6. The Mercy Of God
6
THE MERCY OF GOD
Alejandro
Barcelona, Spain
The Past
I can’t hear anything over the roar of sirens in my ears.
Gravity sends me barreling toward the ground. One step back, another, then another, until my legs tangle around each other and my knees buckle. I land flat on the stone edge of the street with so much force my bones vibrate with the impact. Everything slips from my grasp save the wallet in my white-knuckled grip. The ID is nestled in a pocket right above the photo of us on my birthday in January. She’d been here less than two weeks and the house was in shambles but we sat on the floor in the main foyer surrounded by candlelight and battery-powered lamps Lettie bought from the discount store.
I can’t…I can’t think.
All the noise around me is muffled and at a distance, as if under water. The edges of my vision give way to darkness and my limbs lose sensation.
Alejandro
Someone says my name.
Where’s Dad? He was supposed to bring the cake.
Car doors open and slam shut.
Go wait outside. Play with the kids by the pool. Don’t let them come in.
Where’s Mom?
Where’s Dad?
“Alejandro.”
Someone says my name again. I can’t tell if it’s real or just a memory.
“Were you related to the deceased?”
My mother screams. She’s screaming.
“Alejandro, get up.”
“We need someone to identify the body.”
Mom won’t stop screaming. Lettie drops her doll and it falls into the pool. She cries out for Diego to go get it.
Abuelo grips me by the shoulder, pulls me inside ? —
“It isn’t her.”
Where’s Dad? Why is Mom screaming?
“Alejandro!”
Diego is real. He’s standing in front of me.
Lettie isn’t a little girl anymore. She’s a grown woman standing across the street and waiting for another ambulance to pass before she runs over.
Diego grips me by the front of my suit jacket and yanks me to my feet. “It isn’t her!” I think he’s screaming. I can’t tell. I think I’m still under water. “It isn’t Dahlia. Did you hear me? It’s not her.”
His voice grounds me in reality.
Dahlia .
Dahlia didn’t exist for me ten years ago. She wasn’t there that afternoon in Vallvidrera when Tio Horacio told us Dad had been killed. No…she wouldn’t come into my life for another nine years.
I don’t believe my brother at first. I push past him to the gurney where one of the medical examiners is zipping up the body bag. Yanking him back by his uniform collar, I cast him aside and rip open the zipper.
The woman’s face is half-charred by fire. Bright red and smoky black blotches cover what was once smooth ivory skin and her hair is light brown, almost dirty blonde in the moonlight. I recognize her immediately; she’s one of the Sandoval cousins.
The sight of Frida’s lifeless form affects me more than it should. I remember when she was born—held her as an infant at her baptism. It’s one of the last memories I have of the Sandovals before my father’s relationship with Gregorio went south. My grip on the bag tightens and a shiver bolts down my spine. The air stills in my lungs and I yank my hand back, unable to look any longer. Frida Sandoval will have to be dealt with later because right now, I need to find Dahlia.
Pedro’s sitting on the curb coughing up a lung while Oscar tries offering him an oxygen mask. He shakes his head and attempts to speak but the coughing fits prevent his forming a coherent sentence. My legs move of their own volition and carry me across the distance between us. Before either of them can get a word out, I grab Pedro by the front of his shirt and throw him against his car door.
“ Where is she ?”
“Alejandro, stop!”
Oscar tries grabbing me but instinct sends my right fist flying in his direction. The hit connects where I want it to, colliding with his temple and the force behind it leaves him disoriented. He stumbles backward and trips over the curb, landing on the ground with a loud thump. I return my attention to Pedro and push him against the door, applying pressure to his ribcage.
“Where the fuck is she?”
“She told me to…wait outside.” He heaves. “I swear, everything was fine. She?—”
“ Why the hell would you let her go in by herself !” I think I’m screaming. My ears are ringing. “What the fuck were you doing out on the curb!”
“The backdoor was open, she went to close it!” he starts coughing uncontrollably. “Alejandro…the explosion…I don’t know where she is…she said she left something at the bar and…I think she went to close the door…”
I abandon him on the street and he slumps to the ground. Lettie rushes to his aid and provides him with the oxygen mask while I shrug out of my suit jacket and toss it to Diego.
