Page 7 of No Greater Oblivion

“No? What should we talk about then?”

I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Eurovision.”

She quirks a brow. “Eurovision?”

“The draw for semi-finals is happening in a few weeks. Lettie’s very excited.”

Regina’s lips part as if to speak. I consider it a kindness when she eventually decides otherwise.

We converse for a little while longer, reminiscing over simple, safe things. People we knew in university, our favorite places to eat in London, what happened that one time I tried helping her dye her hair and it turned green instead. All the while I’m struggling to muster up the courage and tell her why I really came.

“…my birthday. Do you remember?” Her voice snaps me out of my stupor and I realize I haven’t heard a word she’s said. “One of your cousins forgot the candles and so we⁠—”

“I’m ready,” I announce abruptly.

She turns her head and pauses, cup halfway to her lips.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I think…I think I’m ready. Please.”

Regina lowers her gaze and sets the cup down. She readjusts the shawl around her shoulders a second time, nods, and rises to her feet. I follow without protest.

Several footpaths run through the property, some dirt, others stone, all of them lined with trees and overgrown foliage. Numerous trails connect the main house to the gardens to the guest house and back again. We follow the paved walkway on the side of the main house to the backyard where a small waterfall sits in the center of an open space. To the left is a pergola built around a knotted, winding tree whose elongated branches cast shadows across the table and chairs beneath.

A set of stone stairs overgrown with vines and half covered in fallen leaves takes us up to where the guest house and gardens are, situated against the west end of the house. From here I see the balcony of her old bedroom and the small capilla sitting at the edge of the property. Shrouded by bushes of flowers and trees whose branches haven’t been cut in ages, the small stucco building is as unassuming on the outside as it appears to be on the inside.

When I reach the threshold, I stagger back, something like a bolt of lightning running clean through me.

Fear.

With trembling hands, I reach for something to steady myself but Regina catches me first.

She doesn’t acknowledge my misstep. She keeps hold of my elbow and waits patiently for me to collect myself but I don’t think any amount of time could ever prepare me for what’s on the other side. My breaths come in short, erratic pants and my vision blurs around the corners. Is this what a panic attack feels like? I lose control of my legs and suddenly I can’t carry my own weight. Regina anchors herself by my side and it’s a miracle she’s able to keep us both upright.

“It’s all right,” she whispers. “I’m here.”

I think I nod—say something like “okay”—but can’t be sure. All I’m able to register next is the movement beneath my feet and the space between me and the capilla diminishing one step at a time.

Once we’re inside, she lets go of me. About a dozen wooden chairs fill the space, six on either side of an aisle only wide enough for two people. A stained glass window behind a modest altar allows red and purple light to fill the room. I count six small alcoves and above our heads, the Stations of the Cross are painted along the perimeter of the ceiling.

Regina brings me to the last alcove, closest to the altar. A short metal gate and a single step lead to what I can only assume is a makeshift crypt. There’s one window, stained glass like the others, and the space is adorned with flowers and lit candles. Unlike the rest of the capilla, this little corner is frequented and maintained with love.

“Go ahead.” Regina sits on a nearby chair. “You should go alone.”

I can’t breathe.

“I don’t think I can.”

She doesn’t reply.

Somehow the gate gets opened. My legs move of their own volition and I step over the slightly elevated threshold. It smells like lavender and rosemary.

Beneath the statue of a glowing cherubim is a plaque and small effigy. So small it can be contained within the palm of my hand.

Aurelio

Mi angel que nació durmiendo

I come so close to touching it but like many times in my life, I lack the valor to do so.