by Roger Bruner
Juanita led us straight to Dr. Morales’s office. I got the impression she didn’t want to let us out of her sight.
The doctor stepped into the waiting room as soon as we walked in. He led Nikki back to the X-ray room. Juanita held me back gently. “We wait here.”
I flipped nervously through the magazines on the table beside me. I couldn’t recall a time I hadn’t wanted to read—given the opportunity—but I wasn’t in a reading mood that evening. I finally made myself pick up the Spanish edition of a People magazine and let it fall open on my lap.
I don’t recall anything I read that night, but ninety-some minutes later Juanita woke me up. She didn’t bother to say, Dr. Morales has finished treating your friend, and her nose will soon be as good as new. Just “Time to go.”
The man I had assumed to be the building guard unlocked the back door and walked us to the car. He was only slightly more communicative than Juanita. “I have monitored both the car and the parking lot constantly. All is well.”
We reached home fairly rapidly. Nikki and I hadn’t brushed our teeth that day, but we didn’t have the energy to do it now. While changing into our nightclothes, we noticed that the linens in our bedrooms and bathrooms were fresh and clean.
After meeting in the hallway to say good night, Nikki and I started toward our separate bedrooms. Juanita walked in before I could pull back the sheets. “It is safer for you to sleep with your friend tonight. That way I can keep watch more easily to make sure nothing happens to either of you.”
I was too exhausted to question why a temporary live-in maid would make such a strange request. At first I balked at having to re-enter the master bedroom—for any reason. The memories of the previous night were too fresh. Too painful. Too frightening.
Perhaps Juanita understood my apprehension, for at last she displayed a gentler side. “I’m sorry to have to make this request of you, Señorita Rosa. You could both sleep in your room, but that bed is smaller.”
I was more than just sorry about her insistence, but I could barely keep my eyes open. So I gave in without arguing and entered the master bedroom.
~*~
When I woke up the next morning, I was sore and achy all over. But that pain was nothing like the pain I felt in my heart for Mother Chalina. Although a good night’s sleep is excellent medicine for some problems, it didn’t do much for my grief. I doubted that a normal lifetime contained enough nights to help with that.
Nikki and I sat in the kitchen eating the breakfast Juanita had made for us. Without asking what we wanted, she grilled French toast and cut up some fresh fruit.
As if Dr. Morales had dictated our diet, Juanita poured each of us a large glass of milk instead of brewing coffee. Before she closed the refrigerator door, I noticed that the milk she’d brought with the other groceries the day before was 2% low-fat. I was too famished to notice any difference in the taste.
She took her own breakfast down the hall to eat. Not until then did I realize she had taken over Mother Chalina’s room.
We alternated between reading and watching television during the wakeful parts of our day, but spent most of our time napping. With Juanita there to help, nothing required our attention.
My face was so sore that brushing my teeth hurt. Although I managed a shower that afternoon, I had to keep the flow of water very light, for I hurt worse than the day before. Dr. Morales had warned us that might happen.
That evening we had just sat down to supper—Juanita had outdone herself fixing steak, hash brown potatoes, and a garden salad—when the doorbell rang.
I jumped, and my heart started racing. We weren’t expecting anyone.
We could only hear Juanita’s voice. “No, they are still sick, thank you. The doctor has been here to examine them, and I’ve come to help out until they are well again… Yes, please continue to watch Rosa’s daughter until it’s safe to bring her back… We’ll let you know when, thank you.”
Then she added, “In fact, here comes their doctor now.” The door closed, followed by the sound of two distinctly different sets of footsteps moving in our direction.
Dr. Morales asked how we were. He said he would examine us thoroughly in a few minutes, but first he needed to talk privately with Juanita. They walked quietly to Mother Chalina’s room.
If I had prejudged their conversation by the small number of words Juanita spoke to us, I would have predicted that it would be one-sided, with Dr. Morales doing most of the talking.
At first, we could barely distinguish the sound of male and female voices or the language they were speaking. As their discussion progressed, however, the voices grew louder, and we could tell they were speaking English. Taciturn Juanita had come to life!
As soon as I realized what Nikki was about to do, I whispered, “No!” But she tiptoed barefooted down the hall anyhow. The thick carpet prevented her movement from making noise of any kind.
She stopped halfway to Mother Chalina’s room. As loudly as they were talking, she didn’t need to get any closer. Several minutes later, she came back and whispered, “Their discussion doesn’t sound like friends or lovers talking. Nor like employer and employee, either. Sounds more like a discussion between peers or perhaps coworkers.”
Peers? A maid and a physician?
Nikki returned to her listening post, stayed there five minutes, and then returned to the kitchen. “They’re talking about Chalina. She recently addressed a lengthy letter to you, and Juanita found it. She—”
“A letter from Chalina? To me?”
Nikki put a finger in front of her lips. “Juanita asked if she should give it to you. Dr. Morales asked if she’d read it. She said it seemed rather personal—and she’d skimmed only the first couple of pages.