“Wait here.”
“Wait—” He spins around. “Where the fuck are you going? Alejandro!”
“Someone stop him!”
“Sir, you can’t go in?—”
I storm past the barrage of firefighters reaching for me and head straight into El Aliciente.
Everything is on fire.
Smoke whips through the room and the pungent scent of gas fills my lungs. Above my head, the support beams begin to disintegrate, turning to black ash and dust. Finally, it gives under the weight of the chandelier and I sidestep it just in time because when it crashes, it sends shards of crystal and metal flying in every direction. As I continue through the lounge, the smoke intensifies making it difficult to see. I lose my balance and stumble into the bar, eyes burning as they strain to see ahead but there’s too much smoke, too much fire.
I duck behind the bar and dig through the bottom drawers for clean towels. There’s an unopened case of bottled water so I break two of them open and soak the towels, pressing one against my face so I can breathe better. The bar is only a few paces from the kitchens so I push through the flames and smoke, ignoring the shouts of people behind me.
The kitchen is the worst.
Glass explodes and shatters. Frames disintegrate and doors fall from their hinges. Almost all of the machinery is burned and destroyed beyond repair and part of the ceiling has already caved in, preventing me from venturing further into the room. Tendrils of bright gold, orange, and red fire dance across charred surfaces and climb up the length of the crumbling walls. The fire burns so deeply, with such intensity, the entire room is aglow. Even my skin burns amber from the inside out.
Frantically, my eyes scan the room. I call out her name.
“Dahlia?”
I don’t see anything and it’s becoming more difficult to breathe.
“Dahlia!”
A quick glance across the burning kitchen tells me there isn’t anyone here. There can’t be. Which means she must’ve made it out through the backdoor but if she did, where is she? Did she get hurt on the way out? Is she somewhere in the back alley and no one’s found her yet?
Panic bounds and builds to delirium. Smoke fills my lungs faster than I can dispel it and the wet rag does little to filter the air coming through my nose. Shelves crash and fall, the walls unable to carry their weight. One of the light fixtures collapses and swings across the room. It hits me before I can move, a sharp corner colliding with my temple and sending me tumbling to the ground.
I wince when my bare palms touch the tile floors—they’re hot enough to sting but not so insufferable that I can’t manage to push myself up to my knees.
My God…where is she? Where is she ?
A loud crunch followed by a deafening boom sounds behind me. Part of the ceiling has just collapsed, blocking the only exit with burning debris. Beyond the shadows of smoke and flames I think I spot a pair of firefighters trying to find a way through. I’m half-tempted to yell at them to leave, not to risk their lives for me. But if Dahlia is somewhere, anywhere, I need them to find her first.
That and I’m seconds away from passing out. I can’t breathe anymore. Can’t think. Can’t see.
I force myself to my feet but am quickly knocked off balance by another collapsed shelf and a row of porcelain bowls which tumble to the floor in quick succession.
It’s then when I see it. A hand sticking out from under a collapsed shelf.
Dahlia .
She’s face down on the floor, red hair obscuring the sight of her face. Toward the back of the room, one of the standing shelves has fallen and remains propped up by the stove across from it, preventing the shelf from crushing her underneath. On the far side of the room, a massive, burning black crater eats through everything. That must be where the fire started but it looks more like a bomb went off.
I force myself up again and walk through tendrils of fire sweeping across the floor and grip the shelf by its metal sides. I could scream from the pain if I thought my lungs could spare the oxygen. The shelf won’t give no matter how hard I pull or lift which means it must be stuck on something. Hot metal burns through the skin of my palms until they eventually go numb but I don’t stop. I keep pulling and pulling, waiting for the moment the tension on the metal is relieved and the shelf budges. Finally it does and I send it flying across the room. The top part detaches from the bottom and I fall to my knees to dig her out from under it.
“Dahlia? Dahlia, mi amor,” I remember the second damp towel in my pocket and put it over her nose and mouth. “Can you hear me?”
