10

WHEN EDDIE ANSWERED the door, Lizzie stared at him as if she expected him to look like a different man. Everything had changed. She smiled. She was relieved he looked like the kind and familiar man she knew—and yet she thought she recognized something about him, but she was unable to retrieve that something from her memory, from that place within her that recognized an identity that remained inaniculate, at the edge of her consciousness. She suddenly had an image of him sitting outside, the noonday sun shining on his face, and him writing carefully, in a black book—writing so carefully and sadly that he seemed to be writing an elegy. She couldn’t see what he was writing, but he was thinking of a man, the man’s name was—she could begin to make it out—

“Say hello,” he laughed.

“Huh?”

“You OK?”

“Nothing a good drink can’t fix.”

“Not until you say ‘hello.’”

“Hello.”

“Hello, Eddie, you look better than the best pizza in Chicago,” he said.

“Hello, Eddie, you look better than the best pizza in Chicago,” she repeated.

“You’re no fun. You didn’t even sound like you meant it.” He grinned, the light behind him making his face dim and unreachable as if he were only a silhouette. He reached for the backpack she was carrying. She watched him lift the bag and smile at her. She began to feel calmer in his presence, Eddie could be as calm as water in a glass. “Still,” he smiled, “you said it, didn’t you? It’ll have to do. Bar’s open—what’ll you have?”

“Maker’s Mark on the rocks.”

“Ahhhhhhhh. The lady knows what she wants.” Eddie took her by the arm and pulled her into the house. “It’s the house specialty. How did you know?”

“I read minds.”

“Hey, Maria Elena,” he yelled up the stairs, “Our Lady of Palo Alto has just arrived.”

“Why are you calling her that?” she asked.

“Calling her what?”

“Maria Elena.”

“Well, we’ll get to that.” He didn’t look at her face.

“You just turned red,” she said.

He smiled nervously. Lizzie’s presence suddenly embarrassed him. He felt silly and self-conscious. The game he and Maria Elena had played had been so silly, ludicrous. He felt ridiculous. She would look at them and laugh. “Be patient,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.

Helen was at the top of the stairs looking down at them. She smiled to herself as she saw her husband kiss her best friend. In another life, she would have been suspicious, jealous, protective. She would have wanted her husband to like her friend, but would have also demanded that he keep his distance from her. Lizzie enjoyed being a woman—that in itself was inexplicably threatening. She had often watched her husband as he laughed and listened to Lizzie’s amusing stories—but she had always been more than just amusing. Eddie never hid his affection for her from the first time she’d introduced them to each other—and she had always managed to ignore her own ambivalence toward her husband’s relationship with her best friend, a relationship that had life independent of her. Now as she watched them at the bottom of the stairs, the threat seemed as ridiculous as the silly name she’d chosen for herself. She repeated her own name, “Ramirez.” She held on to the railing as she laughed. “It takes a while for me to climb up and down the stairs,” she said. Lizzie watched Helen as she moved slowly toward her, she waited for Helen to reach the bottom of the stairs, and then kissed her friend on the cheek. “That backpack doesn’t seem to have enough stuff for a long stay,” she said.

“I’m only staying the weekend,” she said. They walked into the kitchen holding each other, Eddie reappeared with a drink in his hand. “Here,” he said handing the glass to Lizzie, “I’m going to bed.”

“Stay,” Helen pleaded.

Eddie shook his head, “Really, I have to go to bed.” He looked straight into Lizzie’s eyes. “You look a little beat up.” He looked at his wife. “You guys need to—”

Helen looked at her husband and pleaded. He looked back at her with a look that said “I don 7 want to get into this—you do it.” “Eddie,” she said half-begging, half-demanding that he stay.

“I’m tired,” he said firmly, “really tired.”

Maria Elena nodded reluctantly. She wanted him to stay, wanted him to be a part of the conversation—and yet she understood that he did not want to repeat the story of his father to another human being. “You tell her,” he’d said, “I don’t mind—just let me be out of the room. Let me be absent.” She placed her hand on his cheek.

Lizzie watched them and wondered why nobody had ever loved her like Eddie loved Helen. Sometimes she wanted to hate them for what they had. And yet she loved them and wanted to always love them. “Eddie,” she said as Helen pulled her hand away, “pour yourself a drink. You might as well hear this.”

“Hear what?” Maria Elena asked.

Lizzie hesitated, “Helen, something’s happening.”

“Her name’s not Helen.” Eddie covered his mouth as soon as the words came out. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at his wife. “It just came out—I’m sorr—see, honey, I should just let you two guys—”

“It’s OK, Eddie.”

