As the bird scooped the last yellow seed, Yvette suddenly remembered why she had been in such a hurry the day of the accident; why she had been so preoccupied that she'd forgot to put on her seat belt. The memory broke loose; and as it rained its details down upon her, it took her breath away.

On that last morning, she had just dropped off the dry cleaning when she saw him. She exited the laundromat, stepped onto the sidewalk, and headed toward the post office, digging through her bag to make sure she had brought the stack of envelopes to be mailed. And there he was, getting out of a car across the street. Yvette froze. She wasn't surprised to feel the old familiar coldness rise in her stomach, she knew it would always be there. Five years had pa.s.sed since she had last seen him, and yet, it was as if someone had spliced time. Even from across the street, his presence still felt intimate and familiar. He was a bit heavier, but otherwise he looked the same. She had heard that he lived in Arizona now. Yvette felt a slight tremble begin in the bones of her hands, her knees, her teeth. She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together.

Across the street, he took a step back and opened the rear pa.s.senger door of his blue sedan. He leaned into the car, and when he emerged, there was an infant clinging to his chest. A slender woman, whose face was hidden behind sungla.s.ses and a hat, stepped out of the other side of the car and took the baby while he fed coins into the parking meter. Then, he took his wife's hand and they headed toward the Olympia diner.

Yvette stepped back into the laundromat and watched them from behind the safety of the gla.s.s storefront. She remembered the date-the exact time, actually-that he'd come to her apartment and told her that it was over between them. After he left (she could still hear the hushed sound of his footsteps on the hallway carpet), she lay awake most of the night, curled up into a ball, shaking violently at the prospect of the approaching morning. After she finally fell asleep, just before dawn, her exhausted body began to sweat, and when she woke up, her pajamas and sheets were completely soaked. He had left her the way an amputated limb leaves the body. There would always be phantom pain for him. Always.

When she had had a few minutes to compose herself, she headed toward her car, forgoing all her morning errands. She slipped into the seat of her Mustang, wondering if he had recognized it parked across the street. As she headed back home, driving fast felt healing and defiant. She had not felt that it was a betrayal of Will to experience this old hurt again. She loved Will in a healthy, trusting way. The love she knew before Will had been a reckless thrill ride to the edge of the universe, a blast that would continue its cascade into empty s.p.a.ce as long as she was alive to remember it.

She thought, He's someone's husband now. A father. He's someone's husband now. A father. A yellow highway sign warned of a dangerous curve and fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit. A yellow highway sign warned of a dangerous curve and fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit.

The chick jumped up excitedly on her lap and Yvette shook her head. What a relief to be free of that terrible bondage, she thought. She remembered that the days after her loss had been even worse than the time spent in limbo.

Her thoughts turned to Will. The unexpected knowledge that he had not been her heart's first choice made her love him even more. Years ago, her own ability to love had been restored by Will's translucent and unspoiled heart, and whether he knew it or not, his loyal old soul would eventually sabotage him. Will would belong to his wife as long as her heart was beating. For better or worse.

And then there was her mother, her biggest worry. By the blinding brilliance of Yvette's brief lucidity, she could see that her recovery was a temporary gift. Eventually, the darkness would descend again and Sylvia would suffer even more. Yvette had struggled so long to arrive at a higher place, to escape the caverns of darkness. She just couldn't return-not for Will, not even for her mother. She was tired, so tired. To stay alive meant a life without dancing, without laughter, without cooking or children or shopping or swimming or sailing. To rot in a bed and wait years for the relief that was being offered to her right now.

The sea wanted an answer, so Yvette got down to the grim math of adding up the reasons she wanted to live, and subtracting the reasons she wanted to die. She had been listening to the call of the sea for days now, and she understood its organic language for the first time in her life. It had a pulse, like a great organ, and it whooshed through the world, energizing, cleansing, communicating, creating. It was frightening and terribly comforting all at the same time. The night before, it had invited her to die.