Shouting from the blocked exit captures my attention. I turn around and the firefighters are starting to break through but not fast enough. The ceiling continues to fall in pieces, smoking and burning, obscuring their path to us.
Something hot trickles down the side of my face. Am I bleeding? Where am I injured? Is that why I’m losing sensation all over my body?
I manage to pull her out from under the bottom half of the shelf but she hasn’t opened her eyes. I can’t even detect a heartbeat.
“Dahlia,” I rest her head against my chest, keeping the wet towel against her nose and mouth. “Please…please wake up.”
She doesn’t move. I can’t feel her breathing. Her skin is hot to the touch and I’m starting to lose consciousness.
We have to get out of here .
I drag us as far as I can to the main door, pushing aside flaming objects and debris as I go. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I find myself reaching for a God I had long ago abandoned.
I’ll do anything, I pray. I’ll be better, I’ll be different, I’ll be good, if you let her live.
More debris falls from the ceiling and my grip around her tightens.
Dios…Dios Mio.
Ten piedad de mí.
I relieved myself of any religious conviction when Dad died. What good had faith done anyone in the wake of my father’s death? All those women praying with rosaries, all the men lighting candles, and children kneeling before altars to recite prayers they were too young to fully understand. None of their religious ceremony had brought my father back and I didn’t take comfort in the idea of his soul reaching Heaven. Everyone called it “a better place” but what better place was there than at home with his wife and children who still needed him? And what kind of Heaven awaited my father? Because the life he lived wasn’t free of sin no matter how often he prayed and confessed.
I’m not sure if or what I believe in anymore. Prayer is supposed to be about offering up oneself to God but I have very little. A soul like mine isn’t worth much. My hands are no good; they’ve ruined, maimed, taken life. My mind is poisonous; all it does is plot and conspire. All the promises I’ve made run on a loop in my mind until I start bargaining instead—God take my wealth, my power, God, please, just take me instead—and I remember what it felt like when Dad died. How the anger festered inside me when I realized no amount of praying or bargaining or pleas for mercy was going to bring him back.
The firefighters eventually force their way into the room. Consciousness slips away from me but I keep my fingers pressed to Dahlia’s neck, searching for a pulse.
Smoke clouds my vision and my lungs tighten. The air is suffocating me— us —and I can’t help but wonder if this is the end. Will our souls end up in the same place or is there really nothing after death? Where did my father end up? Where will Dahlia?
It’s the last thought I have before Dad’s place is swallowed whole by fire.
Dahlia
D ifferent voices float around me as I drift in and out of consciousness.
“It’s a miracle she made it out of there alive. Another few minutes and?—”
“Maybe don’t talk about how my brother’s girlfriend almost died right in front of him.”
“It’s fine, Leticia. What else did the doctor say?”
“Aside from a few scratches and bruises, she’s fine. Falling under that shelf is probably what saved her from the impact of the explosion. She can breathe on her own, which is great, but there’s a little bit of inflammation in her lungs so they’re going to keep her on the nebulizer. As for?—”
Sensation returns to my limbs and when I shift in bed, a blinding, white-hot pain shoots up my leg. A strangled cry of surprise leaves my lips but is suffocated by the mask around my face. I lift my hand to yank it off but I can’t move my arm far enough. Thin tubes attached to needles dig deep into my veins and restrict my movement.
From the peripheral, I sense movement. Alejandro appears and gently guides my hand away from my face. “Everyone out,” he says, his voice coarse and quiet. “Now.”
“But—” I think it’s Diego.
“I said out ,” he snaps, his voice never rising above the whir of the machines around us but there’s enough force behind it to move a mountain.
“Take…” My throat and lungs burn. “Take this off.”
Oh my God…this is a hospital.
I’m wearing a scratchy gown, in a sterile bed, surrounded by pulsing and flickering screens. Bright white lights blind me from above and the scent of antiseptic coupled with my inability to move brings me back to the hospital room my mother lived in, in the weeks leading up to her passing. All those doctors with notepads, so many vials of blood, needles, medications, seizures, and wailing machines keeping track of my mother’s last breaths and heartbeats.
