"Hmm."
"Do you find yourself closer to G.o.d when things aren"t going as well?" Father Emilio asked carefully.
"Hmm," Larissa replied in a ponder. "Not particularly. I feel angrier, I think. When life"s in the c.r.a.pper, I feel like I can"t believe this has happened to me. Like it"s proof of the random, unfair nature of it all."
Father Emilio stared somberly ahead, his head shaking slightly.
"I really don"t think G.o.d has any time for me, Father," said Larissa.
"Never, or not now?"
"Not now especially. But I guess what I"m trying to say is, never."
"You think He has no time for you," asked Father Emilio. "Orado you perhaps have no time for Him?"
She smiled restlessly. "You"re right. It"s probably mutual."
Father Emilio shook his head. "No," he said. "It isn"t."
Larissa waved her hand. "Ah. He"s got no sympathy for the likes of me. Not when compared to Benji and Bayani." Bayani caught hemorrhagic fever and had to be quarantined. Benji was the malformed infant playing baby Jesus, missing, among other things, the part of his jaw that allowed him to drink from a bottle. Milk had to be dripped into the open cavity that was his mouth.
"You"re right, Benji and Bayani receive extra grace from our Lord. But let me ask you, have you read the Bible much? At night after evening prayer, do you open it?"
Larissa didn"t want to admit to him that she didn"t, that instead she feverishly wrote and wrote and wrote her own testament to the rover on the Ducati, the wrangler of horses, the builder of barns, the taker of hearts.
"I didn"t think so," said Father Emilio. "Because if you did, you would notice something very striking in all the stories of the Bible, Larissa, in the Old Covenant and certainly in the Book of Books, and that is: there is no one, no matter how small, how seemingly insignificant, how sinful, who is not fixed and fortified with everlasting and personal compa.s.sion from G.o.d. Not the woman at the well, not the blind leper, not the tax collector or the Pharisee, not Nicodemus or Job, or Joshua or Jonah, or the girl who died. No one is cast away from G.o.d"s grace. No one. If you read it, that"s what should jump out at you. How full of intimate profound mercy G.o.d is to all souls. So yes to Benji and Bayani, but also to Nalini, and to you too, Larissa. Whatever joy or sorrow touches you, it touches G.o.d, too."
They made circles through the grounds, walking slowly. Larissa didn"t want the rains to come. She liked talking to this man. She held on to Nalini"s hand.
"In a regular day filled with small moments of outward insignificance," she told him as if reciting from her own new covenant, "one nothing led to another, and suddenly he was in my car, and suddenly he was in my heart."
"And nothing became everything."
"Yes. But he loved me, Father! And I loved him. I know I once loved my husbanda""
"Just your husband?"
"Noa"you"re right." Letting go of Nalini"s hand, Larissa wrapped her arms around her sinking stomach. "But suddenly my whole self belonged to another person."
"No, Larissa," Father Emilio said. "Then, as now, your whole self belonged only to you."
She didn"t know what he meant. But he was a priest. He didn"t know what it was like to love. She didn"t want to say this out loud. In the beginning, Kai and I had breathtaking fire, she wanted to say to him. We were all ablaze, and I was eighteen with him, an eighteen I"d never been. He was a joy above all joys.
"The question is," said Father Emilio, "what remains after that inauspicious beginning? What"s left?"
Was he being ironic with her? Inauspicious? Ominous? Foreboding? Sometimes she couldn"t tell. "Love is left," said Larissa. "That love you keep talking about. That"s how I know it was real."
"Does he still love you?"
"I hope so." Larissa bent downcast, undeniably upset and disordered by the absence of letters, by her inability to speak to Kai by phone. "We"re fully committed to one another," she said. "We have one life."
"Have you noticed how often people make promises they can"t keep? Look," said Father Emilio, "can I ask you a hypothetical question? If you had known then that you would never see your children againa"never!a"would you still have done it?"
Larissa didn"t look at him. She didn"t even nod or shrug. It had started to rain, blessedly, and they went inside.
