by T. K. Leigh
“I don’t doubt that, mi cariño,” I said, swallowing hard. “Until tomorrow.”
“Good day, Tyler.”
“Goodbye, Mackenzie.”
I hung up, my brief moment of euphoria replaced with that sinking feeling once more at the thought that I was about to pull her perfectly ordered life into a deathly riptide.
Placing my cell back in my pocket, I ran to the control room, reloaded both weapons, and started another training sequence, hoping it would help keep my mind off Mackenzie…
But it didn’t.
With every step and each target I shot down, I couldn’t help but feel guilty about being the cause of her eventual undoing.
Eight Years Ago
Mackenzie
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Jenna asked, poking her head into my dorm room.
“I can’t be here,” I replied, my hands trembling as I frantically tossed my things into various bags. I hadn’t slept, the image of Charlie’s hysterical and crazed eyes imprinted in my memory. I felt so stupid thinking he would truly want to be with me when I was only eighteen and he was a brilliant, handsome twenty-five-year-old man. I should have known he was only using me to learn about my past, a past that was kept from me.
“Mack,” Jenna said, placing her hand on my arm. “I have no idea what the hell happened last night, but you can’t close down. Why are you running?”
I stopped, straightening my spine. “I’m not running, Jenna. I just… I just want to see my mom, that’s all. I want to hug her, hear her voice, and have her tell me that I’ll be okay. That I’ll get over this.”
“You loved him, didn’t you?” Jenna asked, sitting down on my bed, relentless in her prodding. We had known each other since the first day of class and she was never one to shy away from asking the difficult questions. I loved and hated her for it at the same time.
“I did.” I squared my shoulders and faced her. “And I think I still do.” I sat next to her on the bed and she wrapped her tiny arms around me. “He wasn’t himself last night, Jenna.” I stared off, my expression becoming distant. “Or maybe he was. Maybe it was the past six months that he wasn’t himself.”
“What do you mean?”
I kept my eyes trained on a frame containing a picture of me smiling next to a tall, muscular man with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. It made my heart break a little bit more.
“I don’t know.” I stood up and went to my desk, picking up the photo. “But this Charlie…,” I said, holding up the frame. “This was not the Charlie I saw last night.”
Jenna nodded. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go home. I’m going to see my mom and tell her I love her. I just need to get away from here. The things he said, the things he did, I…I just need to think. That’s all.”
Jenna raised herself from the bed, her shoulders sinking. “Okay, Mack. You do what you need to do for you.” She hugged me before heading out of the small industrial-looking dorm room. Glancing over her shoulder, she studied me, sensing I wasn’t telling her everything. “At some point, you need to talk about it. When you’re ready, you know how to reach me.”
I nodded slightly, unsure of whether I’d ever be able to talk about last night.
I surveyed my empty dorm room, the ghosts of my relationship with Charlie surrounding me. He was everything I had ever imagined in the perfect man. He was my turtledove, the man I was sure I would spend the rest of my life completely devoted to. And he betrayed me. He used me, intent on bringing forward memories of my own past and of a father I could barely remember. I felt used. I felt stupid. Most of all, I felt heartbroken because, regardless of Charlie’s deception, I was still in love with him. And that made his betrayal hurt ten-fold.
Tears streaming down my cheeks, I packed the rest of the items I needed, throwing my bags over my shoulder, and left the dorm room that held nothing but painful reminders of how naïve I truly was.
Making the two-and-a-half hour drive from College Station to San Antonio, my mind kept replaying the previous evening and Charlie’s strange words.
The words of a deranged psychopath, I kept reminding myself. That was the only way to calm my fears and assuage myself that the only family I had left was still breathing.
Pulling up to the driveway of the house I had lived in for most of my adolescent years, I grew nervous when I noticed the familiar silhouette of Father David Slattery sitting on my front step. While it wasn’t out of the ordinary for the chaplain who had watched out for and protected me and my mother all those years ago to pay a visit, considering he was now the priest at the church in San Antonio we belonged to, I couldn’t help but grow uneasy, particularly after everything I had been through over the past twenty-four hours.
The walk from the driveway and up the stone path to my front door seemed to take hours instead of seconds as my eyes focused on the look of remorse on his face.
“Father David,” I said, my breathing increasing with each passing moment.
“Serafina,” he said, his voice unsteady and full of sorrow.
“What did you call me?” I asked, my voice rising in pitch as my spine straightened. It had been years since he had called me by my given name. He was adamant that my mother and I never speak those names again for fear that our true identities would be exposed, putting us in harm’s way. What harm, I had no idea.
Tears began falling from his eyes and he placed his hand compassionately on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Fi. She’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?” I asked urgently, wanting to ignore the sinking feeling forming in the pit of my stomach.
“Your mother.” His chin quivered as he struggled to maintain his composure. “I’m sorry.”
I stood completely frozen, dumbstruck. “How?” I asked, struggling to breathe.
