'Has he called?'
'Yes. Jaja refused to go to the phone, and I did not go, either.'
'Did you want to?' He asked gently. It was not what I expected him to ask.
'Yes,' I whispered, so Jaja wouldn't hear, although he was not even in the area. I did want to talk to Papa, to hear his voice, to tell him what I had eaten and what I had prayed about so that he would approve, so that he would smile so much his eyes would crinkle at the edges. And yet, I did not want to talk to him; I wanted to leave with Father Amadi, or with Aunty Ifeoma, and never come back.
'School starts in two weeks, and Aunty Ifeoma might be gone then,' I said. 'I don't know what we will do. Jaja does not talk about tomorrow or next week.'
Father Amadi walked over to me, standing so close that I if I puffed out my belly, it would touch his body. He took my hand in his, carefully slid one flower off my finger and slid it onto his.
'Your aunt thinks you and Jaja should go to boarding school. I am going to Enugu next week to talk to Father Benedict; I know your father listens to him. I will ask him to convince your father about boarding school so you and Jaja can start next term. It will be fine, inugo?'
I nodded and looked away. I believed him, that it would be fine, because he said so. I thought then of catechism classes, about chanting the answer to a question, an answer that was 'because he has said it and his word is true.' I could not remember the question.
'Look at me, Kambili.'
I was afraid to look into the warm brownness of his eyes, I was afraid I would swoon, that I would throw my hands around him and lace my fingers together behind his neck and refuse to let go. I turned. 'Is this the flower you can suck? The one with the sweet juices?' he asked. He had slid the allamanda off his finger and was examining its yellow petals.
I smiled. 'No. It's ixora you suck.'
He threw the flower away and made a wry face. 'Oh.'
I laughed. I laughed because the allamanda flowers were so yellow. I laughed imagining how bitter their white juices would taste if Father Amadi had really sucked them. I laughed because Father Amadi's eyes were so brown I could see my reflection in them.
That night when I bathed, with a bucket half full of rainwater, I did not scrub my left hand, the hand that Father Amadi had held gently to slide the flower off my finger.
I did not heat the water, either, because I was afraid that the heating coil would make the rainwater lose the scent of the sky. I sang as I bathed. There were more earthworms in the bathtub, and I left them alone, watching the water carry them and send them down the drain.
The breeze following the rain was so cool that I wore a sweater and Aunty Ifeoma wore a longsleeved shirt, although she usually walked around the house in only a wrapper. We were all sitting on the verandah, talking, when Father Amadi's car nosed its way to the front of the flat.
'You said you would be very busy today, Father,' Obiora said.
'I say these things to justify being fed by the church,' Father Amadi said. He looked tired. He handed Amaka a piece of paper and told her he had written some suitably boring names on it, that she had only to choose one and he would leave. After the bishop used it in confirming her, she need never even mention the name again. Father Amadi rolled his eyes, speaking with a painstaking slowness, and although Amaka laughed, she did not take the paper.
'I told you I am not taking an English name, Father,' she said.
'And have I asked you why?'
'Why do I have to?'
'Because it is the way it's done. Let's forget if it's right or wrong for now,' Father Amadi said, and I noticed the shadows under his eyes. 'When the missionaries first came, they didn't think Igbo names were good enough. They insisted that people take English names to be baptized. Shouldn't we be moving ahead?'
'It's different now, Amaka, don't make this what it's not,' Father Amadi said, calmly. 'Nobody has to use the name. Look at me. I've always used my Igbo name, but I was baptized Michael and confirmed Victor.'
Aunty Ifeoma looked up from the forms she was going through. 'Amaka, ngwa, pick a name and let Father Amadi go and do his work.'
'But what's the point, then?' Amaka said to Father Amadi, as if she had not heard her mother. 'What the church is saying is that only an English name will make your confirmation valid. 'Chiamaka' says God is beautiful. 'Chima' says God knows best, 'Chiebuka' says God is the greatest. Don't they all glorify God as much as 'Paul' and 'Peter' and 'Simon'?'