What if the answer was yes?
In this manner Larissa moved toward another winter, counting out the days until October 20, toward another falling of the leaves, other daffodils in other deserted towns on other continents. Or was it toward summer, the greening of the trees, the blooming of the flowers, the glow that sprung from renewal?
She dreamed she lost them and she kept opening and closing her cupboards, opening and closing her drawers, walking into people"s houses, then walking out, looking in cars, in bars, in woods and bushes. She just kept wandering, her hands opening, closing things. What are you looking for, Father Emilio once asked. My children, she replied. I seem to have misplaced them. I put them somewhere and can"t remember where.
5.
Jared Stark
"What is she doing?" Larissa asked Father Emilio one afternoon.
"Why is she always sitting apart? Here, or outside on the steps. Why doesn"t she go play with other kids?"
"She does. She plays all the time."
"She always comes back here."
"Yes. During her moments of solitude, she does. She is waiting."
"Solitude? She is five. Waiting for what?"
"We all need to sit and think in the silence. The child sits and waits for her mother to come back."
"Oh my G.o.d!" Larissa stared at Nalini on the bench playing with sticks. "Is that what she"s doing?"
"Of course. What did you think she was doing?"
The rains didn"t come every day now. It was still warm and humid but without the torrents.
"I don"t know. Just sitting?" Lowering her voice to almost a whisper, Larissa said, "Do you think it"s feasible? I mean, you don"t think it would be better for Nalini to know the truth?"
"I tried telling her the truth." Father Emilio smiled ruefully. "But Nalini sees it differently. She tells me her mother often comes to her in dreams, and vows to return to her as soon as she is able."
"Oh, Father," Larissa said, "why do you let her believe this nonsense? I don"t think it"s kind. You should disabuse her of the notion."
"Why would I? I don"t know for sure Che won"t come back. She might."
"Come on now. If she"s not back alreadya"
"She could be in prison."
"She would"ve written," said Larissa. "Che was the best letter writer." Unlike the horse rider from Pooncarie. "And you know how she felt about having a child. If she were in prison, or alive, she would"ve written her daughter."
"You"d think that, wouldn"t you?"
"So you agree with me, Father. Talk to her. Honestly, it"s not good for her to do this. It"s not healthy."
"Well," Father Emilio drew out, "you may be right."
"You know I"m right."
"Except for one example that makes me want to give the benefit of the doubt to Nalini." He tapped Larissa"s arm. "You."
"Me? What do I have to do with Nalini?"
"You"re not dead," said Father Emilio. "You"re not even in prison. And yet you have not written to your children."
There was that sensation again, of precipitous calamitous falling, the stomach dropping out. "That"s different. I"m different. I don"t know what to say to themayou"re comparing two totally separate situations, there"s no comparison, two totallyaI don"t even knowa""
"I agree with you," he interrupted her stammerings. "I would prefer if Nalini had someone to take care of her. But I can"t get an adoption placement for her without the mother"s death certificate, which I don"t have. She certainly does need someone, though." They both gazed at the little girl. "She is such a vulnerable child. Then, of course," he added, "are all children."
"I still don"t understand where Che could"ve gotten the money for bail from," said Larissa. "She was always penniless and frantic. I mean, it"s inconceivable that Lorenzo could"ve made bail. Did he sell his kidney or something?"
Father Emilio said nothing, but his gaze lifted from Nalini across the yard to Larissa next to him. "Do you really want to know how Lorenzo made bail?"
"Of course. Why wouldn"t I?"
He stood up. "Come with me. Nalini, we"ll be right back," he called out to the girl. "Stay where you are."
"Okay, Papa." She got up from her bench and followed them inside.
He sighed. "Sit outside, okay? I have to talk to Larissa in private."
"Okay, Papa." She slid down onto the floor, the two sticks in her hands prancing, all saddled up, as if in dressage.
In the rectory, with the door closed, Father Emilio turned to Larissa. "Your husband was the one who sent Che the money for Lorenzo"s bail."
