Secrets (Portentous Destiny Series Book 2)

by S. E. Rose

  I moan something of a protest against his cheek and his hand grips my thigh as he rises from his chair. I begrudgingly follow him. It doesn’t take us long to drive to a working-class neighborhood. It seems barren. Old one- and two-story buildings line the street. The streets have giant potholes that seem to swallow the car. Some people sit on steps and otherwise at midday the streets look somewhat deserted. There’s a hint of graffiti and once in a while, a single, lonely tree’s branches peek out from behind a building. Lance parks the car and leads me to a simple-looking two-story row house of sorts. He knocks on the lower level door and after an agonizing minute a very frail, old lady opens it a crack.

  “Si?” she squeaks out in a hoarse voice that makes me think she must smoke a pack of cigarettes every day.

  I give her a warm smile and explain that I was adopted and am looking for my maternal grandparents. I give her their names and I see her eyebrow twitch. Slowly, painfully slowly, she opens the giant wooden blue door and motions for us to come in before looking up and down the street and shutting the door behind us.

  The apartment isn’t at all what I expected it to be from the outside. Inside the walls are nicely painted in warm shades of orange, red, and brown. Off the entry hallway, there is a family room and dining room with old furnishings. I can see a small kitchen beyond the dining table. And what looks to be a traditional laundry room beyond that. Somewhere the rooms open to the outside as I see natural light flowing in from the kitchen.

  She motions for us to take a seat on an old sofa by the front window, which is covered with neatly woven lace curtains that I can only assume she made many years ago. She takes a seat in a recliner across from us and asks us if we want anything to eat or drink. We decline.

  She leans back, taking us in with her ancient, knowing eyes. They look to have been a dark brown at one point, but the beginnings of cataracts give them a washed-out appearance. Her gray hair is pulled up in a bun on the back of her head and she wears a black, knee-length skirt and red, floral, button-down blouse. She has black shoes that look more like they should be worn by a nun than a little old lady living in a decrepit part of town.

  She asks me my name and I tell her. She nods and says her name is Margarita. She starts to unhurriedly speak in Spanish; although I’m not sure if it is to make sure that we understand or if she is just too tired to speak faster.

  “Your grandparents lived across the street,” she starts and points to a one-story home painted blue on the top half and white on the bottom half. “They had a daughter, Rosa. They doted on her. She was a wild child, always running around in bare feet. They would take her up to the church all the time. I think her mother thought the priests could heal Rosa of her spunkiness. I saw less and less of her as she grew up and then one day I just stopped seeing her altogether. She must have been fourteen or fifteen. About a year after that her parents moved away. I watched them packing up an old truck and then I came out and asked them where they were going. They said they were moving to Versailles, another part of town. They just couldn’t bring themselves to stay in the house. I asked why, and the mother teared up and walked away. The man told me their daughter had run away and had not returned. They assumed she was dead, but weren’t sure. He had lost his job, as he was trying to look for her and was always leaving early. So, they ended up having to move after they failed to pay the rent at that home. He had a new job and I think he just wanted a fresh start, to be honest.”

  She stops speaking and stares out the window toward my grandparents’ house. I turn, following her gaze. She looks back to me.

  “You look like her,” she says.

  “I know,” I whisper.

  We are silent for a moment, both of us assessing the other.

  “Is there anything else you remember?” I ask.

  She thinks for a moment. “Father James,” she answers.

  My eyes widen, and I ask her to repeat herself.

  “Father James, from the church around the corner,” she explains. “He used to come and collect her all the time.” She stops for a moment, unsure if she should continue, but decides to anyway. “I don’t think she liked him very much.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, he started coming around for her just a year or two before she disappeared. She always had this look on her face when he’d take her hand and lead her up to the church,” she says even more slowly, “it’s like she was being led to her death.”

  I grip Lance’s leg as puzzle pieces fly together.

  “Thank you,” I say, and I stand. She takes her time getting to her feet and I can feel Lance gripping my arm. We follow her as she shows us out.

