Original Sin: a Murder in Costa Rica

By Philip Pascarella

Thoughts of God’s love for you will make for a contented life, focus on the gift of life alone not on your purpose, because the meaning of life is outside of your understanding. Replace all thoughts of carnal pleasure because when a person focuses on what is outside of their control: anxieties ensue, and your anxious thoughts will destroy your happiness and limit your free will.
Never, never believe that you are alone, that you can do whatever pleases you; it is easy for a person to conduct themselves with all their passions, but there are divine consequences for those unsanctioned pleasures.
The characters in this story said yes to their desires, leaving them no longer in control of their own actions: losing their soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665539166

Philip Pascarella

A Catholic Italian American immigrant who has benefited by living free in the United States.

Book preview

WE ARE MASTERS IN

SELF-DECEPTION.

Your conscious life, is it met with a fear of one kind or another because you are born unaware of your essence?

Why are you here?

This fear:

It surrounds you: In part because you are a thinking being without a rational reason of what you fear. As a child you may have feared the dark, feared sleeping alone, feared starting school. Later in life you will dread tomorrow; waking in the morning with a feeling of apprehension at what you must do throughout the day; dreading the obvious responsibilities which you may have neglected. You will make mistakes, seeing only moving shadows, but not the truth, and all along, as you mature you mistakenly embrace the shadows of deception at your peril. What is more, your life moves on without giving notice, while at the same time you are confident, believing you are conquering your inner territory. Finally, when you think you have reached that point in your life: once you achieve a developed belief of what is real, a total awareness of life; finding that perceived wisdom towards your inner being, and you believe what exists within your mind is the truth.

However, eventually the real truth will call you on to walk an individual path. Consequently, regrettably, you will betray yourself because within each of us there is an enemy. It is the vestige of original sin, a false isolated self your mind has created. Yes, in time, by your life experiences, whether predetermined or random, you reveal your true self; and as your true self makes itself known to you, you accept that enlightened image of who you are: this is what you must do.

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We are all children favored by one source, His Word it should be our joy to follow; yet we ask for explanations about the simplest of things. As a result, our troubles arise from the want of understanding, not from the possession of it.

Should we stop asking questions and unconditionally turn to Him, for knowledge and strength?

CHAPTER ONE

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DELAY OF DIVINE JUSTICE:

What person confronted with an unspeakable choice while under pressure, challenged with limited options, turns to that inner calling to see both the things which come first, and what follows? Keep before you these two conditions of the progression or evolution of the decisions you make. One is the starting-point, and the other the final consequence; therefore, a sin might be committed without a malevolent intent.

It was almost light outside, on this exceptionally cool, crisp, early morning in late September. The watery light of dawn slowly trickled over the flat landscape exposing the wave of corn fields; a gust of wind catches them and bends them round in the air. Behind close together, floating, pale grey, leisurely separating clouds, the roundness of the moon is at times clearly visible. A deafening quiet except for the chirping of grasshoppers, whispering of crickets, and a surviving scent of mown grass; a truth to the moment, one rarely attained. Removing his hands which were in his pockets for warmth; he rubbed his groggy eyes, put the key in the ignition and started the car. Turning his head towards her, his look penetrating far beyond the surface, waking a myriad of dreams; her round face turned downward, her glance of the fawn communicates approval; a little detail about their life they both remember, unconditional love expressed to each other with just one look: wife and husband: declarations of love. They were so young. Both owned of an irrevocable love. A love which takes them away from the weary feeling of a complex life. Yes, it was a look at this moment of intimate communion; and these thoughts brought joy to their hearts.

It is unexpected how easily one falls in love at just the right time of the season: spring, summer, winter, fall. Wherever, whenever it chances to happen, you meet that person, and all is complete…you are whole: You choose love over freedom. Suddenly you find yourself overwhelmed with passionate forces. When in love, one feels superhuman powers preparing a future; and you tremble with a kind of wonder. What you feel concerning yourself you feel similarly concerning the one you love…the one who has inspired your passion.

