The Saints of the Cross

by Michelle Figley

  “It’s just a cat, Evie.” Xander laughs, lowering me back down to the ground.

  “I know.” I try for an indifferent expression, but it twists into a trembling smile despite my best efforts, and I burst out laughing. After all, my reaction to the cat was a touch ridiculous.

  “What can I do ya fer?” the man behind the counter asks around a cough, and then blows his nose into a grimy handkerchief.

  “Reservation for Bartolomeo.” Xander hands him his driver’s license and credit card and then turns to me with a cringe on his face.

  After checking in and getting the key from the attendant, we go straight to the room. Xander immediately grabs a pillow and extra blanket off the double-sized bed and throws them on the matted, green-shag floor.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’ll take the floor, you take the bed.”

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

  “Now, Evie, we really haven’t known each other long enough to be sleeping together, but I am flattered by the offer,” he says, amused, hand on his heart.

  “That’s not what I meant!” I scold, but my face is burning like I’ve had a micro-peel with an industrial-grade sandblaster. “I meant that you can have the bed, because you paid for the room. I’ll take the floor.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” He looks at me as if I’ve sucker-punched him. I shake my head no. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I made you sleep on the floor? I can’t believe you’d think that of me, unless you are purposely trying to destroy my self-esteem.”

  I catch the edge of teasing in his tone, and I sigh in relief. The last thing I want to do is to offend the one person who cared enough to come with me on this trip.

  “Well, if you insist, I’ll take the bed,” I say and lay on my stomach, positioning myself so that I can look down on him from the foot of the bed.

  “I do,” Xander says, spreading the blanket on the floor. He lies down on his back with his hands behind his head, and looks up at me with kind eyes. “Now that we’ve got the sleeping arrangements out of the way, do you want to talk about what you’re so worried about?”

  I inhale a deep breath and close my eyes, contemplating whether I actually want to admit to him that I have no clue as to how to find my family. How stupid will I sound? Not to mention the fact that he drove all this way for me, and I haven’t even come up with a game plan.

  I exhale and open my eyes. He’s staring at me with expectancy in those golden eyes.

  “Okay, here’s the truth: I have no plan for finding my family. I have no idea where to start. Please don’t be mad at me.” The words tumble out of my mouth all at once, and I stifle a sob.

  “Whoa, whoa. Calm down, Evie. I’m not mad at you about anything.” He sits up at the foot of the bed and places a reassuring hand on my back. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure out what to do. Why don’t we sleep on it? Maybe something will come to us in our dreams.”

  I nod and give him a weak smile. I settle in under the comforter and turn off the lamp on the bedside table.

  “Good night, Xander.”

  “Good night, Evie. Sweet dreams.”

  The next morning I awake to the smell of coffee. Xander’s standing at the foot of the bed with a Starbucks Venti cup in each hand and a triumphant grin on his face.

  “Found a Starbucks down the highway,” he says, handing me a cup.

  “Thanks.” I place the cup on the bedside table, jump out of bed and run to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I almost scream when I see my hair in the mirror, back plastered against my head, front sticking straight up. Obviously, I did not have a peaceful sleep last night, although the subject of my dream is already becoming foggy. I can remember a much older Xander weeping by a gravestone, a pair of hollow black eyes, and a blurry-faced, redheaded man I’ve never seen before. The harder I try to remember the dream, the more distant it becomes, so I just allow it to fade away. I try to rake a comb through my hair, but I finally give up and tie it in a messy bun with a rubber band that I had wrapped around my wrist.

  “I’ve got an idea, Evie,” Xander calls from the main room. I come out of the restroom and sit on the edge of the bed, grabbing the coffee and inhaling its magnificent scent. Xander sits across from me at the tiny two-seater table.

  “Okay,” I reply between sips.

  “Why don’t we start with the phone book?” he says, handing me the tattered volume. “We can call the people who have the same last name as your mom and ask them if they knew her. Once we find people who knew her, we can go to their place to talk to them in person.”

