Secrets (Portentous Destiny Series Book 2)

by S. E. Rose

  “You have good life,” my grandfather says smiling warmly at me.

  “Yes, I have,” I agree. “Oh, I want to FaceTime Nick. He wants to meet you.”

  My grandparents look at me with curiosity. Nick’s face pops up on my phone.

  “Nick?” I ask.

  “Yep, I’m here,” he says. “You with our grandparents?”

  “Yes, uh, here, say hi,” I encourage as I turn my phone around, so my grandparents can see Nick. I do the introductions and introduce him to Lance after I rudely forget that he hasn’t yet met Lance, which seems odd to me but is in fact true. We spend a few minutes talking with Nick, and then he excuses himself to head off to a Sunday men’s rec soccer league.

  I offer to help my grandmother clear the table. I follow her back into the kitchen, and Lance brings us plates and bowls. We stand side by side. She washes, and I dry. It makes me smile as we work in perfect harmony and complete silence. It reminds me of Thanksgiving when the women would somehow always end up in the kitchen doing dishes. My dad normally cooked our meal, but Mom always cleaned up afterward.

  After we finish, my grandmother takes me into her bedroom and tells me to sit. She pulls out a box and opens the lid. Inside there is a photo album with photos of my mother, a baby blanket that was hers, various certificates and school awards, and a small stuffed dog. In Spanish, my grandmother explains each item. She is proud of her daughter. My mom was apparently very smart and did well in school. I finally ask her about Lorena. She explains that my mother’s godparents were the son and daughter of siblings that were also best friends with my grandparents. Apparently, my grandparents’ best friends were brother and sister and fixed my grandparents up on a blind date. They became inseparable from that moment on. Unfortunately, a few years after the siblings were each married and had children, they were on a trip to visit a cousin and were killed in a car crash. My grandparents then decided to have each of their eldest children serve as my mother’s godparents. My grandmother shows me photos of Lorena and her cousin, Felipe. She says that they still live in the old neighborhood and on occasion she sees them. She finishes going through all the items in the box and then closes it and hands it to me. I stare at her not understanding.

  “Por usted,” she says as she shoves the box toward me.

  “No,” I say. I tell her I couldn’t possibly take these things, and she tells me that she wants us to have them. I ask what she will have to remember my mother if I take this box and she laughs and pats my cheek.

  “You,” she says, a sad smile lifts the corners of her mouth.

  “You speak English?” I ask.

  “No, pero yo entiendo,” she explains.

  “Oh, you understand it,” I reiterate. “But how?”

  She explains that my grandfather had been a gardener, and his employer was British and only spoke English to him. So, while they both studied English in school, he became quite good at it. I smile at the thought of my grandfather and me sharing a similar career path.

  I ask her if she can set up a meeting with Lorena and myself. She nods and holds up a finger. She leans over and picks up a phone. It is old and black and looks more like something my great-grandparents would have than even my grandparents. It is corded but has push buttons at least. She dials a number and then speaks to what sounds like a woman on the other line, which I figure out is Lorena. After she hangs up, she says Lorena is free this afternoon, if we want to stop by and meet her. I nod.

  I go back out to join Lance and my grandfather, who are deep in discussion about international relations between our two countries. I smile as I listen to them discuss politics and then politely interrupt them to let Lance know we are going to see Lorena.

  “We see you next Saturday with Nick? Yes?” my grandfather asks as we all stand.

  “Of course, why doesn’t Lance come and get you, and we can barbeque at the villa?” I say as I make eye contact with Lance. He smiles, and nods and my grandparents agree.

  My grandmother hands me a slip of paper with Lorena’s address. I lean forward and kiss her cheek, and she pulls me in for a hug. She whispers in my ear that she is so happy God has brought me to her, and I am plugging the hole in her heart. I smile and hold back tears. My grandfather shakes hands with Lance and then gives me a hug as well. Lance takes the box from me and carries it to the car. I look up Lorena’s address on my phone as he sets the box in the back of the car. I give Lance directions, and we make our way across town.

  Chapter 18

  Lily’s Playlist: “Wonderwall” by Oasis

  Lorena’s house isn’t far from the church we visited. It’s a slightly nicer area than where Margarita lives and where my mom grew up. She is in an apartment building that is about five floors tall, and her apartment is on the top floor. We walk up as the elevator is out of service and knock on the door while I catch my breath. The door flies open, and a very pretty middle-aged woman answers the door. She greets us in Spanish and introduces herself as Lorena and invites us in. We follow her into a sparsely furnished living room with a nice view of the area. She offers us coffee and we accept.

