by Hester Young
“But I have,” Teresa says. “They don’t want me, not one of them. They want the woman with the microphone.”
“That’s still you,” I point out.
“No. That’s ‘Teresa King, founder of Sonora Hope.’” She recites the name and title with a sarcastic flourish. “I’m Teresa Ríos. I was born in Nogales. Take away my American citizenship, and do you know what the difference is between me and the women I help?”
I shrug.
“Me neither,” she says. “Me neither.”
Fourteen
On Tuesday morning, our new realtor greets us outside the first property he’s showing. He wears a golf shirt, khaki shorts, and large aviator sunglasses, and his hair is slick with gel. Though he’s probably close to Noah’s age, he smells like a frat boy—Axe body spray, or something like that. His skin emits waves so intense that I wonder briefly if my gestating child will suffer grave birth defects with prolonged exposure.
“Charlotte! How are you? You weren’t lying about that baby you’ve got coming, huh? Great to see you! Oscar Perez.” He speaks in one high-pitched, grinning breath and punctuates his own name with a hand that slashes through the air like a guillotine, so abrupt it takes me a second to realize I’m supposed to shake it.
“Charlie,” I say. “Call me Charlie.”
I can already see that this first house is nothing special, a spacious ranch in a nice neighborhood of nearly identical single-family residences, but Oscar grabs Noah’s hand and pumps it with no absence of zeal as he embarks upon a Mickey Mouse–on–speed soliloquy. “You must be Noah. So glad to meet you. Can’t wait to show you two this property, I really think you’re going to like it, hits all the items on your list and then some. Now, I know we’re working under deadline here, so let’s get started, and I’m hoping you can hang on to that baby just a little longer there, Charlie—you look ready to pop!—but at least wait until you get a look at this gorgeous kitchen, ’kay?”
He drapes an arm around my shoulders and urges me toward the house. He’s so over-the-top, his whole demeanor such an impossible caricature, that I find myself strangely entertained.
Inside the house, I scan the large foyer, note the skylights. Compared to all the flawless homes we’ve seen in Sidalie, it’s underwhelming, but there’s a lot of natural light and plenty of square footage. We could make it work, if we wanted to. We could make anything work.
Convinced of my chronic pickiness, Noah seems to be bracing himself for the worst. He’s listened to me find complaint with items I can now admit were ridiculous: the color of a granite countertop, the shape of a Jacuzzi, the placement of a light switch. When I respond cheerfully to Oscar’s unwarranted praise of the high-ish ceilings and so-so appliances, Noah’s eyebrows just about hit his hairline.
“Is it the fumes?” he whispers, and I gather I’m not the only one who has noticed our agent’s profusion of body spray. “Are they makin’ you woozy?”
“I don’t think so.” I laugh. “I’m just ready to do this now.” I don’t tell him how good it feels to picture a future together outside of Sidalie, away from his old life with Carmen. It would seem like gloating.
“Baby.” His eyes widen. “I think you’re nestin’.”
• • •
OSCAR TAKES US to three more suburban ranches, all nondescript but suitable. I find positive, noncommittal things to say about each, drawing more furrowed brows from Noah and manic enthusiasm from Oscar, who seems to believe that volume and exaggerated facial expressions are the way to close a sale.
Still, as I envision a life in Arizona, I find myself torn. I like Tucson, its positive, relaxed vibe, its promise of a new beginning. But am I really ready to take on all the challenges my niece entails? To juggle whatever profound psychological issues Micky has with the demands of an infant? And I can’t quite shake the feeling of unease that touring all these bathrooms produces. Those seconds before I first enter always send me into high alert, my eyes scanning the room for something familiar, something dangerous: concrete walls, exposed piping, blue and yellow tile. Yet these half-remembered dream elements bear no resemblance to the serviceable bathrooms Oscar shows us. These houses seem safe, my fears unfounded.
“We’ve seen four places now,” Oscar says, trying not to betray his impatience, “and I’d like to know where your head’s at. What you like, what you’re missing. Which one’s your favorite?”
