IT WAS SUNDAY AND Maya was coming for a visit. Her only means of transportation, besides the generosity of friends, was an old mountain bike, so we’d arranged to pick her up after Mass at St. Mary’s. As eleven o’clock rolled around, Veronica and I stood on the sidewalk between Central Avenue and the small portico entrance to the church. Organ music swelled from every gap, slit, and hollow of the building, announcing the end of Mass. We stepped aside for the parishioners streaming down the entry stairs and onto the church grounds, waving to and greeting perfect strangers as if they were close friends.
Since Maya was a member of the choir, we expected her to be one of the last to exit the church, but after a fifteen-minute wait and the clearing of all the Sunday worshipers, we grew concerned that she hadn't yet appeared. Veronica paced back and forth, shoulders back, hands on hips like a catwalk model. “She should’ve just told us where she lived.”
“She must have a good reason for meeting us here,” I said. “Bet she’ll invite us over soon.” Veronica was back to dressing Victoria’s Secret style: black jeans, slinky snakeskin top, and black stilettos with four-inch heels. Seemed she’d grown tired of Anne’s wardrobe after just one try. She’d fastened a black cardigan around her waist in case it got cold, which, in my opinion, occurred over an hour ago. I shivered just looking at her. I, too, wore jeans, the color of wheat, topped by a white cotton shirt. But instead of tying the arms of my navy jacket around my waist for future use, I was wearing the darn thing, not about to let the sleeves wrinkle or myself freeze for the sake of fashion or vanity. What a sight, sisters identical in face and body, yet so different. Black hair and blonde. Slinky and status quo.
“Where is she?” Veronica asked, as though she expected me to see through the walls of the church. Okay, so, I’d spied on her once from the beach miles away, but that didn’t mean I could—or would—do it again. Not worth the mental and spiritual strain.
“Um,” I said, noting Veronica’s growing impatience. I didn’t want her walking off in a huff. “I’ll go inside and take a look.”
“Good idea. I’ll wait out here in case she shows via a different route.”
Maya was easy to spot, kneeling in one of the front pews, head bent in prayer.
Dear God, forgive me for asking, but what could Maya be praying for so intently? She’s already an angel. I waited until she touched the tips of her fingers to her forehead, chest, and shoulders, before walking up the center aisle and sliding in next to her on the wooden bench. “Still coming for a visit?” I asked.
She turned, blinked, and rubbed her eyes as if waking from a dream. “Sorry. I had some catching up to do.” Her eyes widened when she noticed we were the only ones left in the church. “Took longer than expected.” She looked over her shoulder. “Where’s Veronica?”
Concerned about her the glassy look in her eyes, I stayed put, prepared to catch her if she passed out and fell. “Outside, champing at the bit. If we don’t get a move on, she’ll probably go hide out in the Victorian’s basement, her version of a man cave.”
“Not without me, she won’t,” Maya said, pushing to a stand.
❂❂❂
Maya declared Anne’s house too awesome for words and insisted on a full tour. As we moved from room to room, floor to floor, she gasped at the scroll and ivy-patterned wallpaper and carved moldings, the chandeliers, the brocade drapes, and the oriental carpets lain over wooden floors. I, too, was seeing many of the rooms for the first time. Besides my turret suite and the ground floor and basement, I’d pretty much ignored the rest of the house until now. When Veronica led us to her underground digs, Maya was transfixed. Who wouldn’t be? The place had the floating-through-the-clouds look of a Hollywood depiction of heaven.
What impressed Maya most, however, lay just outside the kitchen door. “A labyrinth,” she cried when we stepped outside. “I’ve been trying to get management to put one in at work for holistic empowerment, but the cost has been prohibitive. Let’s walk it together.”
Right off, the birds’ companion calls sounded sweeter, the crows’ caws less jarring, earthy sounds echoing the beat of my happy heart. Even the sulfury, briny ocean scent agreed with me as we weaved our way to the rose center and back out again, each at our own pace.
Maya was last to finish. “I hear they have a labyrinth at the Grace Cathedral in San Francisco,” she said. “I’d love to walk it sometime. Will you join me?”
“Sure,” I said, hoping this wasn’t an empty promise. Vows, no matter how earnest, often go by the way of the wind, never to experience the joys of fruition.
Veronica walked over to the concrete bench stationed under a canopy of Monterey cypress and sat down.
“What’s up with her?” Maya asked.
“Don’t know. Let’s find out.”
As we neared the bench, Veronica patted the space next to her. “Squeeze in tight girls. Should be enough room for the three of us.”
“Yeah,” I said, “with half my butt hanging over.”
“Don’t be such a fusspot,” she said.
I smiled. That was just the type of comeback Anne would’ve used. I wished she was here to share in our joy at being together.
Veronica waited for us to sit before sharing what was on her mind. “Maya, it’s time you meet our father.”
The impenetrable expression on Maya’s face held the serene sadness of Michelangelo’s Madonna of Bruges in which Mary appeared to know of the hardships she and her son would encounter up ahead.
“It’ll be upsetting for you,” Veronica said, “maybe even a shock, but...” She shifted her weight and stared at her palms. “He’s an alcoholic, and...”
Maya took Veronica’s hand, which appeared to be shaking. “I try not to, but I can pretty much read your mind. Even when we’re not together. I think it has something to do with sharing the same DNA and having similar brain wave patterns, which makes our connection closer than with others. When you hurt, I hurt. When you’re happy, I’m happy. So, I know how hard this is for you. I’ve tried sending positive vibes your way, but apparently haven’t been all that successful.”
“Telepathy between multiples is fiction,” Veronica said.