“But you should have been—”

“Does it matter?”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Lizzie asked. She looked at Maria Elena suspiciously. “If your name isn’t Helen, then who the hell are you?” She volleyed her gaze back and forth from Eddie to Maria Elena. “Is that why you keep calling her Maria Elena?”

Eddie nodded. He tried to pretend he was invisible. He wanted to leave the room as graciously as possible. “Do you love your father?” “Of course I love my father.” “And your mother?” “Yes, I love my mother.” The business of revealing the truth was as impossible as keeping secrets. “They hurt me, they hurt…”

Maria Elena popped her knuckles.

“You only do that when you’re nervous,” Lizzie said.

“Do I?”

“Helen, will you tell me what the hell’s going on!”

“Maria Elena,” she said, “my name’s Maria Elena Ramirez.” Her voice cracked. As she articulated her name to her friend—her closest friend—she was completely embarrassed by the charade she and her husband had been playing. She felt stupid and awkward and self-conscious—the same way she’d felt the first time she’d been to a high school dance. But she wasn’t a girl anymore. She was sitting in front of a woman she loved, a woman she respected, a woman she’d hidden from. “Hide-and-seek at thirty-four. Shit.”

Lizzie’s response was slow in coming. “What?”

“I’m not who I said I was.” She stared at Lizzie’s drink. She imagined how the bourbon would taste in her dry throat.

Lizzie sipped on her bourbon, then crossed her arms. Maria Elena and Eddie waited for her to say something. “It would be nice to have a cigarette,” she said finally.

Maria Elena nodded.

“It makes sense,” Lizzie said. “Your past was so vague. I was the one who had a million stories about growing up, and you, you never had any. It was as though your life began when you went to college.”

“In some ways, it did,” She squeezed her husband’s arm. “In some ways I didn’t lie, Lizzie. Life began with Eddie—it really did. Do you hate me for lying?” she whispered.

“It’s too late to hate you,” she said. She took another sip from her bourbon, then laughed. “And here I thought you were anything but a woman with a past.” She laughed again. Maria Elena’s back relaxed as she heard Lizzie’s familiar laughter. It would be fine, it would all be fine. “I should have known,” Lizzie yelled, “I knew you weren’t Italian. Somehow I just knew—I just knew.”

“You did not,” Maria Elena objected.

“Never mind,” Lizzie laughed, “Let’s not argue. I want to hear—I want to hear everything.” She became a little girl in the presence of her friend’s revelation. It was as if she was waiting for her friend to sing her a favorite song. She played with the sweating glass of bourbon and rubbed the water into her palms. “And don’t skip anything,” she said, “I want it to taste as good as this drink.”

Maria Elena smiled, and nudged her husband who was now sitting next to her and stirring his own drink with his finger. She slapped his wrist. “Eddie, you tell it.”

“No way. I’m not telling my part again. You tell your part—she’s your friend.”

“Thanks a lot, Eddie.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Lizzie—it’s just it’s—it’s hard—you know? And you two are much closer, and you know how to talk to each other pretty well from what I can tell—so you don’t need me for this. And anyway, I’ve always been a third wheel—”

“Isn’t that a crock of shit,” Lizzie laughed.

“I’ll just slip into my room and read a good book, and you two can have a good talk.”

“Coward.” His wife stared at him.

“Ultimately, they’re all the same,” Lizzie said.

“I’m familiar with these tactics—and they’re not working.”

Maria Elena looked at him. His emotional reluctance was written everywhere on his face, in the way he was sitting. She wanted to tell him it was fine, that everything was fine, but she also sensed her words would sound hollow and condescending. She sometimes wanted to treat him like a little boy, but she was beginning to understand how much he had overcome to become the man he was. He had earned the right to say what he wanted, to speak about his life to whomever he chose. It occurred to her that some parts of his life would always be inaccessible to her. She tried to picture him telling Lizzie about his past, about his father. There was something wrong with the picture. “Tell her anything you want. Just let me be absent.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Go to bed,” she said. She could see his face relax as if he had just been given a reprieve from some command he could not carry out, “Lizzie and I have a lot to talk about.”

He kissed them both on the cheek. As he climbed the stairs, he could hear their voices. He was happy to let the women talk, happy that they were friends, grateful that he could be alone. “I’ll finish my book,” he said to himself, but when he got into bed, he fell asleep after reading only a page.

