“Someone came looking for you.”
“When?”
“This morning. There was a sound in the hall. I came out to see what it was.”
“What happened?”
He fidgets mightily. “Father Alex, I don’t want to be in the middle of this. The arrangement was that if I saw you again, I would make a phone call.”
“What are you talking about, Samuel?”
“I made the phone call, Alex.”
I’m about to respond, when Leo murmurs something unintelligible. He’s staring down the outer hallway at something I can’t see. His face is paralyzed. Finally the sounds from his mouth resolve into words.
“My God.”
Samuel backs away. He slips into his apartment. I hear the door click shut.
I step out.
A human form stands at the end of the hall. It hovers near the stairs, dressed entirely in black. When I recognize it, my skin tightens.
“Alex.”
That single word comes echoing down the hallway. And the sound of her voice splits my heart like an ax.
She takes a small, hesitant step forward. “Alex, I’m so sorry.”
I can’t even blink. I’m too afraid she will be gone when I reopen my eyes.
“I heard,” she says, “about Simon.”
I say the only word my mouth will form. The only one that is etched on every particle of me like gospels on grains of rice.
“Mona.”
It is the first word I have spoken to my wife since her baby learned to walk.
CHAPTER 17
LEO MAKES HIMSELF invisible. They glance at each other in passing, my friend seeing himself out, my wife seeing herself in. Memories detonate in my thoughts. I’m standing at this door with her, holding groceries, holding furniture, holding our newborn son. Neighbors have come out to coo and pay compliments. Brother Samuel has hung so many balloons on our door that we can’t even climb inside.
At the threshold, she waits. She needs to be invited into her own home.
“Come in,” I say.
Just the smell of her, passing in front of me, restores electricity to the oldest districts of my heart. I know this scent. The soap she always bought at the pharmacy. A fragrance I’ve tracked down in every nook of her body.
I make sure we don’t touch as she enters. Yet the air vibrates. My body’s reaction is violent. But my mind is already registering the differences. Her hair is shorter. She doesn’t keep it drawn back anymore; it hangs down just past her chin. There are the first hints of wrinkles beneath her eyes, but her neck and arms are leaner than I remember, her lines tighter. Covering her body is the same sleeveless black dress, plain but flattering, that used to be her favorite: the rare garment that was both traditional and modern, respectful and liberating. Around her shoulders is the thin black sweater she used to wear when women were required to cover their arms. I wonder what message this outfit is supposed to send.
“May I sit?” she says.
I gesture to a chair and offer her something to drink.
“Water would be nice.”
As she glances around the room, there is a twinge in her expression. Nothing has changed, not even the photos in the picture frames. I kept it this way in the spirit of honoring her memory, of awaiting her return. Like all good Romans, Peter and I have built our roads around our ruins.