Chapter 43

Abigail, 1952

The knock on the door woke Abigail. Lately, it was increasingly hard for her to stay awake.

“Come in,” she said, attempting to sit up, but not finding enough strength in her arms to do so.

Alejandra walked into the room, wearing a black dress, like she had for the last three years after Papá Pancho’s death in the earthquake of ’49.

“He’s here,” she said.

Abigail shivered under the covers. “Help me sit up.”

Alejandra pushed Abigail to a sitting position, then adjusted three pillows behind her.

“I must look terrible,” Abigail said.

Her sister avoided her eyes, confirming her suspicions.

“Quick, bring me a mirror, a brush, and some rouge.”

In less than a minute, Alejandra returned with the things, including a pink lipstick and a piece of mint candy. Abigail held the silver mirror in front of her face. She was yellowish, her cheekbones stood out and dark circles framed her eyes.

Disgraceful.

While Alejandra braided her hair, Abigail attempted to bring some color to her face.

“Useless.” Abigail set the mirror on her lap, face down. No matter what she did, she was still twelve years older and sick. “Just send him in.”

Before Alejandra could walk away, Abigail held her hand. It was coarse and callous, like their father’s hands had been.

“Thank you for bringing him,” Abigail said. “I knew you would do it.”

Abigail squeezed her sister’s hand and for a moment, that hard expression Alejandra had always reserved for her softened.

“I need to ask you one more thing,” Abigail said. “Remember what I told you about Claudia?”

“Yes.”

Abigail pointed at the top drawer of her night table. “I wrote about it in my diary. Burn it.”

“I will.”

Exhaling, Abigail let go of her sister’s hand.

Alejandra walked to the door and stopped. Without turning she said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you all these years.”

Alejandra didn’t give Abigail time to respond; she left the room too quickly. But the knot in Abigail’s chest released, bringing her a new sense of peace. Her sister didn’t hate her, like she’d always thought. Alejandra had forgiven her for whatever it was she did to her back when they were teenagers.

Her moment of peace dissipated as soon as she heard hard steps approaching her room.

His steps.

Alejandra reappeared in the room, followed by Victor in his black cassock.

This was the first time Abigail had seen him wearing it. She had wished he wouldn’t wear it here. It embarrassed her to see it. He seemed so different now. A grown man, a respectable man. But he smiled at her with the same kindness of his youth.

He stood by the bed, hands clasped in front of him. A priestly gesture. Did they get trained on this or did it just come naturally? Only now did she realize that Alejandra had left them alone. But this shouldn’t surprise her. After Fausto’s death, Alejandra’s spirit had left her body and she was nothing but a phantom roaming the halls.

Victor was the first one to break the silence. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

He was lying, of course.

“Neither have you,” she said. “You’re the handsomest priest I’ve ever met.”

He brought a chair next to her bed and sat down, hands over his lap. “Did you want me here as a priest or as a friend?”

The question alone hurt. A priest or a friend. Those were his only options. Could you even be friends with the one you loved?

“Both.” She reached for the glass of water Mamá Blanca had brought her earlier. Victor handed it to her. She drained it, but the thirst remained, as did the pain in her lower back. Her damn rotten kidneys. She set the glass back on the night table, embarrassed by the tremor in her hand.

He followed her gaze.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

He stared at his palms. “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about me. It never was.”

“Was it worth it?” She rested her palms on her sides. “Your sacrifice.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I just want to know … I need to know if”—she paused, afraid of his answer, afraid of his pity—“if you ever regretted your decision.”

He looked up. There was pain in his eyes. “Yes.”

She breathed out. He wouldn’t lie to her about this, not on her deathbed. Or maybe it was the compassionate thing to do, even if it wasn’t honest. She grabbed his hand. It was stone cold.

“Promise?”

He smiled, but his eyes were still sad. “I do. I’m not the same man you met then. I’m not nearly as idealistic.” His voice lowered, as though that last part was only meant for himself. But this was all she needed. Just to know that she’d mattered to him, that it hadn’t been only her. She squeezed his hand, ascertaining that this wasn’t a dream, that he was truly here holding her hand. She kissed it softly.

He stiffened. “You don’t have to do that, Abi.”