“‘If it is that personal, I shouldn’t read it, either,’ he told her. ‘I can’t imagine learning anything important. After all, what would Chalina know about Tomás that Rosa doesn’t already know?’
“I couldn’t hear her response, but she must have questioned the wisdom of not reading the whole letter. Doctor Morales responded in a rather severe tone, ‘This is too personal, no matter what information it contains. By all means, give it to her. We want evidence to use against Tomás, but we can’t justify hurting innocent people by keeping something meaningful from them.’”
I was momentarily speechless. Mother Chalina, what will you say to me from beyond the grave?
Nikki put her hand on my arm. “Since he told Juanita to bring you the letter, don’t give me away by asking for it.”
My heart was racing. “I won’t. I won’t read it with them around, either. If she gives it to me tonight, we’ll take it to our bedroom and read it privately.”
“Good, Rosa. But we still need to be careful.”
“Why?”
“If I can get close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation, they can probably eavesdrop on ours. It’s easy enough for Juanita to say she doesn’t pay attention to what we say…”
I looked into Nikki’s eyes. “We’re acting like they are criminals. We should be ashamed. Without their help, I can’t imagine what danger we might be in now.”
“Judging by the way they’re acting, we’re still in very great danger. If only we knew what they’re up to…”
“If they’re up to anything at all,” I said in an insistent whisper.
“I heard them say, ‘We want Tomás—’” Chalina’s bedroom door opened before Nikki could finish.
Juanita came out first with a number of papers in her hands. Probably a dozen or more. The only thing she said when she handed them to me was, “Chalina wrote this to you.” My heart nearly jumped out of my throat, and my hands tingled just from touching a personal letter that promised to reconnect me with Mother Chalina.
Hiding my exuberance was nearly impossible. I looked at Nikki and she nodded as if to say, Go on. Say something.
“Thank you, Juanita. You found this in Chalina’s room?” I spoke as innocently as I could.
She
nodded.
“I can’t imagine what she has written me…” I flipped through a few pages without trying to read anything. “What does it say?” Would Juanita let on that she had “accidentally” read parts of it? I didn’t reveal that I knew she had—and that it had not been accidental.
She shrugged.
“I’ll read it later.” Having to postpone my reading was more painful in its own way than giving birth. “My grief is so deep I wouldn’t want to cry in front of you. Not more than I have to.”
“We understand, Rosa.” Dr. Morales’s voice was full of gentleness and warmth. “We don’t wish to intrude on your private time with Chalina. I will examine your injuries as quickly as possible and be on my way. I’m certain Juanita will be happy to leave you in peace and let you learn whatever Chalina has to tell you.”
Nikki told me later that Juanita had frowned when Dr. Morales said that.
21
Thirty minutes later, Nikki and I were alone in the master bedroom, seated side by side on the king-sized water bed. I didn’t dare to read Mother Chalina’s letter aloud, although I would have preferred to. Instead, I would read a page and then pass it to Nikki.
The letter bore a date that was several months old.
~~~
My Dearest Rosa,
How thankful I am that you were not just willing to learn to read and write, but eager to. I need to tell you a number of things I can’t say in person. You may have thought me a bold woman at times, but in this regard I am a complete coward.
Americans who bother to do so write something called a “last will and testament.” It’s a legal document that tells the courts what to do with a person’s possessions—who should receive what—after her death.
This letter is very similar to a will, and I’ve had it legally witnessed and notarized so that it will be acceptable in a court of law—if it ever ends up there. Although this document says I want you to have what little I possess, it tells of my desire for you to “possess” the truth, truth I wish I had dared to tell you before now.
You may not see this letter for days or even years. No one can predict the circumstances of her death. No matter what the time span between now and then, the impact of this news will remain with you the rest of your life. I must share facts that may shock and disturb you.
But my greatest hope is that my news will please you—perhaps even thrill you—after you adjust to the initial shock.
If I am wasting time, paper, and patience beginning my story, please indulge me. It’s not an easy story to begin. Even though I’m chancing the loss of your love and respect, I trust the depth of your feelings for me too much to quit.
Enough! I am not an old woman by any means, but I ramble on like one. I will begin.
You already know I grew up in a small Mexican village and came to San Diego as an older teenager. Very much like you.
What you don’t know is that I, too, came from Santa María de los Campos. That’s why I know what the villagers “farm,” even though you have never told me. I assumed you had somehow learned about it. I doubt whether Tomás would have married you except to protect himself from your knowledge.
I know what the villagers are like, and—as you described your early life to me—I ached dreadfully at the thought of what I put you through.
Yes, Rosa, what I put you through.
You are my daughter. I am your birth mother.
~~~
How Nikki must have jumped when I screamed so unexpectedly. So excitedly.
“Rosa, what? Are you all right?”
I couldn’t speak. I handed her that page and pointed to the line I had been so unprepared to read: “You are my daughter. I am your birth mother.”
Nikki and I both broke out in loud sobs. Losing Mother Chalina—the beloved older friend who’d affectionately called me “my child” and “daughter”—had been bad enough. But to discover I had lost my real mother was more than I could bear. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t keep reading.
