The Shimmering Road

by Hester Young

  The room waits. For one tense second, Teresa appears lost, as if she’s forgotten who she is and what she’s doing, but she recovers quickly.

  “I founded Sonora Hope in 2002 in memory of my mother, Jimena Ríos, who fought hard to raise and protect her children. Today, as we approach our organization’s ten-year anniversary, I’m proud to report that we have helped hundreds of women—women just like my mother—to become more educated, more enterprising, more financially self-sufficient.” She stops speaking as a round of enthusiastic applause breaks out, and gives us all a tired, hollow smile until it dies down. “The fantastic thing about this organization is the positive way that it affects everyone involved, both recipients and donors. Today we celebrate the people who have made Sonora Hope a success and remember that giving is never a one-way street.”

  As she introduces the first speaker, a Nogales woman named Marilena, I overhear the male half of the cardiologists whispering. “A little off her game today, don’t you think?”

  “It’s Donna,” his wife responds in a low voice. “The woman who got murdered, remember? Teresa’s a wreck about it. They were pretty close.”

  I can’t help but wonder what “pretty close” might mean. Was Donna’s admiration for this woman more than just the silly crush Pam described? Is there some part of that story that Pam left out, one that justifies her hostility toward Teresa? I glance at Noah, but he’s immersed in the words of this Marilena character, showing no signs of having heard the people behind us.

  Short and squat, with a lean and angular face, Marilena is a plain woman with one outstanding feature: a drooping left eye that never blinks. From the story she tells, she must be about my age, but her hair is streaked with gray, her skin deeply creased around the eyes and forehead. It comes as no surprise that life has prematurely aged her. In slow, choppy sentences, Marilena details a life of abuse with a husband who once beat her so badly that she subsequently lost all vision in her left eye. She describes fleeing with her four children, finding themselves homeless, and eventually taking refuge in the garbage dump of Tirabichi, joining a community of scavengers that earned their living by selling recyclable trash.

  Ordinarily, listening to some foreigner fight her way through English would grate on my nerves, yet somehow Marilena’s determined struggle to conquer the language becomes heroic, a metaphor for her life in this hardscrabble border town. By the time she reaches the Magical Intervention by a Sonora Hope Employee part of her saga, my lip is quivering and my arms are wrapped around my own belly, hugging my unborn daughter. Marilena smiles proudly as she tells the roomful of potential benefactors about the small hotel that she now runs, four rooms to rent plus a room for her and her children.

  “I am so grateful to the people like you,” she says, pressing her hands together as if in prayer. “Finally, we have this roof on our head.”

  Noah and I exchange agonized glances, and I know that he would, in this moment, gladly give every last penny of his inheritance to needy Mexican women. Always a skeptic, I find myself torn. I can feel my defenses going up; I want to dismiss Marilena’s story as fake, something concocted to tug on the heartstrings of donors. It’s too awful to accept as someone else’s reality—and I haven’t exactly led a life of sunshine and rainbows myself. Yet while my father struggled for years with alcoholism and its resulting money problems, he certainly didn’t beat me. And when I gave my cheating husband the boot, I still had a home, a career to support my son and myself. I did not have to live, quite literally, amongst the trash.

  This woman has to be lying, I think. And yet there is something in Marilena’s thin face, the kind of fierceness and fortitude that only comes with desperate circumstances. She’s a survivor. It’s a relief when she finally leaves the stage and Teresa introduces the next speaker, an employee of Sonora Hope named Albert Mangusson.

  Already perilously close to bawling, I don’t actually pay much attention to Albert’s speech. Instead, I distract myself by discreetly surveying my fellow audience members and trying to guess what lucrative industries they work in. Doctor, lawyer, sales and marketing, something tech-based—it’s far easier to assign imaginary professions than listen to more horror stories of inequity, and Albert makes my quest to ignore him immeasurably easier with his low, lilting tone. He’s a lanky, balding redhead, inoffensive and utterly forgettable, and I have effectively blocked him from my thoughts until, for reasons I don’t hear, he speaks my mother’s name.

  I look up, but he seems to be talking about something else now, the void his work at Sonora Hope filled after a difficult divorce, the support he drew from his phenomenal coworkers. Albert’s experiences are supposed to be inspiring, and they probably are, but I just want to get out of here, to end the emotional onslaught.

  I already know how bad this world is, I want to tell them. I lost my son to it.

  I pull on Noah’s sleeve. “What was that he said before about Donna?”

  “Just that they were friends,” Noah whispers, irritated by my interruption.

  When I finally accept the service award on my mother’s behalf, it’s anticlimactic, Teresa’s praise a rehash of what I heard at the funeral. Standing in front of the crowd and being identified in public as Donna’s daughter is not the revelation I was expecting. It feels dishonest, like I’m lying to them all.

  Shiny plaque in hand, I return to the table no different, no closer to understanding who my mother was and why she made the choices she did.

  • • •

  AFTER THE CEREMONY HAS ENDED and everyone is hobnobbing, glasses of champagne in hand, I scan the crowd for Albert Mangusson. Noah, unabashed by his wrinkled attire, has joined the ring of Teresa devotees, and I’m glad. I want to ask Albert about my mother, want to learn about this other side of her that came out in her work, and for reasons I can’t explain, I don’t want Noah to be part of this conversation.