  I shake her hand and her eyes grow wide, wider than normal. For a moment I think she might have a heart attack.

  “You have a brother?” she asks.

  I know my eyes are even wider than hers in that moment. “Yes, but how…?”

  “I sense things,” she says. “Do you have a photo of him?”

  I pull out my phone and find a recent photo to show her. Her eyes widen further, and she nods and hands it back to me. “Find Father James and I think you will find many answers,” she says as she shuts the door quickly behind us.

  I turn and stare at Lance. “Well, I guess we need to find Father James,” he says.

  I nod. “I’d like to ask around Versailles for my grandparents before we go looking in Bogota,” I say as we walk back to his car.

  “Let’s go there now,” he suggests as we get in the car. I mumble my agreement as I stare at the buildings we pass.

  We arrive in an area of town not far from where Lance’s villa is located. Versailles is a small middle-class community near one of the city’s two malls. The streets are somewhat barren, but more kept up than the other community we just came from earlier. There are some streets with trees and more people walking about and several cars parked along the roads. The yells and laughter of children at the nearby school can be heard as we park the car and begin to walk around. A small café sits on a corner nearby. I walk in and find two older gentlemen discussing politics. I approach them and apologize for my interruption before asking if either of them knows a Maria Liliana Ramirez de Rodriguez or Francisco Alberto Rodriguez Caraval. They look at each other, skeptically. I’m not sure what the look says. The one man seems a bit stunned while the other has a hint of amusement in his eyes. Neither says anything for the longest time, so long that I start to repeat myself. The stunned gentleman raises a hand to stop me. When he speaks, it is in broken English.

  “I am Francisco Alberto Rodriguez Caraval,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me, assessing me with a look of curiosity and familiarity. “And you? Why an American look for me? I do nothing wrong.”

  I put my hand up then to stop him. I feel Lance coming up behind me protectively. “No, no. I don’t think you have done anything wrong. I…I…well, is there somewhere we could speak, privately?” I ask, looking around as I speak.

  His friend rises and nods at us. “No problemo,” he says as he stands and bids us “hasta luego” and then exits the café. The three of us are now the only patrons in the place. I can hear someone in the back cooking, but no one is at the counter. I take the seat vacated by the amused, older gentleman. Lance grabs a seat and sits next to me, his hand touching my back. I wring my hands, twisting my fingers around one another. My hands tremble and I gaze into my grandfather’s eyes. He looks at me now and I see his eyes widen and his hand comes up to his mouth.

  “But…is no possible?” he whispers as his hand falls into his lap. I reach over and place my hand on his, the similarities striking me at once.

  “Señor Rodriguez,” I begin, “I believe I may be your granddaughter.”

  He nods and with his other hand he tentatively reaches out and touches my cheek. “You so much like my Rosa,” he says, as he looks at me as though I am a ghost. “Eyes, chin, how do you say? Oh, nose.” He reaches out to touch near each as he speaks, his voice shaky. His eyes look back to mi
ne. “How?”

  I take a very deep breath as a million different emotions run through my mind. I can feel Lance grasping my trembling hand. I close my eyes for the briefest of seconds and take a steadying breath. “My mother was your daughter, Rosa. I don’t know how, but the doctor who delivered us suspected she was raped.”

  He stops me as his eyes widen. “Us?” I am surprised that that one little word is the one that shocks him.

  “I have a twin brother, Nicholas,” I explain. “Rosa, my mother, died after she gave birth to us. They didn’t know who her family was, so we were sent to an orphanage in Las Naranjas. My parents came visiting the orphanage on a vacation, dropping off clothes and toys for a friend of theirs. They ended up bringing us home six months later.”

  He’s quiet as he processes all of this information. “We think she is dead for many years now. But we no think she had babies. You say she raped?” he asks finally taking it all in. I nod and say it again but in Spanish. He nods his understanding. His nod fades into a shake of his head and he puts his head in his hands and begins to weep. I glance at Lance who encourages me to go to my grandfather with the slightest push on my back. I get up and kneel down in front of him, placing my hands on his knees. After a minute or so, he uses his well-weathered hands to wipe his eyes and then his gaze fixes on me. “So much like her…,” he says, trailing off as he looks at me.

