The Saints of the Cross

by Michelle Figley

  “Evie! Dinner’s ready!” Grandma Winnie calls. I grab the yellowed, frayed birth certificate from my dresser top and fold it small enough that I can easily hold it in the palm of my hand. I clench my left hand in a fist and head down the stairs to the dining room. I take my usual place next to Emma, and as if on cue, we all bow our heads while Dad says a short grace.

  We begin our usual conversation of the occurrences of the day. I stay quiet. I see each person talking, but I don’t hear their words. I can’t bear to look across the table at Ethan as he bites into Grandma’s award-winning fried chicken. His spiky, blond hair and piercing, green eyes—blatant reminders of our unshared heritage—are enough to make me feel like bursting into tears.

  I watch as Emma hands her math test to Dad, the bright-red A+ visible at the top corner of the page. I look at Grandma Winnie, her curly silver hair neatly coiffed as though she has just left a salon. She smiles at Emma, showing coffee-stained teeth behind her red lipstick. So many emotions course through me, that sorting out how I feel about the whole situation is almost impossible.

  On one hand, I’m furious at my father for having not told me the truth for my entire life. On the other hand, I’m grateful for everything he has done to care for me after my mother passed away. Part of me wants to scream out the truth right now, hoping that Dad and Grandma will feel guilty for what they’ve done to me—so that all the pain, grief, and confusion tearing me up inside to be transferred to them.

  Another part of me wants to burn the evidence and just go on as we always have. But I know that isn’t going to happen. I can’t look at them the same way anymore, because they aren’t my real family—we don’t share anything. As I realize this fact, something inside me dies. I feel this pain as real as if someone has staked my heart. The sorrow and the loss are overwhelming. I lower my eyes from the dinner table scene in front of me and press my lips together to stifle the sob caught in the back of my throat. I don’t want my family to see me cry, because they’ll know something’s wrong, and I don’t want them to know just yet what I discovered this morning.

  That’s right, they aren’t my real family. Somewhere out there, my real father is alive and I need to find him. But how? Why was my mother not married to him, and why has he not tried to find me? The thought that I am not truly Evangeline Sweeney is mind numbing.

  “Dad—” I blurt out, interrupting their conversation, but I stop dead in my tracks, eyes wide, because suddenly an idea comes to me. I’ll travel to the town on my birth certificate to look for my family. Dad will never go for it, which is why I need to keep my plan a secret. I need to devise a way to travel to Indiana without Dad or Grandma Winnie finding out. The solution? I’ll have to enlist the help of my friends.

  “Yes, Evie?” Dad’s voice breaks my hurried thoughts. I realize I’ve been sitting quietly staring into space for a few minutes. Every eye at the table is trained on me.

  “I got my driver’s license today,” I say as I reach into my jeans pocket, trading out the folded birth certificate for my license. I make the decision to forego confronting my father in favor of gathering more evidence of my discovery—of the truth. I pull the license out of my pocket and hand it over to my father, fronting the most convincing smile I can muster. Dad takes the license from me and examines it closely. There’s an expression on his face that I’ve never seen from him before—one full of unabashed fatherly emotions. It’s a look that threatens to unhinge me.

  “Absolutely gorgeous, Evie.” He looks up and smiles warmly at me. With a wistful look in his eyes, he adds, “Your mother would be so proud of you. Congratulations, darling.”

  Inside my chest, my heart breaks into a thousand, irretrievable little pieces.

  CHAPTER 13

  After dinner I run across the street to Camilla’s house. I’ve figured out how I’m going to get to Indiana to find my real father. I’ll tell my dad that I’m spending the weekend with Camilla, then she and I can drive to Indiana. I already Google-mapped the distance on my cell phone and found that it would only take twelve hours to drive to Martinsville, Indiana on the major highways. Because this weekend is Fall Break, we’ll have four days off in which to make the trip—plenty of time.

  “I can’t Evie. I’m sorry,” Camilla says when I tell her about my plan. “We’re going to New York for the weekend for my aunt’s wedding. I’m a bridesmaid. There’s no way I can back out of it now.”

