The Garden of Happy Endings (46 page)

“He’s safe,” Tamsin said. “He came home. Alexa and Carlos are with him.”

Relieved, Elsa slid away again into the muffling darkness.

“A
re you going to be okay, Mom?” Alexa asked. When it became clear that Elsa’s condition had stabilized somewhat, Joaquin, Deacon, and Tamsin agreed on a rotating schedule so there would always be someone with her.

Paris, thankfully, had only experienced minor injuries, yet she was devastated by the incident and the fact that Elsa had been injured trying to defend her. Seeing how distraught she was, Tamsin insisted that Paris and Calvin come home with her. They were now settled in and sleeping.

Tamsin nodded wearily at her daughter. “I’m just going to get some sleep.” Alexa and Carlos hugged her, and left to head back to his hotel, hands entwined.

She was absolutely exhausted, and thought about a glass of wine, but decided against it. Instead, she brewed a cup of herbal tea and pulled out the quilt she’d been working on. As soon as she spread it over the table, the insistent sound of “Dominique” started to play in the back of her mind. Exasperated, she turned the radio on, very quietly, to a classical station.

Again she admired the bougainvillea, coming along so beautifully, and the dark green tree standing on the cliff. She still wasn’t quite sure what kind of tree it was, but knew that it could be quilted in, layered with lighter and darker fabric once she figured it out.

More than any other part of it, she was pleased with the way the layering of the sea was turning out. The gossamer aquamarine tulle over darker blue cotton and sharp white sand and paisley tropical fish darting about and—

Suddenly, she knew exactly where Scott was. She had been making this quilt of that spot since he’d disappeared.

* * *

T
he next time Elsa awakened, there was more light in the room, which she could see through the small slits created by her barely opened eyes. Any wider than that and her head felt like a rocket was blasting through it. She heard the beeping of a monitor, slow and steady, and voices somewhere beyond her, brisk and worldly. Greenery waved arms at the window.

Then she felt her body. Left hand throbbing. Left shoulder. Right eye. Mouth.
Face
.

More. Right ankle, abdomen. And oh, sweet mother of God! Left little toe.

She made a noise.

“Elsa?” Joaquin’s face swam in her vision, and his hand circled her wrist. “Can you hear me?”

She grunted a sound like “yes,” discovering her throat was utterly raw. “Water.”

He disappeared from view, returned, and positioned a straw between her lips. She sucked, and cool water poured through her mouth, down her throat. She swallowed, and tried opening her eyes a little more, but they didn’t move much. “Car accident?” she guessed.

“You don’t remember?”

“No.” There was something about Charlie, and she bolted upward, sending fresh waves of pain through her head. “What happened to Charlie? Something happened to him.”

Joaquin gentled her, a hand on her shoulder. “He’s fine. Tamsin is babysitting him.”

“Good,” she said, and closed her eyes, diving back into velvet.

I
t was Deacon who was with her when she next opened her eyes. This time she could open them a little better, and it wasn’t quite so brutally unpleasant. He was sitting in the armchair by her bed,
reading a thriller. A pair of black reading glasses perched on his nose. The sight sent a rippling wave of love through her. “Hey,” she said.

He leapt to his feet, whipping off his glasses. His expression told her how desperately worried he’d been. “Hey,” he said gently, leaning over the bed. “How you feeling?”

“Headache,” she said, and swallowed. “How long have I been here?”

“Do you want some water?”

“Yes, please.” She thought she’d asked a question, but couldn’t remember what it was, and suddenly it didn’t matter. “Good drugs,” she said. “Godzilla could be sitting here and I’d be friendly.”

He smiled and held the water to her lips. She drank a little, and struggled to surface a little more clearly. To talk to Deacon. “You look good.”

He touched her face, a thumb to her cheek. “You look like crap, but I’ve never seen anything better than you opening your eyes.”

Again she reached for something, a thing she couldn’t remember. “What happened?”

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the palm and she saw that there were tears in his eyes. “Time enough for that.”

She remembered lying in his bed, with his body curled around hers, his hands on her body. “We made love,” she said. “I remember that.”

“Yes.” He put her hand against his face. “We did.”

“And Carlos came to find Alexa.” There was something about that, something she should remember, and she couldn’t. Her stomach rolled and she skittered away from it. “The Riverwalk.”

“Yeah, it was damned romantic.”

She felt her body going lax, her brain drifting away. “I think I’m falling asleep again.”

“You go ahead. One of us will be here when you wake up.”

She grabbed his hand. “You, please. Can you stay?”

“I’ll be here,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ll be here.”

S
he dreamed that her room was filled with saints. She recognized them easily. San Roque was handsome in the way of the aesthete, his eyes large and extraordinarily bright. He wore a brown pilgrim’s robe and had a little dog at his side. She’d always imagined that his dog was large, like a husky, or Charlie.

