A Patron Saint for Junior Bridesmaids

by Shelley Tougas

  I type, LIAR! My thumb hovers over the send button, but I feel a knot in my throat. I can’t do it. I erase everything and send a message that says, Love you, too. But my stomach boils.

  There’s a knock, and Eden opens the door. “Um … can I come in?”

  “It’s your bedroom. You don’t have to knock. I’m the one who should be knocking.”

  “It’s your bedroom, at least for now it’s your bedroom, too, so you don’t have to knock, either,” Eden says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  She sits on her bed, takes off her glasses, and rubs her eyes. Stress and conflict—just like Google predicted. Here’s where I’m supposed to come to the rescue. “Are you okay?”

  “This wedding is already a mess. Grandma and Mom wrote up a list of people to invite, and their list is so long. They wrote down the names of second and third cousins I don’t even know.”

  “Did you tell them the list was too big?”

  With a sigh heavier than winter wind, Eden flops back on her bed. “Grandma has a way of turning into a train, and you can’t stop a train.”

  “So you didn’t tell them.”

  “No, I didn’t tell them. I thought maybe Dad would say something because he doesn’t want an expensive reception, but he started adding names. His family is huge! Grandma told him he must be from a colony of bunnies, and he said she should’ve thought of that before she offered to pay.”

  “It’ll be a nice wedding.”

  “The only thing that matters is getting married in a church. Mom says every church from the Pacific to the Atlantic will be booked. What if we can’t find a church? Will we have to cancel the wedding?”

  “You’ll find something. If there isn’t a church with an opening, well, Grandma will have a church built! Nothing will stop her.”

  Eden laughs. Even though my answer was ridiculous, I made her feel better.

  “I almost forgot. I have something for us.” Eden goes to her closet, pulls out a box, and holds it behind her back. “Remember when you were little, and you guys would visit, and everyone would go out for dinner or church bingo, and I’d babysit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember what we’d do while everyone was out?”

  “Jigsaw puzzles. My favorite was the puzzle with sea creatures.”

  With a sweep of the arm, Eden shows me the box she’s holding. It’s a puzzle of the Grand Canyon. I lean forward and squint. “Is that 5,000 pieces?”

  “It is!” Eden’s eyes are wide with excitement.

  “Wow. That’s insane!”

  “We could start if you want, or not if you don’t want.”

  “Um … okay.”

  Eden leaves the puzzle next to me and rushes to get her Mom’s long craft table. I study the box. The Grand Canyon is splitting the earth into jagged walls of browns and reds with a seamless blue sky. A greenish-blue river twists through the bottom. It’s pretty, and it’d be nice to spend a rainy weekend doing a puzzle with Eden, but 5,000 pieces isn’t an activity. It’s a project. It’s a job. I see summer flashing before me like a movie. My friends in Holmestrand will play soccer and swim at the lake and have sleepovers while I’m in St. Paul worrying about church availability and how to give a toast. And in between wedding jobs, I’ll be putting together the world’s hardest puzzle one tiny piece at a time.

  Maybe there’s a Patron Saint for jigsaw puzzles.

  ABOUT BRENT HELZINSKI AND ME

  Brent snapped my bra strap. I stepped on his toe.

  Brent called me Lip Gloss Queen. I called him Pudge Muffin.

  Brent flicked spitballs at me. I stuck chewed-up gum on his desk.

  Chapter Nine

  There’s going to be a wedding in 54 days

  Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.

  The noise drags me from a deep sleep. I open my eyes. Sunlight pours into the room. Eden’s bed is made, and her purse is no longer on her desk. She probably left for work.

  Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.

  From the window I see Nick in his driveway dribbling a basketball, then shooting a layup. It swirls around the hoop and drops in the basket. Score.

  Luke and I have been in St. Paul a week, and I haven’t seen Nick since the day with the lawn mower. I wonder if he’s stuck in one of those summer programs for kids who are too old for daycare, but with parents who won’t leave them home alone.