He smiles without saying a word, his face becoming serious. He exhales a sigh of relief and engages the drive; quickly crossing over a shallow sliver of a muddy creek by way of a narrow stone single arch bridge. Miles of smooth, straight, dark, tight road leading away from their small house ahead. The drive itself is not especially interesting; on the other hand, as the pale rising sun floated behind them, wonderful is the expectation of what is about to happen. A feathery, fine, noiseless, although fading fog covers the landscape; it spreads a silver looking jacket over the corn fields, which makes more intense the lonely silence of the road. The ground soaked by recent rains; the grasses dividing the plantings: A lush green. At last nature is eager to make up for an uncommonly dry, scorching summer.

The drive is a familiar one to both.

At times, intermittently spaced, appear remote houses in a deep sleep clustered beneath the wings of large elm or oak trees, their colorless leaves seeming to greet your approach; those old unmistakable Indiana farmhouses with their wrap-around porches; they look, as if, they could have been built anywhere in rural America, at any time, and of a size to suit the need of the owners. On the side of the houses, but away from the road, tiny, manicured yards garlanded with climbing roses, chanting their peaceful hope from every enclosure. They are beautiful, perfectly trimmed, encircling single arched trellises…the roses beautify a gate leading to rectangular tomato gardens. Some of the houses topped with blue surfaced roofs, brick chimneys; and alongside these houses, but not too close, worn reddish, maybe brown barns come into view; and the ever-present parish church; and as they drive the flat, straight stretch of road, the only thing that gives some glimpse of life, every now and then, is a dog barking behind a gate as they drive past.

A view of perfect isolation, order, and peaceful days; a realm of which defines rural America: Skillfully interwoven and all thriving for one purpose.

Coerced by the situation at hand, he drives as fast as possible; and they, together, were silent for a long time. She thought of her university studies at St. Mary’s, as she was concerned about her coming exam; and he drove for a long time in silence, thinking only about the coming miracle or fearful of disturbing God’s universal song of nature.

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As a person drives these roads, on a closer evaluation, after lowering your window or exiting your car, that damp dirt scent fills your nostrils to give notice that these farms are coming to life. The weather is perfect for what is about to happen, it is the awaited time of the year: Conceived for months, the hot, blistering sun has been parching the fields while enriching the soil. It is the time of the year when nature is in total control. The changing of the season is working its magic. An hour of driving and the endless corn fields of northwest Indiana, stretching over the prairie and spotted with a time and weather worn, wooden or brick structure here and there bordering the roads, fade away.

At last, his destination is near.

Motionless, silent corn fields surround the large, yellow brick complex; the corn fields surrounding it are changing in color from green to a wilting natural hue as far as the eye can see. Sweeping round a drop in the road, they come into eyesight of their destination. The massive glass, tall hospital doors are wide, touching a background of a greyish domed sky that is getting lighter and lighter. Against those conditions, born of a God made cycle of perfection, feeling the cool, soon to be cold autumn breeze wafting over him, the young man hurries through the emergency door at a South Bend, Indiana hospital, while holding in his arms his much pregnant wife. The steel and glass door opens, and the man enters helping his wife walk as best he can. Driven by the quick wind, the heavy, penetrating odor of the fields comes in after him. He might have been in his early twenties, but he looked much younger; bent, walking gently yet as quickly as possible, impeded by the weight of the young, pale, dark-haired, pregnant woman cuddled at his side. He was panting, breathless, weighed down; his long arms supporting his beautiful wife; his arms hugging around her, on both sides of her body. The young woman, her arms now bare to the elbow; she was tall, slender but solid, a real daughter of Midwest America.