Panic builds inside me. Pressure behind my eyes triggers a splitting migraine and if I couldn’t see before, the tears certainly don’t help.
“Alex…Alex, please.” My voice trembles as I reach for the tubing, mask, anything. “Take it off…I’m going to rip it off…”
“Dahlia, te vas a lastimar?—”
My breaths come in short, erratic huffs. I sit up and my entire body screams in protest, the ache in my muscles and bones burning like fire to gasoline. The machines beep and screech in tandem, only heightening the terror flooding my lungs. A sob breaks free and I yank at what I think is the wire monitoring my heart rate.
“M-my mother d-died like t-t-this. Take it off, take it off ?—”
“Okay, all right, please. Let me do it.”
I feel the rough brush of gauze against my cheeks as he removes the oxygen mask. The pinch on my finger is relieved when he takes off the pulse oximeter. He grabs a remote on the side table and the bed rises into an upright position. Only then am I able to take in the sight of him.
“What happened to your forehead?”
He attempts a smile as he sits on the edge of the bed but it falls short. “It’s not as bad is it looks. Head injuries bleed the most because of all the blood vessels?—”
“I’m very concerned you know that.” I touch the side of his face and graze the edge of the bandage covering the gash above his left temple. “How?”
“There was a gas leak and one of the pipelines burst. It got out of control pretty quickly.”
Realization dawns on me. “Oh my God, I heard someone?—”
“Silvie came back to close the back door. Don’t worry, she’s fine. And so are you.”
“My ankle…it hurts when I move it.”
“I know. Doctor says you have to stay off it the next few weeks.” He inhales as if to say more but stops himself.
Aside from the injury to his head, he looks mostly unscathed, save the bandages on his hands and I wonder what they’re for. Black smudges on his neck and the light dusting of ash on his clothes send alarm bells ringing in the back of my mind.
“Why do you look like that?”
He avoids answering. “I’m fine. It’s nothing serious.”
I sit up in bed and grab the collar of his shirt, pinching the fabric between my fingers. Traces of soot and smoke linger behind. “Alex…don’t tell me you went inside.”
Again, he doesn’t respond.
“You went into a burning building ?”
Without meeting my gaze, he says, very quietly, “You were in there.”
The room goes silent.
“No one could find you. One of the metal shelves fell and you were under it so I went in and got you.”
Words evade me. The bandages on his hands…did he lift the shelf himself? And his head. Did something fall on him? Was the ceiling caving in? I don’t remember much after the explosion. Flashes of red and black sear into my vision. People shouting, the smell of smoke, the feeling of being in a dream. I remember a fire truck…I think. Or maybe my mind is filling in the blanks because he’s already told me what happened.
He want back for me.
More than gratitude, shock, or even fear at having come so close to death, all I feel is awe. It overwhelms me, fills me, ignites the blood in my veins. Every nerve ending in my body bursts to life and goosebumps sweep over my skin, triggering a tingling sensation I can’t quite name.
I open my mouth to speak but struggle to find my voice. “I can’t believe you love me enough to do that.”
“I couldn’t imagine loving you any less.”
I know I should be conscientious of his injuries—the ones I can’t see and the aches he must be feeling—but for a moment I forget. I throw my arms around him and pull him close. He holds me so tightly my ribs cry out in protest and my lungs struggle to expand but I don’t care. I let him hold me for as long as he needs to as the tremors move through his body. I hold him through each one, reminding him that I’m here. I’m okay.
Death has never been kind to us. At early ages it ripped away, without mercy or prejudice, the most important people in our lives in the most traumatic ways possible. Hospitals remind me of Mom and the horrific way she died. Tonight must’ve reminded him of his dad and the abrupt, brutal way in which he lost him.
“Dahlia,” he whispers against my neck, fingers tangled in my hair. “Mi amor, mi vida.” He punctuates each word with a kiss. Across my jaw, the corner of my mouth, my cheek, my forehead, the tip of my nose. “I never want to be this close to losing you again.”
“I love you,” I say. “Thank you. Thank you for coming back for me.”
He doesn’t say anything in reply. Only embraces me in silence.