  “Sounds as good as any plan I could come up with.”

  “What ideas did you come up with?”

  “Honestly, nothing. I just had a bad dream.”

  “That would explain the crying last night,” Xander says, leaning over and placing a hand on my knee, “and the tossing and turning. Are you okay?”

  I nod and swallow hard.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No, not particularly, but thanks for the offer.” I take another sip and divert my eyes to the window.

  “Okay. Do you remember your mom ever telling you the name of her family members here in Indiana?”

  “No. I was really young when she died, so I only remember her telling me that my grandmother still lived here in Indiana. She never mentioned her name or the name of the town. My original birth certificate is from a hospital in this town, so I figured it would be the best place to start.”

  “Makes sense,” Xander says, opening the massive phone book to the white pages. “What was your mom’s maiden name?”

  “Hamilton,” I answer.

  Xander flips through the pages, stopping about halfway through the book. He runs his finger down the page. “Here are the Hamiltons. There are only three. The first is Grayce Hamilton—”

  “Wait!” I exclaim and jump up to stand over Xander’s shoulder. I peer down at the phone book. “That’s my middle name—the same spelling, even.”

  “Do you want to start there?” Xander asks, looking up at me. I nod, sit back down on the bed, and grab my cell phone. “Read the numbers to me, Xander.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  I nod. “Hurry before I chicken out.”

  Xander reads the numbers to me slowly as I dial, and I hit the send button. The phone begins to ring on the other end of the line. After five rings, a weak, elderly voice answers.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Grayce Hamilton?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Are you related to Amelia Hamilton?”

  “Why, yes. Who is this?”

  “This is Evangeline Sweeney. I’m in town and I’d like to meet you to talk about Mia. Do you have time today?”

  “Child, all I have is time. Do you want to come to my house? I don’t get out much these days. They took away my license on account of my bad eyes.”

  “Sure. I’m not from around here. What’s your address? We can find it.” I motion for Xander to hand me a pen and paper, and I take down the address she gives me. “Okay,” I continue, “my friend Xander and I will be there in a few minutes. Do you mind if I bring my friend?” I totally forgot to tell her about Xander. I’d hate to scare the poor lady when we drive up and she sees a hulking man at her door. Not that he’s intimidating or anything, just very . . . large.

  “Land sakes, no. I can’t wait to see you, Evie. I’ll be waiting,” she says and hangs up the phone. My jaw is in my lap. I stare at Xander, my eyes wide, blinking in disbelief.

  “What?” Xander asks, and I can only shake my head. “Evie, what is it?”

  “She just called me Evie,” I answer, my voice wavering. “I told her my name is Evangeline. She came up with Evie on her own.”

  I look down at the piece of paper in my hands, and my entire body is trembling so ferociously that the address is nothing but a blur. Xander moves next to me on the bed and wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling
me close to him and resting his chin on my head. I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him tight, burying my face into his chest. The tears come hard and fast.

  “Shh,” says Xander, stroking my back. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

  I squeeze him tighter in an attempt to calm myself down. It seems to work; the tears stop, and I wipe away the wet evidence of my immaturity from my cheeks with the sleeve of my shirt. I let go of Xander, feeling guilty for making him uncomfortable with my easy waterworks.

  “I’m sorry, Xander,” I say, moving over on the bed. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s okay, really,” he whispers. “You’re going through a lot right now, and I’m here for you. I’m your friend, and that’s what friends are for, right?”

  I nod, but I keep my eyes on my hands, which are clasped together in my lap, the piece of paper clutched between them. Apparently dissatisfied with my weak response, Xander places his hand under my chin and gently turns my face to his, meeting my eyes with his beautiful, golden stare.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks in a quiet, measured voice. I close my eyes and nod. With his arm around my shoulder, I feel him lean in and press his warm, soft lips to my forehead. I’m startled by the intimate gesture, and my eyes fly open just as he pulls away from me. I stare up at him, hoping he can’t hear my heart beating like a drum in my chest. He smiles down at me, an affectionate expression on his face.

