Vigil

by Cecilia Samartin

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time now that Millie shared with me what happened,” he said softly.

  My knife became still and I looked up at him, completely perplexed.

  “Millie has many wonderful qualities, but I think you would agree that keeping secrets has never been one of them,” he said. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that if there’s anything I can ever do to help…” Then he looked away as though suddenly ashamed. “Listen to me,” he muttered, shaking his head, “talking as though there was something anyone could ever do to make up for what you’ve suffered.”

  And then I realized that he was referring to what I had told Millie about my life just before she started attending her AA meetings. “Thank you, Mr. Trellis,” I whispered, overcome by the deep caring I felt from him and for him. And to my great embarrassment, tears sprung to my eyes, and I hastily wiped them away. I finished preparing his plate and handed it to him.

  He took the plate from me, and when I looked into his eyes I saw tears there as well. “If there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it…for you…you just let me know,” he muttered, looking even more embarrassed than me.

  “I’ll let you know,” I said, smiling to keep myself from weeping.

  He mumbled something unintelligible and left the kitchen with his snack. I heard him walk down the hall toward his study and close the door behind him. And as I continued preparing the evening meal, forming one meatball after another, I thought about his offer to help however he could, and what I might ask of him if he weren’t a married man and I were a courageous woman.

  “I just thought of what you could do for me, Mr. Trellis,” I imagined myself saying to him “Hold the seed of my love in the palm of your hand and when you’re ready, plant it in your soul, where it will bloom and grow forever, and then…”

  At that moment, Jessie entered the kitchen. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed, startling me out of my reverie. “That has got to be the biggest meatball I’ve ever seen in my entire life!”

  I looked down to find that my meatball was the size of a small melon and I started to laugh.

  Jessie laughed with me. “You’re so silly, Nana,” she said, breaking off a piece to make a normal-sized one.

  “Yes, I am,” I said, doing the same. “I am a very silly woman.”

  Twelve

  IT WAS EVIDENT BY Jessie’s eleventh birthday that she would never be the great beauty Ms. Lillian was. Often, Jessie watched her mother while she dressed to go out, and more than once I caught a flicker of resentment shadow her expression. I suppose she was asking herself why it was that her mother, now near forty, had such an exquisitely smooth complexion when her own was blotchy and freckled, and why she hadn’t had the good fortune to inherit her mother’s slim hourglass figure, and why, when her mother’s auburn hair was the texture of silk, hers was so coarse and unruly. These were agonizing questions for a young girl to ponder, and Ms. Lillian’s explanations were of little help.

  She surmised that because of an unfortunate twist of genetic fate, Jessie had inherited the physical attributes of the women on her father’s side, who were all known to have difficult curly hair, thick waists, and very big breasts. But Ms. Lillian was quite cheerful about it, saying, “Don’t worry, honey. When a girl has big boobs, it makes up for everything else.”

  I usually fixed Jessie’s hair before she went to school in the mornings. I enjoyed it and even purchased a book that taught me how to make a variety of complicated braids. Jessie was happy to wear her hair this way and often told me about the many compliments she received at school. It seemed that everyone was eager to see what new hairstyle she would wear the next day, and we would study the braid book the night before to decide.

  One morning I entered Jessie’s room and found her glaring at her reflection in the mirror. Her red hair was sticking up all around her head, making her look as though she’d been caught in an updraft of turbulent wind.

  “What’s the matter, Jessie?” I asked, taken aback by the sight of her. She didn’t answer me and I walked toward her and crouched down to meet her eyes in the mirror. I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off and scowled at me.

  “Don’t you want me to do your hair?” I asked. Still no answer. I went to her bathroom and tidied up a bit. Her sour mood wasn’t typical, and I needed time to figure out what to do. I glanced at the clock on Jessie’s nightstand while making her bed. We had to be out the door in ten minutes, or we’d be late for school.

