The Center of the World, page 24
Vincent gave the green light for requesting express service for passports, which would take five to seven days at a cost that made Kate cringe. She announced the Guatemalan plan to Sam at dinner time, over a large thin-crust pizza. Sofia had taken a plate to her room.
Sam dropped his slice. “Have you lost your mind? After everything you’ve told me about Guatemala, now you want to go back? It’s dangerous. She’s a child. She’s my granddaughter. Don’t I get any say in this at all? Martin would blow a gasket,” said Sam. He looked like a volcano ready to erupt.
“This is exactly what Martin expected me to do. If he were still alive, his bags would be packed and ready to go,” said Kate.
“Then I’m going with you.” Her father had not been out of the country since he returned from Vietnam. He had married, had a baby, and found a job at the post office. He often said to his family that leaving home was the last thing he ever wanted to do again. When Kate was a child, the three of them had camped in Vermont and New Hampshire and once in Acadia, off the coast of Maine. But Sam saw no reason to ever leave the United States until now.
Three passports arrived five days later. They would make an odd trio: one vet with moments of PTSD who hadn’t dipped his toes beyond the border of the United States since the 1960s, a Massachusetts-raised Mayan girl, and Kate leading the group through her past.
PART FOUR
2003
Guatemala
CHAPTER 41
“What now?” said Sam.
The airport in Guatemala City was framed with dark corners, food vendors selling sandwiches, and a crush of men at the entrance all wanting to be their cabbie. But it also had a hum to it that Kate had not experienced. She felt the pulse of commerce, travel, freedom of movement, and something vibrant like hope.
It had been twelve years since Kate had been at this airport in 1991, and now she felt like a ghost. At any moment she’d see her younger self, gulping back tears with the small child in her arms, stunned by the image of Will in the airport window, the final threat from Jenkins.
“Now we go to Antigua,” said Kate. “Sofia, we’re going out into that throng and I need to do a little bargaining to get a van out of the city. Wait with Grandpa.”
Had she lost her mind? Within two weeks she had gone from her isolated holding pattern, containing all the lies from long ago, to flying to Guatemala with her daughter and her father. Since Martin’s letter to Sofia arrived, Kate had been buffeted by the extremes of relief and then full-out terror. A breeze might blow through her hair and she’d feel the weightless freedom of honesty lift her nearly off her feet. The burden of elaborate lies was no longer hers to hold. The next moment, she’d shatter from Sofia’s icy glare, her hand brushed away from her daughter’s arm.
What could they find here? For two days she had listened to Spanish tapes from the library to jumpstart what had never been a brilliant facility with the language. But she had gotten by.
Kate negotiated with a cabdriver and she waved Sam and Sofia over from the curb.
“We’ll spend the night in Antigua and then head to the highlands tomorrow or the next day,” she said as the driver put their luggage into the back of the van.
Two of their flights had been canceled and rescheduled and they arrived far later than Kate planned. It would be 10 p.m. by the time they pulled into Antigua. They could at least catch their breath by sleeping in. Sam stood back until Sofia stepped into the van. Sofia headed straight for the back and put on headphones. Anything to block out Kate. Kate absorbed the intended slight and slid into the bench seat, followed by Sam.
Because it was dark, they could have been anywhere sitting in the back of the van. An hour later when the van turned abruptly to the right and she felt the familiar thump of cobblestones, Kate felt dread rise up to meet her with a skeletal grip. Would she see Will and his wife strolling about Antigua? Would she be able to look at him and pretend that she was glad for him? And she was happy for him; he deserved every happiness.
The van pulled over and stopped, hoisting the right wheels on the edge of the sidewalk. It was almost midnight. Her eyes burned, her stomach curdled from too much airline coffee. The old sense of dread of being in Antigua with Sofia found an easy access point and swept in like oily fog. The driver pulled their bags out while Kate rang a buzzer on the immense door. A sleepy night clerk slid open the viewing slate.
“We have a reservation. Malloy,” said Kate.