  “Let’s go,” I say before I lose my nerve.

  CHAPTER 14

  Twenty minutes later, we arrive at the address Ms. Hamilton gave me over the phone. I look around. An old, single-wide trailer home in disrepair sits alongside the two-lane highway on a junked-out piece of land surrounded by barren corn fields. A yellow kitten dashes out from behind an oak tree adjacent to the driveway and scurries under the trailer through a large hole in the underpinning.

  “Guess this is it,” I say, glancing down at the piece of paper in my hand and checking the address one more time to the street numbers on the mailbox.

  “Are you ready for this?” Xander asks, looking from me to the trailer and then back again.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” I open the Land Rover’s door and walk up the gravel driveway to the trailer, Xander following close behind.

  A wobbly, makeshift staircase consisting of stacked concrete blocks leads to the door, which is about three feet off the ground. I look at Xander, who shrugs, and then I reach up to knock on the metal storm door. A shrill barking comes from inside, and we hear the stomping of footsteps approaching the door.

  “Quiet, Macho!” the familiar, elderly female voice shouts from the other side of the door. “Just a minute.”

  A few seconds later, the door creaks open and before us stands a small, white-haired woman holding a tiny, long-haired Chihuahua yelping the most ungodly shrill bark I’ve ever heard. The woman props open the screen door with her free hand.

  “Come on in, you two, and pay no never-mind to Macho. He’s all bark, I promise ya. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  I glance at Xander. “Ladies first,” he says, motioning to the stairs. He presents a steadying hand to me, which I take as I step on the first wobbly step.

  “Careful there, Evie,” the woman—Ms. Hamilton, I assume—warns me as she puts Macho down. He sits at her feet, staring at me with his head tilted and ears straight up at attention.

  “I’ve got her,” Xander says, moving his hands to my waist. I feel his grip tighten as I move up the stairs. “There you go,” he says as I cross the threshold into the tiny trailer.

  “Evie! I’m so glad to finally see you after all these years,” she cries, throwing her frail arms around me. “Come on in the living room, and have a seat on the davenport.”

  The old woman leads me into the tiny space, and I follow her command, taking a seat on the edge of her couch. I look up, and Xander’s closing the door behind him as he enters the trailer. He’s so tall that he has to duck underneath the threshold. Macho looks like a tiny mouse, circling Xander’s feet and jumping up on his legs, begging for attention. Xander manages to maneuver around the dog and takes a seat next to me on the couch. Ms. Hamilton apologizes for her “bad manners,” gets up, and hurries (as much as an ancient person can) to the kitchen to retrieve a couple of sodas for us from the refrigerator.

  I look around the tiny room and notice that despite the mess outside the trailer, the inside is neatly kept. Several framed photos, some yellowed by time, hang on the paneled walls, while others sit on a three-shelf bookcase across from the couch. In one photo, a familiar young girl with bronzed skin, shiny raven hair, and haunting black eyes smiles down at me from across a tortuous river of time.

  “Is that your mom?” Xander whispers, staring up at the picture. I nod at him.

  “Ms. Hamilton,” I begin when the woman returns, handing Xander and me each a cold can of Coca-Cola. “How are you related to Mia Hamilton?”

  “She’s my granddaughter,” she answers, sitting down on a chair adjacent to the couch. She squints at me. “I’m sorry, Sugar. I thought you knew that when you called me earlier.”

  “You’re my great-grandmother?” I ask, the hint of disbelief in my voice.

  “Yes, darlin’. You’re named after me, didn’t ya know that?”

  “I figured it out when I saw your name in the phone book.”

  “You got my number in the phone book? Your daddy didn’t give it to you?” She’s blinking at me with a puzzled expression on her wrinkled face.

