Authors: Sally John
“It’s a lovely village, and the people are wonderful.”
“I hear the
but
in your voice. But you’d rather live in the twenty-first century?”
“I think so. I think I’m ready to return to it.”
Calissa heard more in her sister’s tone than hesitation. Sheridan was afraid to learn Eliot’s side of the story. It would determine whether she stayed or she went. It would determine whether she wanted him to be a part of either of those scenarios.
“Hey,” Calissa said, “I smell food. What was that sweet thing you promised?”
“Honestly!” Sheridan huffed in mock disdain. “Are you sure we grew up with the same mom in the kitchen? Mamá made them all the time.
Sopapillas.
”
“It’s my lack of ear for Spanish. I remember fried pastry and honey.”
“Eat enough while you’re here and you too will switch to elastic waistbands.”
Chuckling, they continued the hike into the center of town, toward a party in full swing.
The scene mesmerized Calissa. Her Spanish heritage had often been a source of embarrassment for her. As a youngster, she cringed whenever her mother visited school. Grateful for her own blonde hair and blue eyes, she told friends that her mother tanned easily year-round and talked weird because a dentist had bungled work in her mouth.
No wonder her mother didn’t seem to like her much.
Calissa was convinced that Sheridan emerged from the womb speaking fluent Spanish. As an eight-year-old she did Calissa’s high school Spanish homework for her.
Calissa should probably see a therapist.
Sheridan said, “I see Mercedes and Javier. There, to the right. She’s wearing . . . she’s wearing . . .”
“What all the women are wearing? Flouncy tops and skirts—oh, my gosh.” The crowd had parted briefly and now Calissa saw what Sheridan saw: Eliot, seated on a bench, a walker in front of him, the festive lights glinting off the lenses of his glasses.
Eliot. The guy who never cared about going to this thing. The guy who was usually in bed by now.
The guy her sister really did not want to talk to until morning.
Sheridan watched Eliot grasp his walker and stand. The surprised O of his mouth settled into a grin.
A grin?
Calissa squeezed her elbow and whispered, “Remember who you are, Sheri.”
The phrase hit her like another bucket of cold water thrown over her. Sheridan shivered. Now her sister was quoting their mother?
“Remember who you are, Sheri.”
“You are,” Calissa said softly, “God’s daughter. He expects you to be kind and courteous to everyone. Else you’ll give Him a bad rep.”
Sheridan looked at her.
She winked. “So I ad-libbed a little.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No no no. That’s not allowed.”
“God’s daughter? Right. Liss, did you realize we’re daughters of a prostitute and a smuggler who pimped on the side? And we thought we were la-di-da hot stuff from the north burbs.”
“Name-calling is not allowed either. Come, now.” She held Sheridan’s arm, subtly pushing and pulling, inching her forward. “This is way too public a place for a tongue-lashing. You can lay into him tomorrow. Just fake the bit about kind, courteous, and God’s daughter, okay?”
Sheridan went with her, reluctant, angry, fed up, confused, afraid, and tired. How was she supposed to greet this man given what she now suspected about him?
The music was loud and fast. They stayed along the edge of the square where there were fewer people. Eliot stood, head and shoulders above the crowd, waiting, smiling at her. Beside him, Padre Miguel grinned and bobbed his head.
“Sheridan!” Eliot let go of the walker and held out his arms. “What a delightful surprise! Welcome home.”
Just out of reach, Sheridan stopped. When was the last time he had smiled and offered a hug? It wasn’t just the questions about three decades ago. It was the past eighteen months of his muteness. It was the sudden, inexplicable nice-guy act. Her head spun.
Calissa pressed at the small of her back, shoving her forward. “Well, this is awkward,” she said out of the side of her mouth. Then, louder, “Hey there, Eliot!”
“Calissa. You’re actually in Mexico! Welcome.”
Sheridan got close enough to let him hug her, the walker between them, her hands at her sides.
He leaned down and kissed her temple. “I’m sorry.”
“Save it.” She felt his cheek, smooth against her forehead. He’d shaved for the event. At his neck she smelled the American soap he still preferred. He wore a freshly laundered guayabera.