A short, old, fat nurse costumed with a large flower print uniform stood behind the counter casting an impatient glance at the heavy clock hanging on the wall. Her large fat face appeared indifferent to the man’s circumstances; whitish hair sparse and threadlike, allowing visible spots of her scalp while her pale wrinkled skin at the spot of her throat showed big veins. A ghostly look towards the couple in need and then she turns around without saying a word. Over the years this nurse has developed the hardness of a diamond. Although understandably so because she was exhausted, worn-out, nearing the end of her shift; incapable of thought other than calculating when she would retire. At an early age she pursued a career as a nurse because of the need to help others and the benefits; as she is now old, the benefits are her only motivation. There was a time early in her career, as medical emergencies arrived, she felt a full need to help, but now only indifference. Gaining pleasure from being a nurse early in her adult life, but now merely out of force of habit, and at the end of twenty-five years of long hours, rude patients, and arrogant doctors, she developed an indifferent attitude. Losing her passion for nursing and she responded in the same manner with each patient. The indescribable, personally unapologetic years as a nurse caused her to lose all her charms and conviction. Finally realizing, that it is of little value to help people back to health if they have little appreciation for the long hours and protracted sacrifices on one’s part, a mind-set quite common for nurses after abuse by patients, doctors, and the system in general. The old, indifferent nurse was usually the first to appear to the entering patients. Of late, it was her regular practice to make them feel: What an overall inferior person you are as compared to her and what an expert she was in all matters. Doing it in such a way with patients and coworkers, in a way which almost made you feel as if she was praising you; nonetheless, in fact, she had a reputation of being miserable and hard to deal with.

Inching forward as one; then the anxious soon to be a father, first called out then shouted in a big rough voice for all to listen:

What are you doing there! Help us her water bag has broken!

The old unmoved nurse stuffed a stethoscope into her side uniform pocket, set her jaw harshly, as she thought of it, heaved a deep sigh and shouted, Take it easy! Heard you the first time!

The baby, it’s coming damn you and she is in pain; my wife needs help, he shouted back.

A warm gush of water between her legs pooling on the tile floor; a streak of blood was visible mixed with the liquid. The expectant mother stood motionless, as if frozen, hoping the leak would stop. It did not; she took a deep breath and slowly moved forward. The shock revealed on her face, but the nurse was not wavering and shouted, letting a stern note enter her voice:

See here now, you are here for help, don’t accuse me of not wanting to do my job. Hurry…to the delivery room; get the doctor!

The man went quiet.

The Chief Nurse, a tall well-built woman about forty years old, standing back behind a desk took off her glasses; a cup of coffee was smoking on a crowded scratched desktop tainted with ink marks. She stopped writing in her log journal and looked anxiously toward all the action; and said, Is there something wrong out there?

No reply.

Such protestations from emergency room patients were a common experience for the old fat nurse. On the other hand, on account of all the noise, a much younger, more compassionate wide-eyed nurse turned and rushed to give more help. From a pretty and strong face, her large eyes bore into the older nurse’s eyes to drag out what was an admission of unprofessional behavior. Her intelligent eyes then at once glared humbly at the broad-shouldered, handsome, flushed-faced man whose reddish feathered hair hung down covering the back of his neck; a welcome seemed to arise from it. Moving quickly, being at that age where she felt capable of anything; making direct eye contact with the pregnant woman and smiled, displaying beautiful white teeth. Her soft white shoulders curved elegantly into darkening neck skin and tanned face; her nose showing a bit of a sunburn. A cute girl: a fit body outlined under a long white, v neck short sleeve shirt; a light blue skirt, too short, fell to the middle of her thighs, encased in white stockings. White shoes, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. An image of Indiana cuteness. Not disturbed by the rude nurse, the pregnant woman in pain, her eyes rolled up like bloodshot white golf balls; and she tried smiling a thank you to the young nurse.

The Chief Nurse, a mostly pleasant, tall thin woman with alert movements who was always in fear of the doctor’s judging presence, turned her eyes to the clock on the wall: the slow, boring rotation of the second hand seemed to drag time reluctantly along with it…making a mental note of the time. Setting her hands on her hips, wishing she could have a cigarette; not interested in what was happening, other than wanting to calm the noise; grabbed a pen and paper and moved to sit at a desk, afterwards going about her normal routine.