“It’s a goddamn fairy tale,” Lizzie said looking at Maria Elena. “You married a nice-looking man who treats you nice and who turns out to be rich. It’s a goddamn Victorian novel.”

“It’s not like a Victorian novel at alt. Those things end with a marriage—our novel begins with one.”

“A modern fairy tale, then? Even better.”

“When you hear the rest you won’t think so,” she said, her voice almost dropping to a whisper. “How’s this for a fairy tale? Eddie’s very rich, Episcopalian Republican father sexually abuses his two sons. He turns around one day and kicks the oldest one out for being a homosexual. He keeps the younger one around for you can imagine what. How do you like that for a start?” Lizzie sat motionless. “I’m sorry,” Maria Elena whispered, “I’m being glib.”

“Be glib if you want,” Lizzie said, “you’re entitled—”

“You keep things in and all those things you have inside you—well, they kill you.” The sound in her voice was no less angry because she could control it. She smiled. Lizzie was moved by her awkwardness, by the sound of the hurt in her voice. “My poor Eddie.” She reached over and took a sip from Lizzie’s drink. “One sip won’t hurt at this point.” She felt the cool bourbon on her tongue. “So,” she continued, trying to smile, “my Eddie had this really shitty childhood with a mother who was emotionally abusive and a father who was sexually abusive.” Her voice grew less clear, less defined. “Sounds like they were a helluva tag team, no, Lizzie? They kicked his oldest brother out when Eddie was seven. He hasn’t seen him since. Eddie says his older brother beat them up before he left and they had him arrested.” She stopped. “You know, I don’t think they ever saw him—his parents, I mean. They had this wonderful child—and they couldn’t see him. I think somehow he was always invisible.”

“Until you,” Lizzie said.

Maria Elena smiled. “Don’t give me so much credit.”

They sat in the quiet of the kitchen, Lizzie stirring her drink with her finger. “So, they died and left him all that money?”

“Oh, much better than that. These people never did things the easy way. Eddie got all the money when his loving mother decided to off his dad and then point the gun at herself. He was eighteen by then. I don’t think he could ever deal with them, what they were, what they did, what they turned him into—so he just decided to lock them up in his memory forever. And then one day he met Maria Elena Ramirez, a.k.a. Helen Rosalie La Greca, and she was as eager not to have a past as he was. So we played a game: I won’t show you mine, if you won’t show me yours. And we still managed to have sex—”

Lizzie laughed.

“It’s so stupid really. I feel so stupid, like an idiot. Anyway, it’s a little more complicated than that, but that’s the basic story line.”

Lizzie leaned over the table and kissed her hand. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

“I wish I could have a drink,” Maria Elena said, breaking the silence. “I haven’t had a drink in seven months.”

“Soon,” Lizzie said, “very soon. I’m going to buy you a bottle of champagne.”

“An unpretentious white wine will do,” she said.

Lizzie polished off her drink. “Bartender, I’ll have another.”

Maria Elena poured her a generous shot. “Eddie said that when he was a kid, he used to watch his mother drink her bourbon. He said something strange: He said he wanted her to be as beautiful as the drink in her hand. I think he wanted her to hold him as carefully as she held her glass of bourbon.”

Lizzie squeezed her hand. The room was silent again. Lizzie stared at the woman in front of her. She had always sensed something about them—about Maria Elena and Eddie—something about them didn’t quite fit in this neat, polished neighborhood. They were like the golf courses she had seen in the desert—they simply didn’t belong. She felt tears on her face. She felt Maria Elena’s warm hands absorbing the salt that came from her body.

“Are you OK?” Maria Elena asked.

She smiled. “I’m not sad,” she said, “just a little off center. She tugged at her earring, then took it off and placed it on the table. “Everybody has a story, huh? I have one, too—only slightly more outrageous than yours.”

Maria Elena laughed. “I would expect nothing less.”

“My name isn’t really Elizabeth Edwards—that is, I didn’t start off life with that name …” Maria Elena listened carefully to the story Lizzie narrated, not moving a muscle as Lizzie spoke about the incident at the hospital. She stared at Lizzie’s throat as if she could listen closer by staring at the physical place where Lizzie’s words were formed. “… so I had a brother,” she said as she finished her story, “a real brother.”

“But how do you know?” Maria Elena interrupted. “How could he be your brother? What about your other brother? How many brothers do you have?”

“Is there a limit?” They both laughed. “Haven’t you ever wondered why my brother and I did not even remotely resemble each other?”

“It happens,” Maria Elena said.

“Yes, it happens. But in this case we’re both adopted—both of us from different families.”

