The Saints of the Cross

by Michelle Figley

  “Momma, it’s me, Evie.”

  That’s when her eyes focus on mine, and I see a flash of recognition, of relief, of sadness in those obsidian orbs. It’s a reaction that only lasts brief seconds, and then she’s right back to her inner world—eyes distant, body flexed.

  And I crumble, from the inside out.

  EPILOGUE

  I’ll never forget the day I received the letter. The clouds were hanging threateningly low in the sky, row after row of voluminous gray puffs racing by in the cold, angry November wind. Everything was eerily quiet. There were no birds chirping outside the windows. The nearby playground was silent. There were no cars honking or tires screeching out on the street. It was as if the whole world was silent in mourning. But it was mourning for no reason, because I know he’ll be okay. I know he is okay; at least that’s what I tell myself. It’s what I have to hold on to with both white-knuckled hands, so I don’t come completely unhinged.

  Xander comes to see me as often as he can, but as they say, life goes on. Sometimes, oftentimes, it goes on without you. He’s been studying pre-med at Brown, and he seems to be doing well. He’s happy, and that’s all that matters to me. He’s going to become a psychiatrist. He says I’ve inspired him. I guess that’s true to a point. I mean, I think my mother deserves the credit for that.

  I was devastated when he came home one Thanksgiving and told me he was seeing someone else. He said I had turned my back on him—that I’d become emotionally distant since I’d learned Javier was MIA. I guess he was right, I did practically lock myself in the brownstone I shared with Jude and Coralea. I only went out to go to the occasional class or to visit Mom in the hospital. It’s funny what guilt can do to a person. It can quite literally reduce you to a sniveling pile of worthlessness resolute to waste away into oblivion.

  But a few months after his girlfriend confession, and completely out of the blue, Xander, sporting a terrified expression, was waiting on the front steps when I returned home from class at Georgetown. In one hand, he was holding a bouquet of roses. On the other, he wore a princess-cut diamond solitaire ring on his pinky finger. I said yes. No hesitation.

  We plan to marry in the spring, after we’ve graduated from college. He’ll start in the fall to Georgetown Medical School, and I’ll start law school there. We’re going to stay in the brownstone I bought with the funds I obtained from selling Javier’s SoHo loft. Coralea and Jude are moving to London, where Jude will be attending graduate school and Cora will be working as a nurse. Cora and I had teased the guys that we were going to have a double wedding, but those two ended up getting married over Labor Day weekend. So now she’s married and expecting. Cora, a working mother? Who would’ve guessed? Not me. I also wouldn’t have put Cora and Jude together, but opposites attract, I guess.

  Christian and Camilla are living a semi-quiet existence in Los Angeles where he writes music for movies and television, and she tells celebrities how to dress. I believe they call her a “stylist to the stars.” Christian has given up on the rock-star thing, for now, so he can stay home with Camilla instead of touring ten months out of the year. It was the promise he made to her when the paternity test came back positive. They seem happy when they come to visit us here in Georgetown, but if there’s anything I’ve learned in life, it’s that things aren’t always what they seem.

  I’m hoping my mother will be well enough to attend the wedding ceremony in May. She’s doing so much better now, and the medication side effects are almost undetectable—except for the bizarre lip-licking and watery eyes. We were able to all but stop her jerky movements with a new type of muscle relaxer. It’s been a miracle, really.

  There are times when I look at her and she’s my mother, the same woman from nearly twenty years ago who hummed haunting lullabies to me and braided my hair while playfully assuring me that I was, indeed, the last remaining Indian princess. Then there are times when she’s staring off into space—unreachable by anyone, including Nash. In those times I wonder what alien has invaded her and taken over her body. But then I remember how this mess got started, and I push those thoughts out of my head. It’s a strange feeling to miss someone with all your heart and soul, when they’re sitting right next to you. I thought the days of yearning for my mother would be over once I’d found her. I was definitely wrong about that.

  When she’s locked away in her own world, all I want to do is bring her back to ours. I don’t know what goes on inside her head, what little dramas play out in there, what lies are whispered to her by her own mind. Who knows, maybe her world is reality and ours is delusion. I sure hope not, because if that were true, Xander wouldn’t be real. Javier wouldn’t be real. And I need them both to be real. I need everything that’s happened, everything we’ve been through together, to be real.