“Car accident. Apparently, she was speeding and went off the side of the freeway…” He trailed off. “There was nothing anyone could do.”
“No!” Tears welled in my eyes. “No. She’s not dead! You’re lying!” I screamed. “She’s inside making sancocho for me, like she always does on Sundays! This is a cruel joke for you to be playing on me.” I stormed toward the front door, the keys trembling in my hand.
“Please, Serafina,” he said, coming up to me, pulling my unsteady frame into his arms. “I wish it wasn’t true, but it is.”
“No,” I repeated, shaking my head violently. I didn’t want to believe the words coming out of Father David’s mouth. “It can’t… She can’t be dead!” I shouted, slamming my fists against his chest.
“Shhh… Just let it out. Let it all out.” He continued to soothe my cries and, after fighting it for long enough, I broke down, sobbing heavily into his chest. “Charlie was right,” I whispered.
“Charlie?” Father David asked, pulling away from me, his eyes intense. “Charlie who?”
“My boyfriend. Well, my ex-boyfriend now, I suppose…”
“What was he right about?”
“He was crazed and told me he knows who I really am and that my father’s still alive, which we all know isn’t true. He warned me something like this was going to happen.”
“He asked about your father?”
I nodded quickly.
“And how did you meet?”
“At school.”
“He goes there?”
“No. I got a job bartending and he came in one day. We kind of hit it off. He works in Cryptology at Fort Hood.”
“Shit,” he muttered, my eyes growing wide at his response.
“Father David…?”
“Mackenzie, listen to me,” he said urgently. “I want you to go inside and lock the doors. Arm the security system. I’m going to send someone to come and stay with you. You can’t be alone right now. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the hospital so you can identify your mother’s remains. I’ll take care of all the arrangements for her service. Under no circumstances are you to leave the house unless I’m at your side. Do you understand me?”
/>
A chill washed over me and I knew something was wrong. “Why? What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure yet, but there are things I think it’s time you learned. I need a few days. Stay home. Stay safe. Don’t answer the door unless you see me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
“I’ll be in touch.” He spun on his heels, about to walk away.
“Wait!” I shouted, forcing him to turn around. “What am I supposed to do now?”
Father David gave me a sympathetic smile. “Pray, child. Just pray and God will answer your prayers. We all need to pray now.”
I remained dumbfounded and confused as he drove away. Hesitant, I unlocked the front door to the house, the dams breaking as a flood of tears rushed forward, the scent of coconut and cinnamon still wafting through the air as if my mother were still there.
The rest of the day passed in a daze as I sat in the formal sitting room of my house, waiting for answers that would never come. They showed the accident on the six o’clock news, the headline saying the police had ruled out foul play, and I screamed. Charlie’s threats had been realized and I hated myself for not giving him more credit. I had simply brushed them off as the rambling of a man in need of psychotherapy, particularly when I watched officials haul a sedated version of him away. Now, I was forced to live with the knowledge that I could have prevented my mother’s death, but didn’t. I felt just as culpable as if I had pointed a gun at her and pulled the trigger myself.
Five days later, I buried my mother. During the funeral and post-burial gathering at the house I now owned, I was forced to play hostess to all the people who had come to mourn her, distracting me from the truth of what had happened. But when the last mourner left and I was alone, the cruel reality that I no longer had any family finally hit.
I retreated into the sitting room, wanting to be whisked back to a happier time. A time when I had a family. I went to the far corner and removed a large portrait from the wall, my eyes falling on a small painting of my parents that was always hidden when company was over. I stepped back and stared at the two people who gave me life. Pulling out the beaded rosary my mother had left for me, memories of her rushed forward. Learning to ride a bike. Learning how to make sancocho and flan. The smells that emanated from our kitchen every day. I half expected to see her come barreling into the sitting room with some dish her own mother had taught her how to make when she was a little girl. But I knew that wouldn’t happen.
Looking around the sitting room that had been cleared in the center to allow for guests to mingle and socialize as they paid their respects, I recalled the last time I had seen her over Christmas. The parties. The food. The dancing. And that’s what I missed most. Learning how to dance with my mother.
A simple guitar line echoed through the room, reminding me of her even more. She often listened to music that reminded her of dancing with her own mother and father when she was growing up in Panama. The Spanish melody and rhythm filled my soul and I felt my mother’s presence, despite the fact that she was gone. I raised my arms and began to move to the music, going through the steps to a dance she had taught me when I was barely able to walk.
I wondered if I’d ever be able to get over the loss I was feeling at that moment. My entire world had been shattered in the blink of an eye. I felt lost. I felt empty. I felt alone, and I hated it.
As I continued moving to the music, I could have sworn that I heard an odd step-thump, step-thump echo down the hall as if someone was walking with a cane. I stopped briefly and listened, the sound no longer there. I closed my eyes once more and continued with the dance. It became more emotional, more fluid, as the music grew impassioned.
