The Possibilities of Sainthood (26 page)

I'd agreed.

The skirt of my dress spilled over one side of the bed in waves of taffeta, iridescent in the soft glow of the candlelight near St. Anthony. After finally confessing everything, the whole story of my aspirations for sainthood, and showing Michael my collection of Saint Diaries and all my years of proposals to the Vatican—I'd even shown him my formal ritual for petitioning saints—as he sorted through my saint paraphernalia he was supposed to think about who he wanted to pray to himself.

“Are you ready?” I asked when he put down the letter.

It was time for Michael to petition a saint, as he'd agreed to do. In my demonstration I'd thanked St. Anthony for helping me find my senses about Michael (he smiled when he heard what I'd said). I waited for him to flip to one of the pages in my Saint Diary—maybe St. Anne to ask for some further grandmotherly intervention to convince my mother that dating at fifteen was acceptable; or St. Barbara, the Patron Saint of Grave Diggers, so that he wouldn't be going to his grave anytime soon even
though he risked life and limb by being in my room; or even St. John to express thanks that we were no longer “just friends.”

But when Michael lit the candle between us and closed his eyes, my diary lay there, untouched. Had he chosen a saint that I didn't already know? One that wasn't in my diary? He sat there, eyes closed, unmoving, for what felt like an eternity. Why wasn't he making his petition out loud like I had? I'd spent all night confessing my deepest secrets and now he was going to hold back this one little prayer?

“You look angry, Antonia,” Michael teased. “What did I do wrong between the time I closed my eyes and opened them again?”

“Well, first of all,” I said in a whisper, “you didn't choose a saint representation to pray to like I showed you. And second, you decided to keep whatever you asked for to yourself and that's not fair. Petitions aren't birthday wishes, you know.”

“But you're wrong,” he said, grinning.

“No, I'm not. It doesn't matter if other people know what you pray for, whereas with birthday wishes . . .”

“That's not what I meant,” he said.

“Okay. So, then . . . enlighten me, please.”

“You're irresistible when you're angry.”

“Now is not the time, Michael.”

“All right, sorry. I'll stay on task,” he said, laughing, taking my hand in his. “I
did
choose a saint representation
and
I had every intention of telling you about my petition
. . . it's just that I needed to do some explaining before you'd understand.”

“I'm listening,” I said, as he ran his fingers across my palm and the back of my hand.

“So there's this rumor going around the neighborhood.”

“Oh, no,” I said feeling dread.

“Let me finish. This is important.” Michael put a finger to my lips, silencing me gently. “Rumor has it that Federal Hill has its very own saint-in-the-making. That a local girl—still only a teenager, according to some—has shown herself to have a miraculous effect on those she touches . . .” he said, pausing, my curiosity rising. “Or, rather,
kisses
.”

“What?” I was confused. “Who?”

“Don't you know, Antonia? Can't you feel it? The effect you have on everyone around you? I wasn't just giving you a line back in the library about how maybe you were already making miracles happen. I meant it. And according to neighborhood sources, your miracle count is somewhere around ten, with one major miracle among them: Mrs. Bevalaqua.”

“You mean
me
? Me? Are you crazy?” Had my whole neighborhood—if Michael was telling the truth—gone
pazzo
(that's Italian for “crazy”)? I thought back to the strange incidents over the last couple of months—from Mrs. B walking again to the little cuts and bruises of kids like Billy Bruno and Maria's little sister, Bennie, healing almost instantly. People thought I might be a saint?
Other
people?
Could it be true? Was that why children had been following me around the neighborhood, whispering?

“Yes, you, Antonia Lucia Labella. It's almost uncanny—that letter about being the saint for kissing you wrote to the Vatican—as if you somehow knew . . .
and
if I did my homework right, between the miraculous events and your growing local fame, I think you're practically the Patron Saint of the First Kiss and Kissing already.”

“But I was talking about a whole different type of kissing in that letter.”

“I don't think it has to be one or the other,” he said, leaning so close now that I felt the world disappear, like it had earlier in the library, when we'd been about to kiss. I smiled with anticipation. “I
hope
it doesn't. Don't you agree?”

“Yes,” I said. He could have convinced me of anything just then.

