by Tara Tingle
I had to know.
I had to know whether my doubt was corroding my faith...
Or whether my faith was causing my doubts.
And it was then when I decided that I had to do something.
I had to find him.
2
The Desperate Search
I was born to a big family. I'm the youngest of five children – two boys and three girls. My mother owned a bakeshop at Santa Catalina where we lived, which was far north of Santo Tomas where I was presently assigned. My father was a lieutenant of the San Diego Police Department.
Growing up, my father always told me stories about his adventures in law enforcement. He'd share with me the tactics they used to find the suspects they were after. He'd narrate the methods they employed to entrap the PUIs they were monitoring. He'd tell me about the exciting chases they made before capturing and arresting the perpetrators they were targeting. Eventually, and a few years too late, he realized how much his tales of grandeur bored me. He gave up on his dream of convincing me to follow in his footsteps.
But not before I learned some valuable lessons about critical thinking and efficient investigation.
I found these lessons very useful today.
It's been eight days since I've heard from the young man. I didn't know his name. I didn't know what he looked like. All I knew was the sound of his voice.
But I wasn't limited to my senses.
The parish priest before me had some CCTV cameras installed around the premises of the chapel, just after the 2017 incident at Chula Vista when the cartels south of the border brought their war in our backyard. It was for our safety, he said. God helps those who help themselves, he argued further.
The control panel for those CCTV cameras were at the attic, a place that I rarely visited since I was assigned to this parish. I checked it out this morning to see if the machine was still recording what the cameras were capturing.
Fortunately, it was still working with perfectly automated efficacy.
I searched the archive for footage from eight days ago, from 4 P.M. onwards, hoping to get a glimpse of the young man while he was on his way to the chapel for his confession.
It didn't take long for me to find him. He was the only visitor during that name.
This man... he was of medium height and was rather thin. He was wearing a blue collared shirt and a pair of khaki pants. He had short, dark hair, perfectly combed to the side. He lingered for a while at the entrance of the church before turning towards the camera.
It was only then when I caught a good glimpse of his face.
Doe-eyed, full lips, pale skinned... he was handsome, though not strikingly so. Still, there was something about him that invited curiosity and wonder and admiration and yearning. He seemed so alluring yet so peculiar, so genuine yet so mysterious, so precious and so fragile.
I had a face.
But I didn't have a name.
Thankfully, I had a godfather, Uncle Roger, who was still working at the SDPD. I made a printout of the screen that had a clear view of the young man's head. I emailed it to Uncle Roger. A couple of hours later and I received a reply.
A definite match.
I had a name.
Xavier Michael Ford
There was an address as well, together with a mobile phone number.
I called him up as soon as I received his details. I was greeted by a robotic voice, informing me that the account has been terminated because of non-usage. That didn't surprise me. It was a prepaid number after all, one that was easily disposable.
I checked the address. Xavier lived in a housing district around thirty minutes away from the chapel.
I decided to pay him a visit. I had to. I needed to know that he was safe.
The thing with Santo Tomas, it being so near the border and virtually forgotten by the national government, was that the public transportation here was far from ideal. Actually, there was no public transportation at all... no subways, no trams, no taxi cabs, no Ubers... nothing except for the three or four buses that plied the route from each end of the town connecting the municipality to Chula Vista in the north and to Otay Mesa in the south. Xavier's place was near the northernmost part of Santo Tomas, so I took the bus going to Chula Vista.
From the stop, I had to walk for another ten minutes to reach his neighborhood. It wasn't the busiest of communities, but a number of people still loitered in the streets despite the noontime heat of the California sun - shirtless men huddled in groups, children playing along the sidewalks, women chattering outside their homes, and a handful of elderly folks who were sitting on foldable chairs assembled along their driveways. All of them gave me icy glares. A few ended their stares with a smile and a polite nod.
The heat was almost unbearable. The robes I was wearing - made of thick, black fabric - didn't help my body to breathe. I was sweating heavily underneath that I was tempted to remove my cassocks. I opted not to. This wasn't the safest part of town and my cassock was the best guarantee that I'd be left unharmed. Even the vilest souls would think twice about assaulting a man of God, after all.
Eventually, I arrived at Xavier's place – a single story house with a decrepit facade situated at the farthest end of an alley formed between two tenement buildings. It was hidden from the rest of the neighborhood as the alley was easy to miss. One wouldn't be able to find the place if he didn't have the house's number, 49, as both tenements were designated as 48 and 50.
I walked up the small flight of stairs leading to the main door. The wooden planks creaked as I stepped on them, making me fear that they might succumb to my weight and collapse. I wasn't a small man. At 6'1” and 210 lbs., I doubted that these slabs were designed for me.
This house has been severely neglected, judging from its exterior. The drainage pipe that was supposed to line the roof was dangling from one corner of the shelter. There were cracks on the glasses of the two windows that I saw. Moss was creeping up from the ground and covered almost the entirety of the bottom half of the home.