“Why not? Everyone else gets to do it, right?” He wouldn’t take this small pleasure from her, not now. She rubbed his hand against her cheek.

He watched her, tightening his jaw. The tears burned in her eyes, begging to come down. As soon as she felt the first one, she let go of his hand. “Enough of that.” She dried her cheek with the edge of the sheet. “Time for the priest to come now. Time for confession.”

A small crease formed between his eyebrows. “Please don’t joke about this.”

“I’m not. I called a priest, didn’t I?” She licked her dry lips. “I want my Extreme Unction.”

“I may not be the right—”

“You’re going to deny the last Sacrament to one of your parishioners?”

“Of course not,” he said.

He left the room for a moment. When he returned, he carried a leather case with him. Ana followed him inside, holding an empty tray in her hands. She placed the clutter from the bedside table on the tray—medicine bottles, books, and the empty glass. She looked at Abigail through watery eyes, but beneath the sorrow there was something else. Fear?

Victor approached the night table and set his leather case on top. He removed a white tablecloth, a Bible, two glass containers—water and oil—and a long purple stole that he placed around his neck.

Ana stumbled out of the room, reminding Abigail of her sister’s clumsy walk the day they met Victor at María Teresa’s wedding.

As he sprinkled her with Holy Water, he said a prayer, but she wasn’t listening. She just wanted to watch him, to prolong this moment, for she knew she would never see him again after this. He sat down on the chair, ready to listen. It was now or never, the moment she’d imagined for years.

Abigail started her confession, watching his serene expression as she spoke. She talked about the guilt of leaving her loved ones behind, of lying for so many years to her family, of being responsible for Ana’s unhappiness. He nodded occasionally, not asking any questions but simply accepting her words. After his shoulders had relaxed, after he’d let out a slow breath, she stopped.

“Is there anything else?” he said.

“Yes.” She reached out for his hand, feeling it tense as she touched it. She took a deep breath, and her back hurt even more. “I was in love once.” She hesitated. “With someone who wasn’t meant to be mine.”

He slipped his hand away from hers.

“His last weekend in town, before he left me for good, I went to the boarding house where he was staying.”

“What are you getting at?” The man, not the priest, spoke now. His voice was still low, as low as hers, but there was hostility underneath.

“I have a daughter,” she said. “We …” She stopped herself upon seeing the horror in his eyes, the intense pain taking shape in his expression. He watched her, finally removing the mask of indifference from his face.

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You’d already left by the time I found out I was pregnant. I didn’t want to cause a scandal. I didn’t want to ruin your life.”

“You should have told me.” He brought his hands to his forehead. “Where is she?”

“Here. Probably playing in the courtyard.”

Victor straightened himself. “I saw her. She was in the living room when I arrived.”

Abigail nodded, for she was afraid her voice would break if she spoke again.

“Claudia is her name, isn’t it? I should have known. She reminded me so much of my mother.”

“She has your eyes,” Abigail said.

“My mother’s eyes.” There were tears in his now. “Things could have been so different if you’d told me.”

“No, they wouldn’t have. You were meant to do this. I finally see it. You don’t belong in the real world, among mere mortals. You have a gift.”

“Don’t say that. I’m just another sinner. Worse even.”

“Please don’t blame yourself. It was my fault. I went to see you with a plan. I wanted to stop you, to entice you. I’m the only one to blame here.”

He wouldn’t look at her. “But I was weak. You didn’t force me.”

“Stop it, Victor. I didn’t tell you this so you could torment yourself.”

“Then why? Why this way? You know I can’t talk about it now.”

“Yes.”

“It’s cruel.”

“It was the only way to protect you. But you needed to know about her.”

Victor covered his face with his hands for a long time. When he removed them, his demeanor was stoic again.

“Can we finish now?” Abigail said. “I need my medicine.”

Victor went through the motions mechanically. She wasn’t listening anymore. The pain was too intense. And she’d wasted all her energy already. He removed a host from a tiny, flat silver case and placed it on her tongue. She smiled when his fingers touched her cheek. He made the sign of the cross with the oil three times. First on her forehead, then on each wrist. She closed her eyes then, and she didn’t want to open them anymore, so that he would be the last thing she would ever see.