The thing she wasn’t saying and that even I, in my weekly visits, had been noticing—the old man was getting sicker. There was no denying that. Carmelita had mentioned many times that he’d been refusing the doctor for years, insisting that life under the Caribbean sun was enough to heal him.
For her sake, I hoped it was true.
From the sounds of things, I didn’t think it was.
“Santi and his brother are making fried plantains tonight. Can I convince you two to stay for dinner?” Carmelita was back and fluttering around the small round table.
Tressa shook her head quickly, standing swiftly until the empty glass of juice went tumbling. It rolled straight off the table, shattering into tiny pieces.
In a rush, Tressa apologized and fell to her knees, gathering the sharp pieces, the delicate petals of bougainvillea I’d tucked behind her ear falling to the floor so quietly I was the only one who noticed.
Carmelita dropped down beside her, small broom and pan in hand and shushed Tressa, one hand on her shoulder before she glanced up at me, eyes concerned.
“Sí, sí, mi amor.”Carmelita ushered Tressa to standing before she turned, and although Tressa shielded her face from my vision with her palms, I could see by the way her shoulders trembled that she was crying.
“Take her home, Padre.And thank you for everything.” She nodded to the basket of things I’d gathered for her family this week, fruit and vegetables a local farmer had dropped off at Santa Maria’s this morning, along with some pantry items and a new set of crayons and a coloring book for Santi from Tressa.
I pulled Tressa into my arms, guiding her out of the sunshine-yellow door and down the front steps.
“Are you all right? What can I do?”
She only shook her head, face turning a lighter shade of white than it already was, sobs carrying her home to our tiny chapel in the mountains.