She felt the familiar snowiness begin to take hold, like a cloud interrupting her reception. She didn't want this anymore, this being snowed under. She shouted, "No more!" The sound of the waves grew louder. The chick, still pecking at her lap, startled and flapped its wings. It jumped out of her lap and onto the ceramic tile floor of the patio and began to run.

Yvette watched as the chick ran away, toward the sea, its toothpick legs racing toward the restless expanse, with no idea where it was going or what it was running from. A wave rose and rushed the chick. She waited but didn't see its head pop up out of the water, and she suddenly understood what she was supposed to do. She remembered seeing the sign in the marina channel that warned NO NO WAKE WAKE. As her heart quickened, she understood that there was a force in the world that had a claim on everything, and that it would take back what was sick and no longer functional and make it clean and whole again.

Finally, a pink dot appeared on the water's surface, then disappeared again, into the tumble of the sea. The reach of each wave thinned into foamy fingers pointing at the land, then directly at her. She was needed elsewhere, it told her. This time, she would not be sidelined in limbo. She would become a part of something immense and mysterious, and she would live again. Upon that beautiful and calming promise Yvette rested her decision: she would go.

Almost immediately, Yvette heard the instructions -explained to her in the strange language of those great liquid heartbeats. She reached down and unlatched the catch on her wheelchair. "Empujame hacia el mar," "Empujame hacia el mar," she said to the little girl, who was waiting at her side. The girl obeyed and gave the wheelchair a strong push. The chair rolled across the tiles, then halted at the point where the sand became dry and loose. The water was still at least fifty feet away. Yvette took the girl's hand and waited. she said to the little girl, who was waiting at her side. The girl obeyed and gave the wheelchair a strong push. The chair rolled across the tiles, then halted at the point where the sand became dry and loose. The water was still at least fifty feet away. Yvette took the girl's hand and waited.

The water advanced, waves groping blindly for something lost. A single swell broke from the turbulent swirls and rushed forward, stretching farther inland than any other wave ever had. It tore across the vast beach and flooded past the iron gates of Caracol. Salt water contaminated the crystalline Moroccan pool, leaving a brackish mess of seaweed and a carpet of black sand right up to the floor tiles of the entrance. The noise was heard inside, but only by the brain-injured. In the infirmary, toes wiggled, eyelashes fluttered, and smiles of relief spread across ash-white faces.

The sea opened its great yawning mouth and inhaled Yvette. She gave herself willingly, joyfully. Her frail consciousness was replaced by wonder and light, and she burst with the euphoria of death. She dove into the cool expanse and saw, with unbounded relief and joy, that He was indeed the sovereign of all molecules, the timeless prophet of mercy, order, and hope.

chapter 21 WHITE WHEELS TURNING.

The staff at Clinica Caracol stated that Yvette's death was caused by a pulmonary infection, a common risk of prolonged convalescence. Although Yvette had been taken outside for fifteen minutes of sun exposure, the tide had been high and the waves violent, and so the nurse had returned her to her bed and turned on a television program about hurricanes. Yvette had opened her eyes and spoken once that evening, about ten minutes before the estimated time of death. The nurse reported that Yvette had asked to be pushed "closer to the sea," which she had said in Spanish. The nurse took it to mean that Yvette was interested in the TV show and wanted a better view, so she had adjusted the bed back upward, then pulled the overhead television closer to Yvette's bed. The nurse said that she had heard another patient make a strange sound and left Yvette to go check. There had been a full moon, and for some unknown reason it seemed to trigger restlessness in the patients. A few minutes later, when the nurse returned to Yvette, she saw a single strand of saliva running down the side of her mouth and a peaceful smile on her face.

THE NIGHT AFTER Yvette's death was spent trying to comfort the bereaved. Claudia took charge of facilitating all the logistics and transportation for everyone, including Yvette's body, which would be taken back home for burial. "The health minister and the president will hear about this tomorrow morning," Claudia promised. "Dr. Mendez and the Borrero investors will be held accountable." Then she bowed her head at the futility, because nothing anyone could do would bring Yvette back. Yvette's death was spent trying to comfort the bereaved. Claudia took charge of facilitating all the logistics and transportation for everyone, including Yvette's body, which would be taken back home for burial. "The health minister and the president will hear about this tomorrow morning," Claudia promised. "Dr. Mendez and the Borrero investors will be held accountable." Then she bowed her head at the futility, because nothing anyone could do would bring Yvette back.

