by Luanne Rice
It took two days for Roberto to be processed—arrested and deported to Mexico across the river from Nogales. He went straight to Altar, and found his way along the same route taken by the coyotes. Landmarks had been burned into his memory: a saguaro cactus shaped like a horse, piles of plastic water bottles left by previous groups, the body of the man he and Rosa had traveled with, and finally the boulder where he’d left his daughter.
He made it to the highway, and this time there was no La Migra waiting for him. A trucker picked him up and drove him to the next town, where he’d called his father. And his father drove down from Los Angeles to get him.
After he finished telling her, Roberto left the kitchen, and she watched him cross the courtyard, pass behind the barn. The sprinklers went on, filling the dry air with mist. It was late in the day for irrigation—usually Roberto took care of it before the sun crested the mountains.
Julia couldn’t breathe. She could see the moonlight on the endless desert, Rosa so tiny in that wild landscape. It was as if Roberto’s memory had become her vision. She could feel Roberto’s heart pounding, his panic in those minutes without Rosa in his arms, running back to her. Just a few more yards—all he’d had to do was make it to the rock, and Rosa would be safe now.
Stepping onto the terrace through the mist and darkness, she saw Roberto checking on the sprinklers. She walked outside, through the lemon trees to find him.
“Roberto,” she said.
“How can you look at me after what I just told you?” he asked. “I let my daughter go.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
He kept his head down, as if he couldn’t bear to see her eyes. She touched his face, turned it to meet his gaze. Then she reached for him, holding him close. He embraced her and his head came to rest on her shoulder. Around them the water hissed. Her feet felt wet in the soaking earth.
They broke apart, and his shoulders slumped. She could feel the shame pouring off him.
“Thank you, Julia, for listening to me,” he said. “You’re the only person I’ve ever told that story, all of it.”
“I wanted you to tell me,” she said. “And I understand.”
“Thank you for saying,” he said. “But impossible a woman like you would ever be so reckless, take your daughter into danger, leave her even for a minute.”
Julia’s head buzzed with thoughts and memories. But she took a deep breath of the mountain and sea air, and touched his arm. “I have blamed myself for five years,” she said. “As long as you have suffered over losing Rosa, I’ve felt the same about Jenny.”
“That was not your fault.”
Julia smiled sadly. “I said the same thing to you, but it’s hard to take it in and believe it, isn’t it?”
“Very. But different for you—you didn’t leave Jenny, you . . .”
“Roberto, I failed her. I must have, because why else would she have done what she did?”
Now he held her, rocking her while she tried to breathe.
“I knew she was so sad, she missed her boyfriend, but I had no idea she was so desperate. I never imagined, we were close and talked about everything, but I missed the signs. She must have been trying to tell me, because that’s how we were. But I didn’t hear her.”
“For her, it might have been too hard to tell you,” Roberto said.
“I would have helped her.”
“Maybe she didn’t want help,” Roberto said.
“But Roberto, I still don’t know and I never will! Evidence adds up to one thing for the police, but I’m her mother. I can’t believe Jenny would do it. She’s my girl, she wouldn’t leave me that way. She wouldn’t do it to herself! But then there’s the evidence. It’s so hard to think about, I pushed the thoughts away. I broke our connection.”
He nodded, as if he understood.
“But it’s not broken forever,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Little by little,” she said, “Jenny is coming back to me. It started when you first told me about Rosa, when we were sitting on the house steps that night. I actually felt her with me.”
“En serio?” Roberto asked.
“It sounds crazy, right?”
“Maybe a little,” he said.
“I know, it feels that way to me. But I swear, it was as if she were right there, sitting next to me.”
Roberto stared at her with wide brown eyes and took her hand. Lemon trees surrounded them, their branches arching low over their heads. She smelled citrus, felt the leaves brush the top of her hair. He put his arms around her and kissed her, long and slow. When he stopped, her heart was pounding.
They held each other for a long time before he let her go. She felt him watching her head toward the house before he turned in the opposite direction. By the time she glanced back, he had walked into the rows of lemon trees, disappeared into the night’s ghostly mist.
The next morning she woke up and saw that Serapio’s wife’s car was gone—he must have returned home to East L.A. He’d left without saying goodbye.
She drove along the Pacific Coast Highway with the radio on. She kept it tuned to Sirius E Street, and listened to Bruce Springsteen. He was singing “Further On (Up the Road),” but it could have been anything. He’d become a companion and guardian angel during these years alone. The way Bruce sang, whether it was a rock song or a ballad, she knew that he understood suffering. His music had kept her company cross-country, and it was keeping her sane right now.
Pulling onto Westward Beach Road, she went past the Sunset Restaurant. The road hugged the bluff, and she took it all the way to the last lifeguard station and got out. Bonnie ran straight for the tide line. It had always been this way. In Connecticut, walking along Griswold Point, she’d investigated all the kelp that had washed up between tides. Her limp was worse, and her coat had lost some of its luster, but on the beach she was still the puppy Julia and Peter had brought home for Jenny.
