The Sisters of Alameda Street

by Lorena Hughes

  “I need to ask you one more thing,” Abigail said. “Remember what I told you about Claudia?”

  “Yes.”

  Abigail pointed at the top drawer of her night table. “I wrote about it in my diary. Burn it.”

  “I will.”

  Exhaling, Abigail let go of her sister’s hand.

  Alejandra walked to the door and stopped. Without turning she said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you all these years.”

  Alejandra didn’t give Abigail time to respond; she left the room too quickly. But the knot in Abigail’s chest released, bringing her a new sense of peace. Her sister didn’t hate her, like she’d always thought. Alejandra had forgiven her for whatever it was she did to her back when they were teenagers.

  Her moment of peace dissipated as soon as she heard hard steps approaching her room.

  His steps.

  Alejandra reappeared in the room, followed by Victor in his black cassock.

  This was the first time Abigail had seen him wearing it. She had wished he wouldn’t wear it here. It embarrassed her to see it. He seemed so different now. A grown man, a respectable man. But he smiled at her with the same kindness of his youth.

  He stood by the bed, hands clasped in front of him. A priestly gesture. Did they get trained on this or did it just come naturally? Only now did she realize that Alejandra had left them alone. But this shouldn’t surprise her. After Fausto’s death, Alejandra’s spirit had left her body and she was nothing but a phantom roaming the halls.

  Victor was the first one to break the silence. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  He was lying, of course.

  “Neither have you,” she said. “You’re the handsomest priest I’ve ever met.”

  He brought a chair next to her bed and sat down, hands over his lap. “Did you want me here as a priest or as a friend?”

  The question alone hurt. A priest or a friend. Those were his only options. Could you even be friends with the one you loved?

  “Both.” She reached for the glass of water Mamá Blanca had brought her earlier. Victor handed it to her. She drained it, but the thirst remained, as did the pain in her lower back. Her damn rotten kidneys. She set the glass back on the night table, embarrassed by the tremor in her hand.

  He followed her gaze.

  “Are you happy?” she asked.

  He stared at his palms. “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about me. It never was.”

  “Was it worth it?” She rested her palms on her sides. “Your sacrifice.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “I just want to know … I need to know if”—she paused, afraid of his answer, afraid of his pity—“if you ever regretted your decision.”

  He looked up. There was pain in his eyes. “Yes.”

  She breathed out. He wouldn’t lie to her about this, not on her deathbed. Or maybe it was the compassionate thing to do, even if it wasn’t honest. She grabbed his hand. It was stone cold.

  “Promise?”

  He smiled, but his eyes were still sad. “I do. I’m not the same man you met then. I’m not nearly as idealistic.” His voice lowered, as though that last part was only meant for himself. But this was all she needed. Just to know that she’d mattered to him, that it hadn’t been only her. She squeezed his hand, ascertaining that this wasn’t a dream, that he was truly here holding her hand. She kissed it softly.

  He stiffened. “You don’t have to do that, Abi.”

  “Why not? Everyone else gets to do it, right?” He wouldn’t take this small pleasure from her, not now. She rubbed his hand against her cheek.

  He watched her, tightening his jaw. The tears burned in her eyes, begging to come down. As soon as she felt the first one, she let go of his hand. “Enough of that.” She dried her cheek with the edge of the sheet. “Time for the priest to come now. Time for confession.”

  A small crease formed between his eyebrows. “Please don’t joke about this.”

  “I’m not. I called a priest, didn’t I?” She licked her dry lips. “I want my Extreme Unction.”

  “I may not be the right—”

  “You’re going to deny the last Sacrament to one of your parishioners?”

  “Of course not,” he said.

  He left the room for a moment. When he returned, he carried a leather case with him. Ana followed him inside, holding an empty tray in her hands. She placed the clutter from the bedside table on the tray—medicine bottles, books, and the empty glass. She looked at Abigail through watery eyes, but beneath the sorrow there was something else. Fear?

  Victor approached the night table and set his leather case on top. He removed a white tablecloth, a Bible, two glass containers—water and oil—and a long purple stole that he placed around his neck.

  Ana stumbled out of the room, reminding Abigail of her sister’s clumsy walk the day they met Victor at María Teresa’s wedding.

  As he sprinkled her with Holy Water, he said a prayer, but she wasn’t listening. She just wanted to watch him, to prolong this moment, for she knew she would never see him again after this. He sat down on the chair, ready to listen. It was now or never, the moment she’d imagined for years.

  Abigail started her confession, watching his serene expression as she spoke. She talked about the guilt of leaving her loved ones behind, of lying for so many years to her family, of being responsible for Ana’s unhappiness. He nodded occasionally, not asking any questions but simply accepting her words. After his shoulders had relaxed, after he’d let out a slow breath, she stopped.

  “Is there anything else?” he said.

  “Yes.” She reached out for his hand, feeling it tense as she touched it. She took a deep breath, and her back hurt even more. “I was in love once.” She hesitated. “With someone who wasn’t meant to be mine.”

  He slipped his hand away from hers.

  “His last weekend in town, before he left me for good, I went to the boarding house where he was staying.”

