“How did the suicide story get started?” I have the sneaking suspicion Laurel and Olivia are involved, and I feel sorry for the sweet, outgoing Emily, whose reputation and sanity are being dragged through the mud.
“Well, I think Laurel got word that Xander had broken up with Emily on the telephone over the summer. Laurel’s imagination just went wild when she heard Emily was in the hospital. Of course, she would never say that story to Emily’s face, because she’s actually a two-faced rat!” Camilla points a finger in her mouth to mock-gag herself. I laugh at the sight of Camilla’s crossed eyes, and it dawns on me how unfair it is that she can make such a stupid face, all the while still easily being the most beautiful girl I know.
We continue the trek through the huge house to the front door.
“What do you think of Xander?” Camilla uses her poker face with this question, which is amusing because her intent is clear; Camilla thinks that because of what happened today, she can convince me to date Xander.
“Well, he’s gorgeous, that’s a no-brainer. He’s nice . . . I just can’t think about that right now. Javier is my boyfriend, and I really do love him. I’ve got to go home so I can call him. I need to know the truth, good or bad…” my voice trails. “I’m hoping it’s not what it seems.”
“I totally understand. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Xander that I spilled his little secret to you.”
We’re finally at the exit. Camilla pauses at the front door, where a vase full of fresh flowers sits atop a small, round, marble-topped table. She lifts up the vase and hands me a pink rose. Then, holding the flowers, she turns the vase upside down, spilling water all over the foyer floor. She stuffs the roses back in the vase and returns them to the table, wiping her hands on her skirt. With a smirk, she winks at me as she opens the front door. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“Thanks, Camilla,” I say, and I mean it.
On the drive back to my house, every worse-case scenario races through my mind. What if he’s married? That would be the worst of all scenarios, of course. I think I might go crazy just considering all the possible reasons to justify Javier’s lies. No explanation makes any sense, though. Maybe he’s in witness-protection and can’t tell me who he really is. Yeah, that excuse is just ridiculous. If it were true, he sure as hell wouldn’t be at a royal ball being photographed with a beautiful girl for the entire world to see in freaking Hello! magazine. Outrage begins to push the immense sadness out of me. My ears burn in anger.
***
I’m lost in my internal war as Camilla pulls into the driveway of my family’s home.
“Thanks again, Camilla.” I try a convincing smile but know I failed.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay, Evie?” Camilla’s dark brows furrow, and I’m moved even more to tears because I’m seeing a side of Camilla—the caring, devoted, loyal side—that Xander has told me about, but I’ve not witnessed until now.
“I promise,” I whisper.
“Call me if you want to.” Camilla gives me a quick peck on the cheek and a sincere smile.
“I will.” I open the car door, grab my bag, and step out.
“I’ll be home this weekend if you want to come over,” Camilla says through the passenger window.
“Okay,” I wave, as she backs out of the driveway and whips her car around to her own driveway. I’m glad Camilla lives across the street. I know I’ll need a close friend to lean on. I really miss Coralea right now, but Camilla has proven to be a true friend as well. I don’t go inside until her car disappears into the garage—maybe because I’m not ready to call Javier yet. I take a deep breath as I go inside and head directly up the stairs.
“Evie, is that you?” Grandma Winnie calls from the kitchen where she’s making dinner. I can smell her award-winning meatloaf baking in the oven.
“Yeah. I have a lot of homework to do,” I holler from the top of the stairs.
“Okay, I’ll yell when supper is ready.” I hear her slamming cupboards as she works.
“Okay, thanks!” I have no idea where the twins are, but I assume they’re at football and dance practice. Dad usually picks them up after work. Good, I’ll have no interruptions while talking with Javier on the phone. Now I just need to think about what I’ll say, how I’ll explain what I saw. I slam my bedroom door shut and plop down on the twin-sized bed, pulling my knees up to my chest. The tears start again, and I press my face into my bony knees, hoping to calm myself. This won’t be an easy call to make, and I need to be sure that I can speak clearly. I close my eyes and take several deep breaths to steady my voice.
