delight. So cold! So wet! Oh, we love this water, and the way it beckons us deeper and deeper.
Come! Come on, my sister calls me.
No, Aurelia, I tell her. I squeeze her fingers tightly with my own. Stay close to me. Stay near the shore where it is safe! In the ocean live big fish with sharp teeth to bite us. In the ocean, coral can cut open our toes and make us sick. Sea urchins can stick their spiny needles into our feet, and jellyfish can wrap their poison threads around our legs. Seaweed can pull us under so that we would drown.
Stay with me, Aurelia. Stay near, and I will keep you safe.
We dance in the waves, my sister and me. We march up and down like soldiers. We play trumpets and guitars in our mariachi band. We chase our children, those naughty waves, as they run away from us and then back into our arms again.
Oh, we are wet, and Mama will be angry!
But the sun is hot, and our skirts will be dry by the time we walk all the way home. The sun beats down on us like the drummer in our band, and we sing to it. We fling water upward into the sky like a baptism. And the droplets shower down on us, shiny crystals, God’s diamonds. His blessings fall on Aurelia and me as we play in the sunshine. As we lift our faces to the sun and laugh at the light sifting through our black lashes. Oh, the sun…
…the round, glowing bulb of light. Now the pain is gone, and the fear creeps away, back into the darkness, and I thank God who brought me the lightbulb.
Chapter Three
“H i, there.” Ana approached the girl.
Brown eyes focused on the basketball game, the child sat on the concrete floor. With her legs tucked to one side, she gripped the hem of her skirt with both hands, as if she could somehow tug it over her knees. She wore the usual white T-shirt, her arms like thin straws hanging from the cupped sleeves.
“Can you please tell me where the bathrooms are?” Ana asked.
The girl said nothing. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lower lip, but her eyes remained glued to the game. Ana considered walking away. Obviously this child wanted nothing to do with her. She had chosen her dark corner, and she intended to stay in it.
Ana’s palms dampened, and she smoothed down her slacks. She, too, had known the need to hide.
“Los baños, por favor?” she asked in her mother’s native Spanish.
The girl’s brown eyes darted to her.
She had understood.
“Sabe donde quedan los baños?” she tried again, keeping her voice casual.
The child looked away. “No se,” she whispered.
Ana smiled. “Esta bien.”
Taking a step closer, Ana eased down onto the floor nearby. She leaned against the cool wall and took off her shoes. “Oh, my feet,” she said in Spanish. “These things are killing me! Take a look how high the heels are.”
She held out a shoe. The girl shook her head, her attention back on the basketball players.
“You’re smart to wear sandals,” Ana continued. “I’ve been up and down the sidewalks today. I bet I have blisters.”
She levered one leg over the other and examined the bottom of her foot. The child’s dark eyes slid across, studying the woman’s toes as Ana checked them.
“There’s a blister. See?” She angled her foot in that direction. “That really hurts. I need to soak it in some warm water. Do you know where I could do that?”
“Down the hall,” the girl whispered in Spanish. “You have to take the steps to the basement.”
“I wonder if it would be okay for me to go barefoot. There are so many rules here.”
“It’s all right. They won’t notice you.”
Ana sat for a moment, absorbing the dark corner where this little one had found her private haven. Where had she come from? Why had she chosen the shadows? And what made Ana’s heart beat so heavily each time those brown eyes focused on her face?
Was it possible this skinny child had a story Ana needed to tell? Carl Webster, her editor, had asked for several articles on the lead paint as well as accompanying sidebars. The deadline was a week and a half away, and Ana had no time to detour into any other subject. In addition to the series, she had to keep up with the small assignments that landed on her desk each day. If she couldn’t produce quality reporting, Carl would replace her. He had made that clear. There was no way Ana could allow that to happen.
Haunted, Sam Hawke had described the invisible children. A small girl with haunted eyes was not worth Ana’s time, was she? Neither was Terell Roberts, who even now—across the basketball court—sat with one child draped over his back, a second in his lap and a third at his feet. He was rubbing the back of the little boy at his feet, and he and the girl on his knee kept tickling each other. Again she felt a vague unease, and she had to look away. Maybe it was innocent. Maybe this little girl in the shadows had nothing to tell.
Ana lifted her hand and touched the cross at her throat. As a child, she had gone to church with her parents and learned about God. But not until later, after her sister’s death, had she given herself to Him wholly, completely, falling into His arms like a drowning woman pulled from the sea at the last moment. The last gasp. The final breath. In that instant, she would have died and been glad. Welcomed the end.
But God had saved her. Truth had dragged her up from the sandy bottom, the clutching seaweed, the deadly undertow. She had seen His hand reaching out to her, and she had taken it. Even now, years later, she recalled that moment when she had chosen to live. And all the way out of the depths, onto the shore and along the pathways of her life, He had stayed at her side.
Now, each morning when she opened her eyes, she searched for God, prayed to Him, and gave herself to Him again. It was the only way she could survive. Her morning run to the river, the articles she wrote, the people she encountered, each activity throughout the day until she dropped into bed at night belonged to Him.
Her faith didn’t sound exactly like Sam Hawke’s. He had spoken of committing his life to Christ—almost as though Jesus were a military commander who required absolute obedience. Ana saw God as the Father. She had met Him one desperate day, and to Him she belonged with her whole heart.
As she studied the skinny girl in her faded green skirt, Ana prayed. Why this child, Father? Why did You draw my eyes to this little one in the corner? Has that huge man across the room harmed her in any way? Can I do anything about it? What do You want of me?
“Could you lead me to the ladies’ room?” Ana whispered the Spanish words. “This is only my second time to visit Haven, and I’m afraid I might get lost.”
“I can’t take you.” The girl hung her head. “Ask someone else.”
Ana relaxed against the wall and lifted her eyes to the water-stained white ceiling. She ought to leave the child alone. Talk to some of the others in the building, concentrate on her lead paint story. Upstairs, she could interview the construction crew. They would know how many rooms had been contaminated with the deadly old paint.