  It’s absolutely heartbreaking to see Momma with Ethan and Emma because there is zero recognition in her eyes. They have no idea how to be around her, how to respond to her empty gazes, but Emma is determined to build a relationship with her. She spends all of her free time after school talking with Momma about classes, ballet, boys—anything to make a connection. I know by her distant stare that Momma doesn’t listen most of the time, but Emma doesn’t care. Ethan is different. I’m afraid he will give up on her. I think he’s tired of feeling hurt and disappointed all the time. I really can’t blame him.

  I encouraged my father to ask Mamaw Grayce to move into the house with them, since I was no longer living there and they had an extra bedroom. I felt like Mom needed her, and I was right. Mamaw Grayce is the one Mom clings to when she feels herself slipping away, which deeply saddens Dad. He wants to be the one she needs, but I doubt that will ever happen. Honestly, he has no one to blame but himself. He destroyed her trust in him when he sent her away all those years ago. It will take more time than he has to fix it.

  I haven’t asked my mother about my biological father, not even in the few times she’s been most lucid. The doctors worry that there are negative memories associated with my real father, and bringing this up to her could cause a major setback. I can’t have that hanging over my conscience.

  So I wait, as patiently as I can. It’s not that if I don’t find out who my father is, it will ruin me. I just feel like there’s more to the story than discovering a long-lost relative. Why was my mother so secretive about his identity? What exactly was she hiding—or, perhaps, protecting? It’s a complete mystery, and its solution is locked inside the mind of a sometimes catatonic schizophrenic.

  With frustration at the thought of never knowing the truth, I stand up and dust the sand off my backside.

  “I’ll be right back,” I holler over my shoulder so that I can be heard over the unrelenting wind rushing around us. I amble through the sand over to the water. The tide washes over my feet, but I don’t move away. The Atlantic is as balmy as I remember. My eyes find the tiny, white-washed cottage perched on the cliff side. The family who now owns the house is having a leisurely Sunday picnic on the grass overlooking the ocean. It’s a beautiful, temperate December day for a seaside excursion; the crystal-blue sky is painted with high, feathery strokes of white, and the abundant sunshine warms the Spanish coastline. I glance over at the swaying sea grass and then on to the clearing a few paces beyond—the exact spot where he gave me his heart almost five years ago. My legs sway. I should sit, but I can’t. I’m here for a reason.

  I reach in my jeans pocket and pull the ring out, clutched tightly in my fist. I allow it to rest there for a few precious moments. Its hard surfaces burrow against the soft skin of my palm as I squeeze my fist tighter. I don’t dare open my hand, because I might catch a glimpse of the inscription and then I could quite possibly lose my nerve. But I can’t change my mind. He haunts me, and I’ve got to let him go. I’ve got to be able to close my eyes and not see his handsome face anymore. When I’m kissing my fiancé, when we’re entwined in one another’s arms, my eyes are always open. If I close them, it’s Javier’s face I see instead of Xander’s. So I hi
tch my arm back and sling it forward as hard as I can. Instantly, ice-cold regret courses through me when I open my hand and the ring goes flying to the ocean. All the emotions I’m feeling—guilt, sadness, relief—are hot, molten steel, pooling in my gut and rising up together as one cold spear to impale my traitorous heart.

  I begin to crumble inside, but then his strong, comforting arms wrap around me. He pulls me close and I meld into him. He places a gentle hand under my chin and tilts it until our eyes meet.

  “Are you okay?” His face is worried, tired. I feel a twinge of guilt knowing he’s exhausted from the immense effort of soothing my frazzled soul. But he never wavers—not once in the five years I’ve known him. I nod and give him the most convincing smile I can muster. He points his chin toward the ocean, a dubious expression crossing his face as his golden eyes search mine. “What did you throw into the water?”