  Albert is not, as it happens, hard to locate. He stands alone in a corner, nibbling on a pastry as clumps of stylish people ignore him. He doesn’t look self-conscious or in any way lonely, and I have the sense that he’s used to being invisible, drifting amongst people without ever really being seen. When he’s finished with his dessert, he moves toward the door, casting a final glance back at the circle around Teresa before divining that his presence is unnecessary. I scramble into the lobby after him.

  “Mr. Mangusson!” My voice echoes slightly in the space.

  He stops walking and turns around, spots me bounding across the room toward him with all the grace and elegance of a loping panda. Despite the short distance, I’m a little winded when I reach him.

  “I was wondering if you had a minute.”

  “I have several minutes,” he says. “Sit down, please.” He touches my elbow and urges me toward a bench. We sit on opposite ends, and I find myself suddenly shy. This is the first time I’ve discussed my mother without using Micky as my shield.

  “I just . . . wanted to talk to you about Donna, if that’s okay. Since you two were friends.”

  “Of course, of course.” Albert’s head bobs up and down a little too vigorously. “Wow. So you’re Charlotte.” For a few seconds we sit staring stupidly at each other, and then he leans forward and gives me an awkward hug. “I’m so glad to meet you.”

  Somehow the fact that he knows my name—and so did Pam, so did Teresa—is more than I can bear. I find myself crying, a rush of salty, silent tears that slide down my cheeks and into my shaky fingers. Albert hurries over to the museum’s ticketing desk and retrieves a tissue for me. For a moment, his kindness only makes me cry harder.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble, wiping at my face. “I don’t mean to dump on you.”

  “No, no, no,” he protests. “You must be . . . going through a lot right now.” He puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and I can see that he must be good at his job, able to respond with compassion when the situation calls for it, gentle
enough to win the trust of even the most hardened woman. “Please,” Albert says, “ask me anything you want about Donna. She would’ve been so happy to have you here.”

  Through my tears, I give a short, dry laugh. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Why’s that?” He looks genuinely puzzled.

  “It’s pretty clear she didn’t want me around. She could’ve reached out to me at any time, and she didn’t.”

  Albert doesn’t immediately reply, but the look on his face says that he is weighing his words carefully. “I’m not sure how much you know about your mother’s past,” he says at last. “But it was an ugly one. From what she’s told me, there were a lot of years she wasn’t fit to speak to you. Maybe it’s a gift she didn’t.”

  I pick at my cuticle. “I’m not saying I wanted her around. I’m just saying, you know, she wasn’t. So, pardon me for saying so, but I don’t think she’d care that I’m here now.”

  Albert nods with the empathetic-yet-detached expression of a therapist. “I understand why you’d feel that way. My sense of things—and this is just from conversations with Donna, I don’t pretend to know her mind—but my sense was that she was waiting for you to make the first move.”

  “Well, that’s just . . . cowardly.” I spit out the word with more anger than I intended.

  “I guess it is.” He smiles at me, a little sad. “Donna never had much in the way of self-esteem. I didn’t know her when she was using, so it always seemed strange, this kind, capable woman with all that self-doubt. I don’t think she ever forgave herself for all the years she lost.”

  “Years she wasted.”

  “Yes,” he agrees, “years she wasted. Donna knew her good intentions weren’t enough to fix things. She tried, you know, but . . . I think she took it pretty hard when you went to live with your grandmother.”

  I stare at Albert’s watery blue eyes, uncomprehending.

  “After your dad passed,” he says, uncertain, as if he might’ve mixed up the details. “When she tried to get custody of you.”

  I’m about to tell him that he’s wrong, that Donna wasn’t in touch with anyone in our family, that she didn’t even know about my dad’s death, but I stop. Because how would Albert know about my father’s death and my going to live with Grandma . . . unless Donna told him? The full significance of what he’s just said hits me, alters everything I thought I knew about Donna DeRossi, that phantom of my childhood.

  “She knew about that?” I whisper. “Donna knew my dad died?”

  Albert hesitates, as if this question somehow puts him in an indelicate position. “Listen, Charlotte,” he says slowly, “I don’t know exactly what your family told you, and it’s certainly not my place to—”

  “Please,” I say. “I’m sorry to put you in the middle of this, but whatever you know about my mother, I need to hear it.”

  Albert dabs at his forehead with his sleeve, trying to remove the sudden beads of perspiration that have appeared. Gone is that calm, reassuring exterior. Now he looks about as comfortable as a polar bear in a Florida zoo. “I only know what Donna told me,” he cautions me, “but her story was that after your dad passed away . . . Jim? Was that your dad’s name?”

  I nod.

  “Right. So after Jim died, Donna decided that she would take you. She was having a sober period and thought she could manage you. Jasmine was two, maybe three back then? And your mom thought it would be nice for her to have a big sister. Thought you all could be a family.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “No one ever told me about this. No one even mentioned her.”

  “I guess when Donna discussed the idea with her sister, it didn’t go over too well.”

