I spared no expense for the theatrics of Eli's fake death. There is even a jazz band leading the way, playing the somber traditional funeral music well-known throughout New Orleans. We walk behind the hearse into the cemetery, where the empty coffin is eventually deposited into a tomb.
Throughout the day, I catch myself looking around at the other mourners, wondering which of them are Abel's men. My own security is well disguised among them, taking notes of every face, every attendee. But Abel would know that, regardless of how well they blend in. Will he be convinced by the charade? Will any of this be worth it in the end?
When the tomb is sealed shut, the music changes to a more upbeat tune, and then the procession relocates to the IVI compound for the reception. The day seems to be dragging on, and it's all I can do to stand at my wife's side while she ignores me, greeting mourners with tear-filled eyes.
She speaks to the guests for two hours as they tell stories about her father before she starts to fade into exhaustion, and I lean in to whisper in her ear.
"It's time to get you home now."
She shakes her head in refusal, but staggers, nearly collapsing into me before I grab her arm and hold her upright.
Unwittingly, she has done her part. She has grieved publicly for all to see. But at what cost? I have never hated myself more than I do when I pull her tired body against mine, forcing her chin up so she must look at me.
"It's time to get you home, angel. There is something you must see."
Her face softens a fraction before she shakes her head, stubbornly refusing to bend.
"The celebration of my father's life isn't over yet. You can go if you want, but I'm not leaving."
"Ivy." My voice is a warning and a plea. If I could just get her home, she would understand.
"I'm going to the bathroom." She yanks away from me. "Please just leave me alone."
29
Ivy
I’m gone before he can stop me, almost knocking someone over in my rush before I finally find a bathroom where I stand at the sink and take a few deep breaths.
I dressed in black lace from head to toe. Santiago chose it. I didn’t care what I wore. I was just grateful the veil was heavy enough that I could hide at least a little.
Eva sat beside me in our pew. My mother occupied the front pew across from ours dressed in a deep blue too-tight dress that accentuated her every curve. Her hat set at an angle, the veil purposely chosen to enhance, not to hide. Because she wasn’t grieving.
I don’t even really blame her. She was forced into this marriage. She was a gift to my father, whom she always considered beneath her.
When my fingers brushed Santiago’s during the service, I was quick to pull away. If he noticed, he didn’t comment. I looked at his hand then, and I looked at the casket again, and all I could think was what did he do to my father for it to be closed?
Eva went home with Marco and two soldiers after the service. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay, to hear the stories my father’s friends, many of them strangers to me, told about him. I had no idea he was so ingrained in IVI. Had no idea he had so many friends there and true friends at that. I see it in their eyes and hear it in the affectionate way they speak about him. I’m truly glad for that.
And now as I stand looking at my blotchy, tear-streaked face in the bathroom mirror, I think about that closed casket set with an enormous bouquet of lilies spilling over the lid, and for all of my father’s faults, I loved him. I will miss him.
The toilet flushes, and a woman I don’t know comes out of the little room to wash her hands.
“He was a good man, dear,” she says to me.
“Thank you,” I tell her but then am grateful when she’s gone. I feel so sad. So incredibly sad. And the fact that I am alone has never been more obvious to me.
It’s then I feel something. Something strange. I blink, looking down at my stomach. And there it is again. The lightest tapping. Like the tip of the tiniest finger just touching the back of my hand. It’s so faint I almost miss it, but then it comes again. I put my hand over my round belly, and I smile, feel my eyes fill up at this first real contact with my baby, and all I can think is I need to tell Santiago. I need to put his hand on the bump and let him feel this almost fluttering sensation as delicate as a butterfly’s wing.
But then it’s gone, and my smile with it because I won’t tell Santiago. Not now. I can't. He will miss this milestone, and it makes me want to cry all over again.
The door opens again then, and someone walks inside. I busy myself washing my hands. I should have slipped into one of the stalls.
The woman hesitates at the door, and I realize she’s one of the waitresses. I wonder if she doesn’t think she should be using this bathroom for guests.
“They’re open,” I say, pointing at the stalls.
“Um…are you Mrs. De La Rosa?”
I turn to look at her. I realize she’s young, maybe sixteen. I nod.
“Here.” She digs into her pocket and pulls out a wrinkled, unsealed envelope.
“What is it?” I ask, taking it, opening the flap to see a cell phone inside along with a sheet of paper.
She bites her lip, then looks at the door. “Someone just asked me to give it to you,” she says and slips out before I can ask her another question.
I take out the phone, note the crack across the screen. I push the home button and gasp when I see a picture of Michael and Hazel laughing, Michael with a huge cone of cotton candy in his hand, his tongue blue as he licks it off his chin.
I unfold the scrap of paper. Just a torn sheet of paper. But I recognize the handwriting.
Do you see now what he’s capable of? I can’t get hold of you. He’s got you locked up tight. Ivy, if he finds me, he will kill me, too, and you will never even hear about it.
But I guess you don’t care about that, do you? You’re on his side now. Even after he murdered our father.
Just remember, I did this because you made me do it.
I’m waiting in the parking lot of the Marriott two blocks away with Hazel and her illegitimate brat. Get here in five minutes and I’ll let them go. Come alone. No Santiago. No soldiers. Or else Michael will learn how a real gun works.
Want proof I have them? I'm sure he’s made me out to be a liar. Hazel’s passcode is 3636. We took some family selfies.
Abel.
Hazel and Michael? I haven’t talked to them since… well, it’s been maybe four or five days, I realize. I tried to call a few times since Santiago told me about Dad but haven’t gotten through, and I’ve been so depressed I didn’t stop to think about it. I realize now Michael hasn’t called me in several days either.
Santiago is protecting them. He told me he’s protecting them.
My hands trembling, I punch in the code Abel gave me on the phone that I know is Hazel’s and when I click on the camera icon, there they are. The family selfies.
I have to take hold of the counter to keep from dropping to my knees. Terror fills me as I scroll through photo after photo of Hazel and Michael sitting in the backseat of a car. Hazel’s eyes are red and she’s clutching Michael to her. His face is buried in her chest. It’s the last one that’s the worst. Abel’s face looms in the foreground of this one and I almost don’t recognize him for the grin on his face. He’s in the front seat of the car and my sister and Michael are in the back and in the corner of the selfie I see the gun.