B0092XNA2Q EBOK (3 page)

I grabbed the present and pushed on the door. She was asleep. Her face pale. Hair stuck to a sweaty forehead. IV dripping. Her cheeks were pudgier—which was good in a ten-year-old survivor. Liza had been here longer than anyone. A house favorite. She could light up a room from down the hall. The artwork on her walls had been framed, evidence of her tenure. So had several pictures showing her with famous people who’d seen her on TV. A half-eaten, triple-layer birthday cake on the table next to her bed. Icing crusted in the corner of her mouth. Up here, you have two birthdays. The day you are born. And the day you are free. She’d been a Christmas Eve baby.

I stepped in, my worn boots squeaking on polished floors. I stood in the shadows and set the present on her nightstand, resisting the urge to place a cold, wet towel on her forehead. I hovered, watching her breathe. I did not know Liza, and she did not know me, but I’d known many like her and I’d watched her grow up in here. Watched her hair come and go and come again. Maybe it was her smile, the way the right side of her mouth turned up more than the left, but, of all of them, she reminded me that I was once alive. I stepped out of the shadow, slid my hand from the glove, reached across the chasm, and gently placed the back of my hand against her cheek. The fever had broken. When I turned to retreat, she spoke. Her voice cracked. “Thank you.” I turned and her eyes shifted from me to the present on the bedside and back to me.

I nodded.

She sat up and her eyes were drawn to the red ribbon. I retreated slowly to the shadows. She said, “May I?”

Another nod.

She untied the ribbon, untaped the wrapper, and unfolded the paper, careful not to tear it. She read the title and clutched the book close to her chest.
Pirate Pete and The Misfits: The World Is Flat.
The smile grew. “It’s my favorite.”

I knew that. I whispered and motioned with my fingers. “Open it.”

She did. Turning to the title page. It was signed. Not to her, because what are the chances of finding a signed copy for a girl named Liza when the author had been dead for a, well… a long time, but Elizabeth was another story, a more common name. She ran her fingers across the signature. Helen Keller at the Alabama pump house. “Elizabeth is my real name.” I knew that, too.

I drank from the fire hose.

She looked up. “Where’d this come from? Did my doctors find it?” Her head tilted. A quiet moment. “Did
you
find this?” The emphasis was pointed at me—as was her finger.

Lost in another moment, I forgot myself and was in the process of answering, “I…,” when heavy footsteps squeaked outside the door. I turned quickly, grabbed the trash bag from the bathroom trashcan, and almost bumped into a nurse walking into the room. I tucked my chin to my chest, threw the bag in the cart, cussed myself for being such a fool, and made for the elevator.

I’d made it halfway down the hall when I heard the same high-tempo squeaky footsteps. Her voice was elevated. “Excuse me, sir.”

I turned the corner and picked up a jog. The cart squeaking louder. I was almost running.

The sound followed me around the corner. The effort caused her to breathe heavier and speak unnaturally loud. “Sir!”

To my left, the stairwell. I could ditch the cart and run but my cover would be blown. I pushed the elevator button, and fed the earbuds into my ears. I stood in front of the cart, which blocked me from her, and tapped my foot. The doors opened and I debated. If I stepped in, she had me cornered. Unless I wanted to hurt her—and I did not. If I ran, I could make it down and out the stairs and disappear
to the Riverwalk around the fountain, but that would only ensure my escape. Not my return. And the latter was more important than the former.

I stepped in, pulling the cart behind me. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

The doors were closing when she appeared and shoved her massive arm between the doors. The elevator jolted. An out-of-breath nurse stood holding a half-eaten, triple-layer birthday cake smothered in icing. I pulled the noiseless earbuds from my ears. She smiled, caught her breath, leaned on the cart, and offered. “If this thing stays up here, we’ll graze on it for days, and I’m already knocking lamps off night tables as it is, so do a girl a favor and remove the temptation.” I wanted to tell her that her smile was beautiful. That she lit a dark room. That the world needed it, and her.

