Brain Child Page 0,59

book,” she said. “You read a tour book, didn’t you?”

Alex nodded. “I didn’t want to spend all day asking you questions,” he said. “I know you don’t like that. So I studied.”

Bob Carey’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You studied? You read a whole guidebook just because we were coming up here for a day?”

Again Alex nodded.

“But who can remember all that stuff? Who even cares? For Christ’s sake, Alex, all we’re doing is messing around.”

“Well, I think it’s neat,” Kate told her boyfriend. Then she turned to Alex. “Did you really memorize all the streets while we were on the cable car?”

“I didn’t have to,” Alex admitted. “I got a map, too. I memorized it.”

“Bullshit!” Bob’s eyes were suddenly angry. “Where’s the mission?” he demanded.

Alex hesitated a moment; then: “Sixteenth and Dolores. It’s on the corner, and there’s a park in the same block.”

“Well?” Kate asked Bob. “Is he right?”

“I don’t know,” Bob admitted, his face reddening. “Who even cares where the mission is?”

“I do,” Lisa said, reaching out to squeeze Alex’s hand. “How do we get there?”

“Go down to Market, then up to Dolores, and left on Dolores.”

“Then let’s go.”

The little mission with its adjoining cemetery and garden was exactly where Alex had said it would be, crouching on the corner almost defensively, as if it knew it was no more than a relic from the city’s long-forgotten past. The city, indeed, had even taken away its original name—San Francisco de Asís. Now it was called Mission Dolores, and it seemed to have taken on the very sadness its name implied.

“Want to go in?” Lisa asked of no one in particular.

“What for?” Bob groaned. “Haven’t we all seen enough missions? They used to drag us off to one every year!”

“Well, what about Alex?” Lisa argued. “I bet he doesn’t remember ever seeing a mission before. And did you ever see this mission? Come on.”

Following Lisa, they went into the little church, then out into the garden, and suddenly the city beyond the garden walls might as well have disappeared, for within the little space occupied by the mission, there was no trace of the modern world.

The garden, still kept neatly trimmed after nearly two hundred years, was in the last stages of its summer bloom. Here and there dead leaves had already fallen to the ground, dotting the pathways with bright gold. Off in the far corner, they could see the old cemetery. “Over there,” Alex said softly. “Let’s go over there.”

The quietness of his voice caught Lisa’s attention, and she turned to look into Alex’s eyes. For the first time since the accident, there seemed to be life in them. “What is it, Alex?” she asked. “You’re remembering something, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Alex whispered. He was walking slowly along one of the paths now, but his eyes remained fixed on the weathered headstones of the graveyard.

“The graveyard?” Lisa asked. “Do you remember the graveyard?”

Alex’s mind was whirling, and he barely heard Lisa’s question. Images were flickering, and there were sounds. But nothing was clear, except that the images and sounds were connected with this place. Trembling slightly, he kept walking.

“What’s wrong with him?” Kate asked, her voice worried. “He looks weird.”

“I think he’s remembering something,” Lisa replied.

“We’d better go with him,” Bob added, but Lisa shook her head.

“I’ll go,” she told them. “You guys wait for us, okay?”

Kate nodded mutely, and as Alex stepped into the tiny fenced cemetery, Lisa hurried after him.

The images had begun coming into focus as soon as he’d entered the cemetery. His heart was pounding, and he felt out of breath, as if he’d been running for a long time. He scanned the little graveyard, and his eyes came to rest on a small stone near the wall.

In his mind, there were images of people.

Women dressed in black, their faces framed by white cowls, their feet clad in sandals.

Nuns.

In his mind’s eye he saw a group of nuns clustering around a boy, and the boy was himself.

But he was different somehow.

His hair was darker, and his skin had an olive complexion to it.

And he was crying.

Unconsciously Alex moved closer to the headstone that had triggered the strange images, and the images seemed to move with him. Then he was standing at the grave, gazing down at the inscription that was still barely legible in the worn granite

Fernando Meléndez y Ruiz

1802–1850

A word flashed into his mind, and he repeated it out loud. “¡Tío!” As he uttered the word, a stab of pain knifed through