For Gregg, however, the father must always be the hero of every story, and Caía saw it the other way around. Click. Click. Click. Their son would be a far better man than Gregg could ever think to be. Already, he had a stronger grasp of right and wrong, and knew not to lie—something Gregg had little compunction over.
Click. Click. Click.
“Yeah, whatever,” her husband had said. “The point is that someone jumped it, right?” And then he’d slid Caía a look of contempt and Caía put the camera down. Deep down, she’d experienced a touch of satisfaction over having turned his story upside down.
Now, she touched the screen with a fingertip, tracing the lines of her son’s jaw.
He was twelve in this photograph. Or maybe eleven. It was taken after Gregg’s thirty-second birthday because he was wearing that red jacket Caía had given him the year before—the North Face windbreaker he’d been eyeing for months. Why had she bothered?
Because she was still pretending things could be different. Because instead of figuring it all out, she’d put her son second and her anger first . . . anger she’d begun nursing since long before Jack’s death.
That same ugly memory fluttered at the edges of her consciousness, threatening to turn her mood dark again.
There was a soft knock at her door, and Caía put the iPad down, turning it over to hide the screen. “Yes?”
Nick opened the door. He came in, a warm smile playing upon his lips, as though he now regarded her fondly. It made her feel . . . guilty.
“Marta said she invited you to join us?”
Caía furrowed her brow.
“Zahara,” he said, reminding her.
“Oh.” It was that weekend. Caía glanced at the iPad lying on the bed, the image on the screen facing the bedspread still imprinted in her head.
“Will you come?”
Unexpectedly, hot tears sprang to Caía’s eyes. Confusion wove itself through her cells, like a beginning cancer.
“Caía?” With a look of concern on his face, Nick came into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Caía grabbed her iPad, pulling it out of his reach—a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by him, although he said nothing. Instead, he reached over to grab Caía’s ankle, as though he’d sensed somehow that she was falling, and he meant to save her. “Are you sure you’re not having regrets?”
“No.” The word escaped before Caía could consider it. But it was the truth, she realized at once. These last few weeks she’d felt more alive than she had in years. No, she didn’t regret anything at all—a fact that had her stomach tied in knots.
“Did Marta tell you why we’re going?”
Caía shook her head, tears swimming in her eyes.
“You know,” he said, “at times like this, I really have to believe in something bigger than us. I don’t know what brought us together, Caía, but it feels . . .” He searched for a word. “Divine.”
No, Caía thought frantically. There was nothing divine in their meeting. She’d followed him here, with less than noble intentions, but how could she tell him that now?
“We’ve all lost someone . . . your son, my brother, Laura’s father . . . we’re taking Jimmy’s ashes somewhere he would have approved of. We—I,” he amended, “want you to come.”
Caía couldn’t say no, even though she tried. The word simply wouldn’t emerge from her lips, no matter how hard she pushed for it. “Okay,” she said.
*
“¡Belén, campanas de Belén!
“Que los ángeles tocan
“¿Qué nueva me traéis?”
Seated in the back seat along with her mother, Laura sang unabashedly. Off tune, she nevertheless belted out her catchy little Christmas song, all the while fanning herself with the Spanish abanico Caía had gifted her.
“Do you like my song, Tiíta?”
It took Caía a woozy moment to realize what Laura had said, and then recall that there were only two women in the car, one of which was her mother, not her aunt. Caía turned around to be sure she’d heard correctly. Laura was looking at her, smiling coyly behind her black, rose-painted fan.
Her mother caught the gesture as well, and seeing Caía’s startled expression, gently chided her child. “Caía is not your tía, Laura.”
“But, yes, I want her to be my tiíta,” the child said. “Because . . .” She pushed her palm into the air. “I really don’t have one.”
Despite her momentary horror, Caía bit her lip to keep from laughing at that perfectly reasonable explanation. Nick slid Caía a glance, one that said too little and too much during the brief instant before his gaze returned to the road—a split second later.
