Luz, page 19
I remained standing, shifting from one foot to the other, uncertain what I should do next. I bit my lip and decided to set down my bag and sit in the chair that matched the sofa.
As I settled in, it tipped back and swiveled to the left. Surprised, I giggled. It both rocked back and forth and turned in a complete circle. I could move it one way and watch the television, or I could swing the other way and look out into the yard. The arms themselves felt like plump pillows. I closed my eyes and settled back, feeling the soft fabric under my fingertips. When I opened my eyes, Isabel was looking at me with a crease down the middle of her forehead. My cheeks flushed, and I lowered my eyes.
“How long will you be staying?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure yet.” What could I say? I had no idea what was going to happen here. I would take one day at a time.
Isabel sighed and, gathering the baby, stood up. “Well, Berta said to call her when you got in. The phone number is out here in the kitchen.”
I followed her back toward the front door and turned left into the small kitchen, which I hadn’t noticed when we walked in. To the left was a washing machine and dryer like the Garcias had in Oaxaca. Beyond that a small table and two chairs, which Isabel motioned to, saying, “There’s the number,” pointing to a pad of paper, “and the phone” which hung on the wall. It was yellow like the walls.
“Anyway, give her a call. That’s the bakery’s number. And if you need anything, you know where I am. Berta comes home around one or two, I think.” She walked to the door, opened it, then paused, “And I’ll be home all morning, so . . . I’ll be watching the house.” She gave me a look of warning and then stepped out the door.
The silence that followed the click of the door was soothing. I glanced around the kitchen, bright with sunlight. Above the table was a clock in the shape of a sunflower. On either side hung figures of cows with large eyes. In fact, cows were everywhere. The salt and pepper shakers, the napkin holder, the dish towels that hung from the refrigerator. Little black and white cows smiled back at me throughout the room. I knew immediately that I would like Berta.
I sat down at the table and picked up the pad. ¡Alma, bienvenida! Welcome, in neat printing at the top, and then beneath that, Llámame, followed by a phone number. I glanced at the yellow phone and felt a twinge of nervousness. A bird cooed loudly outside. Glancing up, I noticed that above the sink, the window extended outward. Within it were three ceramic pots painted with sunflowers, each containing different herbs: basil, cilantro, and something unfamiliar. And all around these colorful pots were more little cows. One was standing on its hind legs, wearing a chef’s hat and holding a rolling pin. Another was lying flat on its back wearing a bikini and sunglasses, and another, wearing a pink bonnet, was pushing a baby carriage with a calf peering out. I grinned and reached for the phone.
“Betty’s Bakery,” a voice said in English after three rings. I hesitated. “Hello,” I said using the little bit of English that my father had taught us. “Please, Berta . . . Berta, please?” It occurred to me that I didn’t even know her last name.
The woman said something and set down the phone. I could hear voices in the background, then footsteps. “Hello?” a woman’s voice.
I responded in Spanish. “Is this Berta?”
“Sí. ¿Es Alma? You made it all right? You are there?” Her Spanish put me at ease.
“Yes, I am here in your happy kitchen . . . with the cows.”
She laughed. “Listen, I am going to try and get out early, maybe by noon or so, but in the meantime, make yourself at home. There’s food in the refrigerator—anything, eat anything. And you can settle into the bedroom on the left, at the end of the hall.” She paused, “Let’s see . . . anything else? How was your trip?”
“Fine, no problems. The students were very kind.”
“¡Muy bien! Well, if you have any questions, just call. But I should get home in an hour or two. So, eat, take a shower, sleep if you are tired. Okay?”
My eyes welled up with gratitude. “Muchas gracias. You are so kind.”
She was silent, then a quick, “Got to go. See you soon.”
I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Everything in the kitchen was dazzling and clean—sparkling sink, gleaming stove top and oven. I stood and ran my fingers along the beige tile counter. I curved around the kitchen table to another small doorway that led back to the room with the dining table, sofa, and swivel chair. And the photographs!