  “That’s okay.” I try not to sound like my heart and soul are sinking into the abyss, but they are. I push the huge mess of clothing on Camilla’s bed out of the way and take a seat on a sliver of the corner.

  “Are you sure you even want to do this?” she asks, as she continues overstuffing her Louis Vuitton suitcase. “You don’t know what you’re going to find when you get there. You may not get the fairytale ending you’re expecting.”

  I absolutely hate when Camilla makes sense, because it only occurs when we’re talking about me. It never happens when we were talking about her and Christian. The situation is hugely frustrating because I can’t come right out and tell her what a creep I think he is. I just can’t bear to hurt her like that.

  “I realize that things might not end up all Norman Rockwell-like, but I have to find my real family. I have to find my real dad. I could have siblings I don’t know about.” My voice catches in my throat, and I ball my hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “What if my real dad doesn’t know about me? What if my mother never told him? He deserves to know as much as I do.”

  “What about Nash and your grandma? What’s going to happen when they find out about all this? What’s going to happen to the twins? This will change their reality as well, Evie.”

  “As far as Nash and Winnie are concerned, I don’t care. They should have told me the truth sooner. And I don’t think the twins will understand what’s going on. They are my half-siblings, no matter what. We share a mother.”

  Camilla stops what she’s doing and looks me directly in the face. In her expression is the realization that, for once, she isn’t going to change my mind. She nods at me and gives me a weak smile, but then her eyes grow wide and her face changes completely. She sits next to me on the bed, tossing the pile of clothes to the floor to make room.

  “I’ve got an idea. Just hear me out,” she says, and I feel a twinge of nervousness because she’s never prefaced a statement with a warning, no matter how outrageous her words. “How about Xander goes with you? You could take his Land Rover.”

  “Camilla, that would just be too weird. I mean, Xander doesn’t know any of my personal business. Especially not this crazy, family-drama crap.”

  “Actually . . .” Camilla grimaces as if she’s expecting me to slug her, and it doesn’t take me but a second to figure out why.

  “You didn’t!” My face grows hot with anger and embarrassment. Camilla slowly nods, her eyes dropping to the floor. I groan and plant my face in my palms. “What did you tell him?”

  “I just mentioned that you found the birth certificate and that you were majorly upset about it.” Camilla moves closer to me and drapes her long arm around my shoulders. “I just had to talk about it with someone. I was so traumatized by seeing you like that, Evie. Xander is my best friend, after all.”

  “How embarrassing!” I cry into my hands. I can’t believe Camilla would tell Xander. How could she betray me like this? Surely, there’s some sort of girlfriend pact that says we never tell each other’s deep, dark secrets to a member of the opposite sex, especially one as dreamy as Xander.

  “He’s your friend, too, Evie, and he cares about you. He deserves to know when you’re going through bad stuff. He’ll be there for you, I promise. Just let him in.” She grabs my wrists and pulls my hands away from my face. Her dark eyes are unexpectedly sincere, and her smile is soft and warm. I exhale long and hard because I’ve already made up my mind to trust and to forgive her.

  “Okay.”

  “You’ll let Xander help you?” Camilla asks, a hopeful
expression lighting up her face. I sigh and wonder if I’m going to regret what I’m about to say.

  “Yes, I’ll let Xander help me.”

  “Great! I’ll talk to him tonight. I’ll have him call you to set up the plans, if that’s okay with you.” She looks at me as if she’s trying to detect if I’ll back out of our agreement.

  “Of course it’s okay, Camilla,” I say.

  I go home and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, planning in my mind what I’ll say to my real dad once I’ve found him. Will he be happy to see me? What if he doesn’t know about me, and I ruin his life by showing up unannounced? What if he has another family and doesn’t want anything to do with me? The endless scenarios race through my mind, making sleep elusive.

  I look at the world clock on my cell phone. It’s three a.m. East Coast time, which is nine a.m. Seville time. Why hasn’t Javier contacted me? I need him now more than ever. I finally surrender to the exhaustion and welcome the emotional respite that sleep brings with it.