I swear to God, he’d said.
Just a split second.
Just a split second.
Morbidly, Caía envisioned the car jetting off the road, pummeling down into a gorge, never to be seen or heard from again. But of course, she didn’t want that fate for Laura, nor for Marta, nor for Nick.
Vast olive groves dominated the horizon. Closer to the narrow mountain road there were succulents, cacti and rosemary. It was a curiously Southwestern vista, arid and patchy, in thirsty shades of green and brown. She watched Nick driving, analyzing the casual, confident way he held the wheel, not unlike the driver’s stance her husband had so often taken—as though he’d been born behind the wheel and the car was merely an extension of himself.
Jack would never get that opportunity. This was not something Caía was ever bound to know about her son—whether he would grow into the same confident demeanor.
In the driver’s seat, Nick’s eyes rarely left the road—a good thing, because the landscape turned jagged as they wended their way into the sierras.
“Caía, don’t you like to be my tiíta?” Laura persisted, her voice pouty.
Once again, Caía glanced uncomfortably at Nick. There was something surreal about the moment—as though none of it couldn’t possibly be happening . . . as though it must be a twisted dream she was having. God, maybe she was still locked away in that hospital, waiting endlessly for Gregg to arrive?
“Caía?”
“Laura,” her mother chastened. “¿Que pesada!”
“It’s okay,” Caía said. “We can pretend . . . for today.”
“No,” Laura said, kicking her feet against Nick’s seat. “Not for today,” she argued. “Tomorrow and every, every day, vale?”
Her mother laughed, probably embarrassed. Nick chuckled too, despite Laura’s pummeling of his seat. But, here again, he didn’t take his eyes off the road.
It was difficult not to be amused or charmed by Laura’s impetuosity, especially when the sentiment was so sweet. But she was getting tired. “Laura,” her mother said once again, and Nick reached over to squeeze Caía’s hand, a silent thank you. The gesture made Caía’s heart beat faster. She slid her hand out from under his palm, uncomfortable with the show of affection. Thinking about her father, Caía peered out the window, letting herself be hypnotized by the olive groves, and with every olive tree they passed came a new missed opportunity to say what should have been said—to extend an olive branch.
I’m sorry, Jack.
I’m sorry, Laura.
I’m sorry, Nick.
I’m sorry, Marta.
I’m sorry, Daddy.
I’m sorry, Gregg.
Fourteen
The darker the night,
the brighter the stars . . .
– Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Chicago, Wednesday, June 15, 2016, 10:00 a.m.
Caía
“Hey, Ma?”
Caía stared at the computer screen. She heard Jack calling, but couldn’t shake off her stupor.
“Ma?”
He sounded irritated. Finally, Caía looked up at him, blinking as she met her son’s resentful blue eyes. He looked so much
like his dad, it made her heart hurt. It was difficult to look at him now and not see Gregg, and sometimes, lately, she didn’t look very hard at all.
It didn’t help much that he was developing Gregg’s attitude. At thirteen, Jack was already a head taller than Gregg, but lanky, as though he hadn’t been fed properly in weeks. To the contrary, he ate like a horse, shoving more carbs down his throat in a single day than Caía could eat in a year. Bag of chips. Gone. Yesterday’s leftover mac ’n’ cheese. Gone. Pizza. Gone. Now, he stood in the doorway with a soda in his hand, and Caía didn’t have the energy to ask him where it came from, because she knew. His dad. Gregg subverted her authority every chance he got, minimizing Caía in any way possible. It was as though he had to prove a point—that he was the man of this house, and as such, he was the one in charge.
She hated that most about him, especially where it concerned their son. All the things she’d once loved—that charming Georgia drawl, his unflagging machismo—she hated now. She centered her gaze on the can. “Did your father buy you that?”
Jack peered down at his soda, brushing his bangs aside nonchalantly, like the star member of a boy band. “Yeah,” he said, and took a sip as Caía watched, tossing it down like his dad might have done. As though it were a challenge.