The photos were mostly of Diego. On the wall was a collage of baby pictures: asleep in a crib, on Santa’s lap, surrounded by gifts beneath a Christmas tree, and in the arms of a young woman with a beaming smile, perhaps Berta? On a glass shelf mounted along one wall was a row of silver frames: a young boy in a baseball uniform, a gangly teenager beside a red car, a handsome young man in a tuxedo standing beside a girl in a long blue gown, and finally, a graduation photo in cap and gown. I could see a bit of my father in these later pictures, in Diego’s high cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and dark eyes.
But it was as I turned that my heart stopped. Along the top of the oak piece that held the TV was a large photo of my father taken a year or two before he disappeared, for he looked exactly as I remembered him. He was standing proudly beside his son who towered above him by at least 12 centimeters, maybe more. Papá’s eyes were soft, his chin lifted slightly, his smile full and warm. He was clearly happy to be there. I had never thought of that. That coming here was not just work, but a chance to see his American son. I gently touched the face smiling back at me. “Where are you?” I whispered.
Beside this photo were three others. One was perhaps of Berta’s parents, an older couple—the woman seated, the man standing proudly beside her, his hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Then in a ceramic frame with sunflowers painted all around it, a pretty young woman with a twinkle in her eye grinned at the camera as if she’d just had a good laugh. I wondered if this was Berta, or perhaps, Berta’s sister: Diego’s mother, my father’s first wife. On the other side of my father’s picture was the third framed in black: a young man in a military uniform staring solemnly off to the side as if contemplating where he was headed. A brother perhaps?
I reached for my bag of belongings and walked down the hall: a small bathroom to the left, a bedroom to the right. I stopped and glanced in—Diego’s room I guessed, with baseball posters, trophies on the dresser, and a blue plaid comforter on a large bed. At the end of the hall were two bedrooms and a larger bathroom. To the right, Berta’s, with the bed unmade and the curtains closed. It was dark and I respected her privacy, so I entered the one on the left, the one I would sleep in while I was there.
A bed with a yellow and white flowered quilt sat along one wall beside a white dresser. And at the foot of the bed—a little white bassinet. I caught my breath. Did she know somehow? But how could she? I set down my bag and reached out to touch the lace edging. Inside sat two cloth dolls with flannel gowns and bonnets. Their braided hair of yarn was slightly faded and their faces soiled in spots. These dolls had seen better days, but they clearly had been well-loved. More photos on top of the dresser gave me a clue. Both were of the young woman in the sunflower frame. In one she was quite young, perhaps eight or ten, with the same teasing grin, her arm hooked around a smaller girl’s shoulders. In the second photo, she was a young woman in a simple white dress, holding a bouquet of white roses, one flower behind her ear and one hand clutching the arm of a young Juan Cruz. My father was dressed in a suit that was much too large, clearly borrowed for the occasion. His handsome face glowed with pride and glee. Their wedding day.
I sank onto the bed as I realized that, of course, he had been here many times. He had been in this house and probably slept in this room, in this bed, for this had been her room: Berta’s sister, my father’s wife. I knew so little about this part of his life, only that he had lost her in childbirth and her sister had raised the baby. Beyond that nothing—not even her name. Lightly touching my abdomen, I thought, there was so much Berta could tell me, but first, I had to do the right thing. I had to tell Berta my truth, or at least a small part of it.
I awoke to find a large woman with very short salt and pepper hair standing above me. I sat up quickly, startling her. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said almost in a whisper, “I didn’t mean to wake you. You must be exhausted.”
“No,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I’m fine now. You’re Berta?”
She nodded, “Yes, and you . . . you look so much like your father . . . and Diego.”
“Do I? ¿Mi Papá?”
“Oh yes. The eyes, the nose, definitely.”
I had never seen the likeness, but then my face had been much fuller until recently. I stood and looked in the mirror above the dresser.
“How long has it been . . . since you saw him last?” she asked gently.
