Part 15 (1/2)

He dropped his forehead to her shoulders for a second. He wanted to tell her that he was sure that their meeting was no coincidence. But it seemed a bit much for now, so he just breathed quietly and leaned against Monica, listening to the crackle of insects in the darkness.

”I can wish, can't I?” Will whispered, and leaned in to see her profile. He pushed away a stray coil of her hair.

”It's all we can do, Will.”

He slid his face into the crook of her neck and inhaled deeply, as if to drink in any words she might have left unspoken. Then, he parted his lips and ran the tip of his tongue along a small patch of her neck, tasting the salt on her warm skin. He found the pulse of her jugular, thumping softly beneath his mouth. He delighted in its quickening. Monica drew in air, but didn't move.

”I won't kiss you then,” he whispered, as he dug his face deep into her hair. His hands encircled her waist. When his fingers met in the middle, he laced them together and pulled her toward him. Then, despite his best intentions, he sat forward just a little, just enough to let her know that his body was in love with her too.

ON WEDNESDAY, they left the guesthouse by nine in the morning. A phone call from Bruce to San Salvador had brought Claudia Credo tearing across the country to accompany them to the marine station to await the research vessel. Bruce, Claudia, and Will sat in the first row of the pa.s.senger van, while Monica curled up in the back. She had slept little all night, but her eyes finally fell shut as the morning sun warmed the backseat of the pa.s.senger van. Sleeping wasn't so easy since she was sliding around on the vinyl seat as the driver sped up and slowed down, avoiding oxcarts and stalled cows. Will complained and ordered the driver to slow down. ”I don't want to die on a dusty country road in El Salvador,” Will said. ”No offense.” The driver just laughed and kept driving, slowing down for a few minutes before getting back to his erratic driving. they left the guesthouse by nine in the morning. A phone call from Bruce to San Salvador had brought Claudia Credo tearing across the country to accompany them to the marine station to await the research vessel. Bruce, Claudia, and Will sat in the first row of the pa.s.senger van, while Monica curled up in the back. She had slept little all night, but her eyes finally fell shut as the morning sun warmed the backseat of the pa.s.senger van. Sleeping wasn't so easy since she was sliding around on the vinyl seat as the driver sped up and slowed down, avoiding oxcarts and stalled cows. Will complained and ordered the driver to slow down. ”I don't want to die on a dusty country road in El Salvador,” Will said. ”No offense.” The driver just laughed and kept driving, slowing down for a few minutes before getting back to his erratic driving.

Monica's mouth was cottony, her eyes stung, and she had a dull ache in her head. Claudia chatted excitedly in the front seat. ”There was a rumor that Alma was around. And it's not such a strange thing in El Salvador, people disappearing in the chaos, then reappearing after the war.”

”I bet,” Will said.

”I hope that Alma's research can enlighten your decisions,” Claudia said to Will, making the sign of the cross and pressing her hands together. ”It's great that someone is working to discredit any enterprises that may be reckless.”

”Sylvia and I have been arguing nonstop on this whole trip,” Will said. ”I feel really bad about our rift, but I've been distrustful of this clinic all along, and she-she's so dogged in her pursuit. I've already made up my mind to take more forceful measures. I really need to find out what company helped transport Yvette down here. Then I can see if I can work something out. At least in the States I'd have the law on my side.”

”I can help you,” Claudia said. ”Let's think about this.” She held up a finger. ”Over hot coffee.” She had apparently packed a thermos, and Monica heard her pouring it into Styrofoam cups, the smell of it making her nauseated as she lay in the backseat. Just as she was about to doze off, she heard Claudia say, ”Remind me to tell Monica that her boyfriend has been calling my house nonstop this week, looking for her. I told him he's welcome to stay at my house if he wants to come. But first, he has to produce a nice little engagement ring.” She laughed and Monica strained to hear who responded, but no one did.

Monica realized, with complete amazement, that she had forgotten to call Kevin in several days. She recalled the moment that had pa.s.sed between her and Will the night before. She kept circling her mind to see if it was still there, her skin bursting with gooseflesh at the memory of his warm breath on her neck. This is what she had been missing all her life-the feeling that every moment together was a little nugget of happiness, something worth trapping in a capsule of memory, worth replaying over and over behind the surface of her eyelids. The fact that they had no future together didn't make it any less of a gift. She could enjoy his presence in her life; but she knew that they had to bear the consequences of that unfulfillable attachment. Otherwise, she'd be exactly like her mother. Monica knew firsthand what it was like to be burned by the fires that others built to keep themselves warm at night.

But what to do about that s.e.xual pull that rushed and ebbed as predictably as the tides? Now she and Will had begun to lean on each other for moral support as their pursuits became more and more entangled. Was it possible that it was love she was dealing with here? The idea that she would have to sever something that was already pulsing with the lifeblood of the soul was terrifying. And the strange landscape didn't help matters: El Salvador was a place where anything could happen-powerful men were recycled into mangoes and girls gave their babies away; sea creatures injected healing, and dead people reappeared like magic. The germination of love was an insignificant miracle by comparison.

