undeniable attraction he’d felt the moment she walked into the courtyard. A feeling he’d never experienced before now.
“There’s no guarantee we’ll find what you’re looking for,” he said.
“Maybe not. But I sure as hell won’t find it here.”
Day 61?
2:00 P.M.
My last entry.
I’m not even sure why I’m writing this, because in a few minutes I’ll be headed back to Playa Azul and everything I’ve said here will remain behind to gather dust and be forgotten.
I have no intention of telling the nurses or Dr. Stanley that I’m leaving. They would only try to stop me. Would tell me that I’m not yet ready for the outside world.
Maybe that’s true.
I have no idea how long I’ll be able to maintain this clarity, but I can’t stay in this place anymore, wondering about those missing months. Not knowing what really happened.
I’m not sure if Nick knows about my “episodes.” I couldn’t tell him myself, for fear he’d have a change of heart and leave me stranded here. It was hard enough convincing him to take me with him in the first place.
So we’ll deal with the problem if it arises.
When it arises.
As Jen always says, it’s better to ask pardon than permission. Which, I guess, has always been the fundamental difference between us. I’ve spent too much of my life following the rules. Seeking approval.
But that’s about to change.
As I sit here, waiting for the right moment to slip away, that small boy has caught my eye again-one arm cradling the stuffed dog, while the other is wrapped around his mother’s leg.
I don’t know why he stirs something inside of me. Not sure why I feel like crying when I see him. But those dark, shapeless, almost memories are back, struggling to break through the layers of tissue that separate me from my past.
Visiting hour is almost over. In a moment I’ll go back to my room and quietly change into some street clothes. I’ll wait for the crowd of family and loved ones to start migrating toward the exit, then slip away through the south doors and climb into Nick’s waiting car.
For the first time in all the days I’ve spent here, I feel hope.
Real hope.
Dr. Stanley once told me about a patient of his who spent her days in a fantasy world, getting up every morning to go to work, then sitting at the edge of her bed as if she were typing at an office desk.
When her relatives came to visit, she greeted them as fellow employees and took coffee breaks with them in the dayroom.
Then one morning she awoke and her fantasy world was gone. She knew exactly where she was and why she was there, and spoke with a lucidity she’d never before demonstrated. It was as if a simple switch had been flipped and all was back to normal.
So maybe it will come back to me. All of it. A flick of a switch and I’ll finally be whole again.
That’s not too much to ask for, is it?
To be whole again?
PART THREE
65
He spent his first night in Los Angeles at a believer’s home near Silverlake.
As a gesture of respect, the father shared his oldest daughter with him, a slender nineteen-year-old who had been blessed by La Santisima with flawless beauty.
She pretended not to notice his ruined face as she took him to her bed.
And he pretended not to care.
But when she straddled him and closed her eyes, quietly praising God as she worked her hips, grinding her body against his, he wondered if she was thinking of someone else.
Someone handsome.
Like he used to be.
Afterward, they got dressed and had dinner with the family, followed by an hour of prayer.
The youngest daughter sang a song about Jesus, and he smiled politely and applauded, thinking that she was even more beautiful than her sister-and only a year or so away from her initiation into womanhood.
Maybe he could convince her father to save her for him.
As a gesture of respect.
H E HAD THOUGHT about driving by the rehabilitation clinic that night. But he was worn out by the sex and the long drive from El Paso, and the meal they’d served was weighing him down.
So he decided to go straight to bed.
In the middle of the night, he felt the mattress shift and opened his eyes to find the mother climbing in next to him, naked.
She took his hand and placed it between her thighs, letting him feel her heat. Her wetness.
“It would be an honor,” she murmured, “to serve the son of El Santo. To let my body be the vessel for his release.”
He was tired, but it would be an insult to the family to refuse her. And, unlike her daughter, she did not close her eyes. Instead, she stared at him with the gaze of the truly devoted as she received him in the name of God and La Santisima.
O N HIS SECOND night in Los Angeles, he went by the reporter’s apartment. El Santo had ordered him to leave the man alone, and while he understood the reasoning, he’d felt uneasy about the command ever since it had been given.
El Santo was getting old. And careless. And may have misinterpreted the signs.
His uneasiness grew when the believers he’d assigned to keep an eye on the reporter’s apartment called and told him that Vargas had not yet returned.
So, after much prayer, he drove out to the Burbank apartment building and let himself in, checking the reporter’s computer, his notes, for any indication that he might know more than they’d been led to believe.
He found nothing, but that didn’t settle his uneasiness. And he knew that this wasn’t over.
Sooner or later, something would have to be done.
That same night, he parked the Town Car near a street corner several yards from the rehabilitation clinic.
He had no right to be here.
Another of El Santo’s commands.
“We made a promise,” the old man had told him. “We leave her alone.”
“And if she remembers?”
“Then we will pray for guidance and act accordingly. Until that day, however, we must honor our pledge.”