“It could be just a coincidence, Lizzie. This doesn’t prove you’re his sister. Even if you are adopted, it still doesn’t prove you’re related to Salvador.”

“I asked my mother,” Lizzie said.

“And what did she say?”

“She said my real name was Maria de Lourdes. She gave me this.” She took a letter from her purse and unwrapped it from the tissue paper she had placed around it to protect it. She handed the letter to Maria Elena who read it quietly.

“Incredible,” Maria Elena said. “So if you’re Salvador’s sister, and he gave you his gift, then can you read what I’m thinking?”

“You don’t believe me.” She wanted to tell her about the silence and her baby—but she thought it was something she should keep to herself. It frightened her. She thought it would frighten Maria Elena, too. Always, there would be a secret that had to be kept out of necessity. She looked at Maria Elena. “I know something about Eddie,” she said. “Do you want to know?”

“We’re both named Maria.”

“Yes.”

“I like that.”

Lizzie smiled. “Me too.”

“Should I call you Maria or Lourdes?”

“I still feel like a Lizzie.”

“Good.” Maria Elena said, “Lizzie’s fine.” She shook her black hair forward, then backward again as if she needed to stretch herself. “So what do you know about Eddie?”

“Your husband keeps a journal. It’s big—maybe notebook size—and thick. It’s bound in black leather, and I think he usually writes in it during his lunch hour?”

Maria Elena nodded and smiled. “How did you know that?”

“When Eddie answered the door I saw him sitting on a bench outside in the sun—and he was writing in a black book, but he brought me back before I could see who he addressed his journal to. He addresses it to someone—a man. I couldn’t quite see the name. But he looked very sad, your Eddie.”

“His brother. He address his journal to his brother.”

Lizzie nodded.

“And you?” Maria Elena asked.

“What?”

“Who do you address your journal to?”

“No one. I think it’s weird that he talks to his brother in his journal. Damn weird.” She couldn’t keep a straight face. She broke out laughing.

“You’re mean, Elizabeth Edwards. And you’ve had one too many drinks. Am I going to have to carry you to bed—a woman in my condition?”

“You sound like my mother, Helen.”

“Helen who?”

“I forgot. If I call you Helen sometimes, then you’ll have to deal with it, sugar.” She laughed. “It’s a small price to pay for deceiving your best friend.”

Maria Elena laughed. “I’m going to bed—I’m tired.”

“Not yet,” she said, “I haven’t even told you the best part. Did you know I could fly?”

“What?”

“I can fly.”

Lizzie, Maria Elena, and Eddie spent most of the weekend talking. And talking and talking. There were awkward silences in between the words, and each still kept quiet about things they found necessary to keep only for themselves, Eddie cooked for the two women on Saturday, cooked because he loved to, cooked because it was his way of spending time alone—but also his way of communicating gratitude. He had always wanted a warm kitchen where people gathered. He had never known a warm kitchen in the house where he was raised, but he had visited the maid’s house once, and he had found her kitchen to be a fine place to live. He had been six years old at the time, and he had asked her if he could live with her. He had always remembered that kitchen, remembered how that place had made him feel—like belonging. It felt like belonging. Standing over the stove, Eddie laughed at himself as he thought about how he and Maria Elena always fought over who would cook.

Saturday night, Eddie baked bread, and they rented old videos and argued over which were the best scenes. They laughed, and the laughter felt real and necessary and urgent. It was as if these three people were learning how to enjoy their new selves, getting used to new identities, new skins that were exposed to the air for the first time as if they had emerged from cocoons. They kept looking at each other to see if they had physically changed and were surprised that their bodies resembled their old shells. They often glanced at each other wondering at the strangeness of their lives, and each one, separately and together, was in awe of the lives each had led, in awe of this thing they were living, and each one was struggling desperately, if awkwardly, to respect the losses they had suffered.

Sunday morning, as Eddie was about to go out for a run, Maria Elena announced she was going to Mass.

“What?” Eddie asked.

“Mass,” she repeated.

“Do you even know where there’s a Catholic church?” Eddie asked.

“Of course I know.”

“May I ask why?”

“To pray.”

“To pray,” Eddie repeated. “Sometimes, I don’t know you.”

“I go to Mass, sometimes, you know? Not usually on Sunday, but I go sometimes during the week. You don’t have to keep a journal in secret anymore—and I don’t have to be a closet Catholic.”

Lizzie shook her head. “I didn’t know you prayed.”

“You didn’t even know my name until recently.” She placed her hand on her belly. “I want to go and pray.”