“Good.”

“So if you really believe this . . . why don't you ask me the question again, Michael,” I said, grinning.

“
That
question?” he asked.

“
That
one. Yes.”

“But I already did,” he said, our lips so close they almost touched. “When I closed my eyes I made a special petition to Antonia Lucia Labella, the Patron Saint of the First Kiss and Kissing, who is not only stunning in that red dress but is also sitting before me. I wondered if she wouldn't mind terribly, and if it was still within her area of specialty, that I might have the honor of a second kiss, and
maybe a third and fourth and so on.” His voice was a whisper. “So, St. Antonia . . . when am I going to get that
next
kiss?”

“Now,” I sighed, just before our lips met for the second time that night, eager to find out whether second kisses, and thirds and fourths, were even more divine than first ones, thinking that I might not be an official saint
yet
, but feeling confident I was on the right path. Especially since I was sure it was going to require many hours of kissing practice before I'd
officially
be ready for the job.

I was going to
love
being a saint.

 

Vatican Committee on Sainthood
Vatican City
Rome, Italy

 

December 25

 

To Whom It May Concern (ideally the new Pope if he's available):

First of all, I hope you are enjoying your first days as our new Holy Father. We are all excited to see what changes you will bring.

And I also thought, on this special holiday, that it might be appropriate to tell you about a Christmas miracle, really the best miracle a fifteen-year-old girl who is also aspiring to be the first ever living saint in Catholic history—the Patron Saint of the First Kiss and Kissing, to be specific—could ever hope for. (That girl in question would be me, Antonia Lucia Labella, of Labella's Market in Federal Hill, home to the most famous homemade pasta in all of Rhode Island.)

I got my first kiss!

And let me just say that it was
truly divine
. (Imagine me sighing happily here. Don't worry, I'm still as innocent as I ever was. Well,
almost
.)

I don't know if this means anything significant
for my possible sainthood, but, truth be told, I'm not sure I need it to. (Feel free, if you are confused about what I'm talking about here, to check the more than eight years of documentation about my quest for sainthood—you should have it all in my file.) My family, my crazy wonderful neighbors, my new boyfriend (!!), they all sort of make me feel like a saint already.

It isn't exactly how I imagined sainthood. But it feels right. For all I know, we've all got a little saintliness somewhere deep inside our souls. The possibilities are endless. Why should I be any different, then?

So I've made an executive decision: No more proposals. No more e-mails. No more pestering. You have a lot on your shoulders right now, what with learning how to be the new Pope and Fathering the Fold and all. And if sainthood is truly in the cards for me, I'm content to wait and see what happens (even though patience has never been my strongest virtue).

And don't worry, this doesn't mean I'll stop petitioning the saints we already do have. That would
never
happen. After all, I've got a lifetime of faith in all those women and men who've gone to the great palace in the sky. I couldn't imagine the world without their miracles.

Anyway, that's all for now. Oh, and have a Merry Christmas!

 

Blessings,
Antonia Lucia Labella
Labella's Market of Federal Hill
33 Atwells Avenue
Providence, RI USA
[email protected]

 

 

 

 

 

A special thanks to Beth Wright, the first person I told about Antonia's story and who never let me forget about it until it was done, and to Pooja Makhijani for reading and rereading drafts. My gratitude goes out to many others, especially Tanya Lee Stone, Emily Franklin, Stephen Prothero, Lauren Winner, Beth Adams, Chris Tebbetts, and everyone associated with the writers' retreat Kindling Words, at which I received the encouragement and energy to believe in my ability to write
this
novel. To Frances Foster, who I told everyone was my dream editor, who somehow then became my real-life editor—thank you for your incredible editorial guidance, support, sense of humor, faith in this story, and the “possibility of me” as a novelist, and for really being a dream of an editor. To Miriam Altshuler, my agent, who believed long ago and well before I did that I was really a novelist, who loved this story from the beginning, and whose support for me as a writer is
unbounded. To everyone at FSG, in particular Janine O'Malley and Robbin Gourley, for making this a wonderful experience. And finally, I have to mention my mom, whose childhood stories and life with the saints inspired this story, and Josh Dodes and my dad for being there through it all.