Julia left her shoes in the car, rolled up the legs of her jeans, and walked behind Bonnie in the hard sand. The waves here were the most beautiful she’d ever seen. Great curling tubes of blue-green glass breaking into white foam that spread across the packed sand and rolled back into the Pacific.
She walked barefoot through the foam, cold on her feet—much colder than the Atlantic and Long Island Sound—deep enough so the waves splashed her pants. She felt the waves wanting to pull her out, into the ocean, picking up smooth rocks and bits of broken shell.
Offshore four dolphins swam north, parallel to the beach. Bonnie heard one exhale from its blowhole, and began racing back and forth along the sand, barking. She jumped into the water, swam out twenty yards, but was no match for the dolphins. Julia sat on the sand, watching. The dolphins were long gone, but Bonnie swam in the waves, buoyed by the sea.
Julia slipped off her jeans and T-shirt and walked into the ocean in her underwear. The water felt cold on her legs, but she dove straight in—a habit from her childhood, growing up at the beach. Sometimes people would give themselves time to get used to the water, but not Julia. She’d taught Jenny to do it the same way.
She and Bonnie drifted in the current and were lifted by the waves. The rip ran swiftly along the beach. It carried her and Bonnie parallel to the sand, all the way to the next lifeguard tower. Because it was off-season, the guard stations weren’t manned. But Julia was a strong swimmer, and she loved being in salt water more than anywhere else on earth. It restored her.
The ocean and sun brought Julia back to herself. As she swam hard, then let go and floated, face up toward the blue sky, she wondered what objects Roberto had to remind him of Rosa. She wondered whether he’d found her doll, Maria, when he’d gone back to the rock months later.
She and Bonnie climbed out of the ocean fifty yards along the beach from where they’d first gone in. Jul
ia walked back to her towel but didn’t pick it up and just stood there drying in the sun. She had a long day ahead of her, and she wanted to hold on to this bright feeling of stepping out of the ocean.
She drove home and got ready. Sprayed Bonnie with the hose, combed out the worst tangles of seaweed, dried her with a towel. Then she stood under the outdoor shower—such a luxury—standing in the sun as she rinsed all the salt water off. She washed her hair with her aunt’s lemon shampoo—the label said Casa Riley, and Julia knew she’d had it made with blossoms and fruit from the orchard.
Inside she changed into a blue cotton shift and threw a navy sweater over her shoulders. She slipped her feet into a pair of ballet flats, momentarily wondered whether to take an overnight bag. She packed one, just in case.
She looked at Bonnie, debated on whether to take her, too. She knew she’d be busy, and didn’t want to chance neglecting her. Although she might have asked Roberto to feed and walk Bonnie, he’d gone home for the long weekend. She picked up the phone.
“Darling, you missed a delicious dinner,” Lion said when he answered.
“I know, I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s appalling you got stuck with that pompous ass. Did he really drive you away?”
“No. Honestly, Lion—Thanksgiving was such a Jenny holiday . . .”
“Say no more. I completely understand.”
“Actually, I’m calling to ask a favor.”
“Hmm?”
“I have to drive down to San Diego. I have a project in mind, and I’m not sure how long it will take. Would you mind feeding Bonnie?”
“Not at all, love. I’ll drop by the Casa soon and give her lunch and a walk. Will, um, someone be going with you?”
“Roberto? No,” she said.
“Sweetheart, a solo road trip can be just the thing. Do you have some thinking to do?”
“Maybe,” she said, and laughed. “But I’m fine, Lion—I promise. And thanks for Bonnie-sitting. I won’t be gone long.”
“Whatever suits you,” he said. “Consider her fed. Two old dogs—she and I will have a lot to talk about.”
“Thanks,” Julia said, and they hung up.
Bonnie, worn out from the excitement of the beach and her swim, was lying in the shade on the terrace. It overlooked the canyon and sea, and Julia saw Bonnie watching the red-tailed hawks ride the thermals. Julia leaned down and kissed her goodbye.
“I’ll be back soon,” she said, knowing Lion would soon be there to take her on a midday walk.
Bonnie gave her a baleful look. They understood each other. Living alone for so long, they’d developed a language between them. She let out a small but not overly protesting bark.
As Julia backed out of the driveway, she saw Roberto in the orchard—he’d come back after all. He was on a ladder, pruning branches. Their eyes met and they waved. She braked, and for a minute thought of telling him where she was going. But instead she stepped lightly on the gas and kept going.
Roberto
Wherever Julia had gone, Roberto hoped she would return soon. He thought of her nonstop.
Señor Riley always gave him and Serapio Thanksgiving weekend off, but Roberto needed to work. The orchard ate up hours, and while he stood on the ladder he kept picturing Julia back from the beach, walking into the outdoor shower. Roberto, on his ladder, had been unable to tear his eyes away.
She stood behind the latticework, so he couldn’t see much except squares of sunlight on her bare arms and shoulders, but his imagination did the rest. He heard the water spray onto her skin, saw her raise her lean arms to lather shampoo on her head, could almost feel the warm water running down her smooth body.
He had planned to wait till she dried off and got dressed to go to her, take her into the orchard, kiss her again, tell her what last night had meant to him. But she had driven away before he could climb down from the ladder.
