She opened her door and walked into the silent, dark room. Amanda checked the bathroom: empty. She tiptoed over to the bed, where the unmoving form of Chiara lay.
Amanda sat on the bed next to Chiara. She never slept in the other bed now. Chiara didn’t stir—she seemed to be in a deep slumber. Amanda nestled down, resting her head in the palms of her hands. Her eyelids began to droop. Then she felt little tremors moving across the surface of the mattress. She turned her head and watched Chiara’s shoulder blades move up and down with suppressed crying.
Amanda placed a hand on Chiara’s arm. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere for a long while—take all the time you need.”
Chiara’s voice came muffled, almost indistinguishable from where her face lay hidden in her hands. “Why should I have any amount of time? I’m not good for anything anymore.”
“That’s not true.”
Chiara raised a tear-stained face, her eyes swollen and puffy from crying. “I’m not contributing anything. I don’t have anything left to give. No one needs me. I don’t deserve to be alive when so many have died.”
“Deserve? No one ever deserves life.”
“But some deserve death?”
Amanda saw in her mind’s eye her mother’s pallid face, a waxen statue in the velvet-lined coffin, the rosary beads intertwined in the motionless fingers. Their mom didn’t deserve to die. But then she saw the JPD officer—Lance—dead on the floor, killed by the bullet she had fired. She had taken his youth, his chance to repent, and had destroyed it all in a matter of seconds. Did Lance deserve death? He would’ve killed Ethan. Where should one draw the line between mercy and justice?
Amanda rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know if anyone deserves death.”
Chiara lay silent for a moment. Then she stared ahead, unseeing. “I wish I could die.”
“You shouldn’t say that!”
“I say it because I mean it.”
“Chiara …” Amanda struggled, trying to find the right words. “So many people love you—Dad, Joe, me—”
“Dad would still have his oldest daughter: the more talented one, the one he’s always depended on. Joe has Bennie and this war.”
Amanda gripped her sister’s arm, her words trembling with emotion. “But what about me? I need you!”
Chiara looked at her for a moment, then turned away. “You’ve got Ethan now.”
“Ethan could never replace you. No one can ever replace a sister. You would leave a hole no one could ever fill. I don’t even like to imagine my life without you in it. Those weeks when I didn’t know where you and Dad were, when I was on the mountain? They were the worst moments of my life.”
“There’s something inside of me that can’t be fixed. I’m broken.”
“You didn’t seem broken when we were back in Plymouth. You were strong and hopeful. You gave me strength.”
“I felt so angry when we were at the refugee camp. I couldn’t get rid of the rage inside of me. But then, when we left and went to Plymouth, I began to think I could get better. Plymouth was a whole new place. I kept busy with distractions. I had Joe. I thought I could leave it all behind … I started to feel more normal, or at least pretend to.” Chiara shook her head. “But it was just a temporary band-aid. We came here, where all anyone talks about is fighting. Now we’re preparing for this attack on the detention center. I can never escape from it. It constantly reminds me … the nightmares haunt me, day and night, without ever ending. They’ll kill me, but it doesn’t matter because I should’ve died a long time ago.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I can’t.”
“Tell me.”
Chiara avoided her eyes. She stayed silent for so long but then finally began to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. “They separated Dad and me the minute we arrived at the detention center. The women and girls boarded together in separate barracks from the men. Most of the girls had their moms or sisters with them. I had no one.”
Amanda swallowed. She should have been there with Chiara. She left Chiara alone to bear this nightmare on her own.
Chiara continued, “There was one other girl who also didn’t have anyone. Her name was Bridget. She was two years younger than me, but she felt like my peer. She was my only comfort and friend. We shared the same bunk and prayed together each day for deliverance. She told me not to give up hope. I think about those nights, huddled together shivering, her words warming my heart when I was tempted to despair.
“The JPD officers didn’t give us meals consistently. If anyone misbehaved, the officers denied us a meal or even two or three. The portions were so small as they were that those deprivations became a horror. We still had to do manual labor, lugging wood or equipment or scrubbing floors. Once I fainted from hunger and they beat me for not doing my work. I had bruises all over my body and couldn’t move without wincing—everything hurt. The idea of receiving another beating like that terrified me, so I had an idea. I knew it was against the rules, but I was willing to take the risk.”
“What did you do?”