Lying in the backseat, Monica pulled a handful of fabric from Claudia's day bag over her eyes to block out the sun. It helped her headache a bit. She wondered what kind of marriage Will and Yvette would be able to patch together if Yvette emerged from her state. If Will was falling in love, he might be less eager to begin the hard climb toward a future with his damaged wife. What if the harm was already done? She suddenly recalled a riff from an old bolero that Abuelo used to play on his guitar: Si negaras mi presencia en tu vivir bastaria con abrazarte y conversar tanta vida yo te di que por fuerza tienes ya sabor a mi She agreed with the song. The sensory recall of love is permanent. We are transformed by the taste of our own longing, and once savored, that same intimacy brands itself into the heart. Sabor a mi Sabor a mi, she thought. I have made my mark on you, Will I have made my mark on you, Will.

Now her thoughts swung back to her mother, then again to Will and Yvette and back to her mother, in nauseating circles. She contemplated how strange it was that the future was a place in which her mother was alive. She wondered what people do when a loved one is released after a lengthy prison sentence. A wave of nerves took over with the realization that she would see her resurrected mother in a few hours. What would she say to her? All night she had rehea.r.s.ed: casual, like running into an old friend; angry and outraged; relieved and eager to forgive. Or should she just stand before her mother and wait to hear and feel and say whatever came?

Will announced that he too was going to take a nap, and Monica, her eyes still covered, heard him lay down on the bench seat in front of her. After a few minutes, something brushed Monica's skin, and she removed the makes.h.i.+ft blindfold and saw Will's hand appear behind the seat. His fist was closed, as if he were offering something, or asking her to guess what was inside. Monica reached over and pried his fingers open, but there was nothing inside. It was a trick: he pushed his fingers between hers. He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb, the rest of him unseen to her. His wedding ring was gone, and Monica stared at the pale band of skin around his finger. She let go of his hand at the first chance and rolled over. She heard him s.h.i.+ft and sit up, felt his eyes on her back. She squeezed her eyes tight and didn't answer when he spoke her name.

An hour later, at noon, the driver announced that they'd arrived.

chapter 17 ROSARY BIRTH.

The Carmelite nuns were chanting at Yvette's bedside when the birth ca.n.a.l of clarity finally spit her out into the world. Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte, amen. Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte, amen. Their harmony and repet.i.tion was trancelike. When the skin peeled back from Yvette's vision, she was staring into the backs of their coa.r.s.e brown cotton habits. Her vision was foggy, her eyes dry and flattened, as if someone had been pressing on her eyeb.a.l.l.s for a long time. At first, she didn't recognize the skinny sticks at her sides as being her own arms. Across the room, her mother was praying with the nuns over someone else's bed, a string of small pearls dangling from her hands as she repeated the words with them. Their harmony and repet.i.tion was trancelike. When the skin peeled back from Yvette's vision, she was staring into the backs of their coa.r.s.e brown cotton habits. Her vision was foggy, her eyes dry and flattened, as if someone had been pressing on her eyeb.a.l.l.s for a long time. At first, she didn't recognize the skinny sticks at her sides as being her own arms. Across the room, her mother was praying with the nuns over someone else's bed, a string of small pearls dangling from her hands as she repeated the words with them.

”Am I back?” she tried to ask, but no one heard her, because they were shuffling to another part of the room. She cleared her throat and rolled her eyes to the opposite side of the room, but it was curtained off and she couldn't see.

”Something bad happened in this place,” Yvette said in a dry, hoa.r.s.e voice. ”I can hear it in the exhaustion of the sea.”

Her mother slowly turned her face toward her. Sylvia floated down the center aisle, her head c.o.c.ked to one side. She stopped at the foot of Yvette's bed.

”I love you, Mama,” Yvette said.

Sylvia's disbelief lasted the length of two slow blinks. Then, her face flooded with emotion.

Part THREE

chapter 18 St.i.tCHING THE SEA.

Jesus Peralta was loading boxes onto a hand truck when Bruce and Monica walked up the ramp to the marine station. The half-blind, redheaded fisherman didn't recognize Monica Winters all grown up, but she remembered him from the days of cone-sh.e.l.l hunting with her mother and so called him by name. He told her that the research vessel Alta Mar Alta Mar had already arrived for a special project having to do with a local elementary school. Claudia and Will waited inside the small, barren marine station, sitting on molded plastic chairs and sipping grape sodas they didn't really want. They waved and wished father and daughter good luck as the two walked on without them to a sandy stretch, where a crowd of schoolchildren were gathered around several people wearing black dive suits. had already arrived for a special project having to do with a local elementary school. Claudia and Will waited inside the small, barren marine station, sitting on molded plastic chairs and sipping grape sodas they didn't really want. They waved and wished father and daughter good luck as the two walked on without them to a sandy stretch, where a crowd of schoolchildren were gathered around several people wearing black dive suits.

It wasn't hard to spot Alma. She was the only woman. She was surrounded by children, kneeling over a blow-up swimming pool, her palms covered with baby sea turtles, like potato chips with legs. She was demonstrating something to the smallest of her audience, a dark brown little boy with crutches and a stump for a leg. Bruce and Monica slipped into the small gathering of teachers and colleagues. Monica peered into the crowd, s.h.i.+elded by a tall man standing in front of her.

