The Possibilities of Sainthood

by Donna Freitas

  “I’m pretty sure he’s not into Hilary because he spent most of yesterday before practice telling me about why Bishop Francis was going to win the season opener against LaSalle Prep.”

  “Hey, Lila, do you have a hair tie I could borrow?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, digging into her purse and handing me a bright red band. “I really hope Hilary isn’t into him, though, because that would be really uncool for us to like the same guy.”

  “You should just ask her,” I said, doing my best to gather all my hair into a tight ponytail to prevent it from falling across my eyes.

  “I’m worried she might actually say she does like him,” Lila said, plopping down next to me. “And why are we way up here again?”

  “You and I are here and not Maria because Maria has been here a gazillion times with me and she’d rather e-mail her boyfriend in the first-floor computer lab,” I said, pulling the book I’d been searching for off the shelf, and releasing another cloud of dust into the air. My hands were gray with the filth of neglect. “And I wanted to find this.” I held up the book so Lila could see the cover.

  “Hildegard of Bingen, the Scivias,” she read, mangling the pronunciation of Scivias as if it were “skeevi-as,” as in skeevy old man.

  “No, Scivias like ‘civitas’ but drop the t,” I corrected her, feeling geeky for doing so. But then, spending all your free periods researching the saints was pretty geeky. It was important for me to know the history of the people whose ranks I was hoping to join—a crucial part of being a saint-in-training, since it wasn’t like I could apply for saint school or anything. And anyhow, I loved their stories.

  “Okay, so who is Hildegard and why do you care? Is this for a research paper or something?”

  I wiped the remaining dust off the book with a tissue, and read out loud from the introduction. “ ‘Hildegard of Bingen was a visionary who acted as adviser to bishops, kings, and popes on matters of war, church laws, spiritual affairs, among other important issues, which is unusual for a woman of the twelfth century. The most powerful men of the day sought her counsel—including Frederick Barbarossa, the Holy Roman Emperor—believing that Hildegard had a special connection with God.’ ” Lila’s eyes were beginning to glaze over but I plunged ahead anyway. “Hildegard was this amazing, bold woman, Lila, who didn’t take no for an answer—not even from the Pope.”

  “That’s cool,” Lila said, distracted, taking out a mirror from her purse to apply lip gloss. “It’s really a shame you’re always putting your hair up, Antonia, because, seriously, you have the best hair out of anyone at HA. If I had your hair, I’d always wear it down.”

  Okay, so I couldn’t expect everyone to be as enthralled with the saints as me.

  But how could someone not see that Hildegard of Bingen was utterly exceptional? In addition to being a visionary (which means, well, Hildegard saw things, you know, visions of the Virgin Mary and Jesus and hell and some other really interesting stuff, which today may be grounds for being put in a mental institution but was normal for saints back in the day), Hildegard was a composer, an artist, a playwright, and a physician. Most remarkable, though, is the fact that Hildegard became famous throughout Europe in her own time. Meaning, before she died. Hildegard was practically a living saint—at least as close to one as I’ve ever encountered in my research. I took this as a sign of hope for my own aspirations—the bit about being alive to enjoy one’s saintly status.

  The only downer about Hildegard was her commitment to perpetual virginity. Hildegard was, you know, a nun. She was really devoted to this particular vow, too.

  But, except for the visions, composing, artistic talent, and knowledge of all things herbal—areas in which I have no ability—we were practically twins! We both wrote letters to popes. We both gave them suggestions. And we both did this before death! I was obviously part of a Catholic girl feminist trend that stretched back for centuries.

  There was the fact that we were both celibate to also consider—at least for the time being—but I pushed that thought from my mind as best as I could.

  “Can we go back downstairs now?” Lila said, sneezing. “It’s kind of creepy up here and my nose is starting to run.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got work to do before the bell rings anyway.” We got up, brushing off our skirts, and began our spiral descent to the first floor, where we found Maria typing away at a computer in the corner.

  “Did you get what you needed?” she asked when I sat down at the carrel next to hers.

  “Yup,” I said, dropping the heavy book so it made a loud thud on the desk.

  “Did Lila have fun?”

  “I’m not sure fun is the right word . . . it’s more like she had allergies,” I said, just as Lila let out another loud sneeze at a table nearby. Maybe I should propose a Patron Saint of Allergies next month.

  “I tried to warn her,” Maria said, shaking her head, and went back to her e-mailing.

  Thinking about Hildegard made me wonder how I could beef up my saint résumé beyond my encyclopedic knowledge of all things saint-related and my history of letter writing to people in high church places. As an aspiring fifteen-year-old saint, what else should I be doing? How does a saint-to-be make her mark today? There was no way I was entering the convent, but if I was truly called to sainthood, then maybe I needed to be doing more saintly things on my way to great public renown.

  I took out my Saint Diary and turned to the “Notes” section. After some thought, I began to write:

  What Could Antonia Do? (WCAD?)

  1. Stop giving my mother agita about my uniform (at least while I am still in the house) because even though some saints drove their mothers nuts during their lives (poor Monica, St. Augustine’s mother, she just about didn’t live through all her son’s transgressions), I bet most of them had less, let’s just say, difficult relationships with the women who bore them.