My eyes met hers in the mirror. “June 1997. Almost three and a half years. He left after my brother’s birthday.” I sank back onto the bed. “We had had a party, and the next day he left.” I remembered sitting with him the evening before, talking about how he wanted me to continue on to high school after I finished secundaria. I looked up at Berta, whose eyes had filled with tears.
“Do you have any idea where he might be?” I asked. “Any ideas at all?”
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and as she exhaled said, “Oh, m’ija. Come into the kitchen. Let’s get some breakfast. I’m starving . . . and then we can talk.”
Berta worked in a French bakery making breads and pastries with French names like batarde, and baguette, and croissant. “I love to cook, too, all kinds of food, not just Mexican. So, I hope you’ll enjoy trying some new dishes.” She moved swiftly about the tiny kitchen, pulling out a wooden board from one corner, some vegetables and eggs from the refrigerator, and a pinch of herbs from her window plants. “I hope you’re a big eater—are you? With Diego gone, I always make too much, though I send it home with him when he stops by. Those boys sure can eat. ¡Grandes apetitos!” She chatted away as she laid out dishes and silverware, and though I asked if I could help, she shook her head and looked around. “Two cooks are one too many in this kitchen.”
Fortunately, I was already halfway through my breakfast when she sat down to join me, for as she lifted her first forkful to her mouth, she said, “Now tell me about your journey across the border. Was it terribly difficult?”
The food stuck in my throat.
“Did you have a good coyote?” she continued, giving me a chance to catch my breath—and swallow. “Juan said the old routes were no longer good, that with the fences and alarms he was being pushed east into the deserts, and without a reliable guide, it was very dangerous.” She paused and tore a piece of croissant.
“Did he?” I asked. “Did he use a guide?”
She frowned. “Not always. They cost so much money. But sometimes, yes.”
“So . . . do you think that he . . . ?” My hands trembled, so I set down my fork and placed them in my lap. “Do you think he used one this last time?”
“I don’t know,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I hadn’t spoken to him myself in months. He usually called us once he arrived in LA. Sometimes it was before he made his rounds in the fields, sometimes it was after, on his way back.”
She took a few bites, while I played with my eggs, and then continued. “Diego spoke with him sometime that spring. He was finishing up his paramedic program, and they were going to celebrate on his next visit. Juan mentioned the summer, but he wasn’t sure when.” Her voice softened, “That’s the last we heard from him, honey. Lo siento. I wish I knew more. Diego will tell you all about it. He contacted authorities, even went down to San Diego and El Centro. The firefighters and paramedics there were wonderful, so supportive and eager to help, but . . . not a trace.” She sat for a moment, her eyes cast down, then stood with her dish and turned to the sink. I rose as well. In silence we washed and dried until, turning off the water, she turned to me and said, “Sweetie, to answer your question in the bedroom, I just don’t know. He was so experienced at crossing and so careful. But he would have contacted us . . . if he was . . . okay. And yet, like you, I wonder.” She smiled and stroked my cheek. “But you talk to Diego, tu hermano. He keeps hope alive, too.”
My heart fluttered with those words.
She took my face in her hands and kissed my forehead. Then shaking her head, she said, “I can’t believe how much you look like your father.”
“Tell me about him,” I said, squeezing her arms. “Tell me what you remember about Papá when he was young . . . about your sister and those early years.”
Her face softened with tenderness as her eyes filled with tears. “Oh my,” she said in a whisper. “Recuerdo.”
16
Dar a Luz
(To give birth; literally, to give to the light.)
We settled into the living room, Berta in the big soft chair, and me, curled up in the corner of the sofa. She rocked as she talked, occasionally turning toward the window and gazing out beyond the yard to a time that was clearly still vivid in her mind.
Her name, I learned, was Lara, and she was born the same year as my father, 1950. And just like Rosa, she was the older sister by two years.