By 6 a.m., the rooster was crowing again, making it impossible to sleep. Monica threw on shorts and a T-shirt and went to find some coffee. In the hall, she turned and looked out to the street and shivered at the memory of the black dog staring back at her. Just as the legend went, the presence of a black dog had indeed forecast heartbreak.

A half hour later, there was a knock on her door. It was Will. She let him in without a word and held him as he shivered in her arms. "I thought I'd already said good-bye to her," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely after a while. "This is so hard. It's like we had her by the collar as she dangled off the edge of a cliff." He held his arm out rigidly, gripping something invisible with his fingers. "And we let her fall."

Monica pulled back. "Now hold on. She didn't die from the treatment. She died because her body was under the stress of convalescence and recovery. You didn't let her do anything. You, Sylvia, modern medicine, and the clinic kept her hanging on to this world longer than nature would have her stay. G.o.d claimed her, Will. Even He couldn't stand seeing her suffer anymore."

"She sent you, you know," Will said, examining Monica's fingers. "And no one is going to convince me otherwise."

"You think so?" Monica said, her eyes opening wide.

"She had a really big heart."

She looked up at him. "It's possible."

He looked at her, and she detected a flicker of lightness in his face for a split second, before the tension returned to his eyes. He pushed himself away from her and stood up.

"I want to pick you up at the airport," he said. "When you get back."

"You'll have your hands full for quite a while, Will."

"I'll make time." He took a deep breath, lifted his chin, and forced a smile. "And you ... you need to be with your mom for a few more days. Alone."

"It's uncomfortable."

"Do it."

"I am."

They embraced for a long time, but he didn't kiss her. When he left the room, Monica felt a rush of love for him, followed by a nauseating wave of sadness. She fell back on the bed. She understood from his body language that he was gone, in spirit anyway, for a long, long time. While encircled by his sorrowful arms, Monica had had a flashback of the previous day's images: a vacant hospital bed, barren walls, empty vials in the garbage, a monitor with the power cord coiled up. A life, gone.

Will was headed for purgatory, that great sanitarium for mourning hearts.

TWELVE HOURS LATER, everyone had left except Monica. She planned to stay another week with Alma, who made good on her promises by running back and forth from attorneys' offices to public records offices, trying to dodge the swell of interest in her return. Just explaining the whole thing to the bewildered estate attorney took hours. Monica told no one of her intention to meet with her great-uncle Jorge before leaving El Salvador. First, there was something terribly important that Alma and Monica had to do together. everyone had left except Monica. She planned to stay another week with Alma, who made good on her promises by running back and forth from attorneys' offices to public records offices, trying to dodge the swell of interest in her return. Just explaining the whole thing to the bewildered estate attorney took hours. Monica told no one of her intention to meet with her great-uncle Jorge before leaving El Salvador. First, there was something terribly important that Alma and Monica had to do together.

They headed back to the coast for a day and rented a boat in the protected waters of the Golfo de Fonseca. On the floor of the boat were ten crowns of white roses. Six of the crowns represented the campesinos that had been killed on that terrible day. One of the crowns was for Maximiliano Campos, one was for Yvette Lucero, the last two were for Magnolia and Adolfo Borrero. Monica tossed them out like life buoys, each one landing with a soft slap on the gentle waters. Alma's eulogy consisted of only a few words: "We live because the ocean lives. It is the beginning and end of all things on Earth, and especially us, who are born from water and, in death, return to salt."

Almost immediately, the wind picked up and the wreaths began to drift and turn like wheels carting an invisible weight across the vast expanse of the sea. They spun toward the glimmering place where the sun blurs the horizon, beyond sight, beyond sound, beyond knowledge, or pain or sadness or regret.