The young woman, now in full delivery mode uttered a long-drawn-out moan, her eyeballs vented out looking as if they were ready to burst. Dark tears oozed down her tense discolored cheeks. Clenching into her palm the nails of her fingers, she began sobbing convulsively. Her husband supported her back as she struggled to stand; and then, she, sinking to the floor, then laying on her back to bend her knees upwards in the direction of her chest. Her husband squatted to help …she looked to repel him with a strong push to his chest…at length trying to roll onto her stomach. She could not lie down, could not rest her body in any position.

At that point, moving herself on all fours started crawling: She…moaning, panting, thirsty, and cursing after each breath, struggling to inch away. The contractions took her breath away:

Ok! Ok! Ok! agitatedly said the big, old, fat nurse, advancing, as if surprised and disgusted:

Get off the floor! Stand and walk!

I say, stop crying! Why is she crying?

Shit! she gasped for air and cried louder. Oh, I feel something ripping; I think I’m going to die…get this out of me…something is wrong.

A look of fear crept over the young, soon to be a mother’s face. Why had her water bag broken, and mixed with blood?

As the penetrating shouts soared out of her lips, her arms gave way beneath her, and she rolled over on her back, her legs pushed out and her breathing intensified: short rapid puffs…followed by energetic convulsive wails.

Get a gurney!

The big woman, without words of comfort pointed the way: Come on everyone help me; lift with me. The delivery room down the hall to the right. Get the doctor.

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Restless anxiety filled the delivery room, the younger nurse hurried into the space. The man moved closer to the pregnant woman. The expectant mother mentally prepared for a long struggle: clutching at the sheets of her bed as she predicted the pain.

He smiled at her; she frowned back: It is worse than I expected.

Recalling all his knowledge from the birthing classes the eager expecting father physically dashed closer to calm her. Finally, it all came to him, the man going with her screams raised his voice and said:

Turn over on your back and bend your knees up towards your body. I’m here…I’m here!

Directly looking at him, she shouted, I’m on my back…don’t touch me.

As the words went out her mouth, another tightening of pain hit her. She took a deep breath and unclenched her fists as the throbbing went away.

The nurse: She is fully dilated, we have no time to go…the baby is in distress…keep breathing, but don’t push.

The husband rolled up his sleeves, as if he were ready for the delivery: Nurse, you cannot let her go on like this! Give her something! Did you hear that honey, don’t push…don’t push…lie still, and if you do our baby will be here soon?

In great distress the woman shouted, Shut up…just shut up! Yes, nurse please do not leave me!

Behind bloodshot eyes, an inhuman terrible look took over her face; she made every effort to control her trembling legs. Scoring the bed sheets with her fingernails, then thrusting her fingers into her mouth, while twisting like a circus performer trying to snake through a small ring. The time was now; a little crown was coming into view.

The nurse replied yes with her eyes and looking towards the door, called out, Doctor…Doctor…get in here!

The doctor presented himself; watching her breathe, examining her cervix and then looking at the monitor. Observing intently the baby’s quick lightning heartbeat; an engrossed worry showed in his eyes: You need to relax when the contraction is at its peak.

What’s wrong doctor? What do you see?

Completely irritated with the doctor’s expression, she looked at him anxiously, and then back to her belly. She said in a voice marked with pride, Whatever you are thinking, you are wrong!

Don’t push! said the husband.

The young nurse, tears showing in her eyes, softly speaks, No…she can push…it is time to push.

And to prevent her from biting through her fingers, he, her loving husband, pulled her fingers out of her mouth.

I told you not to touch me!

In the interim she cursed at him and he back at her; she through her teeth, and he in a suggestion. She cursed at him out of agony and he, I am sure, out of nervousness, associated with the not to be faulted agony of compassion.

The woman now deteriorating…feeling immeasurable pain; blue eyes deprived of color, the corner of her lips streaked with white foam, her body thrashed, defeated. Rapidly turning, twisting as though her body was splitting in the middle… she gasped for air, Oh my God!

Her husband moved closer, softly stroking the back of her head, never did he feel that he should stay away from her, he believed he should keep on saying something: Push honey…at the right time.

At the right time! What the fuck do you know…get away from me, you’re an asshole.

You’re an asshole! As was her repeated cry, as with her tired hands she struggled to push him away. Drained of energy… she passed out.