"What?"
"Yes. He sent the money, care of this church, for Lorenzo"s bail."
"That"s impossible!" Her hand flew up to steady her thumping heart. "He didn"t know anythinga"he knew nothing about Che"sa"when did he do this?"
"Five years ago."
A stunned Larissa collapsed against the chair. She found this inconceivable and wrong, the connection between that world and this one, like a seance gone awry. She thought she was a ghost, and suddenly Jared"s material presence made itself known, and with his presence the presence of the other thing, the thing that constantly made her feel like she was plunging from the skies.
"You want to see what else he sent?"
"Father!" she cried, putting out her hand to stop him. She was terrified he was about to fling at her the painted hands of her children, their painted feet, with helpless words scrawled in their unformed handwriting. Mommy, where are you? I miss you. There were some things Larissa could not endure. This was one of them. "Pleaseahave mercyano." She could take anything but a physical reminder of them.
From a safe behind his wood desk, Father Emilio pulled out a white business envelope and handed it to Larissa.
"I will not look at photographs," she said, her voice hoa.r.s.e and low.
"Don"t worry, no photographs. Look inside."
In the envelope was a stack of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. "Money?"
"There"s four thousand dollars in there," Father Emilio said, "marked for Che and the child, with your Summit, New Jersey address and your phone number. Che had asked for a plane ticket to come stay with you. Jared sent her a note explaining your silence and your absence, but he did send her the money for the tickets." The priest pointed to the envelope in Larissa"s hands. "The note is in there if you want to read it."
I"m not sure I do, Larissa mouthed inaudibly. I"m not sure I can. I"m pretty sure I can"t. I"m certain I don"t.
After sitting in the chair a while, almost hoping to be stung by a mosquito and get dengue fevera"bonecrushing pain, fever, rash, seeping hemorrhagea"for she imagined it to be better than this, Larissa opened the folded piece of paper. In Jared crisp firm block letter handwriting, the note read, Che, Larissa is gone. Without a note or a goodbye she"s left us; left me for someone else, and unfortunately I fear she"s left us for good. The money I"m sending you is from the sale of her car, which she clearly no longer needs. I"m sure she"d want you to have it. Please don"t sell your kidney, Che, even though I know a wonderful woman who could really use it. You need both your kidneys. After all, you now have a baby to take care of. You"re welcome to come and stay with us any time you want. You"re always welcome, and I sincerely mean that. I enclose cash for you and the baby for two first-cla.s.s tickets.
Jared PS. If by chance you see her, tell her that no matter what, she is still and will always be the mother of my children.
Her throat constricting, her fingers trembling, Larissa carefully put the note back in the envelope. She was right. Breakbone fever would"ve been preferable.
"The money is still here," she said dully. Four thousand dollarsa"in cash!
"Of course it"s here. Che hasn"t come back."
Larissa looked out the screened window into the front yard. Three small boys were playing soccer in the street. It was busy in late afternoon, teeming, women carrying shopping, men coming back from work, children returning from school or sports. Yet inside was like sanctuary. Four hundred thousand people in Paranaque, eleven million in Metro Manila, yet inside was like the secluded abbey in Mount Athos in Greece, splendid in its exquisite isolation.
"Nalini dreams of going to America," Father Emilio said. "She is convinced when her mother returns, they will go and live in the place the ever-loving nuns keep telling her about. The place with snow."
"Does she know what snow is?"
"No. I tell her it"s white and cold, but she doesn"t understand. She doesn"t even understand what cold is. It doesn"t get below seventy here on the equator."
Larissa held on tightly to the money in the envelope. "But you and I know Che is not coming back. She could"ve been released long ago and died in Mindanao forests on her way here. We will never know." She paused. "Please don"t look at me like that, Father. We already talked about this. Che is not me."
"You are alive. You remain."
"Yes."
"Larissa," Father Emilio said, stretching out his hand to her. "There"s money in your hands for two tickets back to the United States."