"Partic.i.p.ate again," Monica heard Alma say. Monica blew kiss after kiss and waved good-bye. As always, she had far less certainty than her mother about life after death. But she was encouraged nonetheless that if Abuela's Christian version of heaven was not awaiting, then at least there was Alma's version, an afterlife in which there were no limits and no waste.

chapter 22 THE PATRIARCH.

Francisca punched her gnarled fingers into the number pad outside the executive offices at Borr-Lac. "He's only here on Tuesday afternoons," she said. "Down the hall, to the left." She pointed to a clock in the hallway. "He's having his weekly meeting with Fernanda right now. Good luck."

Monica brushed past the secretary and entered her great-uncle Jorge's office. Dr. Fernanda Mendez turned and fixed her orange eyes on Monica. "We were expecting you," she said, and it made Monica doubt that this was truly the spontaneous visit she thought it was. The doctor waved at the secretary. "It's okay, Mirta. Close the door."

Jorge Borrero, younger brother to Adolfo by fourteen years, was sitting behind a vast, empty field of polished mahogany. Now that he had reached his senior years, there was a striking resemblance between the brothers. He stood up, looked at his niece, but didn't say anything. Monica, determined to give blood bonds a fighting chance, brushed past Fernanda and kissed her great-uncle's cheek, pressing her fingers gently into the crisp edges of his dress shirt. He smelled faintly of aftershave and c.u.min, and his thick, short gray hair was slicked back with hair pomade. She looked into his eyes for a moment, allowing him to take her in too. "Tienes unos ojos muy bellos," "Tienes unos ojos muy bellos," he said, pointing at his own eyes. he said, pointing at his own eyes. "Te los regalo tu papa." "Te los regalo tu papa."

She thanked him for the compliment and turned to look down at his desk, which had been her grandfather's. Oddly, the only items on it were a telephone and a letter opener with an ivory handle. She ran her finger over the beveled edge. "Abuelo bought this in Morocco," she said, smiling broadly. "He bought it from a beautiful Gypsy who turned out to be a transvest.i.te. Se acuerda, Tio Se acuerda, Tio?"

A cloud seemed to pa.s.s over Uncle Jorge's face at the mention of his older brother. He nodded and said, "I remember. Please sit," gesturing across his desk to the chair next to Fernanda.

In the few seconds that it took Monica to walk around the ornately carved desk, a sack of memories burst across her vision, and several long-forgotten moments rushed past her in a stampede. The last image in this unexpected, joyful stream of memory was of herself at seven, kicking off her sandals and hopping on top of that same desk. She loved to pretend to be a monkey, grunting and picking imaginary fleas out of her grandfather's silver hair while he shook with laughter at their secret game. She shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said, putting one hand over her heart. "You look so much like my grandfather now that I'm a bit taken aback." She turned and looked at Fernanda, whose gaze had been on Monica every second since she'd entered the room.

"If you don't mind, Dr. Mendez," Monica said, "I'd like to visit with my uncle alone."

"This is my my meeting time," Fernanda said, pointing to a clock on the wall. meeting time," Fernanda said, pointing to a clock on the wall.

Monica glanced up at her uncle but he didn't say anything. She spoke calmly. "My uncle and I haven't seen each other in fifteen years, can't you delay your business?"

Fernanda folded her hands together. "Yes, Jorge and I can finish our usual business another time," she said, and remained seated.

Uncle Jorge looked over at his daughter-in-law-to-be. "Fernanda is in charge of the clinic, Monica. She'd like to hear what you have to say."

"I'm not here to talk about the clinic, I'm here to talk about family matters, Tio."

"I am part of the family now," Fernanda insisted. "A very big part."

"Please leave us alone," Monica persisted. "I promise that it doesn't concern you."

Fernanda flexed her jaw, pressed her hands together, then swept her eyes back up to Monica. She patted the seat next to her. "Sit," she commanded.