I pick up my phone from the dresser and push the number saved in the directory for Javier’s cell phone.
“This phone is no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again,” a pre-recorded voice informs me.
What’s going on? I decide to try the number that I also have stored in my phone for his apartment in Seville. The call is answered on the second ring.
“Allo?” A male with a British accent answers. I’m beyond confused at this point.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“Who is this?” the voice on the other end counters.
“Is Javier there?”
“Again, I ask, who’s calling?” The voice sounds annoyed and highly impatient, so I decide to answer him before he hangs up on me.
“This is his girlfriend, Evangeline.”
“Evangeline?” He sounds surprised. “Girlfriend? Are you the blonde or the brunette?” He gives a muffled laugh.
“I’m the ginger.” I feel my cheeks growing hot. “Who is this?” I ask again, wondering why he won’t answer that basic question.
“This is Rafe, his roommate. Well—former roommate. Bloke’s run off somewhere again.”
“Oh,” I say, my heart sinking.
“But I would think you would know that, if you’re his girlfriend as you say.” His voice is serious. “Are you sure you’re not a stalker or something?”
Despite feeling like my insides are being ripped out, I somehow give an obnoxious snort of laughter: yeah, right.
“Sorry, have ta ask. You know he has to beat the girls off with a bat, right?” He laughs. “Something about that whole tall, dark, and handsome thing they seem to find irresistible. Oh, and the rich part doesn’t hurt, either.”
“Excuse me?” I have no idea what to say to that. Is he trying to tell me that my boyfriend is a player? Wait—rich?
“Or maybe not.” He backtracks. “Listen, Javier isn’t here, and I haven’t a clue when he’ll return. He comes and goes without warning. He allows me to live here rent-free in exchange for taking care of the place.”
“How much upkeep could an apartment need?” I ask. Living in Spain is not cheap; the taxes alone would bankrupt most Americans. It’s odd that Javier would not require rent from him.
Rafe howls with laughter, “Apartment?”
“Yeah. What’s so darn funny?”
“Love, this isn’t an apartment. It’s a five-hundred acre estate, complete with a horse farm. It’s one of the hardest nonpaying jobs I’ve ever had.”
“What?” My heart jumps up into my throat.
“Maybe I’ve said too much.” Now he sounds worried, like he’s given away some closely guarded secret. “Listen, I have to go. Can I give him a message for you?”
“I’d rather talk to him myself. Do you have the number in Italy where I can reach him? I know he said he would be going to stay with his mom for a while.”
“Ummm.”
“What?”
“His mother lives in New York City. She has for the last five years. She owns a talent agency there.”
“Oh.” Not only am I confused, but I’m completely humiliated. I think if I were a stalker, I’d probably know more about Javier Santos de la Cruz than I actually do.
“Listen, I don’t know where he is right now, but I really don’t think he’s in Italy. The best I can do is to relay a message for you when I do se
e him again. Sorry, love.” His voice is sincere.
“Fine. Please just tell him to call me as soon as possible.”
“Will do. Good-bye, Emmanuelle.” Click.
“Wait—” I wail into the phone, but it’s too late. There’s no point in trying to call him back; he obviously has no answers for me.
I sink down into the bed and throw the phone across the room. Feeling completely helpless, I cry myself to sleep.
CHAPTER 12
The weeks march on. It’s been two months with no word from Javier. I’ve contacted Cora at least twice a week, and she assures me there have been no sightings of him in the Andalusian region. It’s a complete mystery to me where he’s gone. I’m helpless to do anything here in DC. I don’t know anyone in his family, and my calls to the Seville house have gone unanswered. All I can do is wait and hope that he contacts me. I refuse to consider the worst-case scenarios, and push them out of my mind.
