Who would help her now that he was gone? Who would be her rock to lean on when the black moods came, who would throw his door open and grin and say, Come on in, Lina-ballerina …?
Daddy.
She thought of the phantom that was her father, the man she’d dreamed of for years, waited for, prayed to, and believed in. She needed him now more than she’d ever needed him.
I want him to love you, Lina. I want him to want you, but I’m afraid … I’m afraid he’ll break your heart.
When she’d heard the words, Lina had known it was the truth. Her mother was afraid he’d break her heart. And maybe he would. It was impossible to keep hold of all her little-girl fantasies of a perfect father anymore. Since Francis’s death, she understood how dark and frightening the world could be.
Lina sniffed and wiped a flannel-sleeved arm across her dripping nose. This man who was her father could hurt her. She understood that now and knew her mother’s fear was real.
But maybe he could save her, too.
She wanted that to be true, wanted it so badly, she felt bruised by her need. She was so achingly lonely, and her mother’s love didn’t seem to help. She needed her father to open his arms to her and take her into his house, to ask about her life and listen. Oh, God, just listen …
She’d lost Francis, and all she had left was her daddy.
She would make him love her. She wouldn’t take him for granted, as she’d done with Francis. With her daddy, she’d be perfect and witty and lovable. So lovable he’d cry for the years he’d lost.
It had to be possible.
Because if it wasn’t—if he truly didn’t want her—she didn’t think she could survive.
Angel dreamed he was walking in the meadow again. It was winter this time. A thick blanket of sparkling white snow covered everything, and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue.
Like Francis’s eyes …
And suddenly he was in an empty church. He blinked and looked around. Sunlight streamed through a huge stained-glass window, sending shards of multicolored light across the hardwood floor. A huge statue of the Virgin Mary, carved of white marble, stared down at him, her arms folded protectively around a swaddled bundle.
Angel turned slowly and saw a group of children huddled at the open doorway. When he turned back around, the church was full of people—parents poised with cameras, craning their necks to see the kids.
One by one the children walked into the church. They were dressed alike—girls in ruffly white dresses, boys in creased black pants and pressed white shirts, their hair slicked back in unnatural stiffness. Angel felt a smile start. It was a day he remembered so clearly….
Francis appeared first, a gangly nine-year-old with overly starched black pants that made a tiny whick-whick sound when he walked. Angel followed his big brother so closely that when Francis stopped suddenly, Angel rammed into him. Angel heard his laughter trill through the quiet church before he could stop it.
“Shh,” Francis hissed, turning around.
Angel gave his brother a wide grin. “Sorry,” he whispered, trying to straighten up. He tugged on the worn white shirt and retucked it into his small black pants.
Then the line was moving again. They marched past the pews and took their stations alongside the organ. There was a moment of hushed silence before the song began. Parents grinned and leaned forward; cameras came up.
Angel inched toward his brother. Francis stood in the center of the row—the tallest boy in the CCD class—with his back stiff and his eyes straight ahead. He sang the song in the clear, pure voice of a true believer.
Angel reached slowly into his pocket. His fingers curled around the baby tree frog, feeling the slick, rounded surface of his back. Inch by inch he eased the frog out of his pocket and then set it, gently, gently, on Francis’s shoulder.
In the middle of Francis’s solo, the frog let out a loud ribbit and jumped onto Mary Ann McCallister’s head. After that, all hell broke loose.
Girls screamed and clapped and ran away from each other. The boys pounced and dove after the frog. And Father just stared at Angel, shaking his head.
Angel laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. After a long minute, Francis joined in, and the two of them stood there, laughing amidst the pandemonium. And finally Francis wiped the tears from his face and handed Angel his first Communion rosary. “Here, Angel,” he said, grinning. “You’re definitely going to need two.”
Francis’s words echoed as the vision of the church shifted and began to disappear.
Suddenly Angel found himself in the meadow again, standing knee-deep in a freezing snow. The sky overhead was as black as a crow’s wing, and snow fell in a blinding fury, landing on his cheeks in tiny spots of fire. He stood there alone, not knowing what to say, his heart hammering in his chest.
Then Francis was coming toward him, floating, reaching out.
Angel took his brother’s hand and clung to it. “I’m sorry, Franco,” he whispered, feeling himself start to cry. “I’m sorry. Jesus Christ, I’m sorry….”