With each word that she spoke, her stale Spanish came back, jagged at first, hesitant, the language unlocked from a forbidden fortress. Sam and Sofia stood behind her as she took their room keys.
She was shocked at the relative ease of calling ahead to get a room. In 1990, finding a phone, never mind connecting to the United States, was nearly impossible. Now there were guidebooks to Guatemala. She selected a guesthouse several blocks from the central park.
Sofia insisted on separate rooms.
“We don’t sleep in the same bedroom at home—why should we start now?”
After two weeks of being shunned by Sofia, Kate was still not accustomed to the hollowness of her new role. This was part of the new landscape with Sofia, part of pulling away with disdain, part of her rage. Kate felt each rejection, eye roll, and carefully aimed missile.
The rooms were on the ground floor, along a brown tile walkway, surrounding a garden. Even in the dim light, the bougainvillea stood out in their papery magenta glory. Sam walked the perimeter of the inner courtyard, an awkward show of bravado in a country that he knew nothing about, peeking into Sofia’s room, then Kate’s, then settling into his own like a Bernese mountain dog. Kate heard his familiar snore within minutes.
Refusing to give in to Sofia’s emotional campaign, Kate said, “Goodnight. See you in the morning.”
Kate stood in the doorway of her room, waiting for something, a reply, a nod, a grunt, but Sofia closed her door in wordless reply. Kate wanted to kick something, punch a wall, scream, curse. She had all but groveled, explaining what she had done years ago, cried, apologized. Kate arranged the trip so that Sofia could see her homeland, seeking a nugget of connectedness.
She rolled her suitcase into her room and sat on the bed. She was done asking for forgiveness and imploring. Inside a well-guarded cavern of her chest, a flint was struck, catching fire, warming her. Clusters of light urged her spine long again. She stretched out on the bed, relaxed for the first time since Martin’s terrible letter. There was a soft knock at her door and her stomach muscles contracted.
“Mommy?”
Sofia? Kate sat up. Was Kate Mommy again?
Kate opened the door. Sofia wore her sleepwear. No one seemed to wear pajamas anymore. She had on a tank top and jersey shorts.
“Can I come in?” She sounded like her daughter again. Kate was cautious, not ready to take another strike to the heart.
“Of course you can come in.”
Sofia sat on the bed, legs crossed. Kate sat next to her. “I just want you to know, I mean, thank you for bringing me here.” She reached across the bed and hugged Kate.
Kate was shocked at the sudden departure from aggrieved teenager to thankful daughter. But she took the moment, having been starved for connection with Sofia. Kate inhaled her daughter’s essential fresh water scent beneath the shampoo and the conditioner.
“I want to sleep in tomorrow morning. Okay? You’re the big early bird. Grandpa is too. But just let me sleep, please. I haven’t slept for a couple of nights.”
Kate said yes, of course.
CHAPTER 42
Kate woke mid-morning, drunk with the perfume of flowers, incense, wood smoke, and coffee. She had dreamt so many times of Guatemala, had been so often startled by Manuela’s ethereal visitations that she at first thought she was still home in her bed. As she swam to consciousness, she realized with a start where she was. She still struggled to keep up with the feeling of being on a high-speed train since Martin’s letter catapulted all of them into the past.
Kate wasn’t sure of her next move, but she knew she had to arrange for transportation to Lake Atitlán. And from there, what? How would Sofia’s return to her home village affect her? What would she think being back in the Mayan Highlands? Would she be overwhelmed by preverbal memories? Or would her past knit together with her life in the States in a way that would make her whole and glorious? Or would she reject Kate forever?
She longed to see Fernando. His café was her first stop today. She needed to see that he had survived the bad years. She stepped into the shower, barely able to turn around in the tiny space. Even these accommodations, a luxury for 90 percent of Guatemalans, would seem shocking to Sofia. Her daughter, by comparison, had been a child of adequate food, education, housing, and safety.