Where did her sweet little boy go?
Where are you, Jack?
“You know I don’t like you drinking those, Jack.”
She’d said his name that way again, like she so often did his dad’s. He flinched. “It’s just one, Mom! Jesus!”
Caía’s patience was thin. “Don’t use God’s name in vain, Jack.”
“Why not? It’s not like you care. We don’t believe in God.”
We, he said, as though there were a consensus. We don’t believe in God. But there wasn’t any we here in this house. “Your father doesn’t believe in God. I don’t believe in religion. There’s a difference, Jack.”
“Whatever,” Jack said, and Caía bristled.
No other word ever grated on her nerves the way that one did. Whatever. Gregg said it so often these days, and now it was bleeding into her son’s vocabulary. She slid a furious glance toward the computer screen. If her eyes could shoot missiles, the computer would have been pulverized on the spot. “What do you want, Jack?”
“Can I go to the park?”
“Is your room clean?”
“Yeah,” he said, and as though to make a point, he took his brand-new smartphone out of his pocket—the one Caía said he couldn’t have. Of course, his father gave it to him, despite Jack taking his last phone apart. It was not a birthday present. Gregg claimed he had a new work phone, but Caía suspected he was paying for a separate plan, just so she couldn’t check his phone records. She stared at her son, hating that she didn’t believe him. His father was proving to be a proficient liar. Maybe it was in the genes?
“Go check if you want. I just wanna go now. Can I, please?”
Taking in a breath, Caía peered down at her computer—at the open email on the screen, sent to her by mistake. Or maybe it wasn’t by mistake at all. There was the difference of a single letter: [email protected] rather than g.paine. But on a keyboard, it would have to have been a purposeful mistake. “I’m free,” it read. “No sessions this afternoon. Meet you at noon. Village Tap. Kisses for all your nasty bits. Love, L.”
The Village Tap was here in their neighborhood, just a stone’s throw from their house. That he—and she—would add insult to injury by meeting right under her nose, where neighbors went to grab a beer after work . . . it really pissed Caía off.
He’d promised her it was over, and Caía stayed because she didn’t want Jack to end up a child of divorce. But the truth was that none of them were happy, and Jack was the one who was changing most because of it. Leave, take him with you, right now, a little voice urged. Before it’s too late.
“Ma?”
Caía peered up at her son, noting the angry set of his pale blue eyes. She made a sound fraught with frustration. “Yeah, go.”
He turned so swiftly, Caía didn’t have a chance to add another word. She heard the front door open and slam, and she returned to staring at her screen, feeling old and tired. And rejected. And ugly. And judged. But, of course. But why should it come down to not feeling good enough? As though Gregg were any sort of prize.
“Hey, it’s over,” he’d said. “It’s all over, okay?” And then he’d taken Caía into his arms and pushed her head against his shoulder, patting the back of her head, as though she were his pet. “There’s nothing going on, Caía,” he’d said, contradicting himself. “Nothing happened. Do you believe me?”
All her evidence was sketchy. She had to give him that. Even this email was sketchy. For all Caía knew, Lindsey was messing with her head. There was no doubt in her mind that the email was inappropriately personal. No doubt it was from her. It was sent from her email address. But if she’d sent it to Caía on purpose, then she must want Caía to know they were still seeing each other, despite Gregg’s assurances to the contrary.
What was more, she wanted Caía to catch them.
Apparently, Gregg was a liar, and neither Caía nor Lindsey had the wherewithal to let him go. But Lindsey was wrong about that, because Caía only needed to know the truth, and then she could leave with a clear conscience.
She could stay with her pop, take Jack. Her father would welcome them. He was lost without her mother, and he and Jack were still very close. But until Caía actually saw Gregg and Lindsey together with her own two eyes, she needed to try to believe her husband . . . for Jack’s sake.