  With the ball tucked under one arm, he lifts his shirt and wipes sweat off his face. My face flushes. Then he looks up, straight at the window, and I drop to the floor. Did he see me staring? Maybe he didn’t. Maybe the sun created a glare on the window. I probably looked like a shadow. I bet he wasn’t even looking at the window. He was staring at a bird or a squirrel or something.

  Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.

  It’s the sound of something to do, something other than playing with Luke at the park or going to the Lego store or talking about the wedding. I’m supposed to go to Grandma’s side of the house once I’m awake. I get dressed, pull my hair into a ponytail, and brush my teeth. I have two choices this morning: have breakfast with Luke and Grandma, or go outside.

  Outside I go.

  * * *

  I can’t just stand in the yard, staring at the sky like some weirdo, so I walk to the mailbox with firm steps and a serious face, like I’ve got a job to do. An important job. The job of getting the mail. Nick is focused on the hoop. He dribbles from what would be the free-throw line and takes a shot. It bounces off the backboard. When he catches the ball, he notices me.

  “Hi, Mary!”

  I give a little wave. “I’m just getting the mail.”

  “The mail comes late. We must be the last street on the route.” He tucks the ball under his arm. “Do you play sports?”

  “Soccer. Next year I’ll join track, I think.”

  “Cool.”

  It’s already my turn to ask a question, and my mind is blank. Finally I say, “Do you play basketball?” It’s the stupidest question ever, since he’s shooting hoops. “In school, I mean. Obviously you’re playing basketball right now.”

  “I’d like to, but my school’s huge. You have to be Michael Jordan Junior to make the team. I’m just not good enough.”

  “My school is so small they’ll put you on a team if you have arms.”

  When he laughs I feel like I scored three points from the middle of the court. He tosses me the ball, and thankfully I catch it. “You know how to play HORSE?”

  “Sure.”

  “I just made a shot from here.” He points to a spot about two feet away. “So go ahead and start like you’re the second player.”

  “Okay.”

  I shoot and miss, so I collect an H. I dribble closer to the net and throw the ball right into the bucket. He can’t copy my shot, so he gets an H, too. We each miss a couple of times. It’s morning and not yet steamy, but my hands are sweating. I’m sweating everywhere. Finally I throw the ball with a perfect swoosh. It doesn’t even touch the backboard.

  “Nice,” he says, catching the ball. “How long are you staying here?”

  “Most of the summer, probably. It depends on when my parents find a house. We’re moving to North Dakota.”

  “Poor you.”

  “My dad says the people there are really nice.”

  “It’s even colder than here, right?”

  “Once you’re talking ten below zero, what’s another few degrees?” The words are rolling off my tongue. I’m so happy that I haven’t gone Eden on him, saying something like, really it matters not once it’s a few degrees below zero in temperature because what’s a few more degrees below that temperature? Immediately I feel bad for making fun of Eden, even if it was only in my head. If there’s a Patron Saint for cousins, I’ll add him or her to the notebook and say a quick prayer later.

  Nick shoots and misses. When I was watching him from the window, I don’t think he missed so much. Maybe his hands are sweaty, too. We go back and forth until I’m on R and he’s on S.

  “You play
like a city girl.”

  “A city girl?”

  He says, “You shoot like you could beat a hundred girls for a spot at a huge school.”

  “Saint Germaine, the Patron Saint of girls from rural areas.” It comes out before I think about it, and now I have pulled an Eden. Who talks about Patron Saints? Maybe a couple of nuns having coffee, but not a boy and girl who just met.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. It’s a Catholic thing.”

  “I’m not Catholic, but of course I know about saints. It’s the patron part. What’s a Patron Saint?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” I say.

  “Patron Saint of girls from rural areas? Is there really such a person?”

  “Patron Saints are saints assigned to causes. They’re specialists. They help you with very specific things. They speak to God on your behalf.”

  “Like how specific?”

  “Very. There’s Saint Friard for those with a fear of wasps and … hmm … I think Saint Julian is the Patron Saint of carnival workers.”