“You dance as beautifully as your mother,” a low raspy voice said, startling me.
I halted, spinning around, clutching my chest. My eyes fell on a man standing in the shadows. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties, a cane held in his left hand.
“I apologize. I thought all the guests had left.”
He took a step toward me and I backed up in response.
“They did. I wasn’t at the funeral, but I needed to pay my respects.” His chin quivered when something caught his eyes.
I glanced over my shoulder, following his line of sight to the portrait hanging on the wall.
“How do you know my mother?” I asked, eyeing the stranger with a revitalized curiosity.
He sighed, walking into the room and out of the shadows. I was able to see his face clearly now, or as clearly as I could through the deep scarring on the entire left side. I followed the length of his body and noticed more scarring on his left arm, as well. He removed the hat he wore and I saw that he was bald, more scarring on his scalp. It appeared as if he had suffered painful burns. Otherwise, he looked to be a rather attractive older man, and was in shape. He was tall and had kind blue eyes, the color brilliant and familiar.
“I’ve been putting this day off as long as possible,” he said.
“What day?”
“I had hoped…” He trailed off. “I wish it could have happened under better circumstances once…”
“Once what?” I asked, confused, my eyes focused solely on the man’s face.
“I can’t say. It’s not safe for you to know about any of this, but I made a promise to your mother to make sure you know you’re not alone, Serafina.”
My eyes grew wide and my breath hitched. “I’m not−”
“Serafina, Mackenzie…” He inhaled deeply. “It’s me. Your papa.”
I shook my head. “No. My father died.”
“Yes, because that’s what I wanted you to believe. Please, Serafina, look at me. Look beyond the burns and the crippled man standing in front of you. Look at my eyes. At my smile. Look at me. Please. I beg you.”
I didn’t know why, but I did what he asked. I stared at the man in front of me, then back to the youthful and vital man in the portrait. Squinting, I saw a hint of similarity, most notably in the eyes. Or maybe it was simply because I was so desperate to have a family again that I was grasping at straws.
Remaining resolute, I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “If you are my father, and I’m not saying you are, why did you want us to think you were dead?”
“Not us. Just you. Your mother knew I was alive.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I took a chance coming here, but I had to let you know you’re not alone.” He turned his head and peered out the front door, his nervous and hurried aura reminding me of Charlie’s actions the night that changed my life. Backing up cautiously, I continued to monitor his every move.
“I can’t stay long,” he said finally. “I have to get back.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s−”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s not safe. Sure. What’s your game? Break into some girl’s house just to play a cruel joke on her? Nice…”
I retreated from the room, wanting to get out of the house that only held memories of my mother. “Asshole,” I muttered under my breath.
“Serafina… Please, mi bichito.”
I halted in my steps, the wind knocked out of me. “What did you call me?” I asked, spinning around.
A small smile appeared on his crippled face. “Mi bichito.”
“Holy fuck,” I exhaled, raising my hand to my mouth to hide my trembling lips. “It really is you, isn’t it? I remember you. I remember that horrible accent. Spanish with a side of Carolina, as Mama used to call it.”
“It really is me,” he assured me, a paternal expression crossing his face as he silently pleaded with me to believe him.
Emotion overwhelming me from everything I had kept inside over the past week, I rushed to him and sobbed into his chest, soaking his crisp white shirt.
“It’s okay. Let it out, Serafina.”
“Why? Why did you abandon us? Why did you abandon me? Why did you give us
up so easily?”
“I didn’t. Having to hide from you has been the hardest thing for me to do. I can’t explain right now, but I promise, I will tell you everything one day. Just know that I love you and I will always be here for you.”
He placed a gentle kiss on my forehead and released me from his embrace, heading toward the hallway.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
He looked over his shoulder. “I can’t tell you. But if you ever need me, I’m as close as that cross you wear.” He gestured to the beaded necklace. “Just remember that in pain, there is healing, Serafina.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Present Day
IN PAIN, THERE IS healing. I repeated the words in my head as I pulled into the parking lot of the church I had attended while growing up in San Antonio. I had seen those words in the chapel of the rectory my mother and I hid out in when we first arrived all those years ago. I remembered how lonely and cramped we were in the small ten-by-ten room. Every day, I would get up and ask my mama if that was the day we could go back home. And, every day, my mother had told me not yet, but soon. It wasn’t until over a year had passed that the chaplain came through and said it was safe for us to finally leave the rectory, as long as we remained close. But we still couldn’t go home. At the time, I had no idea why we had to remain hidden. Truth be told, I still didn’t really know.
Anxious about this afternoon’s mass, I made my way toward the large white building, staring up at the steeple. But instead of turning and heading up the steps to the church, I proceeded past it, walking up the gravel path toward the rectory.
I softly knocked on the door and waited patiently. Within a few minutes, a nun I recognized as Sister Theresa appeared. Without saying a word, I pulled out the beaded cross. She simply nodded and closed the door.