It was an easy enough thing to prove, right? If she walked down to the Village Tap and both Lindsey and Gregg were there, it was over. If she went and found only Lindsey, it was entirely possible this was a last-ditch effort from a conniving witch.
And if neither of them were there . . . then what? Did she simply close her computer and walk away, never say another word about it, and keep trying?
Caía glanced at the time stamp on her screen: It was 11:17 a.m. If she hurried, she could be home long before Jack returned from the park. She jumped up from the couch, leaving the computer open, but then, thinking of Jack, she went back and slowly closed the screen.
*
Zahara de la Sierra, Spain, present day
Perched high in the Andalusian hills, the white village of Zahara was less than an hour and a half’s drive from Jeréz. Originally occupied by the Moors, the eagle’s nest settlement overlooked a valley with a sprawling blue lake. Remnants of its Moorish history were everywhere, but none more prominent than the fortress on the hill. It was there they were headed, to the top—a steep, rocky climb that made Caía question the state of her health.
Along the narrow, cobbled path, cacti lined the way instead of rails. Certainly, this was no place that should be sanctioned for little children. There should have been a sign at the beginning of the trail that read: “Kids yay high, no way.” For that matter, adults had no business here, either—at least not without proper gear, which of course Caía didn’t have. Even her Doc Martens would have been questionable here, although sandals were downright treacherous. She felt as though she were scaling a cliff in slippery skis. Every now and again, she hit a patch of slick rock, and slid backward, teetering a bit like she did on ice skates. In fact, it was like climbing one of those gym obstacles, like the one at their gym, where Gregg and Caía used to compete, only this one went on forever and wasn’t precisely as steep.
“Nice going,” Lindsey had said, cheering Gregg on. Clap. Clap. Clap. After a while, Gregg stopped asking Caía to join him, claiming that she held him back.
She’d held him back, all right.
Breathless and far from sure-footed, Caía nevertheless kept pace, determined not to allow a five-year-old outdo her. Not to mention her uncle, who seemed wholly unfazed by the steep, narrow climb. It was a
sad, sad day when Caía allowed herself to measure her actions by that of a child’s. But there it was.
On the way up Nick offered a history lesson, his voice steady and sure, with no sign that his lecture would ever put him out of breath.
On the other hand, Caía was forced to stop every so often, pretending to take in the magnificent view as she gulped in a breath.
Simply for effect, she snapped photos with her cell phone, intending to delete them all later. She didn’t need mementos of today—not when she was bound to leave. And even if she didn’t firebomb everything and tell Nick the truth, there was no way this could have a happy-ever-after. Lies were no way to begin a relationship—particularly not lies of this magnitude.
“Hey, Nick? You killed my son, and guess what, I followed you here—why? Because I fantasized about killing you.”
No, it was a pending disaster—even more so than this climb up the hill. In fact, it might end better if she dropped dead of a heart attack on the way up, or if Nick fell and broke his neck. That’s how dire the situation was, and there didn’t appear to be an easy way out.
“Back when the Moors held Zahara,” Nick regaled his niece, “the city was occupied only by men.”
Her sweet five-year-old voice brimmed with curiosity. “Where was they mamas, Tiíto?”
“At home,” he said, as though he knew.
“But whyyy? Why was they at home, Tiíto Nick?”
“Because, only men were allowed to come here,” he explained, with more patience than Caía had at the moment. She wanted to give up, go back down . . . go home . . . pack her bags . . . “See that castle up there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It was built during the thirteenth century—more than eight hundred years ago. That’s a looonng time. They call it la Torre del Homenaje, because that’s where people used to pay homage to the lords of the house of Ponce de León.”
“I don’t know those people, Tiíto. Y no sé qué es un omage.”
“Well . . .” He thought about it. “That’s where knights—you know what a knight is, right?” She nodded. “It’s where they pledged loyalty to their king—el rey—and promised to obey his laws.”
Redemption Song Page 15