  ***

  Xander and I meet at Starbucks after school and map our journey to Indiana. Because he’s already eighteen, he’s able to make our hotel reservations. We devise a story to tell my family and his grandfather as to where we’ll be that weekend. Camilla agrees to cover for us, as we decide to say we’re going with her to New York City so we can check out NYU—a college day. Camilla will stop by the university during her trip to bring back some application materials and pamphlets to authenticate our story.

  Xander picks me up at five a.m. on Thursday morning. As he pulls in the driveway, the headlights of his Land Rover slice through the early morning’s foggy darkness, then shut off immediately. He knows I don’t want to wake my family. I decided it was best if we leave before any of my family awaken, before I could lose my nerve and tell them the truth about where I’m going. I don’t trust that I have the guts to look them in the eyes and lie about what I’m actually going to do.

  I stealth my way out the front door and run to Xander’s car. I throw the weekend bag into the backseat as I climb into the passenger seat next to him. The familiar smell of my favorite Starbucks’ drink greets me.

  “Venti red-eye, two pumps Caramel, cream, and three Splenda,” he recites with a smile, handing me the cup. His face is cast with an eerie, green glow from the dashboard lights.

  “Aww, you remembered.” I bat my eyelashes at him with my free hand over my heart. “Thanks.”

  “Of course.” He winks back at me. “We have to start our trip off right.”

  “Thank you for going with me, Xander. I know it’s probably not how you wanted to spend your Fall Break.”

  “You’re welcome,” Xander smiles warmly. “Trust me, I had nothing better to do anyway. Besides, you know I’d do anything for my favorite redhead.”

  “I’m your favorite?” I feel a surge of heat in my cheeks, and I’m glad it’s still dark so that he can’t see the blush on my face.

  “Well, honestly—you’re the only redhead I know.” He shrugs.

  “Really?”

  “No, but you are the prettiest, even at five o’clock in the morning.”

  “Oh, Xander, flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” he says with a diabolical laugh. I nearly choke on my coffee with that comment. “I’m just teasing, Evie.”

  “Oh, I know you are, Xander. A boy like you could never be interested in a plain, boring girl like me,” I tease back.

  “Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better, sweetheart,” Xander retorts, but his tone suggests he’s not just teasing anymore, and I don’t continue with the flirtatious banter. I can’t understand how I can be so careless in my interactions with Xander when I love Javier. Although I am attracted to Xander, I don’t want to pursue those feelings when there’s no closure with Javier. I have to end that chapter in my life before I can even think of starting another.

  A few moments of awkward, dark silence fall between us before Xander turns on the stereo. Strains of Joshua Bell’s masterful violin playing Vivaldi fill the car.

  “You like Joshua Bell?” I ask, and there’s unintended skepticism in my tone.

  “Of course I do.” He sounds offended. “All Italians are raised on classical music, and he’s one of my favorite interpreters of the classics, although The Red Violin soundtrack is probably my favorite of his recorded works.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Joshua Bell is my absolute favorite violinist. And I’m obsessed with The Red Violin. I think I’ve seen it at least a hundred times.”

  “See, Evie? We have a lot more in common than you think.”

  “I guess so,” I say, contemplating the truth of his statement. “Do you have The Red Violin soundtrack on your iPod?”

  “Of course. Hold on.” He pushes a couple of buttons on the iPod and Anna’s Theme begins playing out of the speakers.

  “Thanks. You just made my day.” We smile at each other, and in the first golden light of daybreak, I see a familiar expression on his face. I can’t put my finger on why it’s so familiar: a disarmingly vulnerable smile and eyes that seem to be searching my very soul for some sort of validation. I have to break our locked gazes because of the rising pulse I know is visibly throbbing in my neck.

  Last night, the excitement of embarking on our quest kept me from sleeping for more than a couple uninterrupted hours. The resulting drowsiness is taking over despite the influx of caffeine. I close my eyes and sink into the warm, buttery leather seats, allowing myself to drift off, carried to sleep by the waxing and waning of Joshua Bell’s three-hundred-year-old Stradivarius, the Gibson ex-Huberman.

