A Love Beyond by Leslie P García

Author:Leslie P García
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Adams Media
Published: 2014-09-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The shadows were deep, dark, and silent. Undergrowth along the river rustled slightly, teased, perhaps, by a breeze. The keening of a coyote, far off, rose and fell, then faded into darkness. Nearer, something large moved through tangled mesquite going away from the river, though, not coming close.

Clouds blanketing the moon drew back abruptly, illuminating a ghostly figure wandering brokenly along the dark, still waters of the river. Damp mud, mold, and the smell of decay made breathing difficult, but still, she watched as the woman on the riverbanks weaved back and forth, flailing thin, pale arms, hair streaming out behind her in pale clouds.

Suddenly the woman paused, throwing her head back, her mouth opening in a silent, unheard wail. And though there was no human sound at all, chills shook her as she realized that the woman was calling for her children, children that she herself had sacrificed to the river’s waters. For love. A man’s love.

Sweating, AJ jerked upright in bed, throwing her feet over the edge and gripping the edges of the mattress on either side of her to regain some sense of reality. She shivered as the frigid air-conditioned breeze evaporated the moisture on her forehead and arms. A dream! She knew it had been a dream. But Lord, the fear, the smell of the river, the desperation of the woman, were all still so real. La Llorona.

Gina. The woman on the riverbanks, wailing her guilt, her anguish, looked like Gina.

That made sense, of course. Grief over losing her sister, the stress of the situation here. Heck, even the growing fascination she felt for Chance could all be underlying causes for giving a mythical woman—a ghost, no less—her sister’s familiar face.

AJ frowned and stood up, walking over to stare out into the darkness, trying to push the grimness—and her early morning fantasies—into some kind of manageable perspective. Love had, in a sense, killed La Llorona, according to the story. Just as it had killed Gina. Although a car accident might have been the tool of death, desperation and unhappiness must have driven her sister to that nighttime drive. Had she given up, at last, on her marriage? Had she tried to flee, to come home? Worse, could Gina have set out to kill herself? She’d believed since she heard Gina was dead that her sister had snapped and taken her own life, though it had only been a gut feeling.

Tears slid down her cheeks. How many nights had she woken, sobbing, mourning the life stolen from her sister? How long had Gina suffered alone before those few letters had bridged the chasm between them and started to hint at her fear and isolation?

Sudden, muffled crying from another room startled her. For a moment, she couldn’t separate her own grief from the new sounds of distress. Abruptly, though, she realized that the weeping must be coming from Gordito’s room. Even as she wondered if Rosa would hear, she hurried toward the baby’s room. The sobs became louder and clearer nearer his room.

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