My father is dead. Murdered by my husband’s hand.
Two men I love.
Two men I loved.
Why is it always past tense when they’re gone? The love is still here, in the present, alongside the pain.
Santiago, though? In a way, that hurts just as much. Maybe more. His hate for my father was far greater than any affection, any feeling at all he could have had for me. Because no matter what he says, I know the truth. It’s too convenient otherwise. A heart attack? Something the doctor’s missed when they’ve been keeping such a close eye on him? I don’t believe it.
I get out of bed to use the bathroom. When I’m finished, I stand at the sink and study my reflection as I wash my hands. I look a wreck. My face is gaunt, dark circles under my eyes matching those of Santiago’s tattoo. I turn my head a little to look at the dot of ink. It seems so long ago, so far away. We survived that. He and I survived it. We have broken through so many obstacles set against us, some by him, some by others, but we came through together somehow.
I fell in love with him somehow.
God. I am crazy.
I switch off the water and dry my hands, looking down at my rounded stomach. There’s a baby inside there. Our child. What will happen when he or she is here? I can’t even begin to think about that.
I walk back into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. I am tired of this room. This bed. This place. I am tired.
On the nightstand, I see the box he left and touch the pendant still lying against my chest. The diamond-encrusted rose. A gift when I became pregnant. A symbol not of love or affection but of my belonging to the De La Rosa family. My belonging to him. Like the tattoo on the back of my neck that I sometimes swear throbs to be touched. To be acknowledged. As if the ink is somehow connected to him. Like it needs to be near him.
I pick up the box and read the engraved logo. Montblanc.
Odd. But then I remember.
I lean back against the bed and bring my knees up, tucking my bare feet beneath the blankets. I lay my head against the headboard, and I remember that day. I’d been thirteen. I’d just gotten home from the new school. That awful school. I’d been teased for days, and I’d finally had enough. I hadn’t seen Santiago in my father’s study when I’d stormed in. Not until after my tantrum did I see him.
He didn’t have his tattoo then. He was younger. Not boyish, though. I would never describe Santiago as boyish, even then.
My father had asked me to give him this box. I remember his apology that he hadn’t had a chance to wrap it. I’ve only seen one box like it in my life. My father’s. But his came in royal blue, not black.
I remember I’d felt angry at the gesture, my father giving this stranger a gift, an expensive gift I’m not sure we could afford all the while dismissing my concerns. Embarrassed even by them.
I’d slapped the box into Santiago’s hand and told him off. Told him how much I hated his school. Did I tell him I hated him, too? I don’t remember. I’d been a lot like Eva then.
I look down at the box now and trace the letters embossed on the lid. I open it, and inside, cradled in a cushion of black satin, is a gold fountain pen. I lift it out and set the box aside. It’s beautiful. Absolutely exquisite. I wonder if my mother knew my father had bought such an expensive gift for Santiago. Not for her. Not for any of his own children.
Turning it over in my hand, I read the inscription.
To Santiago, you make me proud, son.
Son.
My throat closes up, and tears burn my eyes.
Son.
Is Santiago taunting me now? Showing me how vile he is? How wicked? That he could murder a man to whom he’d been like a son. Because that’s what he’d been to my father. He’d been more of a son to him than Abel had. More beloved than his own blood.
The realization is upsetting enough but to think that Santiago, knowing this, could murder him is beyond that.
But then I consider an alternative. Is this another manipulation of his? Something to show me he couldn’t possibly have murdered a man he loved. Is this supposed to show me that somehow, after all these months of hate, these years of planning his elaborate vengeance, Santiago realized his love for my father? Is it supposed to make me believe that he couldn’t kill him?
He must think me even more stupid than I realized.
I hate him.
I have to hate him.
But a part of me is breaking, too. Because no matter what I want, or what I claim, I don’t. When he climbed into bed with me earlier, I didn’t pull away. I curled into him. I leaned into his warmth. His strength. His blood-soaked hands. It took all I had to steel myself against him.
Because he is a master manipulator. And I cannot love him.
Determined, I get off the bed, and I hurl both pen and box across the room leaving a divot in the wall. I’m glad for it. I need to remember his violence. His duplicity. I need to remember his hate. Remember that his need for vengeance far outweighs any feeling for me.
Yes, he will keep me safe. Protect me against any enemy. But what about my heart? He won’t be guardian to that. He’s already told me so in exactly those words. Words I cannot confuse or misunderstand. No, he’s been very clear.
I am the guardian of my own heart. I must be. And I have to steel myself now. Steel myself against him. Protect myself and Eva. Protect my unborn child from his own father. Because maybe the other thing he’s been telling me, the fact he is incapable of love, of affection, maybe he’s just warning me. Because I think I understand that part of Santiago now. The damaged, broken insides of him. Too broken to ever be healed. Ever be made whole.
I think he meant it when he said he didn’t want to hurt me. He doesn’t. But he will. He told me that too. He warned me to guard my heart. And it’s all truth. His only lie is in denying he had a hand in my father’s death.
But whatever the case, I cannot allow him to do to our child what his father did to him. I will not allow him to twist our baby, to damage him irrevocably. To pass on the legacy his father passed on to him. That of a monster.
28
Santiago
My wife sits beside me in the front pew at Sacred Trinity Cathedral, dabbing the tears from beneath her black-veiled hat as the priest reads scriptures from the altar. Beside us are Marco, Eva, and Antonia. Across the aisle is Mrs. Moreno, Ivy's mother, and by my count, she has yet to shed a solitary tear for her beloved husband.
The pews are occupied by many of the Society members. People Eli worked with and those he befriended during his time in the community. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't surprised by the turnout. I had no idea the old man who was of little consequence in the grand hierarchy of things had so many call him a friend.
But should it surprise me?
If I had not been spoiled by my own sour experience with him, I would have called him a great man once myself. I would have spoken kind words on his behalf, and I would not have hesitated to call him an honorable man.
Indeed, I would have grieved for him right along with all the others, and it occurs to me that in some ways, I already have.
I didn't just lose my family after the explosion. I lost Eli too.
The thought leaves a strange bitterness on my lips as I rest my hand on the wooden pew. A silent offer for my grieving wife. She does not take it. She does not look at me or speak to me, even when the funeral ends, and we follow the procession to the cemetery.