I wouldn't say that the house was completely uninhabitable as I have yet to see what's inside. Still, I began to feel bad for Xavier as I thought about him having to live under these conditions, if ever what's outside was any indication of the state of this place's interiors.
I knocked on the termite-infested door and dark, powdery dust fell from the frame with my every tap.
There was no response.
I knocked again.
Still, no one answered.
I kept knocking and knocking, growing more and more anxious with every second that passed. After ten minutes or so, no one has yet to open the door.
The discomfort in my gut told me that something terrible must've happened.
And that compelled me to act on instinct.
I looked around for something that I could break the door with – a metal pipe, a chunk of wood, a rock, anything. The closest I could find, however, was an empty pot that was lying next to the doormat.
I picked it up and readied myself to smash it against the door. I raised it with my right hand as my left held on to the knob for leverage. Inadvertently, I wrenched the contraption. Surprisingly, it turned and the door slid open.
I felt like an idiot for failing to try that earlier.
It wasn't even locked.
“Xavier?” I called out, hoping that he was inside, that he'd hear my voice, that he'd come running towards the entrance to greet me.
But just like my knocks, it was met with silence.
I went in and was immediately shocked by how dark it was inside. It wasn't pitch black, by any means. Sunlight still managed to pour in from the slits of the curtains. I could still see, with relative clarity, what was before me.
The living area wasn't as shabby as I thought it would be. It actually looked... livable. A nice sofa in front of an old, CRT television; a Lazy Boy couch with a broken armrest and the foam seeping out of the holes on one side; a dining table that still had leftover food and sur
rounded by four chairs that were all pulled out; a kitchen with a sink filled with dishes that looked like they haven't been washed for weeks... I've seen better homes, but this wasn't the worst one I've been in.
“Xavier?” I blurted once more. I knew it was an act of futility, but I still prayed that he was there and that I'd find him safe and well. “Xavier? It's me, Father Joe. From the parish.”
As expected, there was still no response.
There were only two rooms inside. One, I was certain, was the bathroom, based on its size and the lavatory I could see even from afar. The other could only be the bedroom.
I walked towards the latter. It was the last possible spot where Xavier could be. If he was there, he was most probably asleep. That would explain why he didn't hear my knocks nor my voice.
I turned the knob this time around as I reached the room. It was also unlocked. I pushed the door and slowly slid my head through the crevice that formed.
“Xavier?” I called his name once again.
And still, no one answered.
The room was empty.
It was messier than the rest of the house, as well. Clothes were scattered all over the floor. The mattress was misaligned from the side rails of the double-sized bed. The sheets were left on top of it, crumpled like papers that missed the trash bin. The air was dry and stale, indicating that the door has remained closed for quite some time now.
Just as I was about to leave that chamber, however, I noticed something that quickly sent shivers down my spine.
A movement.
Slight. Sudden. Jerky.
I didn't immediately recognize what it was. All I knew was that I saw a dark, seemingly soft, and irregularly shaped object peeking out from the other end of the bed near the wall, making a quick and abrupt glide from one side to the other.
It was too big to be an insect.
It was too small to be an inadvertent shadow.
I had to move closer to determine what it was.
And when I did, my throat swiftly dried up as I felt my stomach drop to the floor.
It wasn't an insect. It wasn't a shadow.
It was hair.
Human hair.
Human hair belonging to someone who was sitting on the floor beside the bed, his head hiding between the knees that his hands were clutching. He was naked, save for the white undergarment he was wearing. He was rocking back and forth with the softest of motions.
“H-Hey,” I nervously called his attention as I continued to study him. “Hello. Don't be alarmed, please. I'm not a thief. I mean no harm. My name is Father Joe. From the parish. I'm a friend of Xavier's.”
It was then when he began to lift up his head to look at me.
My eyes widened with shock when I saw his face.
“Xavier!” I yelled as I knelt before him and held his arm. “Xavier, are you okay?”
“F-Father?” he labored to speak. He looked like he was trying his very best to stay awake.
“Yes, Xavier, it's me,” I told him. “What happened to you?”
“I... I... I feel so... weak...,” he replied, his words barely escaping from his mouth. “I... I... think I... I wanna... wanna throw... up...”
“Come,” I helped him up so that he could lie on the bed. He was thin and light. I could've carried him, but he stood up on his own with little assistance from me. His knees, however, buckled a bit before he could even reach the mattress. I had to pull him just to get him on the bed.
He was drifting in and out of consciousness as he twisted and turned where he lied, grumbling and groaning and uttering some unintelligible words.
“It's okay, Xavier,” I tried to comfort him. “Everything will be okay.”
I wondered what was wrong with him. Was he drunk? Was he terribly suffering from some physical or emotional trauma? Was he taking some medications that produced some undesirable side effects?
