjoy his presence, she felt an overwhelming sense that something was ending. He commented on which Christmas lights he liked best
(The old fashioned ones, big like eggs.)
and the packed parking lot at Johnny’s Foodmaster
(Never sets foot in a supermarket himself. Gets it delivered.)
and the traffic visible on the Southeast expressway
(Rush hour already? Who knew? Lucky man he was, getting to work in his own neighborhood!).
Yet Francesca heard only, “Do you have any other signs, or is this the only one?”
When they pulled up in front of the house, Francesca sprang from the car. Mr. Falso called to her.
“What’s your rush?” he asked, laughing nervously. Surprise in his eyes first, then worry. As if he didn’t like Francesca getting away from him, she thought. For the first time in years, she felt sated.
Francesca smiled as mildly as possible. “I have homework.”