He was all skin and bones.
She felt like she did not know the man at all.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.
Me too,
she thought.
Me too.
“Calissa.” He turned to her sister. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
Calissa hugged him better than Sheridan had. “I can’t believe
you’re
here. This is a movie set, right? And the monk here speaks English, right?” She nodded toward Padre Miguel, who wore his brown cowl tonight. “Like the majority of the townspeople do, right?”
Eliot chuckled. “No on all counts.”
“Yikes. That’s what I was afraid of.”
Padre Miguel touched Sheridan’s elbow. “Welcome home, my child.”
She bent to hug him. “Bless me, father,” she whispered, “for I have sinned.” She sighed again, overcome with guilt. Thirty seconds ago she blatantly disrespected her husband. Beneath the surface she harbored anger. Then there was that brief consideration in a Chicago funeral home to run away with another man.
“Shh, señora. This is not the time or place.”
She blinked rapidly.
His eyes twinkled with compassion. “Señora, our Lord hears your heart’s confession and forgives.”
She knew that. She just needed to hear it out loud right now before she raced back down the hill and away in the car to Mazatlán. Funny. Not many weeks ago she was heading the opposite direction, thinking only of hurrying back to Topala and Eliot and ignoring the rest of the world.
“Eliot.” Calissa smiled, kindness and courtesy personified again. “It is so good to see you out of the hospital. Now tell me, where are the sopies?”
“The what?” he said.
“Sopies. You know, fried pastry.”
Sheridan shook her head. It was going to be a long, long night.
* * *
It was not the homecoming Sheridan had envisioned. She had planned to introduce Calissa to all the colorful quirks of Topala, from its layout to inhabitants to burros to tourists’ favorite spots to her adobe house with the perfect balcony. Eliot was to have been asleep through that entire first part.
But at the sight of him on that bench she had lost her enthusiasm. The village was a backward little place that made her feel safe. It had taught her how to extract oxygen from sand in order to live with her head buried and take care of her invalid husband.
Now, she spread a blanket on the sofa in the study and wondered for the first time ever if there was a pill in Eliot’s bag of goodies that would knock her out.
“Sheridan.” Eliot appeared in the doorway.
She plopped down on the sofa, more exhausted from her attempts to be nice than from the long day itself.
With one hand he held a new cane and with the other, the doorframe. She was unaccustomed to such a sight. Once in a while he would inch a short distance down the hallway or across a room, balancing himself against the wall, but this . . . this was different.
Uneasy confusion riffled through her again. Or still.
“Uh,” he said and left it at that.
She waited. She really had nothing to say. Except . . . “Eliot, look. I’m sorry, but I’ve used up all my good graces for tonight. I’m exhausted.”
“I understand. And I understand that you’re angry and confused.”
In the past such insight from him would give her goose bumps. Now she wanted to say
whoop-de-do
. She didn’t, though, and chalked up her politeness to childhood training that refused to go away.
Eliot sighed. “Evidently we didn’t count on overnight guests when we bought this house, did we? We figured there were plenty of bedrooms, even with Mercedes living with us. After all, no one even knew where we were. Who would visit? And now Calissa has come. I am very glad she did, by the way.”
“Yes, you said that. Once or twice.”
He tried to smile, but it fell short. “And you’ve given up your room to her. Well, the thing is, the couch can’t be comfortable for you. I’ve been sleeping better, but I’m afraid I’m not quite ready yet for the couch. Anyway, uh, what I want to say is that you’re welcome to share my bed.”
At first she did not comprehend his words. They’d left his mouth like a distant lightning bolt and split the air. The clap of thunder would follow; its boom would rattle her from head to toe.
More than eighteen months had passed since they had slept together. After his injury, he was overly sensitive to sound and space. At first he could hardly bear to be touched, let alone share the confines of a bed. She kneaded his back and exercised his legs but gave up offering the hugs and kisses that he recoiled from.
The doctors and counselor said it was to be expected. They said give him time. They said don’t take it personally; it was not a rejection of her but rather of the situation.