A moment later, Juanita knocked at the door.
“Can I get something to help you sleep?” Her tone was gentler—kinder—than usual. I accepted gratefully, but Nikki did not.
Before dropping off to sleep, I told Nikki, “You must read the rest of Mother Cha—my mother’s letter, if you would, please. So you can prepare me to resume reading in the morning.”
She nodded.
Even after swallowing the sleeping pill Juanita brought me, I thought I would never fall asleep. I couldn’t keep from thinking about my mother—and wondering what could possibly make me quit loving or respecting her.
I would find out in the morning.
22
“Breakfast time now,” a familiar voice said.
Nikki set a wooden tray of food on my lap as I sat up in bed and leaned back against the pillow. I sniffed the eggs and bacon on my plate. “Smells wonderful.” Then I raised the glass of milk to my lips. Perhaps milk had been a good thing to include in my daily diet. I was becoming fond of its refreshing flavor.
“Juanita didn’t cook this, by the way. I insisted on doing this for you. But I asked her to pour the milk. I didn’t want her to have her pay docked for failing to do her job properly.”
Although we laughed together at Nikki’s statement, I wondered who was paying Juanita. No one had mentioned it, and this expense was one Tomás would not agree to take care of. I laughed bitterly at the thought of listing Juanita’s help as one of Mother Chalina’s…of my mother’s final “incidental expenses.”
When I first woke up, I’d still felt groggy from the sleeping medication. Its effects were wearing off now, however. Getting food in my stomach must have helped. After finishing my meal, I excused myself briefly.
When I returned, Nikki held the letter out to me.
“This was not a dream, Nikki?”
She held a finger in front of her lips as if to say, “Juanita might be listening.” So I softened my tone to a near-whisper before continuing. “Chalina—Mother Chalina—was really my birth mother?”
Nikki grinned at me. “Not a dream, Rosa.” She’d spoken in a hushed tone.
“Tell me before I begin reading. Will I lose respect for Mother Chalina because of what she says?” I looked at Nikki with such intensity that she turned away briefly.
She faced me again. “That is not for me to say.” I couldn’t tell whether she was being vague on purpose or not.
“Please. I need to know.”
Her lips curled upwards in a slight smile, and her eyes twinkled mischievously. “I can’t say how you should feel, but if I were in your place, everything in this letter would make me love her all the more.”
Without responding, I quickly reread the part of the letter I was familiar with and proceeded to the next section. But first, I read once more those precious two sentences that had turned my whole world upside down in the best possible of ways. “You are my daughter. I am your birth mother.”
When I glanced up a few minutes later, Nikki had her eyes closed. Perhaps she thought I needed privacy—even from her. Although I had shared my feelings with her on many subjects over the years, I appreciated her desire to avoid making me self-conscious.
I started reading again.
~~~
I could not go to my grave without revealing that fact, even though it must be an indescribable shock. How I’ve longed to say something ever since I figured out who you are. But I’ve already told you what a coward I am. I couldn’t do such a thing in person. I was afraid you might reject me.
I don’t know who your father is. Or whether he’s as dead as he deserves to be or contemptibly alive. You became pregnant with Alazne because an evil man took advantage of your innocence. Even though I was innocent, too, I became pregnant with you because I couldn’t scream loud enough or run fast enough to escape from the man who attacked me in a dark field late one night.
An unknown man. Perhaps a teen boy. Because I was weak and small, any attacker would have seemed like
a man. I couldn’t see his face, nor could I discern any physical characteristics that would help me identify him. He never spoke. Not one word. I would have memorized his voice if he had. Even though I smelled liquor on his breath, that wouldn’t enable me to identify him.
Although I had been a virgin until that time, I knew more about the facts of life at sixteen than you did—yes, I got pregnant at the same age you did—and I already understood what this type of forcible attack could result in.
I told my mother about the rape, and she was outraged. She understood and accepted the fact that it was not my fault.
But we couldn’t tell the village Elders, she said, for they would insist that such things never happened in our quiet little village. Years later, I realized people would continue to believe that myth until someone had the courage to tell the truth. But what could I do then?
For several months, my mother and I hoped against hope that I wasn’t pregnant. Then we began to fear I might be. After another month, we were certain. Although she dressed me in looser-fitting clothing than I usually wore, the villagers soon noticed my condition. Perhaps the change in clothes made them suspicious.
Pregnancy outside of marriage was just as unacceptable in Santa María then as it is now, and the villagers treated my mother and me viciously.
“Why didn’t you chaperone Chalina more closely?” they taunted her.
“Who is the father?” they asked me accusingly. Smirks broke out on their faces.
“I do not know.”
Although I had answered honestly, they purposely—so I have always believed—misinterpreted my statement, pointed their fingers at me, and cackled in laughter.
News of my innocent blunder quickly flew from mouth to ear to mouth throughout the village. After that, the entire village was convinced I’d slept with so many men I couldn’t be sure which one had fathered my unborn child.