  I approached her again. “Jessie, you’ll be late for school if we don’t hurry.”

  Jessie glowered at me again and then her hands flew up to her face and she began to sob, her big orange hair bouncing about like a powder puff. I kneeled down before her and placed my hand on her shoulder again. This time she flung herself into my arms and sobbed for a good five minutes.

  “Nana, why am I so ugly?”

  “You’re a beautiful girl, Jessie,” I replied, passing my hand across her back as I did when she was an infant.

  “No, I’m not. Mom is beautiful and I look nothing like her.” She pushed herself away from me, blinking away her tears. “Nana, I’ve been thinking about it for a long time and I’m pretty sure that I was adopted.”

  It took every effort to keep from smiling. “Really? What makes you think you were adopted?”

  “It’s only obvious, Nana. I don’t look like Mommy or Daddy. And I don’t even look like Teddy, and everybody says that he looks just like Daddy.”

  I couldn’t deny that it was true. One look at Teddy and there was no doubt he was their child, but it wasn’t so apparent when you took in Jessie’s red hair, her freckles, and such a smile that it took my breath away. Although she didn’t have classically beautiful features as her mother did, she had the most expressive face I’d ever seen. Of course, I knew that eleven-year-old girls didn’t want to be told they had expressive faces. They wanted to be told that they looked like princesses or supermodels. Nothing less would do.

  I searched my heart and mind for the right words, but came up short.

  “You see?” she said, taking my silence as confirmation. “You think I’m adopted too.”

  “Oh, believe me, you weren’t adopted. I know for a fact that you weren’t.”

  “How do you know?” Jessie asked, challenging me.

  “Because I was there the day you came into the world.”

  Jessie’s eyes flew open with wonder. “You were?”

  “Yes, I was, and I have no doubt that the little baby I saw on that day was you.”

  Jessie pouted. She was somewhat disappointed to be denied her self-pity, but more intrigued than anything else to hear what I had to say. “How can you be sure, Nana? Maybe when my real mother saw how ugly I was she switched me for a prettier baby when nobody was looking.”

  At this I smiled. “There was no prettier baby than you. And I’m sure it was you because of your beautiful dimples. You even had them as a baby, although you weren’t smiling then, you were making quite a fuss just like you are now. But if you smiled,” I said, touching her cheek, “I’d see them.”

  “I don’t feel like smiling, Nana,” she shot back with a sniffle. “I know you don’t,” I replied. “It’s probably the worst thing you could do. In fact, I think you should try your hardest not to smile.”

  She looked back at me, ready to accept the challenge. And then her lips started to twitch.

  “Don’t you smile, Jessie,” I said. “Don’t show those dimples, not now before your breakfast. Oh my goodness, no!”

  Unable to resist, she broke out in a beautiful grin that touched me deeply as always. I wiped the tears from her face and said, “We only have time for a simple braid today, is that okay?” She shrugged, feeling a bit defeated, but willing to get on with her morning.

  As far as I could tell, Ms. Lillian had been managing her impulses fairly well. Her activities with the charity league continued to keep her busy, she was enrolled in a variety of exerc
ise classes, and she went shopping with her friends several times a week. It was a wonder to me that she had any energy to spare, but what energy she had she devoted to Jessie. She was constantly frustrated by her daughter’s “frumpy appearance,” as she called it, and she fussed over her incessantly.

  “Jessie dear,” she’d say. “Why don’t you let me take you to the hairdresser, and we’ll cut your hair into a cute short style.”

  “Hey, sweetie,” she announced as she walked through the door with a multitude of shopping bags. “Wait until you see these lovely Betsey Johnson dresses I bought for you.”

  But Jessie didn’t like wearing designer dresses. She preferred to wear slacks and shorts so she could run after her brother and play the games he enjoyed, anything just to keep up with him, which wasn’t always easy.

  “Oh, Ana, will you look at her?” Ms. Lillian said when she spotted her daughter swinging from the branch of a tree or throwing dirt balls with remarkable accuracy. “She looks more like a monkey than a girl.”