  “I know,” I whisper back, swallowing down my emotions. “I saw a photo last week.”

  He looks at me with curiosity.

  “I went to the church where Mom was baptized,” I explain. “A nun, uh, Sister Margaret, had taught her Sunday school class and had a class photo.”

  “Si,” he says quietly. “Come.” He stands and takes my hand in his. I walk with one hand in my grandfather’s and one in Lance’s. I can’t remember ever feeling so safe, so content. I sense Lance’s eyes on me and I turn my head toward him. He squeezes my hand and I grin at him.

  We walk two blocks and turn onto a side street. At the third house, my grandfather unlocks the door and we follow him inside. The apartment is small. We enter into a sitting area that also doubles as a dining area that opens into a kitchen and in the back hall I can make out a laundry room, bathroom, and bedroom.

  “Lil,” he says loudly as we enter. An older woman comes out from what looks like a small courtyard off the laundry room. She is wiping her hands on an apron and glances up as she walks toward us. She stops dead in her tracks. Her mouth falls open and she reaches for a chair to steady herself.

  “No, no possiblé,” she says as tears emerge at the corners of her eyes.

  My grandfather releases my hand and walks toward her. He takes her into a loving embrace, whispering in her ear as he holds her. It’s a tender moment, almost a private moment. I feel awkward standing here now. I hear her cries as the truths I have just told my grandfather resonate in her mind. It’s only when Lance wraps his arm around me, that I realize I am shaking.

  “It’s OK, Lily,” he murmurs in my ear. “Give her a minute. It’s a lot to take in.” I feel his lips press against my hair and I immediately calm down. My shaking subsides to a mere tremble.

  I watch my grandparents embrace for two or three minutes before I hear my grandfather whisper again in my grandmother’s ear and she nods her head slightly. He pulls back and helps her to sit in a chair by the table in front of us. She begins to sit, but then promptly gets up and walks straight to me. She cautiously raises her hands until they touch either side of my face. We are about the same height; she is just slightly shorter than me. Our eyes connect, and I feel the tears run down my cheeks as I watch the same reaction on her face. She pulls me against her and holds me. I feel Lance’s hand release me and I wrap my arms around my grandmother. We cry for a while, five, ten minutes. I’m not sure. I lose track of time. For the first time in my life, I feel at home, at peace. She rubs my back as I cry, and I wonder if she did that for my mother when she was upset. I suddenly feel a tinge of guilt as I don’t want to think I feel any more at peace than I did with my mom and dad. I stop crying and my grandmother pulls back and kisses my forehead. She uses her apron to wipe my tears.

  “Por favor, sientate,” she says, motioning for us to sit on the sofa.

  We sit, and my grandparents sit and we all stare at each other for a few moments until my grandfather laughs. We all turn and look at him.

  “Is so unbelievable,” he says with a slight grin. He turns and translates for my grandmother and she laughs a little too. “I explain to her,” he says softly. I nod.

  I shake my head and reach into my pocket, pulling out my cell phone. “My brother,” I say pointing at a photo of Nick and me. They look at it and their eyes get big, very big. The same reaction as Margarita had earlier in the day.

  My grandmother’s eyes tear up again. “No, no, no, no, no,” she says between sobs. Neither one explains their shock. Instead, my grandfather rises and walks back to the bedroom. Dumbfounded I sit there staring at my grandmother as she stares at our photo. My grandfather walks back in and hands me a photograph. It is a photograph of a baptism. Younger versions of my grandparents stand, holding a baby and a priest stands next to…holy shit! The priest is the spitting image of my brother. I begin to shake as the reality of the situation dawns on me. “Father James...,” I manage to squeak out before trailing off as I look at the photo on my phone which is now swaying back and forth with each tremble. My grandfather just nods and sits down again looking completely defeated. I feel Lance’s arm come around me as he looks from the photo on my phone to the photo in my hand.