  2. Instead of hoarding all chocolate to myself and hiding it in my room and not offering it to others, even a piece, ever, because I regard all chocolate that comes into my possession as mine and not for the enjoyment of anyone else, I will be less selfish with my favorite sweet and give it away—most of it. Oooh! Perhaps especially to Andy since giving away chocolate might (a) give me a reason to speak to him and (b) make him notice me and think I was different from other girls, because, I mean, what teenage girl gives away chocolate of her own volition? Totally worth the sacrifice if it works.

  3. Do more petitioning strictly on behalf of others and not just for myself because a good saint is always thinking of others, and some of them, like Julian of Norwich and Catherine of Siena, basically spent their whole lives in seclusion for the sole purpose of praying for other people. And, again, since I am not ever, in my right mind, entering a convent, perhaps doing a little more other-centered petitioning would be a saintlike thing I could do.

  4. Wear a bra.

  I admit, wearing a bra might not be the most obvious-sounding step toward sainthood, but here is the deal. Centuries ago—and still today among certain groups of the Catholic devout—saintly people believed that if they made their bodies as uncomfortable as possible to the point where they more or less tortured themselves, it would bring them closer to God. There were many preferred bodily discomforts to choose from, including—but not limited to—wearing a hair shirt (which is a tunic with scratchy, prickly things on the inside that hurt your skin), a cilice belt (which one might imagine as a spiky thigh garter that cuts into your leg when you walk—weirdly kinky and totally gross), self-flagellation (whipping yourself, and no, I am not kidding, people used to do this all the time), and, for the less masochistic, sleeping on a wooden board at night.

  In my humble opinion, wearing a bra every day totally fit the virtual self-torture category given that (a) I absolutely didn’t need one since I was a good deal flatter than the boards some of those people probably slept on and (b) was it just me, or did wearing a bra feel like you were strapped into some sort of a harness? Despite m
y mother’s advice that girls my age should not go without one, I was pretty much antibra—not in a bra-burning way but more in a why-should-I-wear-something-totally-unnecessary-given-my-lack-of-boobs way. This made wearing a bra in the name of becoming more saintly a perfect idea because it was both uncomfortable and frugal since I already had a drawer full of them ready and waiting at home.

  I would start wearing a bra tomorrow.

  I felt more saintly already.

  We still had twenty minutes before the end-of-school bell, so I decided to do some virtual-Vatican-fig-tree-follow-up before I actually had to deal with the real fig trees tomorrow. I logged onto my e-mail account and began typing.

  To: askthevatican@vatican.va

  From: Antonia Lucia Labella [STMP: saint2b@live.com]

  Subject: Patron Saint of Figs request

  Sent: November 18, 2:43 p.m.

  Attachment: antoniaschoolpic.jpg

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

  This is just a follow-up to my letter from earlier this month about the dire need among Catholics worldwide for a Patron Saint of Figs. This saint would be important not only for fig-eaters (fig-eaters are a devoted sort of people which is already a good sign for needing a saint, i.e., people who eat figs really love them) but also for fig tree caretakers everywhere. I am about to spend an entire 48 hours of my life winterizing the fig trees in the backyard of our family store (I may have said something about that in my letter) and having a saint specialty for figs would be really helpful in getting through this process. Since there is already a Patron Saint for RUNNING WATER, I don’t think it’s too much to ask to add someone who specializes in figs to the list.

  Again, I am available for the job if you need someone. I’m attaching my latest school picture so you can update my file.

  Thanks for your time!

  Blessings,

  Antonia Lucia Labella

  Labella’s Market of Federal Hill

  33 Atwells Avenue

  Providence, RI USA

  saint2b@live.com

  P.S. You should know that I am kind of a minor miracle magnet lately. By minor I mean, you know, little stuff like avoiding familial conflict by praying for my cousin to stay away from work and then finding out my prayer was answered and she was home sick with the flu, thus saving my mother hours of grief.

  Wait. Maybe Francesca’s coming down with the flu and staying home from the market was not the most becoming of miracles to which I could attach myself in an effort to win over the Vatican and change saint history. I backspaced. Little stuff like what?

  little stuff like the love of my life actually showing up during my shift at work

  No. Revealing my adolescent sexual interests to the Vatican was probably not the best idea either.

  little stuff like my playing like a virtual varsity soccer star in gym the other day.

  No. That was insignificant to the point of too negligible to mention. There really was a pretty long list of minor miraculous events this week though—even Billy Bruno’s same-day elbow healing, which was far more appropriate to mention than Francesca’s flu symptoms and my newfound soccer abilities. I decided to go for broke:

  P.S. You should know that I am kind of a minor miracle magnet lately. By minor I mean, you know, little things like my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Bevalaqua, who has had serious arthritis and all sorts of leg problems that were so bad she was in a wheelchair for twenty years, and, just like that, a few petitions to St. Sebastian and the woman is walking again! Totally extraordinary. Not that I really think I had a hand in this wondrous occurrence, it’s just that I thought you should know in case you were interested. Hope to see you soon and look forward to hearing what you think of the new picture!