Around noon, when the sun blazed a path across the Pacific, he heard a car coming up the drive. For a moment he thought it was Julia and he couldn’t wait to go to her. But the car engine was too powerful to be her Volvo, and when the maroon Jaguar XKE skidded into the turnaround, he saw it was Mr. Cushing, who then walked into the house without knocking.
Roberto wondered if something was wrong. After rinsing his hands under the hose, he hurried to the kitchen door and looked inside. No sign of anyone. He knocked loudly.
“Hola!” Roberto called.
He heard Bonnie barking from somewhere inside, maybe on the big circular seaside terrace. Then footsteps, and Mr. Cushing and Bonnie entered the kitchen at the same time.
“Señor Cushing, Julia has gone out,” Roberto said.
“Yes, Roberto. She told me. Call me Lion, for godsakes.” He rummaged around one of the lower cabinets. “Where the hell does she keep the dog food?”
“I’ll get it,” Roberto said. His stomach dropped—why hadn’t she asked him to feed Bonnie?
Roberto went into the pantry, knelt by the cupboard beside the sink. He had carried the groceries in, placed Bonnie’s food here himself—a case of canned beef and a three-pound bag of dry food.
“Oh dear,” Mr. Cushing said. “What does Julia give her? Half wet, half dry?”
“Yes, that is right. Is she coming back soon?”
The old actor looked at him with kindness. “Um, I don’t know, Roberto. She didn’t seem to know herself.” He stuck a can under the electric opener and zapped the lid off.
“But she will stay away tonight?”
“Yes. Meanwhile, she asked me to feed and walk Bonnie.”
“I would happily do that for her,” Roberto said. “Since I am here anyway.” He felt stabbed that she hadn’t asked him, that after last night she would leave without saying goodbye.
Lion seemed to be watching him with a glint in his eyes as Roberto took the can of food from Lion’s gnarled old hands and mixed it in an aluminum bowl with a handful of kibbles.
“That’s very nice of you,” Lion said. “Thank you. I’ll let her know you’re on dog patrol. Will you take Bonnie out tonight and in the morning?’
“Sí, for sure,” Roberto said.
“Muchas gracias,” Lion said.
Roberto and the old actor watched Bonnie eat. He had the sense Lion felt the same emotional current he did; they knew what Bonnie meant to Julia.
“Did she say anything about why she left?” Roberto asked.
“Not really.” The old actor’s eyes gleamed. “Something about a project. But I’ll tell you one thing, Roberto.”
“What?”
“She was driven mad by Jenny’s death. Did she tell you about what happened?”
“Sí,” Roberto said.
“It practically destroyed her. You can imagine. But I see a difference in her in the last few weeks. A real transformation.”
“What is that?”
“She’s alive again. She feels happy.” Lion clapped Roberto on the shoulder. “And it’s because of you.”
“Me?” he asked.
“Yes. She likes you and you make her happy.”
Lion walked toward his car and climbed in. The motor started with a lusty roar. “The least we can do is take care of her while she’s here,” he said.
“We can do that, Mr. Cushing,” Roberto said, forgetting.
“Call me Lion!” he said. “You make me feel even more ancient than I am.”
“Okay, Lion,” Roberto said.
“I’m the oldest man in Hollywood, but I don’t feel it!” Lion called as he tooted the car horn and sped down the driveway.
Julia
The Reunion Project facility was in La Jolla, adjacent to Scripps Institution of Oceanography, far removed from the U.S.-Mexican border. Juan Rios had told her they would be open Friday and a
ll weekend, and for her to come anytime. The building had a glass door but no windows and looked exactly like what it was: a morgue. That it was used for research, and for reuniting families, couldn’t take away that fact.
She parked her car in the lot next door, walked to the tall glass doors, and buzzed. The receptionist had her name on a list and told her Dr. Rios would be with her shortly.
He came out a few minutes later. Short and compact, he had graying black hair and tortoiseshell half-specs were dangling from a cord around his neck. He wore a rumpled blue oxford shirt and khaki pants, and he greeted her with a hug, like a long-lost friend.
“Chris speaks so highly of you!” he said.
“And of you,” Julia said.
“We go back a long way,” Juan said. “Grad school, when we did our field study together.”
“Chris tends to make work fun,” Julia said.
“You worked with him at the Uto-Aztecan mound, didn’t you?”
“Yes, eleven years ago,” she said.
“Well, I’m glad you got in touch.”
“I know you’re very busy.”
“Not at all. That’s what we are here for,” he said. “But if you don’t mind, let’s grab a bite before we get down to work.” He patted his belly, which was spilling over his belt. “Small, frequent meals. That’s what my wife keeps telling me.”
They climbed into his vehicle, an old Jeep that looked as if it spent more time in the mountains and deserts than on the well-kept roads of La Jolla. He drove her past the ocean, waves breaking on the rocky coast, and past Children’s Pool, a seawall built in 1931—he told her—to create a protected place for kids to swim.
“It’s been taken over by seals,” he said. “That’s Seal Rock, just offshore, and they seem to think Children’s Pool is a good place to birth their pups and keep them safe from what’s out in the ocean.”