“They’re all fine,” I tell him. “I mean, it’s just a house. Whatever keeps the rain out, right?”
Noah blinks. “Who are you?”
“Let me show you both one last property,” Oscar says, correctly calculating that my indifference is not moving us any closer to an actual purchase. “Ten Mawith Drive. M-A-W-I-T-H, program that into your GPS. Just came on the market three days ago. It was designed by a couple of artists, and it’s a beaut, environmentally friendly, very custom. Has a lot of character.”
For once, Oscar’s not overselling. Located in a suburban-verging-on-rural area, the house is far from the ranches that we’ve spent our morning wandering through. It’s smaller but funkier, and the exterior is in a blocky pueblo style that feels geographically distinctive. Really, though, it’s the landscaping that catches my eye. Instead of the meticulous paving and stonework we’ve been seeing, 10 Mawith Drive is nestled in what appears to be actual desert. The pathway to the house is flanked by a variety of cacti, trees, shrubs, and even a few boulders that imbue the land with a natural, slightly unkempt look.
Noah touches my arm and points silently to a nearby flowering bush where a tiny, shimmering little creature vibrates against a blossom. I gasp. A hummingbird.
“There’s a patio in the back,” Oscar says quickly, “so don’t worry about space for the kids to play. Come on inside, and I’ll show you what we’ve got going on.”
Noah and I grin at each other, and for a moment, all the other details cease to matter. We’re just some shining, expectant couple looking to buy our first home together. He puts a hand on the small of my back, gently guiding me in the front door, and for once, I don’t feel that flash of annoyance, the urge to snap, Jesus, Noah, I’m not crippled.
No way around it, the interior of the house screams Artist! The floors are nearly all Saltillo tile, the ceilings have exposed beams, and both the kitchen and bathroom walls are decorated with colorful Mexican ceramic tiles. Painted in electric shades of orange, purple, and green, the bedroom walls suggest fruity sherbets and contain hand-painted images of birds, a tree, a fanciful village, a sun and moon.
“I don’t know about that,” Noah says. His tastes have always run toward the traditional, and with his old-school upbringing, I’m sure that painting on the walls seems like sacrilege.
“Kind of tacky, kind of cute,” I say.
“Of course you’ll want to repaint,” Oscar tells us, “but that’s a minor thing. If you look past the quirky murals, I think you’ll see the bones are there.”
From the doorway of a small, pistachio-colored bedroom, I mentally arrange baby furniture. Changing table, dresser, rocking chair, a crib over by the tree mural—it would all fit, though just. There’s a large window on the rear wall, and I peer outside, taking in the view of the back patio. A hammock wedged between trees. Silent mountains on the horizon, greenish brown and craggy. Room for the kids to run around, as Oscar said, but also a hot tub. I imagine soaking beneath the stars on a cool desert night. Not bad.
I move away from the window, my vision blurring. The sunshine is getting to me, making my head buzz. I touch my temple, about to ask for Tylenol, and then I feel it. That telltale crackle passing through, showing me.
The room goes dark, daylight flipping off like a switch. Window full of moonlight, and the tree mural still there, its branches spreading across the walls like outstretched hands. In the space that I’d imagined placing my daughter’s crib, I now see a bed, and in it, a girl, or the s
hadow of one.
She’s propped up on one elbow, her face tilted upward to a larger, adult shadow. I take a few steps closer. Who am I seeing? The previous occupants of this house? Did something bad happen to them?
But as I move closer to the girl, I realize that she’s no stranger from the past. Though the hair is longer, the face thinned out, I know this child. It’s Micky. An older Micky.
The adult shadow bends over her, fusses with her blankets. When it turns a few degrees, I recognize Noah’s familiar silhouette. He stoops to kiss Micky good night, his hand lingering on the top of her head, and the easy affection between them is a palpable presence in the room. As the buzzing in my head fades and the picture flickers out, all I can think is, I guess this isn’t supposed to be the baby room, after all.
“Well?” Noah asks, and only then do I realize that he’s beside me, Real Noah, not Future Noah in the Dark. “Not really your style, right, this house?”