  “I think it’s wonderful they get along so well.”

  Ms. Lillian put her hands on her hips and shook her head, “You’re not helping, Ana.” But whenever she turned her eyes on her son, all disappointments vanished. She was able to gaze at him for hours. As the years passed and Teddy grew, there was no denying that he was indeed a beautiful child, and as successful in academics as he was in athletics. He’d inherited both beauty and brilliance, and when anyone spoke of him there was a certain hush in their voice, as though they knew they were speaking about someone who would one day achieve greatness.

  One afternoon, after Jessie had finished her homework and chores, I spotted her in the front garden with the bike she’d received the previous Christmas. It was purple with a mesh basket hanging from the handlebars decorated with plastic flowers. She loved her bike and often rode it to her friend’s house a few blocks away. She hadn’t had it long, but already the basket was dented in several places because she liked to ride fast and often fell or crashed into things. More than a place to put her belongings, the basket served as an effective shock absorber, and it seemed that I was constantly applying bandages and antiseptic ointment to elbows and knees. She wouldn’t allow anyone else but me to apply these treatments.

  As Jessie sat on the seat of her bike, she kept glancing at the kitchen window, obviously hoping that someone would notice her. She hadn’t asked permission to ride her bike to her friend’s house, so I wiped my hands on a dish towel and went outside to find out what she was up to.

  She was balancing precariously off the seat of her bike, with one foot on the ground and teetering from side to side. Her face was set in a formidable frown, as though she were preparing for a fight she had no intention of losing.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Jessie?” I asked, noting that her basket was filled with clothing and a couple of her favorite stuffed animals.

  Her chin trembled as she put her foot on the pedal. “I’m running away from home. I don’t like it here anymore. In fact, I hate it here!”

  I saw the anguish in her eyes, her genuine desire to find her place and her dignity within the family. And in her eyes, I also saw myself as a child so many years ago.

  It was after the rainy season had passed that Carlitos and I decided the time had come to make our move. Our plan was to search for my father first, and then once we found him, we’d proceed to the nearby village where Tío Carlos was living with his new family. Somehow we’d convince them both to come home with us. We weren’t certain how we’d do this, or how we’d recognize my father—because neither of us could remember him—but these details didn’t trouble us too much. The way I imagined it, we’d find him whittling under a tree, perhaps making a toy for me, as he waited to be found. When our eyes met, it would be like gazing into a mirror tarnished by time and regret, but our undeniable connection as father and daughter wouldn’t be altered.

  I convinced Carlitos that this was how it would be, and trusting soul that he was, he didn’t need any more convincing than that. Anyway, his mind was occupied with the more practical matter of our survival in the jungle. He would hunt daily to keep us fed, and we would gather all manner of fruits and make certain to keep our water jugs filled. We would sleep in the trees at night and follow the river by day. Carlitos couldn’t wait to get started on our adventure, and I too was eager to get on with it.

  Because we had no doubt that they would do everything in their power to stop us, we thought it best to leave without informing our mothers. Also, Tía Juana, being more excitable than my mother, would probably beat Carlitos for good measure.

  The day of our departure arrived and we were collecting a few essential items when Mama walked into the hut and asked what we were doing with the sack she used for her marketing. Carlitos and I glanced at each other and said nothing, our faces burning with shame. Tía Juana entered moments later with baby Lupita perched on her hip and immediately sensed that something was up.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, her eyes hot with suspicion.

  Carlitos was always rendered speechless by his mother’s anger so I knew that this explanation would be up to me. I kept my face turned toward my mother, as Tía Juana could make anyone’s tongue tangle up in seconds. “You might as well know that Carlitos and I are running away from home.”

  I heard Carlitos groan behind me. He was hoping that I’d make something up, but when surprised in this manner, I could never be anything but truthful.

