The Saints of the Cross

by Michelle Figley

  “Why would my father do that?” I ask.

  My mind is a million miles away, trying to remember anything that could help me make sense of this mess. Any memories of life when my mother was still with us are few. I close my eyes and try to visualize the day my father came home and told me that my mother was dead. It was so long ago and I was so young that the details are foggy at best. I’m remembering my confusion and fear at the time, rather than the actual conversation.

  “Your momma, she was sick. She wasn’t right in the head, Evie,” Grayce says after a few moments of silence.

  “You keep saying that, but I have no idea what you mean!” I snap at her and hide my face in my hands in an attempt to calm the storm of emotions raging in my head.

  “Sorry,” Xander says to Grayce, pulling me closer to him. “This is a lot to take in at once. Can you tell us what happened, from the beginning?”

  “It’s okay, baby girl,” Grayce says, leaning over and patting my knee. “You want me to start from the beginning?”

  I nod and brace myself against Xander’s shoulder for what I’m about to hear. I glance up at Xander, who is listening so intently that you’d think it’s his mother she’s talking about. She tells us of that November day ten years ago when she received a phone call from my dad. He told her that he was sending mom back to Indiana to be treated for a mental condition. She’d become delusional, believing someone or something wanted to kidnap us because we possessed superhuman abilities. Dad had said she was doing risky things to herself and the kids. He said he’d notified the doctors in Indiana, and that he would send for mom once she was better. But after a few weeks, divorce papers arrived in the mail.

  Listening to my great-grandmother’s story is surreal. I find myself longing for Javier’s comforting arms. I feel myself coming unhinged, so I wrap an arm around Xander and hug him tight in an attempt to ground myself in his strength.

  “After a few months,” Grayce continues, “your momma was on medicine and doin’ better. But she didn’t remember anything that had happened in Italy. She didn’t remember your daddy sendin’ her back here. All she knew was that she had to find her babies. I told her what your daddy’d done. She didn’t want to believe it, but when she couldn’t get a hold of you’ns in Italy and the Navy wouldn’t give her any information on your whereabouts, well, she had to start believin’, and it damn near broke her again. Finally, one mornin’ I woke up, and she’d just gone. She’d taken off for Washington, DC, according to the note she’d left me. She was goin’ there to find you’ns. To bring her babies back home to Indiana.”

  She stops talking, sucks in a deep breath, and looks up at a picture of my mother suspended in time as a young, beautiful girl, her life not yet ravaged by mental illness. When Grayce begins speaking again, her voice is weak and cracks under the weight of years of uncertainty and worry.

  “That was the last I heard from her,” she whispers, pointing at the postcard in my hand. “I pray every day she’s okay, but I worry she’s off her medicine, that the stress of lookin’ for her family has been too much to bear.”

  She drops her eyes, starts to cry, and covers her face with her right hand. I get up and sit on the arm of the chair next to Grayce. It’s my turn to do the comforting. I wrap both of my arms around her and hug her tightly. Immediately I’m engulfed with a familiar scent—my mother’s favorite perfume, White Linen.

  Through my own tears, I whisper to her, “We’ll find her.”

  “You promise, Evie?” she asks, looking up with a hopeful expression in her blue eyes.

  “I promise, Ms. Hamilton,” I answer, and she hugs me back.

  “Evie,” she asks, pulling back from our embrace.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you call me Mamaw?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s a mamaw?” Xander asks, wiping a tear from his right eye and giving me an apologetic smile. At that moment, there’s a whisper in my heart imploring my mind to listen. But my mind is stubborn and my heart is still broken. I smile back at him and hope that my face doesn’t reveal too much of the adoration I’m feeling for him. I’m not ready to explore those feelings with Xander just yet.

  “Me,” Grayce answers. “I’m a mamaw.” She grins at him through tears, pride brightening her face.