  “Holy shit,” he mutters under his breath.

  My grandparents embrace and sob for a while. I feel awkward, as though I’m interrupting yet another very personal moment. Eventually, my grandfather turns to Lance and me.

  “We not know. We think Padre James is good man. Mio Dios, por que?” he says and looks up at the ceiling as tears stream down his cheeks.

  “Lo siento. I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “It’s all my fault.”

  My grandfather’s eyes move back down to me and he stands and walks over to me before kneeling down, so we are eye to eye. He takes my face in his hands.

  “No, mi amore, no blame you. Is no you fault. We know bad thing happen to Rosa or Rosa be here with us. We want truth for long time. And now…” He trails off and looks down for a moment before his eyes bore into mine again. “We know.”

  My grandmother comes over to me and caresses the side of my head. She looks into my eyes lovingly.

  “But to every storm, there is a ray of sunshine. We have you and your brother now. That is more than we could have hoped for,” she says slowly in Spanish. I nod my agreement.

  “And I have you,” I say in a soft whisper. I stand and pull my grandfather with me and the three of us embrace. When I look up, Lance is standing watching us with tears rolling down his face. He smiles at me and I smile back at him. I slowly release my grandparents and we all stand back and gaze at one another for a few seconds.

  “Can you come for dinner tomorrow?” my grandfather asks.

  “I…oh…we have plans tomorrow. Sunday?” I ask. I can see my grandfather struggling with the day of the week. “Domingo?” I say again in Spanish.

  He nods and looks to Lance. Lance and I glance at each other as we realize we haven’t properly introduced him to my grandparents.

  “Oh, sorry. This is Lance my, uh, my…” I find myself lost for words.

  “Her boyfriend,” he says, finishing my sentence. My grandfather raises an eyebrow at us and then shakes hands with Lance.

  “You are both welcome for lunch on Sunday. We go church at ten. You come at twelve?” my grandfather asks. We nod, and he tells my grandmother.

  “We speak more on Sunday. We have much to think,” my grandfather tries to explain, and he hands me a piece of paper with their phone number.

  “Yes, we have all had quite a shock. I think we need time to process it,” I agree.

  I hu
g my grandmother first and she whispers in my ear that she is certain God has sent me to her to fix the hole in her heart. This only makes me cry again. Then I hug my grandfather. I explain that I will try to FaceTime my brother, so he can meet them on Sunday. They don’t understand, but I explain that they will understand better on Sunday. They nod, clearly confused, but wanting to please me. Lance shakes their hands as we exit their small apartment.

  We make it about twenty meters from their doorstep before the overwhelming feelings of what just happened overtake me. Lance catches me in his arms and pulls me to him as I break down and sob. He holds me there, stroking my hair and whispering in my ear. I feel like a wreck. I have never been this emotional. Normally, I’m not so serious, but now all of my carefree feelings seem gone. Of course, I’ve also never known this much about my past. After a few minutes, he holds me at arms’ length and looks at me. He raises one hand to my cheek and I tilt my head against it. He slowly raises my face to his.

  “You are the bravest, strongest, most beautiful woman I know, Lily,” he whispers as he wipes a few stray tears from my cheeks.

  “I don’t feel very brave or strong right now,” I acknowledge.

  He kisses my forehead. “I think we’ve done enough for today, Lilypond. Let’s head home and order a pizza. Cody should be home soon.”

  I nod and smile as he uses the same nickname my family does. I take his hand as he leads me to his car. I’m silent on the drive to his villa. So many thoughts are running through my head. When my phone starts vibrating from a call, I jump and jerk it out of my pocket.

  I don’t recognize the number but answer anyhow.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Hello. Is this Lily Stevenson?” a woman’s voice asks.

  “Yes, may I ask who’s calling?” I inquire.

  “Uh, yes, of course, this is Julia Garcia. You spoke with my grandfather, Dr. Juan Garcia, the other day,” she explains.

  “Oh right. Yes,” I say a bit confused by her call.

  “My grandfather passed away a few days ago,” she says softly.