The Miracle of Saint Lazarus

by Uva de Aragón

  “And no one knows this?”

  “You can’t imagine, apart from the uncertainty of not knowing whether my daughter is alive or not, the weight of carrying a secret like this for so many years…”

  “I know, it’s a heavy burden…but eventually you’ll have to tell him.”

  “If we find her, yes, but I think then he’ll be happy and forgive me.”

  “You don’t think he suspects anything?”

  “Him? No, you know how clueless men are when it comes to these things. And surprisingly enough, my mother doesn’t either, and she’s so clever. She thinks I had sex with Ray before getting married. But you know who I think does suspect something? My daughter Elena… I don’t know, I just have a hunch.”

  “It’s because they look so much alike, and they’re both identical to your husband.”

  “That’s true, perhaps that’s the reason why, but I don’t think she’s ever been certain and maybe that’s for the best. It’s difficult to explain to your kids that you’ve lied over so many years.”

  Maria stood up when she saw that Gladys, although worried, seemed relieved after revealing her secret. She also asked her if she could have her husband’s hairbrush or toothbrush so she could extract some DNA and told her that they would come for her saliva sample tomorrow. It was the fastest and safest way.

  “I’ll give you his toothbrush… I have two new ones and can replace both his and mine. I do that occasionally so he won’t suspect anything… I’ll look for my daughter’s as well. I have all her things safely stored in a box.”

  “The most important part is that we find your daughter, Gladys. Everything else will work itself out.”

  This time, Gladys Elena Lazo said goodbye to Detective Duquesne with a strong hug.

  Chapter 21

  Day 24—Wednesday, November 25, 2015

  The first thing that Maria did when she got to the station was call Odalys Fuentes, the woman who had taken care of Sole in New York. She wanted to know if she remembered where Soledad had worked so that maybe she could get her social security number, or at least the one she used back then. She suspected that the woman had learned the art of falsifying documents from her partner. It wasn’t going to be easy to trace Soledad’s steps; at any rate, she got through to Odalys’s answering machine. She left various messages, but the woman never responded to any of them. She presumed that maybe, like so many people, she was at some relative’s house for Thanksgiving, the busiest travel day in the United States.

  Her own office was half-empty and quiet since many were preparing the big family dinner for the next day. Traffic was another story. Shopping centers, in particular ones with stores like Publix, Winn Dixie, or Costco, were especially jam-packed. The lines at the Honey Baked Ham stores were impressive too. The take-out places were equally full. Many Cubans typically substituted a pork shoulder for turkey. Others marinated the bird with mojo criollo and served it with black beans and rice instead of the traditional mashed or sweet potatoes.

  Fernandez would not be coming back until Monday, and Maria decided that she shouldn’t wait too long to organize all the leads they had. She had begun reading her notes when her cell rang. It was from Kendall Hospital. Joaquin del Roble had asked to see her. Fearing that he had gotten worse, Maria didn’t waste any time getting in her car and going to see him.

  Contrary to her fears, she found him sitting up and looking much better than he did when she saw him a few days ago. They greeted each other like old friends. Maria asked him about his health:

  “Well, it looks like I won’t die from this… I’m better, or at least that’s what they say…”

  “You look good.”

  “I think I saw you on TV in the rescue efforts for that guy who faked his own death.”

  “Yes, it was a waste of time and resources, and it has put me a little behind on the case, just when we’re starting to get solid leads.”

  Maria told him what she had found out about Alberto Gonzalez from the Cuban police; however, she didn’t tell him the new information they had about the girl since she now knew they weren’t blood relatives.

  “Look, Detective Duquesne, I couldn’t finish my story for you before, and it probably would have saved you some work.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Maria took out her notepad and recorder, and del Roble consented with a nod.

  “I was already aware of what you’ve figured out…more or less… The thing is when they found Alberto’s body in the canal, I looked up his mother’s phone number in Cuba. I felt that I had a duty to let her know. She was inconsolable and kept repeating, ‘But what he did here was just child’s play. He didn’t deserve to get kicked out of school…he was just a kid.’ That part puzzled me. That same night I called her again with the pretense of seeing if she had calmed down. This time I asked her for her son’s full name and date of birth. I told her it was for the obituary and the death certificate. That’s when I realized that his name was neither Raimundo nor Lazo and also that he was actually seventeen when he arrived. At the moment, I didn’t make the connection that they had falsified papers for him or that they had blackmailed him, and that as a result he was forced to give them information about me that led to my attack. I didn’t figure that out until much later. Regardless, that didn’t change my opinion of him as a good kid. When I spoke with Alberto’s mother, and she told me even more things that her mother had told her about my brother, I was certain that he was my great-nephew. Alberto’s wife had just arrived from Cuba, and they were broke…”

  “So that’s why you paid for the funeral?”

  “Yes, that’s why, and I don’t know, because of a certain family honor, out of an obligation to my brother. How would I have felt if they had thrown him in a common grave?”

  “You’re a very good man, Don Joaquin.”