“Want me to go with you?”

“Not really, Eddie.” She smiled at him. “And anyway, you don’t want to go. What would you do there?”

“Sit next to you.”

“You can sit next to me when we watch television. This doesn’t have to be a group thing.” She noticed his look of relief.

“Just one more question, Nena.”

“Anything.”

“Are you going to raise our child Catholic?”

“I want to baptize him,” she said, “the rest is negotiable. You don’t want that, do you?”

“I’m not objecting, honey.”

“I know that look,” she said, “and you always call me honey when you disapprove of something I’m doing.”

“She knows that look,” Lizzie said—then started laughing, “and you always call her honey when—”

“Who hired you?” Eddie asked.

“I’m the sidekick.”

“Oh—and what does the sidekick think of all this?”

“The sidekick thinks it might not be such a bad idea. I mean I was raised as a nothing. What’s so special about that? Besides, the kid might learn something about prayer.”

“Prayer? You’ve done much of it, have you, Lizzie?”

“Smart-ass. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I just want to know on what basis you judge prayer as being something necessary. I mean, you obviously didn’t arrive at that conclusion via the vehicle of experience.”

“Via the vehicle of experience?” Lizzie asked.

“He talks that way sometimes,” Maria Elena said.

“You know what I mean. Tell me why prayer is good.”

“Because you empty yourself out,” Lizzie said.

“Then is it the same thing as an out-of-body experience?”

“In a way.”

“In a way?”

“Prayer is a centering.”

“Why do we need to be centered?”

“Because if you don’t feel centered, then you always feel like a wreck.”

“How can you center yourself and empty yourself out at the same time?”

“I’m not good at theological debates,” Lizzie said.

“I don’t think this conversation qualifies as a theological debate.” “I hate to break up this discussion, but I’m going to be late for Mass,” Maria Elena announced. “I better get dressed.”

“I want to go,” Lizzie said. “I want to go with you.”

“Why?”

“Because tomorrow I’m going to a Mass—a Mass for Salvador. I forgot to tell you. And I won’t feel so nervous if I’ve done it before.” The thought of walking into Mission Dolores Church suddenly filled her with dread.

“Done what before?”

“Gone to a Mass.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Elizabeth,” Eddie said. “It’s not like a piano recital—you don’t need to practice.”

“But Catholic churches are so scary,” Lizzie said.

“They’re not going to bite off your valuables,” Eddie smiled.

Maria Elena was amused by her husband’s uneasiness. “Are you coming, Lizzie?”

“Lend me something to wear?” she said.

They headed for the stairs. “I’m going for a run,” Eddie said. “Don’t forget to pray for the mass of perdition—and for the homeless—and pray for a revolution—and pray that all polluters be punished for their sins—and—”

“If you have that many intentions, then I think you better say your own damn prayers,” Maria Elena said as she walked up the stairs. She knew this was the beginning of a new battle. An old disagreement died, another was born. As Maria Elena dressed for Mass, she thought of her mother. She wished her mother had lived long enough to see her grandchild. Maria Elena wondered why she had omitted telling Eddie about how they had run away one night from their father as if that incident was a minor detail.

Eddie stood silently in the doorway and listened to them laugh as they changed in the bedroom upstairs. He remembered his parents had made him go to Mass every Sunday. He also remembered his mother had killed his father and herself on Sunday. After Communion, they went to Communion, and then she came home and blew their bodies away. Good, religious, conservative people. “Get dressed, Jonathan Edward, God requires…” He stood in the doorway cursing his father.

No one spoke about prayer or Mass when Nena and Lizzie walked back into the house that afternoon.

Lizzie cooked her favorite Sunday dinner, a roast with carrots, onions, garlic, and potatoes. Maria Elena baked an apple pie, and the kitchen was full of the odors and warmth and Maria Elena’s body. Eddie was happy just sitting in the room all afternoon, writing and thinking and half-listening to Nena and Lizzie speak of small things—old songs, bracelets, movies they had loved in that time of life when they were becoming women.

Eddie read them a poem from a book he was reading and they listened to his voice. Maria Elena was not listening to what the poem said, she just listened to the fact of her husband’s voice—it was soft and warm and she did not remember hearing anything as unthreatening as the sound that came from his body. She looked at Lizzie—she was very beautiful. Maria Elena set the table when it was time to eat, and she lit candles all around the dining room. Sometime between the salad and dessert, Lizzie had convinced Maria Elena to go with her to her brother’s memorial Mass.