  Just as I clicked Send, the bell rang. Maria, Lila, and I jumped up, grabbing our things. Lila waved goodbye and went running off to meet Hilary and Angela and their Bishop Francis hockey boys, and Maria waited while I checked out my Hildegard book so we could enjoy my one free afternoon of the week.

  “This is due back December first,” Mrs. Gaines, the school librarian, said as she scanned my book into the computer.

  December first, I thought. That was soon. Would I be proposing a new saint that day or finally basking in the glow of beatification? Had I gone overboard adding that “minor miracle magnet” bit in the e-mail? No, I decided. There couldn’t be enough miracle talk for an aspiring saint. Miracles were just a part of my everyday existence, so of course it was important—imperative even—to mention them to The Vatican People. I had to put my best foot forward, right? I had nothing to lose after all.

  Well, except my life. But what was a little death when the community of saints awaited?

  10

  MARIA AND I GOSSIP AT THE ICE RINK, AND SHE HANDS MY INNOCENCE TO MICHAEL IN EXCHANGE FOR SOME ALONE-TIME WITH JOHN

  “Lila overheard you say what in Sister Mary Margaret’s class?”

  “My passionate petition to St. Jude that I, Antonia Lucia Labella, was desperate to kiss Andy Rotellini, come hell, high water, and even death,” I said. “Well, I didn’t really say anything about hell, high water, or death to Jude, but you get the picture.”

  “And then Veronica made a scene?”

  “Yup.”

  Maria and I were skating in slow circles around her family’s ice rink during the free skate she worked two days a week after school. We were still wearing our uniform plaid. Maria’s pretty dark hair flowed behind her as we moved, making me wish mine was straight, too. It was so cold in the arena I could see my breath. I puffed into my red-mittened hands, feeling the warmth against my face. Little kids wobbled along the ice with their parents nearby, and middle school aspiring hockey players—both girls and boys—sped past Maria and me as if we were standing still.

  “Seriously. What is Veronica’s problem with you? With everybody, for that matter?”

  “Well, you already know the family history,” I said. “And then Veronica doesn’t know how to have more than one friend at a time, so when you showed up, three became a crowd.”

  “Antonia,” I heard a little-girl voice calling suddenly. I turned and saw Bennie (short for Bennedicta), Maria’s baby sister, skating up. She wrapped her arms around my legs, almost knocking me over. “Antonia,” she yelled again.

  When I’d recovered my balance, I bent down to give her a hug. She squeezed me as hard as a five-year-old’s arms could manage. “What did you do in kindergarten today?”

  “Well, I painted this picture of my family and it had Mom and Dad and Maria and James and Adriana and Pia and . . .”

  “Hey, squirt, that’s enough,” Maria said, interrupting Bennie, which allowed Bennie to finally take in a much-needed breath. Unlike me, Maria came from a huge family—she was the oldest.

  “But—”

  “Remember what Mom said about interrupting people? Antonia and I were having a conversation.”

  “I was just saying hi,” she said, starting to pout. “To Antonia, not you,” she spat with such force that she went sprawling forward onto the ice.

  “Oh, Bennie,” Maria sighed, skating over to help her up.

  “Go away,” Bennie said, her face scrunched up, obviously trying not to cry. “I want Antonia,” she whined.

  “Hey, fine, whatever you want, kiddo.” Maria backed away, her hands in the air. To me she said with a nod, “Go ahead, St. Antonia, my baby sister needs you.”

  “I’m not a baby.” Bennie’s eyes welled with tears.

  “Let me see, Bennie,” I said, and Bennie held up both of her hands. They were scraped raw from skidding against the ice. “I think you need to go see your dad at the first-aid station, but,” I said, taking both hands gently, “I think you need a couple of kisses to start the healing process, right, Maria?”

  “Whatever you say, St. Antonia,” she agreed.

  “Okay,” Bennie said, watching as I lightly kissed each palm. “They already feel better now.” She smiled and skated off in
a flash, her pink corduroyed legs moving like lightning toward the exit door, her scrapes quickly forgotten.

  “Before that little interruption,” Maria said as we began moving again, “I was about to tell you not to blame me for Veronica’s problems.”

  “I wasn’t blaming you, I was just implying that Veronica was a jealous girl . . .”

  “Whatever,” she said. “New topic: So you basically told Lila how you feel about Andy Rotellini?”

  “Yup. And she was totally cool about it. I don’t know why I worry so much about other people knowing who I like or . . .” I stopped, midsentence.

  “The fact that you secretly aspire to be the first living saint in Catholic history?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It is a little unusual!”

  “Don’t tell me you aren’t looking forward to the day when you become Maria Romano, best friend in the whole world to Antonia, Patron Saint of Something or Other.”

  “Calm down,” Maria said, zipping up her “Romano Arena” jacket and adjusting her blue scarf so it was tight around her neck. Maria’s skirt was hiked so short you could tell she was not even wearing boxers underneath. Her legs were red from the cold. “You can be confident that I will always be supportive of all your clandestine endeavors.”

  “Not always. But almost always,” I called out as Maria skated off to deal with two little boys who looked like they were about to come to blows.