  Knowing that by now, Xander must be hungry, I suggest that we take Mamaw Grayce to dinner. So we confine Macho to his crate, maneuver carefully down the wobbly front steps, and manage to lift Grayce into the Land Rover thanks to Xander’s prime physical strength. We find a tiny nearby diner a few miles away. The portions are huge and Xander’s happy. Mamaw is thrilled to be out.

  Over dinner, she reminisces about my mother’s childhood. Some of this I knew already, such as how my mom had excelled at school and at playing the piano. She’d taught herself to play by ear using the old upright at church. Mom had taught me to play at the one-room church down the gravel road from our cottage in Italy. I can remember sitting at the out-of-tune piano, Mom seated to my left, patiently positioning my tiny fingers over the yellowed keys.

  Mamaw says that Mom had always been a good student, but that starting in high school, she became withdrawn. She started spending less time with friends and more time holed up in her bedroom reading books and daydreaming. Occasionally, Grayce would walk by Mom’s room and hear her talking to someone. When she’d go in, certain she’d find a boy who’d snuck in the window, instead she would find just Mom on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. When Mamaw asked, “Who are you talking to?” Mom would just look up with a blank expression and then turn her back.

  Mamaw doesn’t remember Mom ever even talking about boys, never mind dating. That’s why, when Mom came home one March evening and revealed she was pregnant with me, Mamaw was shocked. Mamaw tried to get Mom to divulge who my father was, but she would just start crying and curl up on her bed. Mamaw became distraught at seeing her so morose, and she finally stopped asking.

  Mom gave birth to me in the fall of her senior year. She became so engrossed in taking care of me that her odd, withdrawn behaviors all but stopped. Mamaw heard Mom occasionally talking to herself, but no more than most people. Later, she found out that Mom had been under the care of a psychiatrist and was taking meds. Mom was able to finish high school because Mamaw assisted with me and because Mom had new meds to help her with anxiety. But because of the lack of good jobs in the area, Mom was soon looking for jobs in Indianapolis.

  One weekend while job hunting in Indy’s froufrou restaurants, she met Nash Sweeney, a dashing naval officer, who was working in recruitment. According to Mamaw, it was love at first sight for the older Nash, and who could blame him? My mother was outrageously beautiful and elegant for a girl so uncultured and uneducated. Nash burned up the phone lines wooing my mother, who, according to Mamaw, was completely blasé about Nash. If Nash had not pursued her so vehemently, it’s unlikely I would’ve ended up a Sweeney. My mother had started to slip back into her solitary ways, but Nash would have nothing of it. He asked Mom to marry him within two months. A week after announcing the engagement, they were hitched at the Marion County Courthouse in Indianapolis by one of Nash’s judge friends.

  Mamaw Grayce was happy that Mom had found an upstanding man to marry, but she was beside herself with worry when Nash announced they were moving to Japan, where he was being transferred. Mom never did too well with change, let alone something as huge as relocating halfway around the world; but she’d seemed pleased to be moving to an exotic location. She even managed to smile when talking to Mamaw about it. My mom’s smiles had become so rare, that Mamaw started marking the calendar when they did happen: Mia smiled today.

  The day we left for Japan was the saddest day of Mamaw’s life. I was just a year old, and Mamaw thought she’d never see me again. She could feel it in her bones. She knew Mom would never come back to Martinsville once she left; there was just too much pain in Indiana for her. Nash and Mom came to Mamaw’s trailer to say goodbye. As Mom was buckling me
into the car seat—which took some time, because evidently I hated it and fought her like a rabid raccoon, screeching—Mamaw pulled Nash aside and warned him to take care of Mia. She urged Nash to make sure my mom took her meds every day and got a good doctor. Nash had promised, saying not to worry—after all, the best docs worked for the US Navy. Mamaw bent down into the car, kissed my silky, red curls one last time, and stood in the gravel driveway watching us until the car disappeared over the next hill. She went back into the quiet trailer and cried herself to sleep.