  “You’re what?” Tía Juana asked.

  I turned to her and shuddered when I saw her eyes bugging out at me. “We’re running away from home,” I repeated somewhat less boldly.

  “Why are you doing this?” Mama asked, her voice calm and measured as always.

  I took a deep breath, knowing that answering this would be hardest of all. “I’m going to look for my father, and Carlitos is going to convince Tío Carlos to come home with us. If he doesn’t want to come, then Carlitos might stay with him.”

  Tía Juana gasped and nearly dropped her baby. She began to sputter and stamp her feet as her rage gathered like a hurricane in her chest. Already she was looking around for something she might use to beat Carlitos. Tía Juana didn’t usually waste any time. She liked to get right to it.

  “Your father is dead,” Mama said. “You know that.”

  I shook my head. “You say he drank himself to death, and other people tell me he was hit by a car, but what I feel in my heart is that he’s alive in the jungle, waiting for me to find him.”

  Tía Juana couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Oh, you stupid girl!” she cried. “Your father was so drunk he didn’t realize he was on the main road in the middle of the night, and a truck ran him right over. They found him the next day flattened out like a tortilla. It was so dark, the driver thought he’d hit a dog, and he was right.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said, taking hold of Carlitos’s trembling hand.

  “And you,” Tía Juana said, pointing her finger at Carlitos’s face. “After everything your father’s done to us, you would abandon me and your brothers and sisters to go live with him and that whore he’s taken up with?”

  Carlitos said nothing, but his silence was more than enough to confirm it.

  “You little shit.” Tía Juana seethed. “You’re just like your miserable father. I bet she seduced you as well, didn’t she? That whore Marisol with her big tetas and dainty manners. But I’m not worried. She’ll kick you out as soon as she realizes how much you can eat.”

  “I can hunt too,” Carlitos muttered.

  Tía Juana started to shout obscenities, but Mama quieted her down with a hand to her shoulder. As Tía Juana grumbled under her breath, Mama began to rummage around through some of her things and returned with a light, finely textured blanket. “I was saving this for the day you left the house. I was hoping that it would be under different circumstances, but I’ll give it to you now. And I’ll leave word with Dolores if we move so you�
�ll know where we are when you return, if you return.”

  “You’re moving?” I asked, taking the blanket from her.

  Mama shrugged. “You’ll be gone a long time searching for someone who can’t be found, so who knows what will happen?” She turned away and began to sort through the beans she would cook for dinner, deftly removing the tiny rocks she found and tossing them aside.

  Tía Juana, who was still fuming quietly while glaring at Carlitos, turned away too and began to breast-feed her baby with inflated tenderness that was not typical of her, as though to emphasize that her maternal affection was only for those who still belonged to her.

  After a while, Mama looked up from her work surprised to find us still standing there. “If you don’t leave soon, the night will catch you,” she said.

  I felt like collapsing at her feet and begging her forgiveness. How could I have ever hoped to live a day without my dear mother? Yet I had no idea how to bridge the great chasm I’d created between us, and Carlitos seemed even more lost than I. “Maybe we should just go tomorrow morning,” he whispered nervously.

  “Yes, I think tomorrow morning would be best,” I said loudly enough so that Mama and Tía Juana could hear, but if they did, they didn’t seem to care. I understood at that moment how a mother’s worry can keep you safe and warm, and how her indifference will leave you so cold that you may not care whether you live or die.

  I took the blanket Mama had given me and placed it on my hammock. I lay down over it and stayed there until morning, not daring to move even for a meal. I was afraid that if I left it for too long, my place would be taken from me, and suddenly the only thing that mattered was this little corner of the world, the slat in the wall through which I could see the first rays of dawn, and all of the dear people who shared this little hut with me.

  Carlitos did the same as I, although he watched his mother with big eyes as she went about the hut taking care of this or that, grateful, I’m sure, that at no point did she discover a stick or some item that reminded her she owed him a beating.