“But you didn’t know him,” Eddie said to Lizzie.

“Does that mean I shouldn’t go?”

“That’s not it,” he said, “I think it’s grand that you’re going. It would be awful if no one went. It’s just that it sounds so strange for you to refer to him as your brother.”

“Was he less of a brother because I didn’t know him?”

Eddie said nothing. “You’re right,” he said, and then he seemed to go away from them.

Maria Elena knew he was visiting with the memory of his brother. Too much of him would be missing until she found him. She thought of Diego, tried to keep his name from entering the room. Too much of her was missing, too.

Lizzie thought of Salvador, repeated his name to herself, felt his touch on her palm. “You have a gift.” She thought of the two men, their names, Jacob and Joaquin. She knew she would go and find them and that their names would become as meaningful, as significant, as painful as Salvador’s. She knew Joaquin would die, the image of him on his deathbed became as real to her as the smell of Maria Elena’s apple pie. She felt she was at the beginning of something and she knew that the two people in this room would be a part of whatever was coming—and so were the two men. She could still picture the blond Jacob holding the dark Joaquin. She wondered how it could be that these men’s names were already holy on her lips. She did not know them. How could she love them? But she did love them, already, loved them almost as much as she loved Maria Elena and Eddie.

They ate dessert in silence. They were all a little tired. And a little sad.

Eddie got up and served more coffee. “It was a nice weekend,” he said.

“It was lovely,” Lizzie said.

“Lovely,” Maria Elena repeated.

Maria Elena dipped her hand in the holy water font and crossed herself as she walked into Mission Dolores Church, She breathed in the years of incense that poured out of the walls. She lit a candle and whispered a prayer from her childhood. Lizzie followed behind her in silence. She was glad Maria Elena had come with her, and now that she was in the church, she wondered why she had been so afraid of it, but wondered, too, why it still looked so familiar. She was beginning to believe she’d had a former life. When Maria Elena finished her prayer in front of the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, she took a seat in the third row. Lizzie nudged her as they sat down. She pointed at a man who was sitting alone. “There’s nobody else here.” She looked at her watch. “It’s ten o’clock sharp.” As she spoke, an altar boy and a priest robed in white moved toward the altar. Maria Elena stood up, and Lizzie mimed her friend’s actions. The priest kissed the front of the altar and lit the Easter candle. It went out almost immediately. He tried to light it again. It stayed lit for a moment, flickered, then went out again. He shrugged his shoulders. He then faced the empty pews and the three people in the congregation.

“He’s handsome,” Lizzie said.

“Shhh, it’s a church not a bar.”

“You sound like an old lady.”

“Priests are celibate.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Good morning” the priest said. He had a nice voice, Lizzie thought. Maria Elena nodded. “Let us begin this memorial Mass in thanksgiving for the life that has been bestowed upon us in the name of the father and of the son …” He crossed himself as he spoke.

I hate words like “bestowed,” Lizzie thought.

She noticed a brass urn sitting at the foot of the altar.