Time to change tactics, Monica thought, so she slid her bottom onto the edge of her uncle's desk. Now a full foot above both of them, she folded her arms in front of her the way she had seen women do on the covers of business magazines.

"Like I said, I'm not here to discuss your clinic. I'm here to talk to my uncle about more personal matters. Alone Alone."

Fernanda narrowed her eyes. "Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are?"

"You know exactly who I am, Doctor. And if you're confused about your your role, then let me remind you that you are not yet a member of this family. You are a paid employee, and I, a Borrero, am asking you nicely to leave me alone with my uncle." role, then let me remind you that you are not yet a member of this family. You are a paid employee, and I, a Borrero, am asking you nicely to leave me alone with my uncle."

Fernanda threw her head back and laughed. "You're a Borrero in name only. You have zero zero power." She cupped the shape of an power." She cupped the shape of an o o with her fist. with her fist.

"Then what I have to say shouldn't matter."

Fernanda stood up, pointed at Monica, and leaned over the patriarch's desk. "She's here to raid the family treasures and our clinic." Fernanda turned her head long enough to flash Monica a murderous glare. "That affects me personally," she said, burying the tips of her fingers into the letters embroidered across the breast of her lab coat.

"Then let's make an appointment to fight about it another time, Fernanda," Monica said coolly. "At the risk of sounding like a broken record-what I'm here to discuss is none of your business."

The uncle broke his eye contact with Fernanda and nodded at Monica. "I'm going to grant my niece her wish, Fernanda."

When the office door slammed behind Fernanda, Monica sighed in relief. "I wouldn't expect anything else from Maximiliano's daughter."

The uncle raised a hand. "That's in the past."

Monica looked down at her pink toes for a moment, then said, "Actually, it's not, Tio. Would you be surprised to know that my mother isn't dead?"

"I already know about your mother."

Monica leaned over the desk, propping herself up on her arms, just as Fernanda had a few minutes before. "How long have you known this?"

"Years. Even fish will talk if you pay them enough." He laughed the only laugh Monica would ever hear from him.

"When were you going to tell me? Are my dad and I the only morons in the world who didn't know this?"

He cast his eyes down for a moment before saying, "No one outside the family knows, except Francisca and Fernanda. Francisca is the only one who knew all along. I personally figured it out five years after Alma disappeared." He shrugged. "It was Alma's wish to be forgotten. I wasn't going to interfere."

Monica held back her urge to say, Of course not. You wanted her to remain missing for the seven years it took to declare her dead in Of course not. You wanted her to remain missing for the seven years it took to declare her dead in order to keep her money. order to keep her money. But she bit her tongue. Her goal was to gain an impression of where this man's heart was, as free as possible from her parents' emotional filters. Was he the rat her father made him out to be? Since there was little time to waste, she decided that she had to go on the offense to disarm her uncle of his legendary frostiness and speak to his heart. But she bit her tongue. Her goal was to gain an impression of where this man's heart was, as free as possible from her parents' emotional filters. Was he the rat her father made him out to be? Since there was little time to waste, she decided that she had to go on the offense to disarm her uncle of his legendary frostiness and speak to his heart.

Monica dragged one of the chairs next to her uncle's, and without flinching, she sat, leaned forward, and took his old, manicured hand in hers. Jorge stared down at his hands in disbelief, as if she had just snapped him into a set of handcuffs. Monica instinctively understood that Jorge Borrero had been raised a gentleman. As long as she held those hands hostage, she literally held on to the truth. She took a deep breath, looked into his familiar old eyes, and began: "In the years after my mother disappeared, you and the other family members just let me drift away. I had been through this traumatic event and yet there were no letters, no invitations, no word sent that you wanted me to remain a part of the larger family. I know you think I'm here to talk about money, and you're not entirely wrong. But for me, what's at the heart of everything else is this." Monica felt her voice tremble, and it made her angry to sound so vulnerable. She took a deep breath. "I'm here to ask you why you allowed the divisiveness, Tio Jorge. You You." Monica squeezed both of his hands hard to accentuate her point. "You were in a position to bring unity to the family. were in a position to bring unity to the family. You You are the patriarch. Everyone follows your lead. But you pushed me out even farther. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me your side of the story." are the patriarch. Everyone follows your lead. But you pushed me out even farther. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me your side of the story."