“Then call it an unspoken knowing, without having to ask or explain,” I said, remembering how I’d felt when Gerardo, my adoptive father, called me his little flower and told me he loved me, an intense empathy and bond rather than something mystical and unexplainable.
“Tell me about our father,” Maya said, her voice a soft, tapering trill. “Did he share with you why he gave me away?”
“He didn’t give you away,” I objected. “At least not by choice. Antonia—”
“Don’t excuse him,” Veronica said from her end of the bench. She balled her free hand into a fist. “I’m so mad at him, I could wring his neck, but I’ve learned from experience it wouldn’t do any good.”
Maya released Veronica’s hand so she could wipe the moisture from her eyes.
“The more I learn about the mess he made of our lives and his own,” Veronica said, “the more sense it makes why he’s so sick. But he’s not too much of a drunk to tell us what happened. He owes us that much.”
Maya looked at me in silent appeal.
I sensed the empathy and bond of our shared genetics, but the part about an unspoken knowing without having to ask failed me.
“He didn’t raise you either, did he?” Maya asked.
“No,” I said, glad we had that in common at least. This way she wouldn’t feel as left out.
“I’ve waited a long time for an explanation,” Maya said. “Guess another day or two won’t hurt.”
“You did hear me when I said he’s an alcoholic?” Veronica said.
The expression on Maya’s face remained calm. “I work with alcoholics every day. It’s what I do.”
The mist-filled air soothed my hot cheeks, and I felt an internal soothing as well, as if Earth’s cool breath had penetrated my heart and mind. “Are you a nurse?”
“A social worker,” she said. “I’m drawn to people with dependencies. When they see the mark on my face, their situations seem less hopeless. It brings out their empathy for others.”
“About our father,” Veronica prompted.
Maya slid off the bench and crouched in front of us. “I suspect there are a few things you need to know about his disease.”
“I’ve lived with his damn disease half my life,” Veronica said. “You think I need to know more?”
Maya smiled. “It’s plain as the mark on my face that you both do.”
“Me!” I blurted. “I just met the guy.”
Maya took my hand in hers and squeezed it. “Let’s start with Veronica, okay?”
“Okay by me,” I said, ashamed of my outburst. Darn right, I needed to know more about alcoholism, if there was any hope of forming a relationship with my father. Veronica’s best efforts at helping him battle his disease had proven inadequate. She needed to detach herself so she could get on with her life. Would I be able to do the same? Would I be able to stand by and watch the man who’d fathered me hit rock bottom, in hopes that he’d use it as a springboard to launch a recovery?
“How about we head inside to the kitchen,” Maya suggested. “That way Veronica and I can talk while you brew us a pot of tea.”
Good idea. It was getting chilly outside. Besides, Maya looked uncomfortable crouched in front of us on the damp pavement.
After leading the way in, I filled the teakettle with water and put it on the stove to heat. Meanwhile, Veronica and Maya settled at the dinette table in the breakfast nook. A burst of bassoon-like caws infused the lull in conversation, while the hum of the refrigerator and hiss of the teakettle filled the spaces between.
Into the orchestra of sounds, came the sweet cello of Maya’s voice. “You’ve been amassing resentment, anger, and regrets for too long, Veronica. You’re paralyzed by them.”
“I’m tired of it all,” Veronica admitted.
My hands shook as I poured boiling water into the ceramic teapot and added a bag of black tea.
“Your father has a right to do as he pleases,” Maya said. “As do you.”
“You’re saying he has a right to drink himself to death?” Veronica asked.
“Yes.”
“And get sicker until he dies or goes insane.”
“Or feels enough pain to get help.”
“I can’t take that chance.”
“Since when do you have control over your father’s choices?” Maya asked, her voice soft, neutral. “Has all the yelling, crying, and counseling helped one bit?”
“No,” Veronica said. “He rationalizes and justifies and convinces himself that lies are truths and truths are lies.”
“You didn’t cause him to drink,” Maya said, “and you can’t make him stop. Alcoholics are sick and therefore self-centered. He’ll only quit if it’s in his own best interest to do so.”
Tears trailed down Veronica’s face, which filled me with regret. It wasn’t until I tasted salt on my lips that I realized I was crying, too. “You don’t know how much it helps to have someone explain that to me,” Veronica said. “I’ve tried so hard.”
“I know,” Maya said.
Knees shaking, I carried two mugs of steeped tea to the table, followed by creamer and sugar.
“Thanks, Marjorie,” Maya said. She pulled out a chair and signaled for me to sit down. “Your turn.”
Veronica stood and headed for the kitchen counter. She returned with another mug of tea. “Drink up, Marge. You might not be able to get it down later.”
The warm liquid brought welcome relief from the salty taste in my mouth. What could Maya say that would make any difference at this point?
“You think that now you’ve finally found our father, you’ll lose him,” she said.
Her comment felt like a stomach jab, and I nearly spit up my tea. “I’ve waited so long.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Me, too. But losing him won’t be that easy.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Ask Veronica.”
When I looked at our older sister, she gave me a sad smile. “Maya’s right. He’s not that easy to lose.”
“Don’t get sucked into his games,” Maya warned. “You don’t need his crumbs of affection, and what you do will never be enough.”
I glanced at Veronica. She nodded.
“This all sounds so negative,” I said.
Maya gazed down at her mug of tea, which was still full. “It is, I’m afraid. At times like this, it’s best to use your mind instead of your heart. Feeling sorry for him and catering to his illness will only make things worse. For you as well as for our father. Actually, there’s nothing wrong with the disgust you feel.”
Disgust? Revulsion was a better word for the way I felt on first meeting him. To say nothing of the guilt I’d experienced since.
I set down my mug.
Maya reached out to steady it. “I mean it, Marjorie. You must find your own serenity. And rebuild from there.”