Saint of the Day

Saint Gertrude of Nivelles (628-659) 

Feast Day April 17 

At age ten, Gertrude received a marriage proposal from a duke, but stamped her foot, cursed him with a terrifying oath, and declared she would have no spouse but the Lord. To protect her from violent abductors who sought to destroy Gertrude’s innocence, her father shaved her head, leaving only a ring of hair like a crown. While acknowledged by all who saw her to be an exquisite feminine beauty, Gertrude retained the body of a very young maiden, with no marks of fully developed womanhood, for the duration of her life.

Mom brought me a box of pads today but I told her I didn’t need them. She said to keep them for when the time comes and that it could be soon. She was my age when she got her period. That doesn’t apply to me, though. I’ve prayed about it and I think God knows I’m clean and pure. She asked if I wanted a pool party for my birthday, like Bebe had. The pool will be open by then. I told Mom I don’t. Bebe and I aren’t friends anymore. Beatrice Barlow. Beatrice means “blessed” while my name means “lame or broken.” Beatrice isn’t pure or clean. You can tell from her body, which has too much messy movement. It sways and rocks and bounces. Mine stands still. Her name sounds like boobs, even looks like boobs. I pray to St. Agatha, who I learned about on my Saint of the Day app. She’s the patron saint of breasts. Hers were cut off when she refused to deny her faith. She made a virginity vow just like today’s saint, but unlike Gertrude of Nivelles, Agatha was raped anyway. I ask Saint Agatha to please make God keep my body the way it is: straight and smooth and tight. Maybe Dad will be back by my birthday. When I asked Mom she just sighed and said, “Oh Claudia, who knows.”

Saint Catherine of Siena (1347-1380)

Feast Day April 30

As a child, Catherine’s habit of giving away clothing and food without asking permission cost her family dearly. She requested nothing for herself and refused any material possession they offered her. She rejected with particular vehemence her mother’s food, often reminding her family of the sumptuous table laid for her in heaven with her real family.

Dinner tasted like cigarettes tonight. Mom smokes now, even when she’s cooking, and blows the smoke into the exhaust hood over the stove. I told her only poor people and teenagers smoke. She said that was a shitty thing to say on several levels. She never used to swear. She didn’t sound mad, more just tired. She asked again if she should book the pool party. I told her no, I only wanted a party at home with Dad. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and I thought she was going to say I shouldn’t get my hopes up. Instead, she pulled the rosary I ordered off Amazon out of her pocket.

“Does this have anything to do with that app you’re always staring at?” she asked. I knew she meant Saint of the Day.

“We’re not Catholic, Claudia.” 

“Dad’s Catholic.”

“Your father was raised Catholic. He’s lapsed.”

The word lapse made me think of relapse, but I pushed that thought down deep.

She said, “I don’t see what you get out of this stuff. It’s nonsense meant to scare people into obedience. Especially women.”

The saints were the opposite of obedient. I didn’t say that, though. I just sat there. Mom doesn’t like to argue and she’s always busy, so it’s easy to wait her out.

“Fine,” she said. “If you don’t want to eat, don’t eat.” She tossed my rosary on the table, dumped her plate in the sink all loud and clattery, and went back to work on a client’s project. She designs websites so people can sell more stuff or make themselves look important. It’s shallow, not like my dad’s job. Being a doctor is stressful so it’s not surprising he needed to take time off. He was sleepy all the time before he left. Before that, he used to do the Sunday crossword puzzle with me and tell me about life in the late 1900s when he was young, like how he was allowed to ride his bike to the pond miles away and the time he met Michael Stipe in a diner in college. He’ll still be a doctor when he gets back. The place where he is now helps doctors keep their licenses. Mom is going to need to clean up her act when he comes home—the smoking and swearing and dirty laundry everywhere and clumps of Milky’s fur drifting around the house. Her bras are always lying around and once I even saw her birth control pills by the sink in her bathroom. Dad’s the clean one. I’m more like him. I keep my room immaculate. If there’s even one thing on the floor I can’t fall asleep and then I start thinking about how Dad acted before he left, or about Bebe, Gus, and Declan and what happened in the pool.

Saint Rita of Cascia (1381-1457)

Feast Day May 22

After hearing a sermon about the Passion of Jesus, Rita fell prostrate at the foot of a crucifix and prayed for her own crown of thorns so she might experience such suffering for the love of Christ. As she prayed, she felt a thorn penetrate the flesh and bone in the center of her forehead. The wound did not heal and with the pain came the formation of little worms writhing inside it. Upon her death, a white light emanated from the wound while the worms were transformed into sparks as bright as diamonds. The wound can still be seen on her forehead, since her body remains incorrupt to this day as a sign of her purity.