  When I awake with a snort a couple of hours later, my forehead is resting against Xander’s side and his right arm is draped over my shoulders. When I realize the scene in the car, I sit bolt upright and slide back over into the passenger seat in one not-so-graceful movement.

  “Good morning, sleepy head.” Xander flashes a grin at me and adjusts his posture in the seat, rubbing a place on the back of his neck.

  “I’m sorry.” I’m mortified at the idea that he’s heard me snoring, and I immediately swipe my hand across my chin, checking for drool. Whew, clear. Why didn’t he try to wake me up so that he could drive with both hands on the steering wheel? “Where are we?” I ask.

  “We’re about ten minutes from Cumberland. Do you want to stop and get some breakfast?”

  “Do you?” I’m not hungry because my stomach is bound up tighter than a Swiss knot in anticipation of what I might find in Indiana.

  “Honestly, I’m starving.” He looks at me with an apologetic face.

  “Good, so am I,” I lie.

  We stop at a greasy spoon off the highway. Xander eats two Big Boy breakfasts consisting of biscuits, gravy, hash browns, fried eggs, and bacon. I tease him about how the Big Boy isn’t big enough for this big boy, while I pick at my blueberry muffin and sip the sorry excuse for a cup of joe that they served us. His face turns bright red, but he continues scarfing down the food and smiling between behemoth bites.

  After we finish eating and Xander has paid—he insisted—we stop at the nearby Starbucks for a proper cup of coffee. Soon we’re back on the highway, heading to our destination: my birthplace.

  We arrive in Indiana ten hours later. We’re tired, but no worse for wear. The homecoming scenarios running through my mind while on the road were numerous and varied. I try to imagine what my mother’s family will be like. Would they accept me? Why have I not seen them, ever? I try to visualize what my father looks like. He has to have red hair and pale-blue eyes like mine. Oh, and freckles. The patchwork of freckles scattered over my body has to have been inherited from him. They sure didn’t come from my dark-skinned mother.

  We drive to the tiny town, which is twenty minutes south of Indianapolis, passing mile after mile of browned corn fields, felled for the winter. I grow quiet, our lighthearted banter becoming more serious as the realization of what we’re doing b
egins to dawn on me. I have to admit that while part of me is excited, part of me is scared out of my mind. It’s the unknown that’s throwing me for a loop.

  Xander has reserved a room at a motel just off the highway on the southern border of town. He eases the Land Rover into the motel’s gravel parking lot and cuts the engine.

  “We’re here,” he says, looking at me with a neutral expression.

  I look out the passenger window at the dilapidated building where we’ll be spending the next couple of nights. I don’t reply immediately.

  “Are you all right, Evie?” Xander’s says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “This place sucks. We don’t have to stay here. We could go back to Indy and stay somewhere there.”

  “No, this is fine, Xander. Really,” I reassure him.

  My problem isn’t with the motel. It’s the fact that I have no plan as to how to find my family. I didn’t do any research before dragging Xander here with me. What if we’ve driven all this way for nothing?

  “You’re worried about something. I see it in your eyes,” he says, reaching up and brushing the back of his hand down my cheek. For reasons beyond my understanding, I welcome the intimate gesture. I need it, actually.

  “You’re very perceptive, for a guy.” I try my best to smile, but fail miserably.

  “When it comes to you, I guess I am.” His concerned expression alarms me, because I know that whatever anxiety I’m feeling has to be transparent on my face. I don’t want Xander to see the weak, timid side of me. He whispers, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Why don’t we check in? We can talk about it inside.” My tone is kind, but curt. I can’t let my emotions get the best of me. I have to keep myself stoic, so I can make it through this weekend, no matter what the outcome. I will have plenty of time to fall apart back in DC, if need be, just not in front of Xander.

  We enter the small lobby, where a white-haired, elderly man in flannel and overalls stands behind the desk. The walls are yellowed with the remnants of years of cigarette smoke, and the air is thick with Febreze, probably in a valiant (albeit misguided) attempt at covering up the pungent smell of mildew and cat urine. As if signaled by my thoughts, a fat, yellow tomcat brushes against my legs and sends me leaping with a screech into Xander’s arms.