  “Carnival workers could probably use their own saint.” He tosses me the ball, and I hold it under my arm.

  I say, “I personally like Saint Faustina, the Patron Saint of divine mercy because that just sounds cool. Wouldn’t Patron Saint of divine mercy be a great name for a band?”

  “I like it. What about Mary? Is she like a Patron Saint or a senior saint?”

  “Mary the Mother of God?”

  “Yeah, Mary. Joseph’s baby mama.”

  My heart squeezes. “Don’t say that. It’s not right.” I might joke about Patron Saints, but Catholics never joke about Mary. Every single month of the year has at least one official feast to honor her, from Mary the Holy Mother of God in January to the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary in December. Mary is serious business—holy business.

  He runs his hand through his hair and clears his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean … well, you know.”

  I don’t want to look like a complete Bible-thumper or ruin the moment, so I say, “There’s also Saint Drogo, Patron Saint of ugly people.”

  “Drogo?” He grins. “Sounds like Lord of the Rings.”

  “I know, right?”

  Luke runs from the house barefoot and stops at the edge of Uncle Will’s lawn. “Mary, you’re supposed to come inside for breakfast.”

  “In a minute.”

  “Grandma said if you say ‘in a minute’ then I’m supposed to say ‘right now.’”

  I roll my eyes and toss the ball to Nick. “I’ve got to go.”

  As Luke and I walk toward the house, Nick calls out, “You don’t need any help from Drogo in case you were wondering.”

  Drogo, the Patron Saint of ugly people. I don’t need help from him. Is that what he said? I’m pretty sure that’s what he said. I don’t turn around. I act like I haven’t heard him even though his words replay in my head over and over and over.

  Chapter Ten

  There’s going to be a wedding in 45 days

  As soon as I get to the kitchen Sunday morning, I know there’s going to be trouble because Uncle Will is coughing and blowing his nose. He rubs his temples and says, “I’ve got the mother of all headaches. No church for me.”

  My heart pounds. He absolutely has to take Luke to church, otherwise the secret will blow up. Grandma will freak out, and Mom will freak out about Grandma freaking out. It’ll be emotional dominoes.

  I whisper, “Uncle Will, what about Luke?”

  “He can go to church with you.” His eyes widen as he remembers what he’s supposed to do and why. He leans against the counter and shakes his head. “Shoot. I forgot about the … um … situation with Luke. I guess I better go. I don’t want Maggie finding out.”

  Aunt Maggie is a tattletale. When I won the youth group award, she sent me an e-mail to say congratulations. I wrote back something random, like “maybe we’ll have a pizza party,” and within five minutes Grandma called Mom to scold her for not inviting the family to my party. That’s how fast the family phone tree works!

  Uncle Will coughs so hard his face turns purple, and he grabs the refrigerator handle for support.

  “What’s wrong?” Aunt Maggie comes into the kitchen and puts her hand on Uncle Will’s forehead. “I can hear you from the upstairs bathroom. Hmm. I think you have a fever.”

  “I’ll take some aspirin and nap when I get home.”

  “You will not spread germs to an entire congregation. God will understand. Go to bed.”

  “I’m fine. Don’t fuss over me.”

  “Are you crazy? You’ve got no business being around old people and babies. Go to bed. I’ll bring up some aspirin and juice.” She turns to me. “You better hurry, Mary. Grandma likes to get a good seat.”

  I look at Uncle Will with wide eyes. He sighs and pats me on the shoulder. “It is what it is, Mary.” He coughs his way upstairs to his bedroom with Aunt Maggie trailing behind him.

  It is what it is?

  If that’s an example of Irish wisdom, then I’m on Grandma’s side of their battle. I can’t imagine saying those words. Mary, your room is a mess … Well, Dad, it is what it is.

  Luke enters from Grandma’s side of the house. He’s wearing his tan church pants, and his hair is slicked back. “Mary, this is the best Sunday ever! You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s doughnut day at Uncle Will’s church. Too bad for you. I get doughnuts and you don’t.” He immediately looks guilty for his singsong teasing. “It’s okay. I’ll bring one back for you.”