Now instinct overcame the uncle's fine breeding and he tried to pull his entire body away, but Monica gripped his hands harder. By his wriggling and his facial expression Monica could see that the hand-holding and close proximity made the old man uncomfortable beyond the experience of his eighty-two years. "It's now or never, Tio. Everything else goes from here." She slid her hands up to his wrists, sliding her thumbs up so that the yolks of her fingers nestled directly over his pulse. It was an old trick-it's almost impossible to lie to someone who is taking your pulse.

Jorge began to perspire. He was tongue-tied for a second or two, before he straightened up and said, "Your mother has been nothing but trouble for this family."

Monica shook her head and laughed bitterly. "You think you're telling me something new?"

Silence. He dropped his head.

Monica tugged at his hands. She had arrived at the core of her visit with one simple and direct question: "Did you value my grandparents' money more than me? Yes or no."

"It's not that simple."

"Yes or no."

"Adolfo left a lot of debt!" he burst out. "He almost ran us into the ground."

"I don't believe it, but I'll grant it for now. That still leaves my grandmother's family money. She had inherited even more than Abuelo had earned in his life."

Jorge finally managed to yank his hands away and push himself back in his chair. "You want my story? Bien Bien, I'll tell you what you want to know." He stood up and turned his back to her, facing a large window that overlooked Borr-Lac's operations. "After Alma left, Magnolia began to show signs of dementia. I could see the loneliness and sadness that she endured at losing her daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter all at once." He turned at the waist only, a surprisingly sprite movement for an old crow. "I was running Borr-Lac alone, and I saw to it that your grandmother was cared for. You and your father were nowhere to be found." He turned his back again.

"I was twelve!" Monica cried. "What could I do?" She refused to accept his back, so she walked up and stood in front of him, blocking the view out the window.

"Magnolia died in my my arms." He said the word arms." He said the word my my slowly. By the furtive casting down of the eyes, Monica detected the presence of something hidden. She recalled the way he had practically winced when she had mentioned his resemblance to her grandfather. slowly. By the furtive casting down of the eyes, Monica detected the presence of something hidden. She recalled the way he had practically winced when she had mentioned his resemblance to her grandfather. Holy cow Holy cow, Monica thought, was Jorge in love with my grandmother was Jorge in love with my grandmother?

"Tio, I'd give anything to have been present for her when she died. I loved my grandmother very much, and I appreciate that you took care of her when she needed it. I'm also sure that you understand that I was too young at the time to be accountable for anything. But the fact remains that I am Adolfo and Magnolia's granddaughter, and you know very well that they adored me." Monica's voice rose, and tears sprang up in her eyes as she p.r.o.nounced the last sentence. She dared to point to the center of her uncle's chest. "Your role in their life does not ent.i.tle you to keep everything that belonged to them."

Jorge took a step back, b.u.mping into his leather chair. "Magnolia left everything to your mother. Your mother desired to be considered dead, and after seven years, she was. As the executor of her estate, I reinvested the money into the family business, including the clinic. Everything is as it should be, Monica." He pointed to the factory floor. "That money was earned here and here it will stay."

Now Monica's tears were flowing freely. She dried her cheeks by rubbing them against each shoulder, like a child. She stood tall and said, "Yesterday, my mother asked forgiveness for abandoning me. I'm standing here waiting for you to do the same."

Jorge pulled his eyes away. Again he looked past Monica back down at the activity below. "And your price is monetary?"

"Don't worry about the price. Just say you're sorry. And mean mean it." it."

He frowned and looked away.

After a moment of waiting, which seemed to last a thousand years, Monica stepped away. She slapped her hand on his desk and said, "Bien. "Bien. My grandparents' money has done enough harm in the world. That's going to have to change." My grandparents' money has done enough harm in the world. That's going to have to change."