Dr. Mendez had already gained approval with the group home for me to visit Joshua during his absence, so it took little coaxing to convince Mona to allow me to take the child to Mass at the Basilica and on a picnic afterwards.
My spirits lifted. A stepping forward rather than a retreat.
The phone rang. It was Morgan.
My newly lifted spirits dove back into the dry well inside of me. Could just the sound of his voice do that?
“I’m not sure what happened last night,” he said.
I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror, a sketch on white canvas—no contour, no color.
A sigh came from the other end of the line. “Guess I had no right butting into your business the way I did.”
The pounding of my heart reminded me that I was still alive and well.
“You’re upset,” Morgan said.
It felt as if I were walking a slack line over Niagara Falls without a harness. My legs started to shake, and I leaned against the bathroom vanity for support. “I understand you’re trying to be helpful, Morgan, but, really, I don’t need a bodyguard. You’ve already got your hands full looking for your sister.”
“Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have questioned you like that,” he said.
Normal circumstances? Nothing, no matter what the circumstances, gives one person the right to dictate to another. Nothing makes it okay. “I need a little time alone,” I said.
“Do you really mean that?”
I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure. I should have been, but I wasn’t. I wanted to be understood as a person, a person trying to sever her dependence on systems and rules, someone trying to find her own voice.
“There are a few things I need to share with you,” he said. “Give me the opportunity to explain, and I think you’ll understand.”
Let go. Take a chance. Wasn’t that what Dr. Mendez had encouraged me to do? “I’m meeting a friend for twelve o’clock Mass at the Basilica. Would you like to join us?”
Morgan didn’t answer.
“He’s seven years old,” I said.
An intake of breath. “I’ll be there.”
🗲🗲🗲
No sooner had I reached Joshua’s side than Mona greeted me and hurried away, her exit too quick for my taste. Shouldn’t she have lingered a little longer, fussed a bit more? Sadness burned a trail from my throat to my belly. This kid needed the love of a mother, not the ministries of a caregiver. No wonder he appeared so . . . not sad, really, just not whole. I took his hand. “Come on sweetie. Let’s go say ‘Hi’ to Jesus and Mary.”
We dipped our fingers into the font of holy water and crossed ourselves before entering the sanctuary. We were early, so I took Joshua to the Belen Chapel to light a candle to Our Lady of Bethlehem and pray for his parents as he’d been doing last time we met. The icon of the Blessed Virgin Mary held the Christ-Child in her arms, and I wondered if seeing the loving bond between mother and child was what Joshua found so appealing.
After Joshua had finished praying, I led him up the tiled walkway to the front of the church, our footsteps sounding like drumbeats throughout the hallowed chamber. We genuflected and entered the third pew, where Joshua knelt, folded his hands on the edge of the wooden bench in front of him, and stared at the ornate altar with what appeared to be longing.
I heard footsteps, the lowering of kneelers, whispers, and coughs while the church filled with parishioners. And just as the organ launched into the entrance hymn and the priest and altar servers started up the center aisle, Morgan slipped into our pew. “Sorry, I’m late. It took some doing getting here.”
Joshua leaned back and peered at him, then straightened and refocused on the altar, but not before I’d caught the look of curiosity that lit up his eyes.
During the organist’s rendition of “Amazing Grace,” I sensed a presence, as though my body had developed a second skin only inches from my own. Experience had taught me not to tense up or be afraid. I closed my eyes and let the presence speak.
The white men look at the statues . . . so stiff and cold, and the Padres imitate the statues, but my tribesmen and I fear them. We are captives . . . made to sit for hours, talking to their silent God. The Son is nailed to a cross. The Mother Mary is full of sorrow. Sad eyes are everywhere, looking up. I look up, too, but see nothing.
Only the music vibrates with life. It enters my blood and flows through me. It makes the hours of prayer bearable, as long as I do not look at the statues.