I distract myself with parties and study sessions. I go out on weekends with Camilla and Xander as they attempt to reintroduce me to DC. So much has changed since I last lived here. I’ve discovered that one of my favorite places to go to be alone, lost in my private thoughts, is the World War II Memorial. The sound of the water fountains soothes me. I tuck myself in a corner away from the tourists who snap photos of themselves next to the engraved stone tributes to their home states, and watch the world go by.
I’ve also been studying to get my driver’s license, which has been a fairly reliable distraction. I want to get it before my eighteenth birthday at the end of this month. Today’s the big day to try for the license, but there’s a matter of some paperwork to finish up. Before I go to my appointment at the DMV, I need to find my birth certificate and passport for identity verification. I’ve spent the morning turning the house upside down, but I can’t seem to find them anywhere. The last room I have left to search is my dad’s office, but he’s warned us to stay out of his files, so I’m hesitant to go in there.
I hear Grandma Winnie come into the house through the garage door, finally back from her morning yoga class. Now I will have her help, and as long as she’s here I feel like it’s okay to search the office.
“Grandma, do you know where my passport and birth certificate are?” I ask. “I need them to get my driver’s license.” I’m frantically shuffling through the mess of papers in Dad’s roll-top desk as Winnie enters the office from the kitchen.
“Let me think . . . Oh, I hate moving. It seems everything gets misplaced in the unpacking process,” Grandma Winnie sighs. “I’ll go up to the attic to see if they got mixed in with some of your father’s old documents.”
“Okay, thanks. I have to be at the DMV in half an hour for my appointment!” If I’m late for my appointment with the DMV, I’ll have to reschedule. I don’t want to wait; I really want my license now. I yank at a drawer pull—locked, dammit! I find a key in the roll top and place it in the drawer’s keyhole. Yes!
The first thing I come across is a glass-top wooden box containing my father’s war medals. I thumb through some papers and find a yellow document folded in half at the bottom of the stack. Opening the tattered paper, the first thing I notice is my full first name typed on the document. I’ve become so accustomed to being called the diminutive, Evie, and I am in such a rush, that I almost don’t notice an obvious discrepancy. I start to fold the document again, but something makes me open it up to read the full name: Evangeline Grayce Hamilton. Hamilton? I scan over the document more carefully:
Morgan General Hospital
Martinsville, Indiana
Announces the birth of:
Evangeline Grayce Hamilton
Born this Thirty-first day of October, 1998
to:
Mother: Amelia Hamilton
Father: XXXXXX
I sit down hard on the rolling office chair, almost tipping it over and falling to the floor. I grab the desk to balance myself and sit, gaping at the document. My mind reels, trying to make sense of it. Suddenly I realize why I do not look like anyone else in my family. I’m trying to remember the year my parents were married, but then I surmise that I never actually knew. Things that have gnawed at my subconscious my entire life are starting to surface and make sense. My father was always slightly more interested in the twins, and somewhat distant and authoritative with me. Not even my grandmother regarded me with as much emotion, compared to the twins.
“Evie! I found them!” I hear Grandma Winnie’s footsteps as she descends the stairs. I fold the birth certificate and place it in my front pocket. I frantically stuff everything back into the drawer and lock it, and place the key back in its proper spot. I sit straight up in the chair just as Grandma enters the office.
“Here you go, Eve,” she says, handing me the passport and familiar Indiana state-issued birth certificate on which my name is printed as Evangeline Grayce Sweeney. My mother is listed as Amelia Sweeney and my father as Nash Michael Sweeney. The birthday and year are correct, but typed at the bottom is an issue date of November 22, 2001, the year my family moved to Japan when Dad was transferred to Okinawa.
“I wonder what happened to my original birth certificate—the one with the baby’s footprint and mother’s fingerprint,” I say and watch her face for a reaction that may give me some indication of her level of knowledge.
“Well, I don’t know. I imagine it has been lost over the years, with all the moving your family has done.” Her demeanor is relaxed and innocent enough.