I shield my face from the streaming sunlight, still a little dazed. “It has . . . possibilities.”
“The outdoor area is pretty amazin’,” Noah ventures. “You saw the hot tub?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice view, enough space. Artsy, but . . . I mean, we could change what you don’t like.”
“Definitely artsy,” I agree.
He interprets my reticence as a lack of enthusiasm. “Hey,” he says, trying to swallow back his disappointment. “You don’t have to settle. We’ll keep lookin’. This was just a scoutin’ mission, right?”
But I can’t let him pull back, not now. Not after what I’ve seen.
This is a house for children. A house for a family. A house where Noah can tuck Micky into bed and kiss her good night, his hand lingering on the top of her head.
This house is already ours. And Micky, however conflicted I may feel about her, is evidently ours as well.
“This is it,” I tell Noah. “This is where we should live.”
He pauses. Checks to make sure he’s heard me correctly. “What?”
“I think we should make an offer.”
“On this place? You’re serious?”
A few yards away, I can see Oscar perking up, the quiet ka-ching of dollar signs in his eyes as he works out his potential commission. I lean into Noah, trying to quash all lingering doubts—his and mine both—with a show of certitude.
“We should do it. We should do everything.”
Noah looks around us. Breaks into a grin. “Wow,” he says. “Just like that, huh? Leave Sidalie? Get another kid? Wow. Okay. Let’s make an offer.”
We wander through the house again, brimming with ideas, too swept up in the moment to recognize the cliff we might be walking off. The baby will get the orange sun-and-moon room; the downstairs alcove will be my office. As we plan, I can feel the struggles of the past few months fading from view, a feeling of release as I grasp that my purgatory in Sidalie will soon end. Now our new life rushes toward us with exhilarating speed.
It’s only the next day, after we’ve drawn up the papers at Oscar’s office, after our offer has been accepted and we sit toasting our bright future together over mocktails, that I realize. I saw a future for Noah and for Micky in that house.
But I didn’t see me. I didn’t see our daughter.
• • •
I CALL PAM WEDNESDAY EVENING, ostensibly to tell her about the house but mainly to check on her emotional well-being. “How are things going?” I ask. I’m stretched out on a recliner in our hotel room while Noah throws on some workout clothes.
“I’m hanging in,” Pam says. “I guess.” Her voice is hard to read over the phone. “It’s a little weird living here without Donna.”
“I bet.”
“I never realized she had so much stuff. Everywhere I look, there’s something. I don’t know what to do with it all.”
I know what she means. After Keegan died, the stuff began to seem so important. Each object became an extension of him somehow, a story from his short life I couldn’t bear to look at or to part with. It wasn’t until April, a full nine months after his death, that I finally emptied my house in Stamford, let him go—most of him, anyway. I still have three large boxes of my son’s possessions in Sidalie, carefully whittled down to the items I most cherish: a handful of children’s books, a framed Maurice Sendak print from Keegan’s nursery, a baby blanket that my grandmother knit for him. Losing a lover is not the same as losing a child, but I can sympathize with Pam. I know what absence feels like. It is a low, melancholy tune that never stops playing, and the happiest moments of our lives only serve to raise its volume, to remind us, You are not with me.
“You don’t have to deal with Donna’s stuff yet,” I tell her. “Give yourself time.”
“Feels like I have too much of that,” she says. “I don’t know what to do with myself. Hell of a time to be retired.”
From the doorway of our room, Noah gestures that he’s leaving. Gym, he mouths, and holds up his cell to let me know it’s on him. I give him a thumbs-up, watch him go.
“Listen,” I tell Pam, “my guy just ditched me for some quality time with a bench press. If you’re looking for a distraction, I could come by with Chinese in half an hour.”
“Make that sushi and you’ve got yourself a deal,” Pam says.
I wait a couple minutes to let Noah get settled into his workout and then head down to the lobby, car keys in hand. If I tell him where I’m going now, he’ll want to come with me, to keep an eye on me, but we’ve had more than enough Together Time lately. From the car, I send him a quick text. Kinda bored. Going to visit Pam for a bit. Sounds like she could use company.
