In This Life Read Free Page B

the mattress. The room started to spin and I could barely get the words out between my labored breaths. Dante crawled in next to me and held me in his arms.
    “I prayed for God to punish her, and now look what’s happened.” It was guilt that I felt, not sympathy nor compassion. Guilt for bad wishes and vengeful prayers.
    “Shh. It’s going to be okay. I’m here. You’re wasted and you need to sleep it off. We can talk tomorrow.”
    I nodded my head and faced away from him as he pulled the covers around us. “Can I stay here tonight? I promise I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
    He held me close without uttering a sound. Tomorrow I’m going to tell him just how much he means to me, I thought. I don’t ever want to take him for granted. I closed my eyes to drift off, but not before hearing him whisper, “I’ve got you, Spark. I’m here.”

 
     
     
    I JUST COULDN’T get it out of my head. Memories of my mother had invaded my brain and were fixed in my thoughts. Last night, I feared divine retribution. Today, it felt possible that God and my mother had teamed up to force me into forgiveness. Nevertheless, statistics show that the odds of a ruptured brain aneurysm are one out of a hundred. But once it bursts, that’s where the fifty percent survival rate kicks in.
    Nothing about the night before made any sense. Despite the thousands of miles that separated us, the pain in my father’s voice was palpable. Yet all my anger and longing seemed to dissipate once the stranger in the baseball cap appeared. Who was he and how did he pull it off?
    But back to the job at hand. This schoolhouse looked just like the one in that old television show, Little House on the Prairie , with white stucco walls and a set of wooden stairs leading up to its entrance. Inside, an open classroom was lined with wooden desks connected together with metal arms and legs. The chalkboard extended from wall to wall, the letters of the alphabet scrawled in cursive across the top. Everything about this place brought you back to the days before computers and overhead projectors.
    I sat quietly at the desk shuffling through my list of notes for today’s catechism lesson while channeling my inner Laura Ingalls. My hair was braided in pigtails and tied together to keep the humidity from frizzing it out. But I was hardly dressed like a school marm, and I felt self-conscious, worried I was showing too much in my white hip-hugging shorts and fitted t-shirt. How would I have known I’d be asked to teach a religion class? Maybe no one would notice if I stayed behind my desk to conduct my lesson. I was still a bit miffed about being assigned to do this only two days after my arrival. Because I was the only practicing Catholic in the group, my arguments were futile.
    She’d begun her process of entrapment simply. “You’re a practicing Catholic, are you not?”
    “How do you know that?”
    “You filled out the application form under ‘Religion.’”
    “Oh. Yes, but define practicing…”
    “Do you go to church?”
    “Yes, but only during religious holidays.”
    “Good enough.”
    Sold. They needed a substitute and she promised it would be a fulfilling experience. So for two consecutive nights I read the lesson plan and studied its concepts. It didn’t seem too difficult—I was memorizing a textbook and would be spitting its contents back out, word for word.
    “You will have someone there with you,” she’d assured me. “You just have to make sure that you stick to the lesson plan. Oh, and remember, many of these children are suffering from psychiatric disorders due to the trauma of the disaster. This is why we need someone with some medical training. Go easy on them. It’ll be a breeze.”
    My fifth grade students began filing into the room. These twice weekly classes for the children of the village were subsidized by a nearby church. I surveyed the interesting mix of students; some looked like children of expats while others