  Once she’s back and we are settled, she asks me how I came to find them all. I relay my story and she sits attentively and listens, asking questions here and there. I remember that I have the photos from Sister Margaret in my bag. I pull the one from her class out and hand it to her. She smiles and then sees Father James and she frowns. She explains that my grandparents had spoken to her and she just couldn’t believe that he had raped my mother. I ask her why and she says it’s just a feeling she has, but he didn’t seem the type. She says when Father James was first there when she was a girl and my mother was born, he was very different than the Father James that came back later when my mom was a child. She asks if we spoke with Sister Rebecca and I say no and ask who that is. She encourages me to go back to the church and speak with her. Then she speaks of my mother and tells me a number of wonderful stories. Even though she was about fourteen years older than my mother, they were very close growing up and she felt more like a big sister to my mom than a godmother. I smile at that, glad to know my mother had a friend. I ask if my mom ever said anything to her about things that were going on in her life. At first, she shakes her head and then pauses.

  “Si,” she says. She says a few months before my mom disappeared, she stopped in late one night and snuck into her bedroom. My mother said she knew a secret about Father James but couldn’t tell anyone. She said she had overheard a conversation she should not have heard, and she also knew other things. Lorena asked what she had heard, but my mother only said that she couldn’t say except to tell her that Sister Rebecca knew more.

  We small talk a bit more and then Lorena says she has to be somewhere. She asks if we can stop by another time when she can talk with us for longer. She gives me a big hug and shakes Lance’s hand before she ushers us out.

  “Did that seem strange to you?” I ask Lance as we walk back down the staircase.

  “Yes, she seemed hesitant to speak about your mother’s secrets. I would suspect she knows more than she let on, but perhaps not,” he contemplates.

  “I thought the same thing,” I say. “Can we swing by the church on the way back to your house?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  We pull up to the church and meander the hallways until we bump into Sister Margaret.

  “Well, hello again,” she says. “What brings you two here today?”

  “I’d like to speak with Sister Rebecca, if that is possible?” I ask.

  She frowns. “Sister Rebecca was moved to a different church a while ago.”

  “Oh, do you know where?” I inquire.

  “Yes, of course,” Sister Margaret replies. She draws us a map to the other church and then bids us good luck.

  I turn as we walk out. “Sister Margaret, do you recall anyone saying that Father James was different when he came back?” I ask.

  She frowns again and starts to open her mouth to speak and then shuts i
t. It is a minute before she speaks.

  “Yes,” she starts. “But, people do change. Life can change a person.” Her words seem guarded and she smiles and turns quickly before I can follow up with another question. As we walk to the car, I’m quiet, deep in my own thoughts until I feel Lance’s hand on my shoulder. I turn to him.

  “Is your life always filled with such mystery?” he asks, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

  “Nope,” I answer. Now, I frown. “Why do I get the feeling that everyone is keeping secrets around here?”

  “I think because they are,” he says grimly as he opens the car door for me.

  It only takes ten minutes to drive to the other church. It’s in a quiet residential section downtown, just a few blocks off a main street. I walk past a park and into the church. I stop a young nun and ask if she knows Sister Rebecca. She nods and points me toward a door in the back of the church. Lance follows me, and we walk down a hall until I come to another door which opens into an office. A young woman sits at a desk, and beyond her, I can see an open door into another office with a priest sitting at the desk on a laptop. I can’t really see him from where I stand, but I recognize his uniform. I introduce myself in Spanish and she answers me in English.

  “How may I help you?” she asks.

  “Oh, you speak English,” I state, more to myself than anyone else. “I was looking for Sister Rebecca?”

  “One moment,” she motions to the chairs behind us.

  We sit, and I watch as she walks into the office and closes the door behind her. A moment later she appears.

  “He can see you now,” she says and points toward the office.

  I look at her confused as she said “he” and we asked to see a nun. As I walk in, the man behind the desk becomes visible and I stop dead in my tracks. The man behind the desk is the spitting image of Father James. He’s older, maybe late fifties, but he is no doubt identical to the man in the photos I have from Sister Margaret. I try to remain calm and I slowly force my legs forward until I reach the desk. I’m glad it’s a good ten paces because it gives me a few seconds to collect my wits.

  “Hello, I’m Father Nicholas,” he says, smiling. “How can I help you?”

  As it takes me a moment to regain my composure, Lance chimes in. “We were looking for Sister Rebecca,” he says, not missing a beat.

  “Oh, I see,” he says, the smile leaving his face. “May I ask why you want to see her?”

  “It’s complicated,” I manage to say.

  “Enlighten me,” he says and motions for us to sit. I look at him and decide against mentioning that he looks just like another priest I’ve seen.

  “I…” I clear my throat. “I’m adopted and was doing some family history research here in Ibague. Sister Margaret suggested that I come speak with her.”

  “Sister Margaret?” he asks, his brows furrowing.

  “Yes, from the church…,” I start, but he stops me by a raise of his hand.

  “I know her,” he says. He pauses for a moment looking at me, really looking at me and I see a flash of something in his eyes, recognition perhaps? “Sister Rebecca is unfortunately deceased.”

  “Oh,” Lance and I say together.

  “She was killed in an accident not too long ago,” he explains. “Perhaps I can help you?”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” I say with a frown. I’m not sure I want to tell him anything. “How long have you worked here?”