“We had to eat all the food they gave us in one sitting; no saving food for later. But I decided to save my roll, just in case they refused us lunch or dinner. I figured I could nibble on it later, and no one would know. Bridget liked the idea and decided to do the same. We got away with it for a week or so without any problem.”
“But then?”
“The sirens went off at four-thirty for roll call, just like every morning. It was still dark out and a few inches of snow had fallen during the night. I remember how my toes got soaked through my sneakers. The JPD officer on duty looked a little drunk. He was fat with these beady eyes and double chins. He saw us freezing there in our thin clothes—of course none of us had winter coats. Then he ordered us all to strip—underwear and all.”
Amanda sucked in her breath, not wanting to hear anymore but not able to stop the narration as Chiara continued.
Chiara exhaled. “I didn’t even think about taking off all my clothes in front of him. All I could think about was the fact that the roll was there, one half on either side of my bra. I had to take everything off so carefully so the pieces wouldn’t accidentally fall out, but at the same time, the officer kept barking at us to go faster. Somehow, I managed to do it. But Bridget …”
Chiara started crying, her words coming out in spurts between her cries. “The officer spotted Bridget’s roll. I don’t know … if it fell out of her shirt or … or he saw it in the pile of clothes at her feet … He picked it up and asked her if she understood that she willfully defied the rules of the camp. She couldn’t speak … she was so afraid. He yelled at her … cursing and berating her. Then he—he—he shot her.”
“Oh, Chiara …” Amanda, her own eyes wet, reached over and wrapped her arms around her sister.
Chiara buried her head against Amanda’s chest. “I couldn’t look at her body. I almost fainted, but then I remembered how they beat me the last time that happened. I was sure they’d kill me too. The officer ordered us to stand outside there for thirty minutes, naked, unmoving, in punishment for what Bridget had done. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t look at Bridget’s dead body lying on the ground. She had died and I hadn’t, yet we both committed the same offense … and it had all been my idea … my stupid, stupid idea … it was like I killed her.”
“You didn’t. It’s not your fault.”
“It feels like it is. And the thing that makes it even worse is that the next day the opposition group attacked the center. Bridget kept telling me God would save us and she came this close to freedom. Twenty-four hours made all the difference between life and death. God answered my prayer and not hers. How is that fair?”
“I—I don’t know. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that a drunk driver killed Mom either. I don’t know why things are like this. This world’s broken.”
“And so am I.”
“Aren’t we all broken, in one way or another? We all have wounds. I love you, Chiara. I’m here for you.”
“Don’t tell anyone what I told you.”
“I won’t. It’s not my story to share. But I think it’s really important that you told someone. Thank you for trusting me. I’m sorry I wasn’t there at the detention center with you. I wish I could go back and change things.”
“You’re here with me now. Maybe that’s how God knew it needed to be?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
They fell silent, both lost in their own thoughts. Amanda had no idea how much time passed, but Chiara’s breathing became steady and regular. Her body relaxed in Amanda’s arms, retreating into the reprieve of sleep—nightmare-free, at least for now. Amanda gently pulled her arms away and sat up in bed, wide awake, Chiara’s story ringing in her ears. She felt as though she had personally entered the nightmare.
She tried to pray, but no words came. Her racing thoughts refused to settle and her heart continued to pound, her chest in pain. Every creak or step in the hallway made her jump. She’d go crazy spending the whole night like this.
But this wasn’t the first time panic attacks had come to her. Amanda had also felt this way in the months after her mom’s death. She had found a solution that always worked in those times of heartache.
Now she stood and walked toward the bathroom, picking up her book bag on the way, seeking the same solace. She gently closed the door and flicked the lights on, her eyes squinting in the bright illumination. Unzipping her bag, she rummaged through and found a paintbrush. She held it between her fingers, that glossy wooden surface so familiar, the comfort of countless uses—like an old friend smiling at her. She rolled it back and forth, fingering the bristles.
God’s an artist too. She had never thought about that before: what a world of beauty He created, all out of nothing. Sure, it was a broken world, but it was still beautiful. He painted the sunsets and sunrises. He colored the flowers—from the azaleas her mom had planted in their front yard and that still bloomed every spring long after her death—to the daffodils poking through the ground outside the hotel, which Amanda spotted from an upstairs window. Maybe Amanda had inherited her gift of painting from God, like the way a daughter might inherit her father’s eye color or penchant for singing. Maybe it was from Him that her paintings took their meaning and her art became a prayer—God speaking to her through her brushstrokes instead of through sounds and syllables. If she was indeed a talented painter, it was because God made her so. This was the language they could speak together.