The ritual was simple, stark, serene. The light through the windows made Maria Elena think of the cathedral in El Paso where her mother had taken her to church as a child. Lizzie imagined what it would be like to be a believer. Somehow, she couldn’t picture herself as a believer. Still, she was moved by what was happening before her—the light, the incense rising as the priest blessed the book, the candles burning all around them. It would be a great place to make love, she thought. The priest was graceful and sincere. He was around forty and he seemed a very calm man. When he read from the book, his voice was neither dramatic nor perfunctory. He enunciated each word clearly. When it came time for him to preach a sermon, he said very little: “I did not know Salvador Aguila …” He continued talking but Lizzie’s mind wandered. She remembered feeling Salvador’s strong hands on her palm, the sound of his voice in her body. She thought of her mother and suddenly she was sorry she had not told her about this Mass—her mother would have come. She would have wanted to be here. But maybe, she thought, it would have been too painful. She remembered what she said—that she had been in love with him, wanted him more than she had wanted her. As she thought of her mother, she stared at the statue of a Virgin with a bleeding heart. She placed her hands over her mouth and trembled. “I know this place.” And then she remembered what she had been unable to remember—the dream—the dream she’d had—a terrible dream that had frightened her. “J didn’t have a body, I couldn’t touch my mother … and there was a man, a man.” She stared up at the priest who was pressing his mouth together, and placing his finger on his temple. “God only breathes through us. I believe this. I believe that God’s breath in the world changes with each death, with each birth …” His voice seemed good and warm, but she wondered if anything he was saying had anything at all to do with her. Did his life—this priest—did his life have anything at all to do with hers? She saw the priest sit down and bow his head. “Jacob, the man in my dream was Jacob.” Everything in her dream became more vivid than the present. “… And the sun was setting—or maybe it was rising. God, I hope it was rising. Yes, it must’ve been ris—” She felt herself coming out of her body. She willed herself back. Willed herself. Lizzie focused on Maria Elena’s hands folded in prayer until she was certain she would not float away from herself. She took a deep breath. She wondered about this thing called “prayer”—what was it? Why did people do it? She smiled. There was a tingling in her body. She tried to ignore it. She wondered about the life her brother had lived, what kind of man he had been. He seemed to think of himself as selfish—but people were often very hard on themselves. Maybe he had been a very kind man—maybe he had been decent and generous. Maybe he had loved deeply. Maybe he had been lonely—maybe he had been many things. But he had given her his gift. He could have died without giving it away; he could have taken it with him to the grave. He could not have been such a bad man, and she was certain he did not deserve to die as young or as painfully as he had. No one deserved that. Not her brother. She felt tears in her eyes and then a certain numbness. She didn’t want to feel anything. Why should she feel anything for this stranger, this brother who was now even more unreachable than he had been when he was alive. Then, as if from nowhere—or perhaps from a less conscious place in her memory—something that resembled rage began to run through her, and her heart began to beat faster and faster, racing, raging like a tuna caught on a hook. It was as if her father was in her—and she wanted to kill him—even if she had to kill herself to do it. “I hate you. I’m glad you’re not my father.” She had the urge to leave her body again. If she left—just for a moment—then she could escape the rage. “Free, look I’m—” She was floating in the church just as she had been floating in her dream—it was exact. She was as light as the incense, as light as the words of the priest, as light as the colors streaming through the stained glass windows. “It would be so pure to live like this—to be nothing but being, no longer obsessed with becoming.” At last she was perfect. She stared down at Maria Elena. She felt bad that her friend was burdened with a body. She saw Maria Elena reach for her arm—her body’s arm—not her arm—she had no need of an arm. In the dream, she had been afraid, but now that fear was gone—absent, banished. She heard Maria Elena’s voice. “Are you OK, Lizzie?” She sensed her friend’s panic. She entered her body again—for Maria Elena.

“Are you OK?”

Lizzie smiled at Maria Elena and nodded.

“Did you go away, Lizzie?”

She nodded and tried to focus on the priest. The hatred she had felt for her father passed like a tornado that had touched down, then went on its way. Now, she only felt the exhilaration of having left her body behind. “I can control it. I can.” She felt happy and rested. She smiled to herself and touched Maria Elena’s hand. Lizzie watched the young priest closely as he motioned through the rest of the Mass, the ritual cleansing of his hands, the words he whispered, half to himself, half to God, “Lord, wash away my iniquities, cleanse me of my sins.” She wondered about his sins. She wondered why he poured a drop of water into the wine. She looked up at the Host as he lifted it, and jumped at the sound of the bells the altar boy rang. When the Mass was over the priest and the altar boy disappeared down the aisle. Maria Elena and Lizzie sat in stillness for a moment. Suddenly, Lizzie felt as if she were about to leave her body again. She held on to Maria Elena’s arm. “Pull me back,” she gasped.

“Lizzie—what’s wrong?” The sound of her voice was enough to keep her from leaving her body.

“I almost left again,” she said.

“Again? Jesus—”

“Let’s get some air.”

As soon as they stepped outside, Maria Elena looked Lizzie over. “Well, you look fine—never better.”

“I’ve never felt better.”

“Well, if you feel so good, then why the hell are you trying to leave yourself?”

“If you could do it, you’d do it, too—it’s why I’ve never felt better. It does wonders for your complexion.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Elizabeth.”

“We’re at church.”

Maria Elena was about to scream at her when she noticed that the only other person who had attended the Mass seemed to be waiting for them at the bottom of the steps. Maria Elena nudged Lizzie and they both looked at him. He was tall and thin and had fine, light brown hair. He hadn’t shaved, and he seemed very ordinary until he smiled. His teeth were even and white, and Lizzie thought he was very beautiful. She smiled back at him. She walked up to him. “Did you know him?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’m his executor,” he said—then laughed. “He didn’t leave much. He was lucky: He had insurance. He held the urn in his arms. “It paid for his cremation. He said he had a sister. Are you his sister?”

He nodded. “Can you prove it?”