  I think of my aunt Suzie, her casually informing me of my mother’s death. You and me both know Donna was a piece of shit, she told me. You don’t owe her jack. It’s not hard to imagine that Suzie would have objected, probably strenuously, to my mother’s attempting to get custody of me. And who could blame her?

  “So, Suzie told her to buzz off, and that was it?” I ask.

  Albert seems wrongly concerned that I’ll be furious with Suzie over this. “Your aunt had a lot of valid points,” he says quickly. “She was worried about Donna’s sobriety, how long it would last. And, you know, she was right. Donna started using again within the year. It took her a long time to really, finally get clean.”

  “Oh, I know I wasn’t missing out,” I assure him. “Suzie was looking out for me. I owe her one.”

  “Right,” he says, relieved. “Anyway, I think that’s why your mom didn’t contact you. Her sister convinced her that you were better off if she stayed away.”

  “I can’t believe she told you all this,” I say. My gaze wanders upward and settles somewhere in the rafters above us.

  “We were good friends,” Albert says softly. “She was really there for me after my divorce. And I think the nature of our work made it easy to . . . share things. We saw problems so much worse than our own.” He swallows, permitting himself a moment of his own grief. “I’ll miss her every day, I really will. And it’s not just a personal loss. The whole organization is feeling this. Earlier this summer, one of our girls in Nogales killed herself, and now we lose Donna. It’s just . . . getting hard to fight the good fight. Even Teresa’s struggling.”

  I feel like a jerk now, blubbering about my relationship with some woman I never even knew when the man across from me has just lost a very real and valued friend. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I hope . . . Sonora Hope has resources for you. You must absorb so much stress on the job.”

  “I wouldn’t trade it.” He stands up from the bench, signaling that our conversation has come to an end. “Listen, it was great to meet you. I hope I didn’t say anything today to cause problems.”

  “No.” I spread my legs in an unladylike squat and rise to my feet. “I appreciate your honesty. You . . . clarified some things for me.”

  He gives me a business card and then leans in for a one-armed hug. “Take care, Charlotte. And if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call.”

  I’m not asleep, not even close to dreaming, but as he wraps his arm around me, I feel something crackle through me. Heat. My skin blazing. It hurts to swallow. There’s a fire in my throat, a hot coal searing me from the inside. My voice burns away. I look up at Albert, stricken, but his face is distracted, his mind elsewhere. When he moves away from me, the pain subsides.

  It’s a message, I think, but not from Albert.

  I grab his sleeve before he can get away. “Albert? Do you have any kids?”

  “A ten-year-old,” he says. “I was just going to call him, actually.”

  I remember that Albert is divorced. “I guess he’s with his mom right now?”

  “Yeah. He was supposed to come hear me speak today, but . . . he’s not feeling well. A cold or something. At least that’s what his mother told me.” He shrugs, but I can see his sadness at the idea his son may have blown him off. “Maybe he just wanted out.”

  “Oh, no.” My skin has cooled now, the fire in my throat subsided. “I think he’s really sick.”

  Albert smiles. “Maybe.” He takes his phone from his pocket and prepares to dial his son. “His mom has never been a fan of doctors.”

  “You should take him,” I say, “just to be on the safe side. I hear strep throat’s been going around.”

  • • •

  BACK IN THE EVENT ROOM, I find Noah still hanging with the Teresa crowd. Although people have arranged themselves around her, Teresa herself says little, allowing her admirers to do all the talking. She smiles and manages to laugh when appropriate, but I can see what Albert was saying about her struggling. There’s a vagueness in the way she listens, and her hands flutter about her face and hair, indecisive, searching for a place to land.

  When she spots me, she abandons her chattering pack
of fans and grasps me by the arm. “How’s Micky?” she asks. I imagine Teresa at eight, a scrawny, dark-eyed orphan grappling with her mother’s death, and I understand why her thoughts are now with this little girl.

  “Holding up,” I say. “Micky’s holding up.”

  Behind her, the well-dressed cluster of philanthropists watches us, trying to figure out why Teresa has broken ranks to speak with me. At their rear, Noah lifts his hand in greeting, the wart on an otherwise designer crew.

  “I’ve been thinking we could start a memorial fund,” Teresa says in a rush. “Something in Donna’s name, but the proceeds would go to Micky. Would that be all right with you?” She glances at my stomach. “Raising a child is so expensive, and Donna was one of our own. I’d like to help.”

  If I were in a different sort of mood, I might laugh at the absurdity of one offering financial assistance to a couple with a considerable fortune languishing in a Swiss bank account.

  “Money’s not a problem,” I tell her, “but I certainly do appreciate the thought.”

  I wave Noah over and nudge him firmly toward the door, too drained by my conversation with Albert to engage in social niceties any longer. My eyes are probably still pink and puffy from my unexpected sob session, and I can feel a headache moving in, dark and menacing, like the clouds of an oncoming monsoon.

  Who were you, Donna? I want to ask. Were you good or were you bad? A saint or sinner?

  These are the wrong questions, I know, too reductive, too binary to encapsulate a human being. I should stick to facts, ask only that which has a clear answer.