I did not.

I accepted the cake with a grunt and a nod, and she stepped out of the elevator. When the doors closed, I stood—conscious of the camera above me. I exited at the loading deck, made a serpentine path through the parking garage, up six flights of camera’d stairs to my truck, and didn’t peel off my mask, glasses, or hat until I climbed back up on I-95 and headed south.

I merged, tapped the steering wheel, and took my first bite of cake. The icing stuck to my lips. When I glanced in the rearview, the city skyline was brilliant and the hospital a white blur shrouded in halo.

Tears do that.

At five a.m., I found myself next to a parked tractor trailer at a rest area south of Melbourne. After the sugar rush, I pulled over, crashed, and slept—dreaming of laughter; tender, magnificent voices; of small victories and large defeats; of my place in the world; and days long, long gone. The idling diesel woke me—bringing
me back. I stepped out, brushed the cake crumbs off my lap, and stretched—my neck stiff from sleeping against the window. I scratched my head and studied the highway. Jacksonville to the north. Miami to the south. I glanced at my watch and the date reminded me.

Today is Christmas. Time to see the old man.

M
iami is known for its vice squad, year-round tropical weather, professional sports teams, wealth, fashion, art-deco design, and bikini beaches. Maybe none more famous than Miami Beach. Just south of Miami Beach, across a little stretch of water and past the Miami Seaquarium—the original home of Flipper—is a barrier island called Key Biscayne.

Key Biscayne is seven miles long by two miles wide. It is bookended by state parks, which means that the real estate in the middle is rather pricey. The Ritz-Carlton is here, as is an exclusive condominium called Sky Seven. Since the area is threaded with canals, many of the homes are waterfront and most owners have several boats. Just across Biscayne Bay on the Florida mainland sits Coconut Grove, Coral Gables, the University of Miami, and an old church shepherded by an even older man.

St. John the Divine always struck me as simple, which is odd given that Catholics are not known for understatement. I’m not knocking them; my best friend is Catholic. Actually, he’s my only friend but
that’s irrelevant. The point is that his church has not been dipped in gold like a vanilla cone from Dairy Queen. It’s grand without grandeur. That’s not to say they’ve put no effort in it. The grounds are manicured. Lush. Succulent. Blooms everywhere. Hummingbirds gorging. Roses climb every arch and breezeway. Not a weed to be found. The thing on display here is not man’s handiwork. That strikes me because it gives me no reason to leave—and I’ve been looking.

I reached Miami by morning but given that it was Christmas, and given that they ran four services back to back, I made myself scarce until late afternoon, letting the crowd thin. A single black Range Rover was parked in the lot when I arrived. Looking more like me and less like the Count of Monte Cristo, I stepped inside, took a breath, and leaned against the heavy mahogany. I liked this place. Incense burned in the far corner. Candles flickered. They say confession is good for the soul.

Maybe that depends on what is confessed.

He sat at the far end. Hands clasped on his knees. The confessant knelt opposite. Between the scarf and the sunglasses and the bowed head, I couldn’t make out much but the curves suggested a woman in her late twenties. Maybe midthirties. She finished speaking, stood, and he handed her a tissue with which she wiped her nose, the skin below her eyes. A true confession. She took a step, then turned, leaned across the space between them, placed her hand on his cheek, and kissed him. Tenderly. Then a second time. Gathering herself, she stepped off the platform, crossed her arms and began her hurried exit. Steps from the altar, she stopped and whispered. He stood and responded. I could make out none of it. Satisfied, she crossed to the outside aisle and began her solo walk toward the side entrance—and me.