She dressed and stepped into the corridor to the courtyard. Tourists had discovered Antigua; the guesthouse had a steady stream of rugged-looking travelers, the kind who wanted to be far off the beaten path, but with running water and beds.
Kate knocked on her father’s door. He opened it. He was dressed and freshly shaved, his cheeks still glistening. “Just waiting for you gals to wake up,” he said.
She knocked on Sofia’s door and then pushed to open it. Locked. Of course. “Sofia, we’re going out for breakfast.” No answer. Sofia was a heavy sleeper, but surely she’d hear someone pounding on her door. Something was wrong.
Kate felt a whoosh, a breath of air rush by her and she knew instantly that Sofia was gone.
Sam knocked on the door with enough force to bring a young Guatemalan man from the front desk.
“I am Pablo, the owner. The señorita checked out before dawn,” he said.
“Do you mean she is gone? Did she take her suitcase?” asked Sam. Kate translated.
“She took a small backpack. She left her suitcase in the room. And she left this note for you.” Pablo handed a folded note to Kate.
I have to do this alone. Love, Sofia.
Sofia had no idea how to get around in Guatemala; she’d be lost instantly. She only had high school Spanish. The crush of who Sofia was hit Kate like a body slam. A brown-skinned girl, plucked from her home and brought to a small enclave of mostly white people in New England, where she was never told about her birth family. Everything about her clothing, her bearing would scream American. She walked with the sureness of an athlete in a country where girls did not play sports. Sofia was a hybrid, a painted bird. She was going to attract attention, nearly as much as she created in the States.
The vacuum of Sofia’s absence sent a shock wave through Kate. She expected her father to erupt. Instead, he said, “How can we find her?” He had switched to some other gear, an old military sense that was driven by mission.
Did she remember the way to Fernando’s? She pushed open the door of the guesthouse and ran, with her father in slower pursuit. “Go, go,” he said. “As long as I can see you, I’ll catch up.”
Three blocks south, four blocks west. Yes, that was it. There were tourists on every street, motorbikes, and cars rattled along the cobblestones. Antigua had exploded with life and businesses. A colorful parade of goods was sold along the streets. She prayed that Fernando was still doing business in his café bookstore. She rounded the corner and there was the central park and across from it, the café.
Kate stopped outside the door to catch her breath. Her father caught up with her. They went in.
The tables were filled with young travelers, backpacks at their sides. Two young Mayan women waited on the tables. Teenagers, they would have been just toddlers when Kate had last been here.
“Where is Señor Fernando?” she asked, trying to level her voice, not let the full out panic escape and fill the room.
When he appeared from the courtyard, he did not look older at first. His hair showed no graying. Something had relaxed along his jaw that she had not known was there before. Seven years of peace allowed him to breathe more deeply.
“Kate.” He smiled a toothy grin, something else that she hadn’t seen before. It took four steps to reach Kate and in that time, his warm smile changed to alarm. Kate knew that he read her face. This old friend still knew her.
“It is so good to see you. Welcome to my country now that we are at peace,” he said. Fernando waited for Kate to initiate an embrace. He would have stood there forever if she had not opened her arms.
“Oh, my friend,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. Had she slipped back in time, needing Fernando again? Was Will waiting to step into the café? Correction, Will and his wife.
She turned. “This is my father, Sam. Dad, I told you about Fernando.”
Sam reached out a hand. “I am in your debt. You helped my daughter and granddaughter when I couldn’t.”
“Tell me what is wrong,” said Fernando, urging them to a table. “I remember the way your face told a story. We have a saying that means that one’s heart is drawn on their face.”
The shift in adjusting to the slow pace of life in Guatemala surrounded Kate. It was the custom to move slowly, to ask about family, to eat, drink. If she did this, her head would implode.
“We came here with Sofia. She is fifteen now. She only just learned about Manuela, her father, her brother, and the massacre. We arrived last night and now she’s gone.” Kate knew how abrupt she sounded. She put one hand over her mouth, holding back a flood of screams that ached for release.