Bebe told everyone my father’s in rehab. I don’t know how she knew. I deleted myself from the group chat so I wouldn’t have to see what anyone said. Anyway, it’s not like taking painkillers makes you a real drug addict. They’re legal medicine. Dad used to keep pills in different places around the house and always in his jeans pocket, on the right side. I could see the outline of the bottle. Nothing else is that same brownish orange color, like a drop of amber, so I could spot the medicine bottles easily in drawers and behind the picture frames on his desk. I wanted to throw them away but I didn’t know if you’re allowed to put medicine in the garbage. You’re not supposed to put it down the drain because it goes into the water supply. I hid the bottles in my closet. After I’d been hiding the pills for a while I thought it had worked and that Dad wasn’t taking them anymore, but when Mom asked me to take out the recycling, I found a bunch of empty bottles in the bin, shoved way down in the corner. I would never take painkillers. I don’t even take Junior Advil when I have a headache. A lot of saints thought physical suffering was a kind of cleansing or purification. Pain brought them closer to God. 

The pool opens this weekend but it’s still kind of cold so I bet no one’s even going to go.

Saint Amelberga of Temse (741-772)

Feast Day June 10

Pursued by enemies of the Church, the young Amelberga crossed the River Scheldt on the back of a sturgeon. She was almost raped and carried off by the Emperor Charlemagne, who wished to marry her. When he tried to disrobe her by force, his arm was miraculously paralyzed as if turned to stone. Afterward his arm healed but he became ill with remorse and begged Amelberga to forgive him and pray for his recovery, which she did.

It started yesterday. At first I didn’t even know what it was. I expected it to be bright red, like a nosebleed, but it was brownish and sludgy. I guess I didn’t pray enough or maybe I didn’t pray to the right saint. I hate dealing with that whole area and while I was sticking the pad to my underwear, I thought about Declan’s finger. It was crowded in the pool that day and there was too much noise and light even in our corner by the diving board. I couldn’t hear what Bebe whispered to the boys. Declan shook his head no, but Bebe pushed him toward me and before I could cross my legs or block his hand, he jammed his finger up inside my swimsuit. Then it was like everything slowed down around me, even the air. I could feel where his nail was jagged. Declan clenched his face up all tense like when you’re playing that blindfold game where you have to feel around in a bowl of something slimy that’s supposedly intestines but really it’s spaghetti. Gus was smiling a loose, droop-mouthed smile. The worst part is that I smiled back. I don’t know why. A sick feeling seeps through me when I think about it. The smile, more than the finger, makes me feel dirty. I wish Declan’s arm had frozen like Charlemagne’s, but I don’t know if I totally believe Amelberga’s story. No one could actually ride a sturgeon. Dad was late picking me up at the pool that day and when he got there his eyes were all big and dreamy and he kept talking about the seagulls in the parking lot.

He said, “They’re nowhere near the ocean but they’ve accepted it. The cement beach. The concrete sea. Do you understand how sad that is, Claudia?”

I did understand, but I didn’t want to feel bad about the seagulls right then.

Saint Marina the Monk (715-750)

Feast Day: June 18

The beloved child of devout Christians, Marina was brought up by her father after her mother died of a mysterious plague. Her father hired a nurse to care for Marina but she insisted upon following him everywhere and swore never to be parted from him. When Marina reached a suitable age, her father told her of his plan to give her in marriage to a wealthy merchant and renounce the world at a monastery in the Holy Valley of Lebanon. She implored, “Father, why do you save your own soul and destroy mine?” Moved by her piety, Marina’s father agreed to bring her with him. He cut her hair and dressed her as a boy. Marina and her father shared a monastic cell where they engaged together in prayer, contemplation, fasting, and worship. The other monks were astonished by the pair’s deep closeness and spiritual fervor.

Dad Facetimed me this morning. His face looked rounder and he had a beard. It was a little cringey when he sang me Happy Birthday, but I liked it. I didn’t know what to say next. I considered telling him what I’d been learning about the saints. I wanted his take on the miracles and the suffering, but the call kept lagging and going all stuttery, so instead I asked him if he’s been doing the crossword. He said sometimes.

“Mostly I’ve just been working hard on getting well,” he said. “Getting clean.” 

That word jumped out at me. It sounded like something a real drug addict would say. We kept talking but I couldn’t focus. I had the slowed-down feeling again. I was thinking about how I used to pretend his car was a submarine when he drove me to school and I’d wish that he would keep going forever, just him and me in this metal pod that no one else could enter. Over my shoulder Mom was saying something, and I was blocking her out too, but finally the words sank in.

She was saying, “He has to go now. You need to let him go.”