Her running shoes squeaked on the polished marble while my flip-flops smacked my heels. I moved aside. Removed my hat. Sun-bleached hair down to my shoulders. She passed. A careful distance. Careful not to look. A satellite in orbit. I’d seen her before. She came here often. Scarf, sunglasses, faded jeans. Nothing showing.
Could have been anybody. Nobody. That she was hiding was obvious. She brushed by me, tears falling below the rims of the glasses. A tissue dabbing the end of her nose. A plastic hospital bracelet hung on her left wrist. I glanced at the confessional. He had that effect on a lot of people.

I walked beneath the arches. Approached the chair. A thin curtain separated us. I sat. Facing him. My spiritual umbilical cord. I pulled back the curtain. He was distant, staring at the door through which she’d disappeared. Her smell hovered over both of us. “What’d you say?”

He looked at me. Head tilted. Voice low. Father Steady Capris had been a priest for longer than I’d been alive. And, if he was anything, he was—steady. Little rocked his boat. At eighty-four, he had few responsibilities at the church other than to care for the other priests and hear confessions when he could. He came and went as he wished, though he seldom left the grounds. For the most part, he wandered the halls, encouraging others, rubbing his beads, and whispering to himself. They fed him, gave him a room, took care of his needs, and put him on a platform from which he continually tried to climb down.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “Do I keep your secrets?”

I laughed and looked around me at the absence of people. “Evidently.”

“Then don’t ask me for others’.”

“You’re in a good mood.” He stared at me but he wasn’t looking at me. He was distracted—focused on the girl beyond the door. My eyes roamed the expanse of the cathedral. “You still like it here?”

“It’s home.”

“What would you do if it burned to the ground?”

He turned slowly. Unaffected. “God doesn’t inhabit buildings.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He crossed one leg over the other. “Fire is not the enemy.”

“No? What then?”

His pupils slid to the corners of his eyes. “The match.”

“What do we do about the finger that strikes it?”

He waved his hand across the expanse. “We build cathedrals with them.”

With Steady there was no pretense. Everything was what it was. And God knows I loved him for it.

He stood, wrapped his sweater about him, and pointed outside to the circular platform tucked beneath the trees, the blue water just beyond, where he heard other priests’ confessions. He waved. “Walk with me.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too.” He smiled, nodded, and buttoned his Mister Rogers sweater. “It’s nearly eighty degrees outside and you’re wearing a sweater.”

“My body is old. My spirit is not.” He motioned again. “Walk.”

“I’m not going out there.”

He pointed.

“I’m not a priest.”

“You’d have made a good one.”

“I’m not even Catholic.”

He turned. “Come.”

I gave him my arm. He didn’t need my help. He knew this. I knew this. And he knew that I knew this. He took it anyway. Our footsteps echoed, followed by the sound of his cane tapping the marble. I spoke. “I saw this once in a
Godfather
movie. Didn’t really go all that well for the guy making the confession. He ended up in diabetic shock.” He kept walking. We neared the platform. I stopped him, shook my head. “Steady, I love you, give you the shirt off my back but not today.”

His nose wrinkled. “I don’t want the shirt off your back.”

He walked behind a fig tree, facing the other way. The branches separated us. The leaves were bigger than my hand. Masking him. He fingered his cross, rubbing his thumb along the wood. Oil from his fingers had darkened it over the decades. He proffered, “Try, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’ ”

I pulled down on the limb. Poked my head between the branches. “Are you forgiving me or God?”

A knowing nod. “Told you you’d have made a good Catholic.”

“You don’t mind me questioning you?”

He smiled, shook his head. Leaves rustled beneath him. “I’d mind if you didn’t.” He pointed behind him. “But remember, you sat in my chair.” He studied me. “You have bags under your eyes. You drive all night?”

Old, yes, but that didn’t make him blind. He didn’t miss much. “The fish were biting.”

He reached out, took my hand, and smelled it. His eyes narrowed. “Are you really going to lie to me on Christmas?”

I shoved my hands in my pockets.

He nodded. Pleased with himself and, I think, me. “And how is my friend Edmund?”

What amazed me about Steady was not what he didn’t know, but what he did. “He’s fine.”

“Working hard?”