Alma's voice returned to Monica like a rush of warm foam. She could still hear the sea in its subtle, effervescent popping. Alma had a diving mask pulled up onto her forehead and was barefoot, red toenails gleaming in the charcoal-colored sand, and she flipped one of the baby turtles over to point to some anatomical part on the turtle's underside.

Monica drew in her breath slowly, quietly. She doubted that she would ever understand the woman who was standing before her, a woman who could engross herself in the wiggling of baby turtles, oblivious to the adult daughter who stood watching her across a distance of fifteen years.

Alma returned the turtle to its upright position and looked up, first at the faces of the people standing in front, then beyond them. Monica instinctively darted sideways and hid behind the tall man. Her heart punched at her rib cage.

A hand went up. ”Excuse me, Dr. Borrero Dr. Borrero,” a familiar voice said, loud and booming like the voice of a stage actor. ”If cats have nine lives, how many do sea creatures have?” Everyone turned to look. In sudden horror, Monica realized that it was her father speaking. Alma was motionless-a stunned fish playing dead, trying to blend into the environment. Slowly, she looked down and began dropping the turtles into the pan of water, one by one, each making a soft splas.h.i.+ng noise.

”Solo una,” she said simply. Just one. she said simply. Just one.

”Well, it appears that you, Dr. Borrero, have more than one,” he said. ”Like a cat.”

The crowd was silent, not because they understood what was going on, but rather, because a tall, green-eyed man had just shouted something in a foreign language. They gawked unashamedly. Alma stood up and took a step forward, toward Bruce.

”Bruce Winters,” Alma said. ”You found me.”

A little girl ran into Alma's arms, b.u.t.ted her head right into Alma's abdomen like a football player. Alma teetered and put her hands over the little, dark, curly head. Monica, still hiding, saw herself at seven, back when her mother's body was a trampoline that would always catch her and bounce her back to the world unharmed. Monica imagined that she was that child. Alma must have sensed it, because when she looked up from the curly head, it was to look directly at Monica, still peeking from behind a tall man.

”Monica?” she asked.

Monica bit her lip and stepped out from behind the man. They stood there, mother and daughter, looking at each other, blinking, each waiting to see what the other would do. The crowd lost interest and resumed its chatter. Finally, Alma said, ”Come closer.” Without answering, Monica stepped forward and dove into her mother's arms, hating herself even as she breathed deep and squeezed, gulping the scent that made tears spring up in her eyes, made her close them against the pain that flooded through her and filled her with rage.

Alma let go first. ”I'm so happy to see you,” she said delicately, fearfully, as if she were speaking to a three-hundred-pound Bengal tiger. She took a deep breath and looked up at Bruce. The line of eye contact between them spit and zapped with dangerous electricity. Correctly a.s.suming their intention, she said, ”Let's go someplace where we can talk.”

ALMA TOOK THEM to a small park area, a mini-zoo nearby where someone was rehabilitating tropical animals in large, fenced pens. There was a sitting area, and she sat down first, taking off her diving mask and daintily placing it in her lap like a pillbox hat. The long, dark coils of her youth had been sheared to a pixie cut and were streaked with gray. Her eyes were lightly marked by years spent in the sun, and Monica noticed that her accent had thickened-but otherwise she looked the same. Monica sat next to her and Bruce sat across from them. Monica made a steeple with her index fingers and pressed them against her mouth as she stared down at the ground. to a small park area, a mini-zoo nearby where someone was rehabilitating tropical animals in large, fenced pens. There was a sitting area, and she sat down first, taking off her diving mask and daintily placing it in her lap like a pillbox hat. The long, dark coils of her youth had been sheared to a pixie cut and were streaked with gray. Her eyes were lightly marked by years spent in the sun, and Monica noticed that her accent had thickened-but otherwise she looked the same. Monica sat next to her and Bruce sat across from them. Monica made a steeple with her index fingers and pressed them against her mouth as she stared down at the ground.

”Well,” Bruce said brusquely, pulling up his pants at the knee. ”We're here to confirm with our own eyes that you are indeed alive and well and living without us by your own free will.”

Alma said, ”You sound like an old-time sheriff.”

”Dead or alive, Alma,” he said, pointing at Monica's shoulder, his voice icy. ”You have no idea what you put her through. No idea.”

Suddenly, Monica felt a wave of panic: she was afraid that he would antagonize Alma before they had their answer, or worse, that in her reply, she would break his heart all over again.

Alma squinted at him, looked down for a moment, apparently planning her words. She took a deep breath. ”Where would you like me to begin?” Alma said, her tone matching his. ”There's so much to tell.”

”Wherever you think it began, Mom,” Monica piped in. ”I'm twenty-seven now. Whatever it is, I can handle it. I promise you both I can handle it.” She looked from one parent to the other. ”Let's get it all out on the table. All of it.” She calmed herself down by breathing deeply, then gave her mother an abbreviated version of what had led them from Yvette Lucero's hospital room to El Salvador, then to Francisca and ultimately to meet Alma's s.h.i.+p.