“Grandma, what year were my parents married?” I try my best to appear casual, but I’m no actress.
“Well,” she puts her hand to her chin and looks up as if she’s thinking really hard, but the gesture strikes me as a little phony. “I don’t remember. My memory isn’t that great anymore. Why?”
“Oh, just curious.” I don’t want to show her my discovery just yet. I have a lot of thinking to do before I confront them. “Well, I have to go if I’m going to make my appointment time.”
“Do you need a ride to the license branch?” Grandma Winnie smiles, but the sudden and deliberate change of subject does not escape my attention.
“No, thanks, Camilla is going to pick me up,” I say, and as if on cue, I hear the toot of Camilla’s car horn outside. “Well, better go.”
“Okay, good luck.”
“Thanks.” I shove the documents she gave me into my purse, and I try to smile as I walk past her and out the front door.
Camilla is checking her teeth in the rearview mirror when I jump into the car.
“Hey,” she says as she applies hooker-red lipstick to her lush lips.
“Oh, my God, Camilla. Look at this!” I pull out the folded certificate from my front pocket and hand it with trembling hands to her.
“It’s a birth certificate,” Camilla says, unimpressed. She tosses the paper back to me and turns her attention to the mirror again.
“Look closer, Camilla!” I say, waving it in front of her face. I feel myself nearing hysterics.
“Whose is this?” Camilla stares closer at the certificate.
I shout this time. “It’s mine!”
“Wait . . . I don’t get it,” Camilla says, frowning.
“Evidently, it’s my birth certificate. I’m the only Evangeline in the house.”
“That means . . .” A look of realization surfaces on Camilla’s face. She holds back, but I finish the thought for her.
“I’m not a Sweeney. It means Nash is not my father. Winnie is not my grandmother. Ethan and Emma are not my siblings. It means this family has been a lie!” I feel the tears starting, but I fight them with a quivering lip.
“Evie! Have you talked with your dad about this? Maybe it’s fake.”
“Camilla, it is real. And no, I haven’t talked to them about it because I just found this, like, five minutes ago. I was too shocked to say anything to Grandma Winnie. I just stuffed it in my pocket and ran out of the house.” I can’t hold back the tears anymore. I raise my arm and sob
into my bare elbow. She puts an arm around me, hugging me against her bony shoulder.
“Evie, do you want to reschedule your driving appointment?” she asks in a hushed voice. I angrily dry my eyes with my forearm.
“Hell, no!” I assert. “Nothing, and I mean nothing, is keeping me from getting my license. Let’s go!”
“Are you sure you’re up to it, Evie?” Camilla says, concerned. “You don’t want to fail because you’re upset.”
“Absolutely,” I say to reassure my friend, but I’m really just trying to convince myself. “I’ve never been surer about anything! I will talk with Da—Nash about it tonight when he gets home from work.”
“All right then,” Camilla says and eases the car into the street.
***
As I sit on my bed, staring at my freshly printed driver’s license, I’m wrestling with what I should do about today’s discovery. Although I’d spent the entire drive to the license bureau crying, I am grateful that my photo turned out okay. My face isn’t too noticeably blotchy, but the tears did wash away my make-up. The picture does make me look young, though, which is appropriate considering I feel like a lost, scared child right now. It’s the same vulnerable feeling I had after my mother died, and I constantly worried about what would happen to our little family.
I’m waiting for my father to return home and trying to come up with a way to inform him of my discovery. What will he say? Will he tell me the truth? I can understand why my mother kept the truth from me, because I was very young when she died in that horrible crash. But why hasn’t Dad told me the truth? Did he think I couldn’t handle it? I should at least have had the chance.
Dad is home. I hear his baritone voice praising Emma for a job well done on her science test. My heart races as I try to decide how to bring up the topic at the dinner table while still maintaining civility. I am sure he’ll be livid that I went through his papers in the locked, roll-top desk.
The Saints of the Cross Page 14