  The only news she ever got from Mom was the occasional postcard, notifying her that we’d moved to a new location and promising that we’d visit as soon as we could. But those visits never happened. Over time, Mamaw’s memory of us started to fade. The only things she had left to remind her of us were the photos she kept around the trailer. She cries when she tells me that after a few years, she could no longer remember the way I smelled or the sound of my mom’s beautiful soprano voice. Right now, I absolutely despise my parents for being so cruel. How could Mom have abandoned the woman who loved and raised her?

  Over raspberry pie, Mamaw pleads with me again to help find Mom and my fury subsides. Of course I’ll do everything in my power to find her. And I’ll make Nash help. He owes us that much. He must give me an explanation—although, what could possibly explain his absolute disregard for his children’s needs and feelings? What could justify his ultimate act of cruelty toward his wife?

  We drive Mamaw back at ten thirty and walk her up the steps into the trailer.

  “May I?” she asks, opening her arms wide. I step toward her and pull her frail frame to me. She lifts her face to my neck and takes in a deep breath. After a moment, she stands back from me and smiles, patting the side of my face. “I remember now.”

  I promise Mamaw that I will not let go of her, now that I have found her. I’ll keep in touch and let her know the progress of the search for my mother. I tell her that I’ll come back soon to visit and bring Ethan and Emma with me.

  Xander and I return in silence to the motel on the highway. We agree that we are both exhausted, so we decide to just go to bed.

  “Xander?” I ask when I see him making his nest on the floor. “Will you sleep up here with me tonight?” He looks uneasy. But before he can open his mouth to object, I add, “Please.”

  “Are you sure?” he whispers.

  “Yes. I don’t want to be alone—”

  “But you’re not.”

  “I feel like I am, with you sleeping down there. I can’t even see you.”

  “You can hear me snoring, so you know I’m here,” he replies with a twisted grin.

  “True, but it’s still not the same.” I pull the bedspread down and pat the other side of the bed. “I might want someone to talk to, and it’ll be easier if you’re up here with me. Come on, I won’t bite.”

  “Well, in that case, it’s a definite no.” He smiles, and I throw an extra pillow at his head, but he catches it midair. “Okay, you’ve twisted my arm. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Xander disappears into the bathroom. When he comes back out, he’s wearing plaid pajama pants and nothing else. I try not to stare, but it’s too difficult a task—he is so incredibly handsome. He catches my admiration out of the corner of his eye, but instead of making a wisecrack about it, he turns bright red and jumps under the blankets, burying himself up to his throat. I stifle a giggle and turn my back to him. But after a few minutes of reflection on the events of the day, I roll over to face him because a thought has popped into my mind. A question I must have answered—right now.

  “Xander, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” he answers.

  “Do you think I’ll end up like my mother?”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, turning to face me. I look directly at him, because I want to see his body language and facial expression when he answers me.

  “Do you think I’ll end up crazy, like her?” Surely this disease is something that could be inherited—a terrible monster that lies in wait until you least expect it to rear its ugly head and completely devour your life.

  “No, absolutely not,” he answers, placing a hand on my cheek. There’s no hint of deception in his voice. “Your grandmother said that your mom displayed certain behaviors when she was a girl that you obviously do not have. By her descriptions of your mother, I’d say she is schizophrenic. She had the classic symptoms—paranoia, isolationism, and poor school performance.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “AP Psych.” He smiles and brushes my hair off my face.

  “Of course,” I smile back.

  “I’m going to help you find her, Evie.” He’s staring at me now, and my heart quivers.

  “Thanks, Xander, but you don’t have to do that. Really.”

  “I know I don’t have to do it, I want to do it. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I nod. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure,” he says and slides his arm under me and around my shoulders. I don’t pull away. Instead, I snuggle closer to him and rest my head against the warmth of his bare chest. Being here with him feels nice, and I’m grateful that Camilla convinced me to let him come with me. He pulls the blankets up over us and says, “Now get some sleep, Evie. We have a long drive ahead of us tomorrow and lots of planning to do.”