“And why did you tell her now?”
“I didn’t. Her stepfather . . . my husband died six months ago and he left instructions with a lawyer to inform Sofia of her background.”
Fernando blinked, laying his thick black eyelashes on his high cheekbones as if he bowed in sorrow.
“Do you know where she has gone?” he asked.
Sam leaned forward. “I think we all know where she’s gone. She wants to go to the village where she came from.”
A rivulet of sweat ran down Kate’s back. This was not at all what Kate had planned. She wanted to offer Sofia’s past to her, show her the lake, the night sky, the church where she taught English classes, where Manuela came with her two children.
Sofia had just changed the game. Her high school soccer coach said, “When Sofia walks on the field, she’s the game changer.” But this wasn’t soccer. How could Sofia know what the rules were here?
Fernando reached his hand across the table, placing his fingertips along Kate’s arm, as light as a dragonfly. “How can I help you?”
“Can you help us get to Lake Atitlán?” asked Kate.
“Of course. When did Sofia leave?”
“Around dawn,” said Sam.
“Then she may have taken the first bus out of town. It is a very slow journey by bus. It stops in every town. . . .”
“I know,” said Kate. She was yanked back in time, huddled on the bus with a small child in her arms.
“They may just be arriving in Panajachel now. It will be wise for us to drive. Let me arrange this. While I do, you can go back to your hotel and gather your things.”
Something niggled at Kate. Fernando was too prepared, not surprised enough by her presence in Antigua. He hadn’t asked her quite enough questions, but most importantly he hadn’t asked her why Martin had left the revelatory letter with the lawyer.
They stood up and Sam turned to leave. Kate couldn’t take her eyes off Fernando. She knew how his steady manner could belie his intricate web of connections, how his café had masked his support of the Maya for so long. But there was nothing more important than finding Sofia. The image of her daughter traveling alone carved out a desolate pit in Kate.
How had Sofia managed to find a bus, to know where she was going? Of course, the late night light under Sofia’s bedroom door, the way she had flicked off her computer the instant that Kate walked in. She knew her daughter; Sofia had been researching everything about traveling to Santa Teresa for the past two weeks, even before Kate announced that they were going to Guatemala.
Fernando walked them to the front door. “Are you only now realizing that she is as smart as her mother, both her mothers? Go. I will pick you up at your hotel. Ask them to store your luggage and only bring what you need for a few days. We will find her.”
CHAPTER 43
Sofia
Sofia had studied Spanish for two years. At first, it didn’t come any easier to her than it had for the white kids. Her mother told her that she had only spoken a weird kind of Spanish for a few months after coming to the States and then adapted to English. But she had been so little then, she had to rely on what her mother told her about that time, and who knew what was true and what wasn’t with her mother. By year two of Spanish, something clicked with the language classes and the pulse of Spanish felt comfortable, like old socks.
While her mother was planning their trip to Guatemala, getting time off from work, and getting assignments from her teachers, Sofia was doing a different sort of planning. She read travel guides at the library, and between the Internet and long-distance phone calls, she was able to secure a way to Lake Atitlán once they got to Antigua. And here was the important part: She wanted to go alone, without her mother or grandfather, and she knew they wouldn’t let her go without them.
She packed the cloth that her birth mother had woven, which might help her find her brother. Kate had retrieved it from the top shelf in her closet and handed it to Sofia. It had been sealed in a box, wrapped in tape as if it could have escaped on its own. She slept with it every night since. She also packed a deflated soccer ball. Everyone knew that soccer was a big deal in Latin America. Maybe it would help somehow.
What was the fastest way to get from Antigua to Lake Atitlán? Helicopter, at least according to guidebook number two. And how did one pay for a helicopter ride? Cash. Her grandfather had set up a savings account in her name. She emptied it three days before they left, and reserved a dawn flight out of Antigua. Would American dollars be okay, she asked in a phone call? “Claro,” said the crackly voice from Guatemala.