  “Come on, don’t exaggerate. A few dollars more or less don’t matter at my age. The important thing is to have a clear conscience. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes…and that’s why I’d like to do something for you.”

  Del Roble looked deep in thought.

  “Detective Duquesne, you don’t owe me anything.”

  There was a brief silence, and then Maria saw that sparkle in his eyes and that old Spaniard’s devilish grin that she had seen before.

  “I know what you want! Are you sure it won’t harm you?”

  “Of course not, and even less if you join me.”

  Maria looked at the time.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little early?”

  “Truth be told, yes. It would be better after the nap.”

  “Well then, I’ll return at that hour, but I won’t be able to stay long.”

  “I know. You probably have to cook for your family. But I am going to appreciate it very much.”

  Before going back to the station, she stopped by her father’s house for a moment since it was on her way. She took some turkey slices and a Greek yogurt out of the refrigerator and ate it while listening to the news on CNN and her father’s comments about football teams. In spite of her son’s love for this sport and now her father’s, Maria still didn’t understand it, but hearing her father’s enthusiastic tone pleased her.

  When she got back to the office, Keppler asked her to lend him a hand in a fraud case they were investigating. They had arrested a woman in Puerto Rico for using a false birth certificate to apply for a US passport and a driver’s license in Florida. They were trying to determine whether it was an isolated case or part of a larger scam.

  Maria worked for a few hours gathering information on passport applications, but at four in the afternoon Keppler himself suggested that she take off and wished her a happy Thanksgiving.

  A half an hour later she was back with Joaquin del Roble. In her purse, she had a small bottle of whiskey. They drank it from paper cups, and the Spaniar
d became nostalgic remembering his native land. He even sang old songs that his grandmother had taught him as a child.

  Maria wanted to be back at the house when Patrick and his friend arrived, so, despite having a good time and feeling bad leaving the old man alone, she said goodbye and promised that she would visit him again soon. She was sincere. She had grown fond of the old Spaniard.

  She hadn’t been home half an hour when she heard Patrick open the door, and she ran to hug him.

  Immediately she asked:

  “And your friend, didn’t he come?”

  “Yes, Mami. But heads up, it’s not a guy. It’s a girl.”

  “Oh!”

  “I told you, a friend,” he emphasized in English.

  “Yes, you’re right. I was the one who assumed it was a guy.”

  “Mami, she’s really just a friend. We don’t have any other type of relationship, but she didn’t have anywhere to go. I’ll explain later.”

  As the adorable girl came in, Maria assumed she was African American at first, but later learned she was Haitian.

  Patrick told her to take his room and that he would sleep on the couch in the study.

  The kids had already eaten on the road, so the girl, who seemed shy, went right to her room.

  Maria and Patrick stayed in the kitchen. She had a cup of tea while he downed a huge glass of milk.

  The mother knew her son well. She didn’t ask him any questions. She sipped her hot tea and finally looked him in the eyes tenderly where she saw a budding sparkle of passion. Patrick began to speak, slowly at first:

  “Mami, I met Mathilda at the beginning of the semester. We have a history class together. You can’t imagine how smart and sensitive she is and what she has gone through in her life. I admit that I didn’t know anything about Haiti, even though so many Haitians live here in Miami and we always hear when they drown in boats in the ocean… I’m not saying I understand all of this now, although the course we’re taking is about Caribbean history. Despite being shy, Mathilda argues with the professor because obviously she knows more about her country than he does, just like I know more about Cuba… During the political violence that they experienced there, when Mathilda was about eight, in 2004 I think, they killed her grandfather.”

  Now Patrick began to speak more quickly, gushing, as if he needed to get out something very painful:

  “The worst part was the 2010 earthquake. She was buried under rubble for almost a week. It was a miracle that they found her alive! And the entire time, she was there with her grandmother beside her, who was injured and then later she died, with her head resting on Mathilda’s shoulder. Can you imagine? When they rescued her she set out to search for her parents, but she never found them. She still doesn’t know if they’re dead or alive, although she has come to accept the worst. For three years she was living from house to house with different relatives until an uncle who was able to come to the United States took her to New York, where he lives with his family. Imagine getting used to that fast-paced city after only living in Haiti! She tells me that she has forgotten a lot of things but more than anything the ability to express her emotions. In addition to the love of her aunts, uncles, and cousins, she says that what saved her was her studies because she always wanted to get a good education. When she graduated from high school, they offered her various scholarships, and she chose the one from the University of Florida because she doesn’t like the cold at all… Little by little she’s been getting stronger, but she still has a weekly session with the psychiatrist via Skype…”

  “The things you can do in the modern world!” exclaimed Maria.

  The comment relieved the tension a little. Maria listened to Mathilda’s story and thought about how the same thing had happened to Joaquin del Roble and Rosa Blass, how so many people had suffered so much, and how Cubans believed that they were the only ones who had lived through a national tragedy. Besides, the story about the young girl who was now sleeping in her son’s bed moved her, and she felt proud that Patrick felt empathy and solidarity for Mathilda.