“It was just the two of us,” Berta began. “My third sister died during delivery, and my mother lost her uterus as well. As it turned out, Lara was a handful anyway. Strong-willed and stubborn, muy terca, with a temper to match, yet she would fight to the death for you if needed,” Berta said, shaking her head. “Oh, she gave my parents such a time—always. Not that she did anything bad, just that she was perpetually involved in some great drama. Bringing home abandoned pets one day and neglected kids another. She’d feed the whole damn neighborhood with what little we had, and no matter what my parents said to her, she wouldn’t listen, scolding them as if they were the ones who were overstepping their bounds.
“When she was about sixteen years old,” Berta continued, “one of the priests in our church spoke about the farm workers, how they were being exploited—low pay, terrible living and working conditions—so Lara and some of her friends got involved. They would go to grocery stores and tell people not to buy grapes. That’s all she’d talk about day and night. Well, she heard that there was going to be a march from Delano to Sacramento, and she decided to go with some church members. I remember my parents trying to stop her, saying she would miss school, that she was too young even if a priest was going as well. But Lara always did what she wanted. And that’s where she met your father. Or so he told me years later. Lara never spoke of that meeting. She claimed they met a couple of years after that at a rally for Cesar Chavez.”
Berta paused and tilted her head to one side. “Now Juan’s story was that he had fallen in love with her during that walk to Sacramento, but she wouldn’t give him her number, saying if God meant them to be together, they’d meet again. And they did.” Berta winked. “Of course, they met again! Your father wandered every corner of Los Angeles every chance he got during those two years trying to find her! He said he’d be working in Oxnard or Fresno, and he’d take a few days off, hitch a ride to LA, and wander a different part of the big city looking for her. He was close to giving up when he heard about a rally to support Chavez, who was ill from fasting. It was to be held at the old church in downtown Los Angeles. Convinced that Lara would be there—and that God meant them to be together—he made his way to LA. That was two years later, mind you, and this time when he found her, he got her phone number. After that, he came to LA as often as he could. ¡Tanto amor!” she sighed.
Berta swiveled the chair toward the photo above the TV, and the two of us sat staring at the smiling eyes of my father as she spoke. “My papá didn’t like the fact that he was a migrant worker, traveling so much, but Lara kept telling him that there was nothing serious going on. They were just friends. And since Juan’s visits were months apart, my dad eased up. But when he did finally come to see her, he’d always bring something for each of us. A cigar for my father, a basket of fruit for my mother, flowers for Lara, and even a little something for me—like a ribbon or a barrette for my hair, which was very long back then, very long.” She smiled shyly and ran her fingers through her short hair.
I sank back into the cushion and sighed. I could see my father— the young Juan Cruz—with his arms full of gifts in the doorway, just as he would do years later for me. I wondered if he ever felt a pang of sadness standing at our door, yet remembering that earlier time. How humble I felt, realizing that his thoughts were not just of me—or even just our family.
Berta’s voice brought me back to this doorway. “Soon all of us were looking forward to his visits, even Papá,” she continued. “And of course, Lara fell in love. How could she not? He was so devoted to her.”
“So, they married?” I asked, picturing my dad down on one knee— after getting her father’s permission of course.
Berta sighed. “Oh no. Your father may have asked, but Lara had no such plans yet; she was going to college. She wanted to be a social worker. She worked part time and took two or three classes every semester. Nothing was going to stop her. That is, until she got pregnant. And oh, your father was so excited. The first thing he did was find a construction job nearby—and then he came to my father. Shortly after, they married and Juan moved in with us. Lara continued with school, and Juan went from job to job.”
Berta grimaced, and I knew the love story was taking a fateful turn. “But then, one night, she awoke screaming. She was bleeding heavily, and sure enough, she lost the baby. It took her by surprise, I think. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted that baby.” Berta bit her lower lip and frowned. “It changed her a little. She wasn’t as certain of everything anymore. And she began to lean on others, especially your father—and me. I guess she let herself need us. That’s when we began to get really close, Lara and I. I had always been just her little sister, but after that, our relationship deepened. We became friends.”