I reached for the scrunched blankets at the other end of the bed. As my foot moved backwards for some traction, however, I stepped on something quite peculiar. I turned my attention towards the floor where Xavier was. There I saw several small, white, rectangular pills sprinkled on the ground like immaculate dots on a black canvass. I took one and smelled it.
I immediately knew what it was.
Meth.
Xavier wasn't drunk and neither was he sick.
He was high.
I've done some counseling work in my two years as a parish priest. I’ve also had very personal experiences with drug usage. I was very familiar with what Xavier was going through. The loss of identity, the general feeling of un-wellness, an agonizing type of restlessness, his failing strength... they were all symptoms of a latter stage of methamphetamine usage: the crash.
I was concerned about him at that moment.
But I was also disappointed.
Very disappointed.
In all the five months he's been confessing, he never mentioned anything about being a drug user. He never struck me as the type, either. Hence, this discovery was very jolting for me.
Still, Xavier was in a bad shape and he needed some care.
I grabbed the blanket that I previously meant to get. I was about to put it over his body when I noticed something that was just as shocking as the meth pills I discovered.
Xavier... he was almost naked, yes... but he wasn't wearing white undergarments.
He was wearing a diaper.
3
The Unexpected Revelation
Growing up with four other siblings had its share of ups and downs. Granted that the former outnumbered the latter by a large margin, the latter were far more devastating whenever they reared their ugly heads.
Johannes, my sister, was the third eldest in our brood. She was the voice of reason in the family, the peacekeeper when all of her brothers and sisters were at war, the least vocal and least expressive of our lot but the one who was always the first to offer herself when help was needed. We always believed that she was happy. We always admired her as someone who was confident about herself. We always saw her as someone who was content with her life.
We were wrong.
So very wrong.
She was suffering inside for reasons that we never fully unraveled.
I could still remember the day when my father gathered up the entire family, minus Johannes, for a meeting. He told us that my sister was suffering from drug addiction and that he had to bring her to rehab. He informed us that we wouldn't be seeing her for the next six to nine months, depending on the progress of her recovery. My mother cried for days after that. Me and my siblings remained bewildered for weeks, wondering what went wrong though all of us were too young to realize the full extent of the matter.
Throughout the months that we waited for Johannes, people from the rehab center visited our home from time to time. They conducted seminars that helped us deal with my sister's addiction. They taught us how to help her, how to support her, and how to ensure that she wouldn't fall off the wagon once she did manage to return to us. We learned a lot of things during that period.
And now, I could apply some of those lessons with Xavier's current predicament.
It was five in the afternoon and he was fast asleep, peaceful at last in his slumber. He hasn't shown any sign of distress for the past hour, much to my relief. That allowed me to think about my next course of action.
The bedroom was a complete mess. I decided to tidy it up to provide a more relaxing environment for him once he woke up. An orderly surrounding would greatly help him cope up with the final effects of meth usage, which usually were the worst. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all.
I started by picking up the clothes that were all over the floor. Shirts, jeans, jackets, tank tops... all manners of clothing were there, except for underwear. That made me wonder. Does Xavier even wear briefs? Or boxers?
Or did he always use diapers?
Why would he use diapers in the first place?
Was he incontinent? If so, what medical
condition was he suffering from?
There were so many mysteries surrounding the nappies that he was wearing, but as I continued to clean up his room, I saw more items that begged for even more questions.
I chanced upon more diapers. Some of them were wet, indicating that they were actually used for their intended purpose.
I also encountered some oversized onesies.
Then, there was also that pink pacifier near the side table, its nipple corroding from countless bite marks, likewise suggesting that it was used by someone with teeth bigger than those that the object was meant for.
I also saw two feeding bottles, one was completely empty while the other was still half-full with white liquid that looked like milk.
Minutes later and I stumbled upon a formula milk carton which told me that the fluid in the bottle was indeed what I thought it was.
There were likewise a variety of toys there – a rattle, a heart-shaped contraption that produced music when I pulled its string, a bendable box with holes of different shapes adorning each of its sides; and a yellow bus with all of the letters of the alphabets engraved on its body.
At the farthest end of the room, by the foot of the bed, was a small table. On top of it was a dollhouse. It wasn't the expensive kind, however. It was made of cheap plastic. It was unevenly painted all over. It looked like it would collapse with the slightest amount of force. In one of its rooms, there were two stuffed figures that looked like miniature scarecrows – two males, one bigger than the other. A father and his son, I presumed.
These...
All of these...
They were objects intended for children.
Not just children, though.
Babies.
Was an infant living with Xavier, I wondered? He never told me about it. Could it even be possible that Xavier had a child? He never shared anything about his marital status. Was he, in fact, married? If he was, it would be quite strange for him and his wife and his baby to be living with his father. And with the kind of abuse his father was capable of, this place wouldn't be safe for them either.