  I try to sound like I’ve got everything under control. “Change in plans, buddy. Uncle Will is sick, so you’re coming to church with us.” I call him buddy only when he’s really down. It sounds like I’m talking to a dog, but he seems to like it.

  He shuffles closer to me. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Let me think about it. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Mom said I have to go with Uncle Will.” His voice turns to a whisper. “I have to because Grandma doesn’t need to know everything right now and it’s not a lie because we are going to tell her but we’re going to tell her later.”

  I can handle being stuck between Mom and Grandma—I’ve got loads of practice—but it’s wrong that Luke’s in the middle of this mess. He’s eight years old. He only sees the surface of problems, not the layers upon layers underneath. I try out Uncle Will’s words because I can’t think of anything else. “It is what it is, Luke.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I shrug, but I’m thinking, It means we’re on our own.

  * * *

  Luke wiggles through the procession and greetings at St. George. He’s waiting for me to figure out what he’s supposed to do. I think about going directly to God, but then I remember John Danner and all the people who really, truly need Him. Why haven’t I looked for a Patron Saint of Communion? This situation calls for an expert. The best I’ve got is Saint Jude Thaddaeus, Patron Saint of lost causes.

  Dear Holy Saint Jude, I wish I’d given you some warning, but I thought the adults had this figured out. I need an idea, and I need it in five minutes.

  I look at Eden, who’s watching Father Owens with her hands folded on her lap. I wonder what she’d do. She’s close to Grandma. Maybe she’d throw her mom under the bus and tell Grandma the truth. Aunt Maggie wouldn’t even get mad at Eden for blowing it, because everyone worries about Eden. Aunt Maggie and Grandma do everything for her—mostly Grandma, since she’s retired—because when Eden’s anxiety gets bad, she gets depressed and sick.

  Father Owens begins the preparation of Communion by praying over it. The congregation stands. In the Catholic church, mass is Sunday morning exercise. Stand, sit, kneel, sit, kneel, stand, sit. I guess it keeps people from falling asleep. But I’m not at risk of falling asleep, I’m thinking of plans. Luke could pretend to be sick and go to the bathroom, except he’s a terrible faker. Grandma won’t buy it, especially since
he’s been acting normal all morning. I could pretend to be sick, get Grandma to follow me to the bathroom, and then Luke could stay in the pew during Communion. But Grandma probably wouldn’t follow me until after Communion. You don’t miss Communion just because a kid’s puking.

  Father Owens leads the congregation with his booming voice. “May the Lord accept the sacrifice at your hands, for the praise and glory of his name, for our good and the good of all the Church.”

  It’s getting close.

  Father Owens holds the wine toward Heaven and prays. “Take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant, which will be poured out for you and for many, so sins will be forgiven.”

  We’re almost out of time. I whisper to Luke, “You’re going to have to take Communion. There’s no way around it.”

  “Can’t I put it in my pocket or something?” Luke’s voice cuts through the prayer.

  Grandma frowns and shushes him. When she’s facing Father again, I nudge Luke and whisper. “Trust me. You cannot put it in your pocket. That’s the worst thing you could do. You have to eat it.”

  His eyes open to me, big and blue and sweet. “The Pope says I’m not supposed to.”

  I’m glad Luke doesn’t know the whole deal about Catholic Communion. The Pope is the least of his problems! In our church, when the priest blesses the wafer and the wine, he’s basically turning it into the Body and Blood of Christ. Not basically. Wrong word. Literally. He’s literally turning the wafer and wine into Christ’s Body and Blood. Some people think it’s symbolic, but it’s not. I pay attention in religion class. It’s called “transubstantiation,” which I can’t even pronounce, and it’s a miraculous thing that happens, even though the wafer and wine still look exactly like the wafer and wine when the priest is done. We’re not supposed to think it’s gross because Jesus wanted it this way.