Nevertheless, during all of it he was feeling so sorry for her; and quiet tears began dropping from his eyes and his heart filled with sympathy, he kept praying: Hail Mary full of grace…bring this child healthy and safe…and for my wife’s sake, as quickly as possible.

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What about you, will you never know?

You will live as a victim of that fear.

In an adjacent delivery room:

She can’t keep the baby.

It is the evil consequence resulting from immature desire, high-spiritedness, flourishing beauty and a child-like mind, replied, the older dark handsome man who brought her to the hospital:

Let me tell you doctor, there is no hint as to who the father might be. What can she expect? The responsibility and care for this child will be too much for this teenager; it will overburden her. There is no father; adoption is the only solution. The church will find a caring family who will love this child.

The doctor looked toward the door a bit fearful, Very well …I understand…it is one of life’s bitterest rules…that we pay for our unsanctioned pleasures; you are correct, there isn’t anything but shame looking into the future for the mother and her baby girl, but I have another solution. Babies they come into the world naked and full of wants. What can be set in motion must be moved by something else.

What?

Good judgment! Often what He gives us is an opportunity; what follows from it can be a good thing; I call this intention good…it is right in itself…this act is terrible in a different time. No one is born wise, and later we learn to be sensible, prudent, and discreet. Come with me.

The doctor and the man walked into an adjoining private waiting room. The room comfortably offered an old-fashioned late seventies theme, kept for waiting families and guests of the patients. It was a small room painted white: rough, with large wooden chairs, square framed hangings of landscape paintings and a counter adorned with coffee mugs, a coffee maker and out of date magazines.

The doctor continued talking.

A short tow-colored whitish man with agitated, indistinct old eyes. A strong, blunt, deep voice came from this fragile-looking doctor, and at the first words out of his mouth one changed the opinion of him being an honorable man. As the listener sees the mental fatigue plainly displayed on the doctor’s face: It is that look of loss of interest in himself, in the future and anything of promise, that look representing a beginning for his animosity...lost faith.

He spoke loud in a pompous manner, saying:

Over the years along with my experience I have developed an understanding of such things.

For a second or two the older man remained silent, seeming indifferent to the doctor; then an interest gleamed in his eyes:

Which things doctor? the man asked; he smiled, confirming he saw through him.

The dark handsome man had a knack for seeing beyond the words. The doctor’s statement, or his manner, cautioned him that the doctor was about to enlighten him on the uncertainty of everyday things.

A momentary flash of annoyance in his eyes, but the answer was smooth, as if he had answered it before:

All right, the doctor said, it is well I tell.

Rightness, responded the doctor. … doing the right thing; is it something we aspire to do, or …well…what is it actually? The first of His blessings promises everything if we are righteous, honorable, and decent, but He gives us nothing of value by being thus. Your first concern, our first concern, everyone’s first concern should be to question this promised inheritance.

My friend, the doctor continued, I do not see with the anointed eye, and I do not think with an unprejudiced mind; and as I do not wish to be presumptuous, and as I do not care what happens to this baby, I will tell everything… saddening as it is.

Everything, the man answered, about what?

The dark handsome older man said it quickly in a rush of passion.

The doctor drew back a few steps, and revealed his justification:

The whole of our lives is based on a lie: a psychological corruption of us all; at the center of who we are, this corruption," it is based on a lie! A holy lie: and all sorts of dangers wait behind every word of the doctrine of judgement. I have not met this Truth and I will never believe it. You and I, and anyone else, "we will the end if we will the means: we haggle and barter our way through life. Everything becomes something to buy and sell. Growing up with an unclear impression, bearing a yoke of shame, just for fun other children called me a bastard. It started at a time when I did not know the meaning, but the way in which it was said, stung me just the same; defenseless, knowing it was said to hurt me and the others were pitiless.

So, you were adopted; no big deal, the man affirmed, you are not the guilty one. Do not suffer the loss…yes, as appalling as it might be...the circumstances of your adoption had nothing to do with who you are today.

"No! They gave me away; every day I feel that lack of something. As I remember it, my childhood