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Agatha sniffs. “I don't get it.”
I bite the inside of my lips, trying not to smile too broadly.
“He said my name is perfect as it is,” I announce, trying to seem nonchalant about it. But inside me, a million butterflies multiply with excitement. “I suppose that's kind of a compliment to you, Mama. You did a good job naming me.”
But Mama does not seem amused or flattered by this news at all. Her cheeks pink right up. In fact I think I see two capillaries threading through there that look like they might explode.
“Outrageous!” Mary huffs.
“See?” Annie sneers. “I told you so! They're doing it all wrong!”
“You don't have a new name?” Mama repeats in a wavering voice. Her eyes go sort of glassy. What is wrong with her these days?
“I will just be Angel, same as always,” I sigh as I retrieve the salt and pepper from the cabinet. When the roast is prepared, I drop it into the oven. It's at a low temperature, and should braise slowly and come out tender and succulent. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.
“So that's that! We can talk about something else?”
“What did you do? What did you say to him?”
I dare to stare back at Mary. She is obviously furious, but I don't I need to be afraid of her anymore.
“Yeah, didn’t you go to confession yesterday? People saw you going to the confession shack. You know your first confession is supposed to be with one of the aunties. What did you say to him?”
I bite my lips together. “Confessions are private,” I say in a tight voice.
“Well whatever you said, it must've been terrible!” Annie says sagely. “It must've been so bad that Father Daddy didn't want to risk us knowing about it. Is that what it was?”
I feel my cheeks getting hot. “No… that wasn't it at all.”
Mary stops scraping the skin off carrots and points the knife at me. “Then what was it?”
I look around, confused. Why are they so angry? It's just a private exchange between me and Brother Owen and Father Daddy. It's not like I robbed a bank or anything. Are they really that mad about not knowing every little detail about every little thing that goes on in the compound?
“You know what, I think I need to start getting ready for dinner,” I lie, since dinner is actually hours away. “My dress isn’t finished, and if I don't work on it now, I'll only have the shift you gave me to wear!”
The sound of their collective gasp is actually sort of satisfying as I turn on my heel and leave the kitchen. I let the door to my room close rather loudly – not slamming it of course — so that they know I'm not to be disturbed.
Now that I've got some time to myself, I have to admit, those were some pretty good questions. Why did they want me alone? Why couldn’t the aunties be there, like they do for everyone else? To guide me and comfort me? To help me understand?
Father Daddy will be here soon, and I hope I have a chance to ask him. I know that we really connected. It almost felt like he could read my mind. If I just ask him, he'll help me understand.
Or perhaps he'll just announce my marriage and move on. Perhaps that moment we had is all there was ever meant to be.
Instantly I feel tears spring to my eyes. How could I live knowing I would not have that again? To not feel Brother Owen’s silky hair against my fingers again? To not taste Father Daddy's salty seed?
No. That would be a tragedy. It was so perfect, so completely what I needed… It has to happen again. It has to.
But then again, they could have anyone. They don't need some inexperienced novice like me. They have been through this hundreds of times over the years. They’ve probably forgotten about me already.
I sit down at my small table with a needle and thread and my nearly-completed dress. I still have layers of lacy fringe to sew onto the neckline. It's a more grown-up style. Still very modest, but the small adornments will let people know that I'm different now.
I feel my troubles sort of melt away from me as I concentrate on the task, darting the needle through the fabric, pulling the thread taut. I love that small musical twang that it makes as it vibrates. I’m so intensely involved with the work that I almost don't hear the knock on my bedroom door when it happens.
The door knob clicks and I turn around when the door swings open. Father Daddy leans his head into the room and I almost gasp with joy.
“May I come in?”
I stand up with a start, almost losing my sewing supplies on the bare floor.