“That’s nice and friendly of you.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to be a hard-ass. I knew Sal for a long time. We were good friends. He was good to me. He wasn’t good to most people—but he was good to me. He helped put me through law school. I owe him. And I won’t have him ripped off after his death.”

“If it’s about money I don’t want it.”

“No, don’t say that. If you can prove you’re his sister, it’s yours. It’s not very much—ten thousand dollars. He said if you didn’t turn up in a year, then I could keep the money. But he said you would. And he said you’d be wearing long earrings. And so you are. He had a gift—”

“I know,” she said.

“I didn’t get a chance to see him when he went into the hospital. He died before I got there. I’m glad. He was very sad at the end.”

She nodded. “I know. I met him in the hospital. I’m a nurse at St. Mary’s. A strange and lucky coincidence.”

He didn’t seem surprised. “Not a coincidence. He knew.”

Maria Elena stood next to them listening. She felt a chill run through her.

“I’m Lizzie,” she said. “Well, my birth name was Maria de Lourdes Aguila. But I’ve known myself as Elizabeth Edwards for most of my life—until I met Salvador.” She reached out to shake the man’s hand.

He smiled as he gripped her hand. “I’m Daniel—Daniel Murphy.”

“And this is my friend, Maria Elena.”

They shook hands and nodded at one another. “Nice to meet you,” Maria Elena said, “you look familiar.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Yes,” he said, “you do, too. Did I meet you at a party or something?”

“Maybe? I can’t remember. I’m certain I’ve seen you. I can’t place where.”

“Are you married?” He looked at her stomach. “Sorry—it’s none of my business.”

“Yes,” she said, “I’m not offended—it’s not good to make assumptions.”

He nodded. “Maybe I know your husband—maybe we met somewhere through your husband. What’s his name?”

“Eddie Marsh.”

He laughed, “Eddie Marsh is your husband?”

“Yes,” she said. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Nothing—I’ve known Eddie for years. We’ve probably met before at some function or other. I handle all of your husband’s legal matters.”

She smiled, “It’s a small world.”

“Yes, it’s very small, and very mean,” he said.

“Well, if you’re a lawyer, it’s mean,” she said.

“Ahhh, yet another admirer of our profession.”

Lizzie laughed. “My father wanted me to be one of you people.”

“Stick with nursing,” he said. “It’s better for your soul.”

“Yes, well, I’ll trade you the condition of my soul for the car you drive and the house you live in.”

He smiled—then laughed. “I get your point.” He looked at Maria Elena. “I think I vaguely remember meeting you. You weren’t pregnant, though,” He smiled. “I see your husband often. Actually, we’re pretty good friends.”

“Well, Eddie doesn’t mix business and pleasure.” She smiled at her own response.

“Smart man.” He turned his attention to the urn he was clutching. He handed it to Lizzie. “He’s yours,” he said.

She stared at the urn she was now holding. “Aren’t you going to find out if I’m really his sister?”

“I’m satisfied. He told me his sister would have light brown hair with red highlights and that her name was Maria de Lourdes—and that she would go by Lizzie. I’m satisfied.” He handed her his card. “Call me about your brother’s will.” He laughed self-consciously at himself. “I sound like a lawyer.” He laughed again.

“You always laugh at yourself?”

“Always.”

Lizzie tugged on her earring, smiled, then looked directly at him and tried to read his face. “You’re not surprised by any of this, are you?”

“I knew your brother for a long time—nothing that ever happened while he was around surprises me—nothing.”

Lizzie nodded. “I don’t want his money,” she said. “Can’t we just give it away?”

“Anything you want,” he said.

“Just give it to someone who needs it.”

He nodded. “And his ashes—”

“His ashes? Did he want them scattered somewhere?”

“He went to high school in El Paso, Texas. His parents moved there—they had family there or something like that. Anyway, he said there was some kind of holy place—Christ the King—on some mountain. He said he wanted his ashes spread there. Something happened to him at that place—he was pretty vague about it.”

“El Paso,” Maria Elena repeated, “small world.”

“Huh?” he asked.

“El Paso—it’s my hometown,” she said.

“You know the place Sal talked about?”

“Yes,” she said, “I know the place. People go on pilgrimages there.”

He looked at Lizzie. “Your friend here will help you take care of it, then.”

They nodded. He shook their hands and started to walk away, then turned around and watched them. “Did he give you his gift?” he yelled.

“How did you know?”

“Just a hunch.” He smiled. Lizzie heard his voice inside of her. Use it well, Lizzie. She smiled back at him.