It hadn’t felt that way. It felt very, very personal. For over a year and a half he had pushed her away both physically and emotionally. At some level that must be his own choice.
Just like not telling her about his past was his choice.
Sheridan reached up and switched off the lamp on the end table. “Good night.” In the semidarkness she crawled under the blanket and lay on her side.
A moment later he shuffled away. Another moment and the hall light switched off. Another moment and the thunder crashed over her, reverberating all around her.
She cried herself to sleep. It took some time.
Midmorning the day after Sheridan and Calissa’s arrival, Eliot sat in the study, drank tea, and waited. How bizarre life was! As it fell apart around him and Sheridan, they still attended to the everyday. They ate, drank, slept, showered, and talked to those with them. Earlier he had chatted with her and Calissa about Harrison’s funeral and their spontaneous decision to come to Topala.
All the while he longed to hold his wife and beg forgiveness.
Even now she continued with the everyday, showing her sister the courtyards, putting things in order around the house, catching up on household details with Mercedes. Earlier Sheridan had helped him with his medication, her eyes red and ringed in deep purple hues. She used the brown bowl and nodded when he said the pain was at about a seven.
“Expected,” she said. “After last night, going down to the square. You probably overdid it.”
“Padre Miguel has a way about him. Like Calissa. He could talk a zebra into giving up its stripes.”
She hadn’t smiled. But neither had she cried or stared at him with fear, which was what she’d done last evening while Calissa flitted around the square, meeting the locals, making them laugh with her silly Spanglish, and dancing with them.
At last now Sheridan came into the study. “Okay.” Her voice was low and hoarse. “Are you feeling all right enough to talk?”
“Yes.”
She paced twice across the room and finally sat on the edge of an armchair near his.
He said, “Do you want to tell me what you learned in Chicago? Then I’ll fill in the gaps or—”
“One thing. I need one thing. Before you went to the fund-raiser, did you know who I was? Did you know I was Harrison Cole’s daughter?”
That was it, then. With his answer, he would be finished before he’d even begun.
He gazed at her beautiful brown eyes. The dark lashes. Noted the absence of gold flecks. “Yes. I knew you were Harrison Cole’s daughter.”
She blinked. “When? When did you find out?”
“When?” He swallowed. “When you were thirteen.”
Sheridan sprang from her chair and rushed out of the room.
Eliot sank back against his chair, a heavy mantle of despair pressing him into the cushions.
* * *
Twenty minutes passed. Eliot could hear the sisters in another part of the house, their voices raised, arguing. He tried to calm himself with thoughts of Padre Miguel.
When Sheridan had delayed her return home from the States, the old priest intuited problems in their marriage. Never probing, he talked about it without really talking about it. Fascinating how the man could do that.
However, last night he ventured close to the heart of the matter. “I will pray for fruitful conversation and reconciliation with señora,” he had said before leaving the town square. “May I suggest you do likewise?”
The man was wise. Two weeks prior and Eliot would have lambasted him without remorse.
Which was far too telling about Eliot’s state of mind. How had he gotten to such a low point? Could he really blame the shooting, the medication, the situation?
“May I suggest you do likewise?”
“God,” Eliot whispered now, “please give me a chance. Give us a chance. Please.”
Finally Sheridan entered the room, Calissa right behind her.
He had expected as much, but that didn’t prevent his hackles from rising. His sister-in-law resembled his father-in-law. Eliot had never been able to get completely past her cloned personality.
But without Calissa, he doubted his wife would have returned to Topala so soon. No matter how much or how little Sheridan knew, she was devastated. He vowed to accept Calissa’s intrusion if it killed him.
The women sat at opposite ends of the couch. He nodded at them from his recliner.
Calissa said, “Eliot—”
“I’m sorry. I humbly apologize for deceiving both of you. There is absolutely no excuse for my despicable behavior. I never intended to hurt you, Sheridan. It’s easy to say those words, but my motive was always . . .”
Was always to protect you.
That was what he’d always told himself. Why couldn’t he say it?
Because it wasn’t true. That was not his motive.
“Eliot?” Sheridan spoke softly. “What is it?”