I don’t expect him to like it, but what’s he going do? Come after me?
Not when I’ve got the car.
• • •
PAM’S HOME IS DIFFERENT AT NIGHT. Less cheerful. With just a few weak lamps on, the colors are muted, the wall ornaments shiny and dark. Donna’s hanging plants spill downward in shadowy tangles. Pam leads me to the kitchen table, where a catalog of what appears to be surveillance equipment lies open. I glance at a few of the products on the page: tiny cameras, hidden recording devices, night goggles.
“Is that a cop thing?” I ask. “Or are you just especially paranoid?”
“It’s not paranoia when two people end up dead,” she says, unruffled. “You want a drink?”
“I don’t drink.”
She gives me a strange look. “I didn’t mean alcohol. I know you’re pregnant.”
I laugh. “Of course you do. Sorry. I never drink, and I’m just so used to—”
“Explaining yourself? Yeah. I don’t drink alcohol, either.” She removes a pitcher of ice water from the fridge and pours us each a glass. “Socially awkward sometimes, turning down a beer.”
“Yeah, well.” I take the water that she offers. “My family tree has a lot of addicts. If it keeps me off that particular branch, I’m okay with a little social awkwardness.” I begin unpacking our sushi order, unable to conceal my enthusiasm. “So we’ve got unagi, dragon roll, Alaskan roll, futomaki, and spicy tuna.” Looking at the feast before me, my previous avoidance of sushi during pregnancy now seems moronic and vaguely insulting to generations of Japanese mothers.
“Looks good. Thanks.” Pam settles down at the table with me. She’s wearing a black T-shirt and athletic shorts this evening, and I realize that I’ve never seen her wear anything not black or white. I wonder if this is a reflection of an intense all-or-nothing personality or just the sign of someone who can’t be bothered to match colors. “So where exactly is this house you and Noah found?”
“About fifteen minutes from here.” Her mention of Noah reminds me to check my phone for texts. Just one, I discover. Have fun w/ Pam, Noah tells me. PLS be careful. I look up, smiling. “Mawith Drive,” I say. “Our new house is on Mawith Drive.”
&
nbsp; “Mawith,” she repeats. “Huh. That’s O’odham. It means ‘mountain lion.’”
“Really? I hope the name isn’t descriptive.”
“Just some developer getting cute, I’m sure.”
“I didn’t realize you spoke O’odham.” I glance at her. Shove a disc of futomaki in my mouth.
“I haven’t in ages. Probably forgot most of it.”
I remember the way my high school French came back a decade later in Paris, long-forgotten words suddenly bubbling up from my throat, the phlegmy pomposity of the French r like riding a bicycle. And I was never even fluent in French. “I bet you’d remember O’odham if you went reaching for it,” I say. “At least the basics. Like . . . how do you say ‘sun’ and ‘moon’?”
“What do you care?” Her voice is unexpectedly sharp.
I don’t know how to reply. I asked about the words “sun” and “moon” because I love how they sound in French, soleil and lune, the way they ease off the tongue like poetry. Because I wondered what the sun and moon sound like to the Tohono O’odham people. From the way Pam’s looking at me, though, daring me to exoticize her culture or romanticize her history, I realize that’s the wrong answer.
Pam’s hand tightens around her glass of water. “I left the res at sixteen,” she says. “Far as I’m concerned, it can stay right where I left it.”
“Okay.” I wonder what made her turn her back on where she came from so completely. Was she running away from something? Looking for something better? “Do you still have family there?”
“It’s been forty years. Who the hell knows?”
“You weren’t close to them, then.” Something she and Donna had in common, I gather.
Pam looks annoyed that I’m pursuing the topic. “I was close to my grandfather. Hung around until he died, and after that, nothing in the world could’ve kept me there.” She stabs at a spicy tuna roll with one chopstick. “You think your family tree’s got problems, you should get a look at mine. Diabetics and drunks, the whole damn thing.”
“Even your grandfather?”