  “What are you getting at?” The man, not the priest, spoke now. His voice was still low, as low as hers, but there was hostility underneath.

  “I have a daughter,” she said. “We …” She stopped herself upon seeing the horror in his eyes, the intense pain taking shape in his expression. He watched her, finally removing the mask of indifference from his face.

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’d already left by the time I found out I was pregnant. I didn’t want to cause a scandal. I didn’t want to ruin your life.”

  “You should have told me.” He brought his hands to his forehead. “Where is she?”

  “Here. Probably playing in the courtyard.”

  Victor straightened himself. “I saw her. She was in the living room when I arrived.”

  Abigail nodded, for she was afraid her voice would break if she spoke again.

  “Claudia is her name, isn’t it? I should have known. She reminded me so much of my mother.”

  “She has your eyes,” Abigail said.

  “My mother’s eyes.” There were tears in his now. “Things could have been so different if you’d told me.”

  “No, they wouldn’t have. You were meant to do this. I finally see it. You don’t belong in the real world, among mere mortals. You have a gift.”

  “Don’t say that. I’m just another sinner. Worse even.”

  “Please don’t blame yourself. It was my fault. I went to see you with a plan. I wanted to stop you, to entice you. I’m the only one to blame here.”

  He wouldn’t look at her. “But I was weak. You didn’t force me.”

  “Stop it, Victor. I didn’t tell you this so you could torment yourself.”

  “Then why? Why this way? You know I can’t talk about it now.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s cruel.”

  “It was the only way to protect you. But you needed to know about her.”

  Victor covered his face with his hands for a long time. When he re
moved them, his demeanor was stoic again.

  “Can we finish now?” Abigail said. “I need my medicine.”

  Victor went through the motions mechanically. She wasn’t listening anymore. The pain was too intense. And she’d wasted all her energy already. He removed a host from a tiny, flat silver case and placed it on her tongue. She smiled when his fingers touched her cheek. He made the sign of the cross with the oil three times. First on her forehead, then on each wrist. She closed her eyes then, and she didn’t want to open them anymore, so that he would be the last thing she would ever see.

  Chapter 44

  Amanda paced back and forth in the living room. She glanced at her wristwatch for the third time in the last minute, but no matter how frequently she looked at it, the hands didn’t move any faster. She heard the keys. Someone was at the front door. She rushed to the foyer to meet an unshaven Javier entering the house.

  “You couldn’t find them?” Amanda asked.

  “No. I looked in all the hotels. Nobody has seen either one of them.”

  “Malena must have left San Isidro,” she said. “But I can’t imagine where Claudia could be. Did Malena ever tell you where her home is?”

  “Guayaquil. But I don’t have her address.”

  Amanda sighed. As big as that city was, nobody could find someone who didn’t want to be found.

  “We should have looked for her last night.” She hugged her arms. “But I couldn’t leave my mother. And then, the situation with your father.”

  Javier returned the keys to his pocket, looking grim.

  She ruffled his hair. “Cheer up, kid. Everything will be fine.”

  “How’s Mamá Blanca?”

  “Stable, but she refuses to speak.”

  “And Tía Alejandra?”

  “Still locked in her room.”

  “My mother?”

  “She’s the only one I’m not worried about.”

  Javier ran his fingers through his tangled hair. “I’m going to take a nap. I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

  The doorbell startled both of them. It had to be Claudia.

  Javier opened the door, but it wasn’t Claudia. It was Joaquin.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Amanda felt her chignon. “Joaquin, what a surprise! Come in.”

  “I’ll ask Trini to bring you some coffee,” Javier said, heading for the kitchen.

  Amanda led Joaquin to the living room, self-conscious of her mundane appearance, of her embarrassing limp. He must be looking at her stiff leg now, her horrible leg.

  She sat on the couch and he sat beside her, too close. She covered her knees with her skirt and suppressed the impulse to cross her legs.

  He still smelled of Old Spice, like he did when he was younger, like he did a few weeks ago when they danced together again. They hadn’t touched each other since.

  “How are things here?” he asked.

  “Not well. So many things have happened since yesterday. This family is in shambles. But let’s not talk about that now. What brings you here this early?”

  Trinidad walked in, yawning. She placed two white cups and a metal pot on the coffee table, then quietly left the room. She would have normally brought a wonderful piece of dessert along, or avena cookies at the very least, but this morning even Trinidad seemed to be affected by the hurricane that had swept over the Platas family.

  Joaquin took a sip from his tinto and set it down.

  “I sold my house,” he said. “I’m leaving.”

  Amanda’s chest ached, the same way it had twenty years ago when he said those same two words.

  She lifted her own cup. “Back to Spain?”

  “Yes.”

  She deserved this—after the way she’d treated him, after how selfish she’d been when they were young.

  “That’s wonderful, Joaquin. I bet Catalina will be delighted to have you back.”

  He watched her over his cup, and then placed it back on the saucer in silence. He hadn’t really changed that much with the years; he was still handsome, perhaps more than she remembered. His eyes watched her so intensely she had to look away. She swallowed a sip of bitter coffee. It wasn’t warm enough. No wonder Trinidad had brought it so quickly.