Aunty Ifeoma was getting annoyed; I knew by her raised voice, by her snappy tone. 'O gini! You don't have to prove a senseless point here! Just do it and get confirmed, nobody says you have to use the name!'
But Amaka refused. 'Ekwerom,' she said to Aunty Ifeoma-I do not agree. Then she walked into her room and turned her music on very loud until Aunty Ifeoma knocked on the door and shouted that Amaka was asking for a slap if she did not turn it down right away. Amaka turned the music down. Father Amadi left, with a bemused sort of smile on his face. That evening, tempers cooled and we had dinner together, but there was not much laughter. And the next day, Easter Sunday, Amaka did not join the rest of the young people who wore all white and carried lit candles, with folded newspapers to trap the melting wax. They all had pieces of paper pinned to their clothes, with names written on them. Paul. Mary. James. Veronica. Some of the girls looked like brides, and I remembered my own confirmation, how Papa had said I was a bride, Christ's bride, and I had been surprised because I thought the Church was Christ's bride.
Aunty Ifeoma wanted to go on pilgrimage to Aokpe. She was not sure why she suddenly wanted to go, she told us, probably the thought that she might be gone for a long time. Amaka and I said we would go with her. But Jaja said he would not go, then was stonily silent as if he dared anyone to ask him why. Obiora said he would stay back, too, with Chima. Aunty Ifeoma did not seem to mind. She smiled and said that since we didn't have a male, she would ask Father Amadi if he wanted to accompany us. 'I will turn into a bat if Father Amadi says yes,' Amaka said. But he did say yes. When Aunty Ifeoma hung up the phone after talking to him and said he would be coming with us, Amaka said, 'It's because of Kambili. He would never have come if not for Kambili.'
Aunty Ifeoma drove us to the dusty village about two hours away. I sat in the back with Father Amadi, separated from him by the space in the middle. He and Amaka sang as we drove; the undulating road made the car sway from side to side, and I imagined that it was dancing. Sometimes I joined in the singing, and other times I remained quiet and listened, wondering what it would feel like if I moved closer, if I covered the space between us and rested my head on his shoulder. When we finally turned into the dirt road with the hand painted sign that read welcome to aokpe apparition ground, all I saw at first was chaos. Hundreds of cars, many bearing scrawled signs that read catholics on pilgrimage, jostled to fit into a tiny village that Aunty Ifeoma said had not known as many as ten cars until a local girl started to see the vision of the Beautiful Woman. People were packed so close that the smell of other people became as familiar as their own. Women crashed to their knees. Men shouted prayers. Rosaries rustled. People pointed and shouted, 'See, there, on the tree, that's Our Lady!' Others pointed at the glowing sun. 'There she is!' We stood underneath a huge flame-of-the-forest tree. It was in bloom, its flowers fanning out on wide branches and the ground underneath covered with petals the color of fire. When the young girl was led out, the flame-of-the-forest swayed and flowers rained down. The girl was slight and solemn, dressed in white, and strong-looking men stood around her so she would not be trampled. She had hardly passed us when other trees nearby started to quiver with a frightening vigor, as if someone were shaking them. The ribbons that cordoned off the apparition area shook, too. Yet there was no wind. The sun turned white, the color and shape of the host. And then I saw her, the Blessed Virgin: an image in the pale sun, a red glow on the back of my hand, a smile on the face of the rosary-bedecked man whose arm rubbed against mine. She was everywhere. I wanted to stay longer, but Aunty Ifeoma said we had to leave, because it would be impossible to drive out if we waited until most people were leaving. She bought rosaries and scapulars and little vials of holy water from the vendors as we walked to the car. 'It doesn't matter if Our Lady appeared or not,' Amaka said, when we got to the car. 'Aokpe will always be special because it was the reason Kambili and Jaja first came to Nsukka.'
'Does that mean you don't believe in the apparition?' Father Amadi asked, a teasing lilt in his voice.
'No, I didn't say that,' Amaka said.
'What about you? Do you believe it?' Father Amadi said nothing; he seemed to be focused on rolling the window down to get a buzzing fly out of the car. 'I felt the Blessed Virgin there. I felt her,' I blurted out. How could