There were others, too. St. Martha and Ganesha and St. Therese. The Virgin of Guadalupe wore a purple dress and her long black hair flowed over her voluptuous body like a glorious cape. In the chair sat Jesus, wearing a pair of jeans, his hair pulled neatly back. He was astoundingly handsome, but then, she supposed that he would be. He smiled, as if he could hear her thoughts.

“What are you all doing here?”

A woman spoke from her other side. “You wanted to see an angel.”

Elsa sat up straighter, wishing she had a way to comb her hair, and be more presentable.

“It’s all right,” said Guadalupe. “You are beautiful just as you are.”

It seemed odd and wonderful that they were all here, just as she’d wished so many times, just to talk to them and have them talk back. She knew it was a dream, if only because she didn’t think San Roque would wear Tevas. It made her laugh. “Can I ask a question?”

“Yes.”

She thought about it. Why did God punish her instead of rewarding her for the long, difficult trek to Santiago? Why hadn’t God intervened in Kiki’s death? What—

“Is she all right?”

Guadalupe stepped closer. “She is happy.”

“I don’t know why you couldn’t save her.”

The woman on her other side, a woman with large dark eyes and a green gown, said, “There is evil in the world. You know that now. You have looked it in the eye.”

That lurking memory sucked at her, something about rain, about mud—

The angel placed her hand on Elsa’s heart. San Roque stepped forward to touch her feet, and Jesus stood at her side. Their voices murmured over her, rising and falling, offering encouragement, love, affirmation.
You are valuable. You are doing good work, and will do more. Thank you. The world needs you. Believe
.

Their hands and their light swirled into her, all through her, touching broken places, sore places, aching places. As if from far away, Elsa saw her body on the ground on the field, and she remembered the way the world looked when she had been outside of her mortal form, everything alive with soft blue light, the energy of Spirit, flowing through all things, everything.

She remembered how peaceful she had felt, looking at her own body, and realized that Kiki, too, was made of light, energy. A forest light now, perhaps, or a saint helping someone else.

Surrounded by angels and saints, Elsa slept.

W
hen she awakened, it was morning. She smelled coffee. Her stomach growled and she sat up, starving. Joaquin was in the room, and she said, “I need breakfast.”

His smile blazed. “You’ve got it. I’ll be right back.”

If she’d had her way, she would have wolfed down pancakes and coffee and eggs and bacon. They let her have thin oatmeal and some orange juice and—when she begged—a cup of coffee.

“I had the most amazing dream,” she said to Joaquin, and told him about the saints and Jesus putting their hands on her. “And I think I saw your angel. She wears green and has big dark eyes.”

Joaquin stared at her. “Yes.”

She took a breath. “I saw her, too, that day on the road. She looked at you so tenderly, and when I saw your hands on those
prayers, all those things people had written on the walls, it was like there was light coming from you, going out into the world.” She touched his hand. “You are such a good priest.”

Tears welled up in his beautiful eyes. “I have been foolish since you’ve been back, Elsa. I am sorry.”

She shook her head.

“My vocation gives me great joy,” he said. “To feel the power of God moving in me … it is the most beautiful thing in the world.”

“Don’t wear her out,” said a nurse, coming in to take vital stats. “Why don’t you go get a cup of coffee, Father, and let me tend to our patient here.”

He stood. “I’ll be back later.” The nurse moved the tray aside and took Elsa’s pulse, looked at her chart, asked if she thought she might be strong enough to go to the bathroom on her own. Elsa told her she was willing to try.

But as she put her feet down, she remembered everything. Not at a distance, but as a woman. She crumpled into a heap on the floor, weeping in fear and reaction and relief. She was alive. Alive.

The nurse helped her into bed. “Pour it all out, honey. You’ve been through a lot.”

Elsa did just that, cried and cried and cried. She wept for the assault and for Kiki and for the very real fact that evil could arrive so easily when people didn’t do the work they were meant to do. It was not the evil of demons, but the evil of despair and neglect and loneliness. Finally, she let go of the burden of her grief.

And this time when she slept, it was the normal sleep of a very tired woman.

T
amsin went to a great deal of trouble to find the right materials for her letter. This very hot July afternoon, Elsa, Paris, Calvin, and Alexa had gone to the movies. Elsa was almost as good as new three weeks after she’d been released from the hospital, and she was frankly irritated with all the fussing. She was returning to her Seattle church at the end of the month. Tamsin would miss her, but for the first time, she had plans of her own.

Just now, she had a letter to write. She’d searched high and low for airmail paper and an old-style envelope to match, both very thin paper with blue banding. She’d purchased a blue fountain pen, as well, and practiced so she would be able to write elegantly with it. Now the trick was to be clear without being specific.

When the letter was finished, she sealed it, stamped it, and then she addressed it to
Jim Bond, c
/
o General Delivery, Taiohae,
Marquesas Islands, French Polynesia
. The return address was
Lisl von Schlaf, c
/
o General Delivery, Pueblo, CO 81003
.