  “Well, honestly, he doesn’t know I’m here.” I sound guilty, and the more I think about it, the more I realize I could get into big trouble with my dad—er, Nash—for coming here. “Listen, I’m here because I have a question I need answered, and I didn’t know who I’d find when I got here, if I’d find anyone to talk to at all. I couldn’t tell my dad I was coming here because I didn’t want him to know that I’d discovered the truth, that he’s not my real father.”

  “Let me guess; you’re here to find out who your real daddy is.”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but Mia never told any of us who he was. She refused to tell anyone. Don’t know why, neither.” She gives me a sympathetic smile and pat on the arm.

  “Do you know where Mia’s mother, my grandmother, is? Maybe my mom confided in her.”

  “Caroline died from drinkin’ too much, among other things, when your momma was just a small girl. Caroline got to drinkin’ when her husband was killed in the line of duty. He was a state trooper and got himself shot when he pulled over a car full of escaped prisoners from the federal pen in Terre Haute. I raised Mia from the time her momma died, and she would’ve told me, if she was gonna tell anyone. I was all that child had.”

  A sad look comes over the woman’s face, and I feel a twinge of guilt for bringing up these painful memories.

  “Even when your daddy sent her back from Italy, and she got straightened out on her medications, she would never tell no one who got her pregnant with you. It was like she was protectin’ the guy or something—”

  “Excuse me, what did you just say?”

  “Yes, she never told nobody—”

  “No, what did you just say about Italy?”

  “Umm,” she answers, looking up as though she’s trying to remember something. “Oh, you mean ’bout Mia comin’ back from Italy? You know, about ten years ago, your momma came back here when she got real sick in the head.”

  “What are you talking about? My mother died ten years ago in a car crash in Italy.”

  A look of absolute confusion settles over her weathered face. Her eyes move from me to Xander, then back to me, searching my face as if she’s trying to figure out if I’ve completely lost my mind.

  “Evie, your daddy sent Mia back here to stay because she’d gotten off her meds, and he said she was doin’ crazy things. He said he was worried ’bout your safety. Said she was sayin’ crazy things ’bout you kids. He wanted her seen
in a hospital here, because the doctors in Italy weren’t takin’ her threats seriously.”

  The room closes in on me. I hear the cuckoo clock on the wall ticking, but the sound is a hundred miles away. The voices on the TV are hollow and distant, drifting up from the depths of a bottomless well. When Grayce speaks again, I see her lips moving, but her voice seems to originate from somewhere within me, within my own mind.

  “She’s alive, Evie. Well, last time I saw her,’ bout five years ago, she was alive.”

  “I am so confused right now. Are you saying that she didn’t die in a car crash in Italy? Are you saying that my father lied to us?”

  She hesitates for a moment, and then looks me square in the eyes, “I guess so, Evie. I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell you this.”

  “I don’t believe you. My father would never do that. He loved my mother, and he was devastated by her death.”

  “I got proof, young’un.”

  Grayce stands up from the chair and ambles to a china cabinet in the kitchenette. She returns to us with her arm outstretched, a postcard in her hand. I take the card from her. The picture on the front is a glossy aerial shot of the Lincoln Memorial. I turn it over and notice that the postmark in the top right corner is dated December 21, five years ago. I don’t need to read the message to know who it’s from; I recognize my mother’s scrawled handwriting immediately. She had been the one to teach me how to write my name, and I’ve spent many a night reading the journals she kept when she was a young girl.

  Dearest Grandmother,

  I am fine. I still have not foundthe children. I will call you soon.

  Merry Christmas.

  All my love, Mia

  I suck in a deep breath as Xander wraps an arm around me. I look up into his beautiful, worried face, but I can’t respond to his concern. My mind is numb with the implications of what I hold in my trembling fingers. My mother is alive, and she’s looking for me. She’s looking for all of us. My father sent her away. He lied to me, and to the twins. But why? Who knows the extent of his lies?