She placed a sheet of canvas on the sink counter and took out her paints. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a moment. Silence filled her mind, her soul, and in that solitude, she began to hear. She started to paint.
Zeal for the work forming in front of her wiped out every other distraction—a blissful escape from the anxieties of her daily reality. All that mattered were these shades, these lines, these pigments, and gradients of texture. Each brushstroke had a purpose, a piece in the puzzle that formed a whole story. She trusted the process. She believed that, if she cooperated with the inklings that gently prompted her, she would understand in the end. She was a tool in the hand of the great Artist, just as much as the paintbrush in her own hand was her tool.
How much time passed she couldn’t say. But when one is engaged in one’s passion, time doesn’t matter anymore. She never tired of her art. Ethan was right to encourage her to do this again. She needed it: the end result but also the process—the act of creation.
At last, she straightened up and stepped back. She pulled a piece of paper towel from the hand dispenser on the wall, lying it on the counter, and placing her paintbrush on top. She rested a hand on either side of the canvas paper, and her eyes studied the completed work of art before her.
She sharply sucked in her breath. Her eyes widened as wonder crashed over her like a wave. How … it’s not possible … it’s her …
Inclining her head closer, Amanda stared in astonishment and joy at an image she never imagined she would see again, at least not in this life: it was the Mother, the beautiful woman who once graced her favorite painting, the one she had done as a child—her favorite possession.
The mysterious woman’s gaze now filled her with delight and reassurance, just as it did before. It had followed her during her life’s events—even to New York City when she moved there to begin her studies at the Masters Academy of Fine Art. And it followed her to Ethan’s apartment that disastrous night: the night of the bombing at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. In a delirium of drugs and heartache, they had destroyed the Mother’s face together. That act had prompted Amanda to leave Ethan, to steal his laptop in retaliation. So much was destroyed that fateful night …
Morgan reassured Amanda that God could make all things new. Never did she ever believe that meant this Mother’s image. Before tonight, Amanda hadn’t even willfully attempted to do so. Her heart still felt the wound of the deed done. The loss still stung. She never believed she could recreate such a supernatural, perfect replication. Lightning doesn’t strike the same spot twice.
And yet she was here right now. The Mother was with her again. Amanda’s heart raced, an effusive joy searing through her. She picked up the paper in her hand, trembling fingers dying to hold onto this Mother, her Mother. The Mother stared back at her with pure eyes, enigmatic yet inviting. Her eyebrows were raised just slightly, as though inviting a response. Rose pink lips, closed, softly smiling—encouraging, gentle. Her light brown hair flowed below her delicate shoulders. Her white hands grasped an object held between them, raised outward, poised in invitation to Amanda: a red crown.
Amanda couldn’t stop staring. Her eyes had hungered for this. She hadn’t even recognized how much she was starving for it. Now she couldn’t seem to satisfy herself. The pearl of great price and the hidden treasure had been found. She would sell everything to keep it and never lose it again.
But as to its meaning? She didn’t doubt it, not for a moment. She grinned, a laugh almost escaping from her mouth. Everything broke that night in Ethan’s apartment. She and Ethan had destroyed the Mother’s image and the act of doing so in turn destroyed them. Now though? The Mother was here again—renewed and restored. It could mean only one thing.
Amanda turned off the bathroom light and gingerly opened the door. She listened for a moment. Chiara still slept soundly. Amanda squinted at the digital numbers on the alarm clock: 6:10 a.m. She didn’t spend much time dwelling on the fact that she’d painted all through the night. She had more important things to think about.
She couldn’t wait … her whole body tingled with excitement. She unlocked the door and stole away, pausing a moment to hope Chiara would stay asleep until she got back again. She’d hate to leave Chiara alone in her tender state. Frowning, Amanda crept back into the room and pocketed Chiara’s gun, which lay on the dresser—just as a precaution.
Back in the hallway, Amanda hurried down the corridor, counting down the numbers to Ethan’s room. Without barely a pause, she knocked. The sound seemed so loud in the dead silence.
A moment passed and with a click Ethan opened the door. He looked left to right, then back at her. “Amanda? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Absolutely. Look, I know it’s still crazy early and I probably woke you up and I’m sorry, but—I’ve got to talk with you.”
“Come on in.” Ethan opened his bedroom door and gestured for her to enter.