  “Oh nothing. Just a rock,” I lie. But I can’t tell him that I’ve brought him all this way on the pretense of visiting friends so that I could symbolically say goodbye to Javier. It’s the only way I know to let go. I’ve already lasered off the tattoo and sold the properties he left for me—except for the ranch outside Seville. I signed that over to Rafe. I figured he’d earned it taking care of the property for all these years. I placed all the money into a bank account under Javier’s name. Someday, I know he’ll come back to claim it. That gorgeous, vibrant, maddening creature cannot be dead. He simply cannot. But he once told me that the ring represents his heart and, if I no longer wanted it, to throw it into the ocean. Although I still love him, I no longer want his heart. I have moved on with someone I love completely and absolutely.

  “I’m ready,” I exhale, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on me. Instead he pulls me closer and looks intently into my eyes.

  “I love you,” Xander whispers, his stare dark and intense. His next words are resolute, “No matter what.”

  “I know,” I tell him and kiss his trembling lips. That’s when I realize I haven’t fooled him at all. He knows exactly why we’re here. “You know I love you, too,” I say.

  He nods, but his face is drawn and sad. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me to fix what I’ve broken here, what I’ve broken inside of him, inside of me. I hold him closer and kiss him again like my life depends on it, because it does. His sweet face softens, and we’re smiling at each other once again.

  We turn around and head east, into our future.

  Acknowledgements

  Since I was a young girl, it’s been a dream of mine to write a novel. Evie’s story has haunted me for many years now, and after nearly five years of planning, research, writing, and editing, it’s finally finished. They say it takes a village to raise a child. I would argue that, likewise, it takes a village to raise a writer. We need lots of nurturing, understanding, encouragement, and tough love. I want to thank everyone who has carried me through the last five years with their cheerleading, sage advice, and all-around unwavering support.

  To Jason and Jade, who just barely tolerated my late nights writing in the office while blasting the most emo, whiny music I could find on iTunes and YouTube for inspiration. You two made this possible. It was Jade with her well-read, well-trained, Young Adult-loving eye who read early drafts of the novel and really handed me my literary head on a platter. Her insight made this book so much more readable. And Jason who told anyone and everyone who’d listen that his wife was busy writing a novel. Thanks to you, I had no other choice than to finish it.

  To my #1 beta reader and friend Matt Robbins who really had his work cut out for him when he took on the critiques of the novel. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. I am forever grateful and humbled by your work and dedication to helping me achieve my childhood dream. XOXO

  Speaking of childhood ambitions, I want to thank all the teachers out there who encourage children to follow their hearts and cultivate their dreams. It was a junior high health teacher who read my handwritten short stories and poems, and told me I’d make a great writer someday. Those words stuck and, after all these years, I’m still trying. Thank you.

  Special thanks to Janet Green of thewordverve for editing this behemoth work and making it so much better than I could’ve hoped for. Thanks to Najla Qambar all the way across the world in Bahrain for designing the beautiful, enchanting cover which depicts the scene in which Evie and Xander attend the Inaugural Youth Ball. I look forward to a long creative relationship with you both.

  To my nursing colleagues on CVR who kept me on task with their constant questions about my project. You were exceedingly supportive and never once doubted my sanity. Well, not regarding this endeavor, anyway. You listened to my vague, unpolished synopses and still professed your interest in reading it. Now, you can finally find out what the darn thing is about! I love you all more than words can say. You are nothing less than family to me.

  And finally, to you, the reader who took a leap of faith and purchased this book; thank you from the bottom of my heart. My hope is that you enjoyed reading Evie’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it, and that you loved all the characters at least half as much as I do. It will be a difficult task to let them go and start working on the next novel, December Burning, the first in a trilogy. Perhaps I can come up with some symbolic act of my own to say good-bye to them. I have no definite plans for a sequel to The Saints of the Cross at this time, but you never know…

  Author Biography

  Michelle Figley enjoys spending all of her free time reading Young Adult novels, rotting her brain watching too much T.V., and daydreaming about living in the Southern region of Spain. She is a three-time graduate of Indiana University where she studied Spanish Literature, among other things. She currently lives in beautiful Bloomington, IN with her husband, teenage daughter, and the loves of her life, her two dogs Rocco and Jolson Bear. The Saints of the Cross is her debut novel.