Pablo smiled. "No hay nada que Dios no puede hacer."
"True," she answered. "But that doesn't mean we can't figure out how God works his miracles. Or why."
Pablo shrugged. "God does what he does. I do my work and live, the best man I can be."
She squeezed his arm. "You took in a lost child and saved him from people who meant to kill him. God saw you do that and he loves you."
Pablo said nothing, but Sister Carlotta could guess what he was thinking - how many sins, exactly, were washed away by that good act, and would it be enough to keep him out of hell?
"Good deeds do not wash away sins," said Sister Carlotta. "Solo el redentor puede limpiar su alma."
Pablo shrugged. Theology was not his skill.
"You don't do good deeds for yourself," said Sister Carlotta. "You do them because God is in you, and for those moments you are his hands and his feet, his eyes and his lips."
"I thought God was the baby. Jesus say, if you do it to this little one, you do it to me."
Sister Carlotta laughed. "God will sort out all the fine points in his own due time. It is enough that we try to serve him."
"He was so small," said Pablo. "But God was in him."
She bade him goodbye as he got out of the taxi in front of his apartment building.
Why did I have to see that toilet with my own eyes? My work with Bean is done. He left on the shuttle yesterday. Why can't I leave the matter alone?
Because he should have been dead, that's why. And after starving on the streets for all those years, even if he lived he was so malnourished he should have suffered serious mental damage. He should have been permanently retarded.
That was why she could not abandon the question of Bean's origin. Because maybe he was damaged. Maybe he is retarded. Maybe he started out so smart that he could lose half his intellect and still be the miraculous boy he is.
She thought of how St. Matthew kept saying that all the things that happened in Jesus' childhood, his mother treasured them in her heart. Bean is not Jesus, and I am not the Holy Mother. But he is a boy, and I have loved him as my son. What he did, no child of that age could do.
No child of less than a year, not yet walking by himself, could have such clear understanding of his danger that he would know to do the things that Bean did. Children that age often climbed out of their cribs, but they did not hide in a toilet tank for hours and then come out alive and ask for help. I can call it a miracle all I want, but I have to understand it. They use the dregs of the Earth in those organ farms. Bean has such extraordinary gifts that he could only have come from extraordinary parents.
And yet for all her research during the months that Bean lived with her, she had never found a single kidnapping that could possibly have been Bean. No abducted child. Not even an accident from which someone might have taken a surviving infant whose body was therefore never found. That wasn't proof - not every baby that disappeared left a trace of his life in the newspapers, and not every newspaper was archived and available for a search on the nets. But Bean had to be the child of parents so brilliant that the world took note of them - didn't he? Could a mind like his come from ordinary parents? Was that the miracle from which all other miracles flowed?
No matter how much Sister Carlotta tried to believe it, she could not. Bean was not what he seemed to be. He was in Battle School now, and there was a good chance he would end up someday as the commander of a great fleet. But what did anyone know about him? Was it possible that he was not a natural human being at all? That his extraordinary intelligence had been given him, not by God, but by someone or something else?
There was the question: If not God, then who could make such a child?
Sister Carlotta buried her face in her hands. Where did such thoughts come from? After all these years of searching, why did she have to keep doubting the one