  “I invited her to come because her uncle couldn’t pay for the ticket for her to go to New York for four days… I knew that you would understand.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She stood up. Patrick did the same.

  “Mami, we have so many things to thankful for…”

  They embraced each other in silence.

  Chapter 22

  Day 25—Thursday, November 26, 2015

  Patrick and Mathilda entered the kitchen at the same time. Both gave Maria a kiss. It was uncommon for Americans to greet one another so affectionately, but the culture of Haiti where the girl had grown up was another thing. Maria offered to fix them breakfast, but Patrick explained that he had unfortunately agreed to have it with his dad. She saw them leave holding hands. The contrast of her son’s very white skin and the girl’s dark skin was…Maria didn’t know how to describe it…a little shocking. She knew that it wouldn’t matter in the least to her father, but perhaps she should give David a heads up. Then she thought about the shock that it would be for her ex-husband Bill, and she started laughing so hard that the sadness felt by Mathilda’s story turned into great joy because she would be able to spend that day with so many loved ones.

  She searched for a classical music channel on the television and got ready to lay out on the countertop all the ingredients for her famous turkey stuffing: the Italian sausages, the package of Pepperidge Farm corn stuffing, Swanson’s chicken broth, apples, butter, onions, celery, nuts, cranberries and the spices: salt, pepper, thyme, parsley, and sage. Even though the recipe didn’t call for it, she added dry wine. It seemed like she could hear her mother’s voice:

  “Rare is the dish that doesn’t improve with a little dry wine.”

  This time, while she went about things, Maria photographed the mixture of ingredients. She had a Facebook page with a fake name that only a few friends knew. Police officers were not permitted to post their private life publicly, but she thought documenting the process of cooking her son’s favorite dish was one way for him to make it in the future. She was glad that these days the roles of men and women weren’t as defined as before. She could picture Patrick cooking with as much ease as if he were a girl.

  When she finished, it smelled great, but half the kitchen and a pile of pots and pans were dirty. She scrubbed, cleaned, went through her email, read the newspaper, and watched some of the Macy’s parade on television until it was time to shower and get dressed. She wanted to be ready ahead of time because she knew that her father would arrive early and that at the last minute Patrick would ask her to iron him a shirt or sew on a button that he had lost. As it turned out, the old man did arrive beforehand but her son didn’t need anything from her. He and Mathilda were ready right on time. Maria didn’t want to arrive too early, and she thought it would be a good idea to try to ease Mathilda into things a bit before she had to meet the others at David’s. She asked her whether she spoke French and Mathilda nodded. Maria made an effort to remember a language she studied for many years but hardly ever practiced. Patrick looked at her amazed while Maria spoke French animatedly with the girl whose face seemed to light up.

  They took a few pictures before heading to David’s house. Her father brought two bottles of wine, and Patrick carried the big casserole dish with the stuffing.

  “You’re going to eat something delicious…nobody makes it like my mom,” he told Mathilda.

  When they were in the car, Lourdes called her. She was giddy.

  “Oh, Mariita, you were right. I know that you’ve probably already seen it on television, that’s why I didn’t call earlier. Anyway, we had a good time and stayed a few days in New York, but if you’re going to be home, I’ll stop by and drop off a few things.”

  Maria explained that they were on their way to celebrate Thanksgiving with friends, and they agreed to get togeth
er soon.

  David and his kids received them as if it were the most natural thing in the world, even though she had forgotten to tell her colleague about Mathilda. It surprised her how nicely the table was set and how organized everything was. After a few drinks and snacks, the adults chatted and the others watched football in the den until David and his kids began working in the kitchen. They didn’t let her come in, not even when she said she needed to heat up the stuffing.

  “We’ve got this.”

  Fifteen minutes later, everything was set up on a table adjacent to the one in the dining room: the platter with sliced turkey and other dishes with sweet potatoes, stuffing, and another with green beans and crispy onions. There was also an appetizing salad and a basket with warm dinner rolls.

  David was telling everyone their place at the table and asked:

  “Who wants to say grace?”

  It surprised her that her son volunteered.

  Everyone joined hands.

  After Patrick finished giving thanks for the food, good health, loved ones, freedom, and the good fortune they all enjoyed, his voice cracked when he prayed for those less fortunate.

  Maria realized the impact that his friendship with Mathilda had had on him. Secretly, she thanked God for having a son like Patrick.

  The food was delicious, the kids happy. Maria was glad she had accepted David’s invitation. Actually, there were many things for which she was thankful that Thursday in November. Nevertheless, although she was trying to put it out of her mind, the same thought kept haunting her: it was one more holiday that Gladys Elena Lazo celebrated without her daughter.

  Chapter 23

  Day 29—Monday, November 30, 2015

  The long weekend had been a much-needed break. Maria couldn’t remember feeling that happy in a long time. She had enjoyed dinner at David’s house, the time she spent with Patrick and Mathilda during the short period they were home, the lunch and the movies that she had watched on TV with her father on Saturday, and David’s long visit on Sunday after his kids returned to their mother’s house.