  “That’s all you’re going to say,” he said.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “You haven’t learned anything in twenty years? You’re still as proud as you were then.”

  He was right. She was still proud, but this wasn’t pride. This was something else, not wanting to hurt the person you love again. Or maybe she didn’t have that power anymore. Maybe she didn’t mean anything to Joaquin now. He was married to someone else after all.

  “You probably didn’t think of me all these years,” he said. “I can’t believe I’ve been such a fool all this time, thinking you cared, but now I realize you’re still mourning him. You never stopped loving him.”

  She shook her head. How wrong he was. But she couldn’t speak; her words were choked inside her throat, underneath the big lump.

  “I’m sorry,” was all she could say.

  He stood. “I’d better go.”

  Say something! Do something! He was putting his hat on, adjusting his jacket. But she couldn’t stop him; he was a married man now. He would reject her. She had no right.

  “Please don’t go yet,” she heard herself say. “I owe you an explanation, at least.”

  He narrowed his eyes, and she saw the hurt in them resurfacing, the way she’d seen it that night, so many years ago, that dreadful night when she chose Nicolas over him.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “I already know that what happened between us didn’t mean anything to you.”

  “No, you’re wrong.” She held his hand, and pulled him back to the couch. He sat down, offering no resistance. She still remembered, so clearly, how happy she’d been in his arms, how tender he’d been with her that first time.

  “Then why did you stay with him?” he asked.

  She served him more coffee. The night he left San Isidro had been one of the worst in her life.

  “The night you left,” she said, staring at her hands as she entwined her fingers. “I got so sick Nicolas thought I was pregnant.” She laughed bitterly. If at least she had been pregnant with Joaquin’s child, she would have had something left of him, someone to live for. But she had nothing, except for his resentment and this awkward silence between them. “I shouldn’t have let you go. I practically pushed you into Catalina’s arms. But I honestly thought that if I left, Nicolas would kill himself.”

  “And he did, even with you by his side.”

  The tears filled her eyes, tears of guilt, for she couldn’t fix whatever was wrong with Nicolas in the end. How ironic all of it was. She’d wanted so desperately to leave San Isidro, to see the world. She’d been so impressed by Nicolas’s status and by his looks that she had married a man she didn’t know, someone whom she thought represented her one-way ticket out of an ordinary life.

  “You could have had everything you wanted with me,” he said. “I would have done anything for you. I would have given you a family and the trips you always wanted.”

  She’d regretted her decisions a thousand times. Especially after she learned that Joaquin lived abroad, that he had the life she had fantasized about. She could have had it, too. The opportunity had been right in front of her, hitting her in the nose, but she hadn’t seen it until it was too late, until it was gone. The tears stinging her eyes made her realize she was crying. Her best friend, her dancing partner, her lover, she could have had it all.

  “You were a virgin, weren’t you?” he said.

  “Yes.” Her voice cracked.

  “Were there others after me?”

  “No.”

  “What about”—he straightened his tie—“those other men Enzo mentioned, your father’s accountant?”

  She leaned back. “You should know better than to believe in rumors. Enrique and I met twic
e at Café Viteri because he wanted to tell me about some irregularities he’d found in my father’s accounting books. He suspected Fausto was altering the books and Enrique didn’t know what to do about it. But of course, people loved to talk about me then, and Enzo heard about it. He ran to tell Nico about that, too.”

  “You must have loved him to sacrifice so much for him, though.” His voice sounded bitter. “I heard all about your accident. How you ran out of the hospital when you found out he was dead and drove his car outside of town. You wanted to die; you wanted to kill yourself, to go with him.” He glanced at her leg.

  “I had nothing else to live for,” she said. “In the end, I lost both of you. So, as you can see, I was the fool. Not you.”

  He sighed. “Who would have thought that the beautiful Amanda Platas would live such a tragic life? I certainly didn’t. I thought you were some mythical creature among us.”

  He removed a red velvet box from his jacket pocket. “Remember this?”

  Her eyes filled up with tears again. If only she’d been less impulsive then, less selfish, less ambitious. If only she had never won that stupid radio contest.

  “I bought it for you from your own father.” He chuckled. “With money I saved up after that first year of working at my father’s store.” He turned her hand over and placed the box on her palm. “I’ve always wanted you to have it, even if our fate is to be apart.”

  She ran her fingers over the soft velvet before opening the box. Inside was a beautiful ruby ring. She touched the stone, her favorite, and could almost picture Papá Pancho polishing this ring in his dark workshop. She could visualize Joaquin bargaining with her father, and Papá Pancho being adamant about the set price, shaking his head, the way he used to do with stubborn customers.

  She laughed, crying at the same time. Joaquin removed the ring from the box and placed it on her finger. “It fits,” he said, smiling for the first time since he’d arrived.

  How she loved to see him smile like that, like old times, before all the ugliness and pain grew between them.

  She extended her hand, admiring the ring’s shine. “I love it, Joaquin, thank you.” This was the way it should have been that night at Il Napolitano. How it always should have been. “But I don’t think Catalina would be thrilled to know you gave a ring to another woman, especially me. I know she never liked me.”