  I close my eyes as Xander reaches over me and turns off the lights. I say a silent prayer for strength and courage. I’m going to need them.

  CHAPTER 15

  It’s a long and torturous drive back to DC as I contemplate what I want to say, what I must say, to Nash. Xander is my rock; I bounce my words off him. He places a reassuring arm around me when he knows I need it, and I steel myself against him more than once. I don’t try to hide my tears from him anymore, because I trust him. He gives me comfort with his soothing voice and his eloquent words. Xander is kind; I learn this on the twelve-hour drive. When we finally arrive at my house, the sky is a burning twilight streaked with deep shades of pink, purple, and red. The reflection of the soft light does something beautiful to Xander’s golden eyes. I give him a hug, but I hold him longer than I should. I mean to kiss him goodbye on the cheek, but instead my lips find his, and I don’t immediately pull away because the moment is sweet and tender. It’s unexpected but needed, and I like it. I like the way I feel in his arms—loved, understood, and wanted. He’s the one who finally breaks the kiss, and I nuzzle my face against his neck. He kisses my temple and holds me tight against his chest, and I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time—I feel safe.

  “I have to go, Xander,” I say, looking up into his enchanting eyes and wishing I didn’t have to leave him. I’m not ready to give up his warmth, and I’m not entirely certain I’m ready to do what I must: face the truth.

  “I know,” he says, brushing a loose curl from my eye. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, I’ve got to do this part myself,” I say, and Xander nods in agreement.

  “I’m here for you, Evie. Anytime you need me,” he says, and I don’t fight the urge to kiss him again. I just do it, but this time with more intensity. When I pull away from him, his eyes are still closed, and he’s smiling from ear to ear. I kiss those smiling lips and promise to call him tomorrow. Then I leave him.

  It’s dark and empty inside. The cold, damp, mid-October air filling up this cavernous house feels as if it’s electrified by some malevolent presence. I know they’ve all gone bowling, because it’s Saturday night, but they should be home within the hour. I sit at the dining room table just off the foyer to gather my thoughts in the black silence. I’m still not sure how to approach this with my father. I do know that I have to be completely honest with him about everything I know. He may have lied to me, but he has always shown me love.

  My thoughts turn to my mother and what she must be going through, lost on the streets of DC, probably homeless, hungry, and alone, driven by one innate goal: to find her children. My heart is breaking
, thinking of her like this: a once regal-looking woman reduced by mental illness to a disheveled shell of her former self. What could she have done to make my father—who by all accounts was so in love with her—decide to send her away and then lie to his children about it? Obviously, he doesn’t want us to know she’s alive, but why? The more I think about his betrayal, the more infuriated I become. How can I get past this? How can I salvage my relationship with Nash? Does he know who my biological father is? Did Mom ever tell him? I’m going to find out tonight, because I’m going to demand answers.

  I’m sitting in the dark when my family comes through the front door. Grandma Winnie flips on the foyer light and gives out a startled scream when she catches a glimpse of me out of her peripherals. The twins start laughing hysterically at the sight of her frightened face—eyes wide, mouth pulled back in a wild grimace. It is rather comical; I’ve never heard her scream so loudly in my life.

  “Evangeline! You scared me half to death. I thought you weren’t coming home until tomorrow night,” she scolds as she hangs her coat in the hall closet.

  “Change of plans,” I say, and already my palms are soaked with sweat.

  “Well what on earth are you doing sitting here in the dark, child?”

  “Just thinking,” I answer, as I watch my father lug two large grocery bags into the house.

  “Evie, if we’d known you were going to be home, we’d have brought you some food from Montana Joe’s,” he says, walking past me into the kitchen. The twins run up the stairs, and I hear each of their bedroom doors slamming behind them. I’m relieved, because I don’t want them to hear what I have to say. I’m not even fifty-percent sure that I’m ready to confront this yet, but I’m one-hundred percent certain they are not.