  “In Ibague?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Well now, it’s been a number of years. I’ve been at a few churches here,” he explains.

  I sigh. Seeing no other options, I think to myself, what the hell? And I decide to tell him, most of my story.

  “My twin brother and I were born here twenty-three years ago. Our mother was a teenager and died giving birth to us. We were adopted when we were three and have grown up in the U.S. I’m back here working at the orphanage where we were at and trying to do some family history research,” I explain. “I was told perhaps Sister Rebecca had some information that would be helpful with my research as she had been at the church when my mother went there.”

  “I see,” Father Nicholas says. “And what was your mother’s name?”

  “Rosa Miranda Rodriguez Ramirez,” I reply. His face goes white then and I know he knows something. He looks at me then for a full minute, just staring at me up and down. I’m about to speak when he opens his mouth and then closes it and then opens it again.

  “You look just like her,” he says.

  “You knew her?” I ask, my hands are knotted, and I can feel the blood drain from my face.

  “I…my…” He seems lost for words and looks out past us to the woman at the desk. “Perhaps we should go for a walk.”

  “OK,” I say slowly. Father Nicholas stands, and we follow him down to the park we passed on our way here. He finds a bench in an uncrowded part of the park and sits. Lance and I sit down next to him.

  “When my brother and I were young, my mother always said she wanted at least one of her children to become a priest or a nun. We were two of five children. The only two still alive. We were the youngest, born six minutes apart. Even though we were identical, we were never alike. However, we both did end up studying at seminary together. I always felt protective of my brother. I thought if I could look out for him, then I could keep him safe and out of trouble.” He pauses, sighing. “Back then Colombia was a dangerous place for Americans, well, for everyone. The FARC were strong and drug trade was getting big. We were young, and we wanted to make a difference. We’d both excelled in Spanish in school. After we finished seminary, we asked to come here. They sent my brother first and then some issues arose, and they moved him to Bogota for a bit. Meanwhile, I had come to visit here and fell in love with the city. I worked alongside an older priest, Father Michael, who was from Ireland and Father Juan who was a local. I learned so much from them. Eventually, I was able to argue for my brother to come back here. It was a bit comical. The locals at both of our parishes didn’t know we were twins. The local communities were poor and often didn’t go in between the different sections of town. So, there’d be no reason for them to know. I was always mistaken for my brother and vice versa. Which was good for him, but not for me.”

  Father Nicholas looks at me before he continues. I see something in his eyes, regret maybe. I sense he is profoundly sad.

  “A few years later, I heard rumors. Terrible rumors. I didn’t want to believe my brother was capable of such horrible, unmentionable things. One day, I decided to go speak with him. I went to his office and I heard a commotion. I threw open the door and a young woman, barely a teenager was partially dressed and hiding in the corner. She was so scared. She ran out of the room and my brother tried to tell me she was attempting to come on to him. Of course, the look of fear in that young girl’s eyes told me different. I went along with his story but started investigating him. I didn’t want to tell anyone until I knew for sure. I found that young woman a few weeks later. I told her I needed to know what happened, but she wouldn’t say. Eventually, after trying to get her to talk for weeks, I dropped it and asked her if she just wanted to get coffee. She was suspicious but agreed. I befriended her. She was very smart and hoped to go to university on scholarship. She wanted to be a teacher. After a few months of mentoring her, she finally confided in me.” He stops again and puts his hand to his mouth as if he wants to stop the words from coming out.

  “She was being sexually abused by my brother. I wanted to be sick. She was young, not even fifteen. She said it had been going on for a few years. She wanted to tell her parents, but she was ashamed. She knew it was happening with other kids too. Kids even younger than her. I told her she needed to talk to someone. She shook her head. She was very scared and said that my brother was also involved with some terrible crimes, maybe even worse than sexual abuse. She said he wasn’t just abusing kids. He would also get kids to come see other priests that were being se
nt here from places like America because the church knew what they were doing and wanted to hide them. It was all so awful. I tried to talk her into leaving, but she wouldn’t leave her parents. A few weeks later, she came to me crying. She was pregnant. I knew my brother would do something terrible to try to cover up that he was the father. So, I told her I needed to hide her away. With help from some nuns, I sent her to an orphanage in Las Naranjas. It had just opened a few years before and they needed help. She told me her parents said this was OK and not to speak to them about it because they were disappointed in her for becoming pregnant. The orphanage allowed her to go to school during the day and help out at night. One night she disappeared, she was nearly eight months pregnant. The director called me the next day, but I never found her. A friend of hers had said she was hiding out at a friend’s house because my brother had found her, and she was afraid. This friend said she’d make contact with me when she thought it was safe. And that was the last I ever heard of her, until today.”

  I stare at him, as the realization dawns on me that this young woman was…

  “Rosa was the young woman,” he says, acknowledging my thoughts. “You look just like her. My brother, Father James, is your father.”

  “I know,” I say automatically as my mind is far away. “I think I’ve known this for some time now.”