The organ moans, ‘Why, why, why?’ Through music, these people seek to understand. It helps them as nature helps me. It is the substitute . . . quite lovely in its own way. The composer must have come very close to God.
Whose thoughts was I hearing? The newly baptized mission Indian Margarita? But I didn’t speak Costanoan or Spanish. How could I possibly understand what she was thinking?
Joshua touched my arm. Mass was over.
I took the child’s hand and put the voice out of my mind.
“Joshua, this is Morgan,” I said after we’d stepped outside the church and into the bright sunlight.
Morgan offered his hand. “Hello, Joshua.”
They exchanged handshakes, but the child said nothing.
Morgan’s eyes met mine, and with the uplift of brow and pursing of lips, he communicated that he knew something was wrong. “Do you two have plans for lunch?”
I nodded, thinking fast. Should I keep our excursion private or invite him to come along? Both prospects felt right, felt wrong. I flipped a coin in my head.
Heads.
“We’re picnicking at Garland Ranch Park. Care to join us?”
Morgan’s eyes glinted like sunlight reflecting off emerald glass. “It’s a great place for horseback riding.”
His words appeared to lift Joshua from a state of lifelessness to full attention. His head jerked, his lips parted.
Morgan spotted the change in him. “Do you like to ride?”
Joshua nodded.
“How about today?”
He turned to me for an answer.
Horseback riding? What kid wouldn’t jump at the chance? An outing on horseback would also provide the perfect opportunity for me to discover if he could handle a guided trail ride to into the Ventana Wilderness. “Sounds good to me. What do you say, Joshua?”
His head bobbed up and down.
“I’ve got a picnic basket in the car,” I said. “There should be plenty of food for the three of us.”
“Perfect,” Morgan said. “Mind if I drive?”
There he goes again, taking over. “Sure,” I said, not about to ruin Joshua’s day with another disagreement.
“Wait!” It was Mona with Gabriel in a pet basket. She covered the distance between us with a speed that left her panting. “I’m glad I caught you on time. The cat was getting fidgety, started tearing things apart.”
I had missed my stray and reached for him, but Joshua beat me to it. With the speed and confidence of ownership, he claimed his pal.
Morgan watched the exchange, his expression thoughtful.
“I’ll go get the picnic basket,” I said.
What was it with me and the cat? You’d think I’d mothered him from birth the way he tugged at my heart. I sent out a silent message into the so-called collective consciousness. I love you Gabriel. You’re doing a good job.
Morgan hoisted Joshua and Gabriel into the backseat of the pickup. My self-propelled hoist was more of a struggle, but at least, this time, I wasn’t wearing a thigh-revealing dress to hinder my progress. Before he drove off, Morgan called a friend and arranged to have three horses delivered to the park. I silently wondered at his easy access to such resources after only a short stay in Carmel Valley but kept the thought to myself. The diesel engine vibrated reassuringly, like the purr of a contented cat, and in less than fifteen minutes, we reached our destination: 4,500 acres of forest, chaparral, and grassland.
I slid out of the truck and turned to help Joshua do the same, but he had already managed on his own. Morgan retrieved a blanket from the back of the truck as if he’d known in advance that he’d be taking part in just such an occasion.
We picnicked in a clearing next to the Visitor Center, only a footbridge away from the parking lot, so Morgan could keep an eye out for his friend and the horses. No sooner had we finished our meal than a pickup truck pulling a gooseneck horse trailer entered the parking lot.
“That’s Jeff with the horses,” Morgan said. “I’ll get them saddled.”
I nodded, my attention focused on Joshua. He shifted from foot to foot, his gaze riveted on the horses about to be backed out of the trailer.
“I could use a little help, Josh,” Morgan said. “Care to give me a hand?”
I’d never heard anyone call the child Josh before, so I held my breath and waited for his response.
If eyes are windows to the soul, Joshua’s soul appeared suddenly joyful.
“Come on, cowboy,” Morgan said, “the horses are waiting.”