Searching Lucas

13

"You mean Pastor Regal?"

"That sinful man and his nature have caused a rupture for us. This church. Our God. Many of the children."

"Was Lucas one of them?"

"Rest assured, girl, that even your brother might have fallen into the grasp of that wicked being. Silence is common. He didn't speak much."

"Where is he? Where is Lucas?" The woman was see-through: her ulterior motives, I had sensed them in the transparency of her veil. Her face turned sour as my patience finally dissipated. I hold her on both sides. My fingers burrowing against her delicate, prune-like skin, it felt as though I was about to tear it apart. "Tell me!" I shook once.

"With his mother," She uttered, almost unbothered. "He is safe. He is well."

"I need to find him."

"God will show you the way. If you believe, that is."

I released the grip. Margaret remained stoic, unflinching. Unafraid of death, I almost envied her. I could see it in her eyes: the conservative, the white supremacists. Diana. Offensive words aimed toward Lucas seemed at the tip of their tongues, ready to jab at Lucas's young skin as though it were mine. And now those hateful stares had an incarnation: sister Margaret.

I scoffed at her. "Lucas told you, didn't he?"

"He said he had a sister. A white sister who also didn't believe in God's worth." Margaret kept herself collected, her saggy-like neck holding her skull, her skin dragging her down mercilessly. "A life like that is condemnable to eternal sin." We must have been like that forever: Margaret waiting for a reaction. Me knowing she'd play the victim card if I did more than dig my fingers into her.

Before I could act upon my unholy thoughts, I turned around and walked away. My urge to ram a hand across her face became palpable. This pent-up anger persisted as I walked through the courtyard and back into the church.

And that's when I saw him—recognized him.

A lone man with a receding hairline sat in one of the pews, praying patiently with all the time in the world.

***

45 days and I'm already gaining sympathy points.

Louise was kind enough to let me crash on her grandmother's couch these last two days. (I reckoned Louise must have told her grandmother about my tumor, but I never asked.) Two days since these two trips to the church. I offered Louise money, but she refused. To compensate, I knocked on the door around dawn with two brown paper bags: bagels, cream cheese, salmon slices, eggs, corn meal, milk, bread, cheese, and turkey slices. Louise's Nana helped with the cooking, and I did the cleaning. Morning sailed by, and Louise's Nana had to run to do some errands around noon.

Louise and I stayed on the porch, basking in the roundabout, the hedges that adorned it, and the family generations that had gone through since the carriage era. We sat there, contemplating the blue skies and the aroma of hay and fire.

My stomach felt funny—my navel did too. It was a profound feeling, a déjà vu. It was the first time I went to Louise's house when I was eleven years. I was here on this very ledge of the white-planked balcony near the column with the Petunia flower pot above, telling Louise about Lucas, of how much he cried and wanted constant attention.

That was the only time I spoke about Lucas with Louise. She had always been alluring in terms of confidentiality, a fact not anyone of my friends could claim. For me, that became the pinnacle of a lifetime of trust.

It's funny. With Louise, I could talk to her about almost anything, despite only talking through these unscripted encounters, whether it was at school or during the farmer's market.

And now here we were: barefoot with the morning breakfast and coffee still lingering as we wallowed underneath the sun.

"You finally have a lead, then?" Louise spoke.

I stared at the paper, the address that felt like it took me ages to get. It was there, between my fingers, easily breakable, burnable, destroyable. These words and numbers looked priceless in my hands, worth more than jewelry or Aztec gold. I memorized the address a thousand times like a mantra in case this paper disappeared.

If there were proof of a Godly being, he sure would work in mysterious ways: sending Pastor Regal—or just Issac Regal—for example, kneeling, praying a rosary, eradicating years of misconduct, wearing nothing but a blazer and cardigans. As it turned out, the old pervert hadn't changed. His eyes glimmered at the sight of me—a legal and grown woman—and his cheeks seemed to blush a tint of pink.

Because of confidentiality reasons and to protect churchgoers, no one was obliged to hand out their home addresses. But because Regal played well with their parents, his charade of a trustworthy commuter, there were more than a few attendees who were more than glad to invite this creep for dinner in their homes, sometimes when their children were around.

It was a long run of asking Regal about Sylvia's address. And again, God's mysterious ways, and to my dismay, he was the only one who knew where she was—he made that statement redundant.

"Yeah," I said, lowering my gym shorts, wishing the fabric was longer.

"I hope you know what you're doing,"

"What matters is Lucas. Everything else, I couldn't care less."

"Jess?"

"What?"

"What did that man do to you?"

"You're looking for Lucas?"

His yellowed teeth were all I could remember for some reason. Blue eyes, salt and pepper hair—but it was always back to those goddamn teeth: gingivitis-infested teeth that protruded that faint stench of halitosis.

"You know where he is?"

We were the only ones in the church. Pastor Regal moved his hand to my shoulder, moved to my neck. I could have sworn my blood turned ice cold.

"You should know what it's like firsthand to leave someone you love."

He smiled. I looked away and held my breath.

"Answer me this, Jess. Tell me how much you care about finding your brother?"

I shuddered and slid my fingers into my pockets, craving a cigarette.

"Regal, he—said he knew where Lucas lived. He said he'll give me the address in exchange for—a few kisses." Louise stared in silence. Horrified and holding her breath. "Nothing else happened, I swear. I warned him with my pocketknife up his jugular."

It took her forever for her to release a sigh. I moved my hands to the sides, wanting to reassure Louise with a pat on her knee. She shook her head and attempted to smile. "I don't know if I should be disgusted or impressed."

A cacophony of mixed feelings swirled into a messy whirlpool of emotions. Excitement because I had a lead for Lucas was above them. I was biding my time, internalizing the disgusting choice I had to endure to get what I wanted. It's been almost five years since we have seen each other. There was a possibility that Lucas—or Sylvia—might reject me on sight. The worst it could happen was that Lucas could be living somewhere else.

Or that he might not be living at all.

"I'm glad you're here, Jess," Louise said suddenly. "I just wanted you to know that."

I smiled fondly, the nostalgia resounding in my heart space, a fond memory that my friend would always be there. "Thanks, Lou,"