Sisters, Strangers, and Starting Over

by Belinda Acosta

  “I’m texting the office that I’m coming late,” he said.

  Josie turned back to Beatriz. “I owe Perla because she helped me and I…” She could feel her voice begin to shake. “She was the one who helped me see I had to write my book about the Women of Juarez. I was gathering their story—her story. But I stopped working on the project when Perla was killed.”

  “Killed?” Beatriz may have feared the worst for her sister, but hearing it spoken out loud was still a shock. She could feel Larry staring at her, and was thankful for his nearness.

  “Oh, you didn’t know.” Josie was heartsick, realizing she was going to be the one to break this part of the story to Beatriz. She inhaled deeply and tried to calm the quiver in her voice. “Yes. She was killed. I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t be the one to tell you this.”

  “No, you’re the only one who can tell me, it seems.”

  Beatriz exchanged looks with Larry, who moved aside. They let Josie into their house and led her to the kitchen, where Beatriz offered her a seat. Through the window, Josie could see the adobe fence, orange on this side, and the riser before it where she had seen Celeste and the boy, relieved she hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing.

  “So,” Beatriz said. “Tell me everything.”

  Josie wanted Beatriz to know how brave Perla was. She told her about Perla working at the grassroots level to provide relief for the victimized families. She told her about how Perla the organizer was not liked among factory owners, but the workers who knew her respected her and, above all, adored her. She told Beatriz how her sister Perla was fierce and stubborn and articulate and brave.

  “Stop,” Larry said when he saw the grief creeping into his wife’s eyes. “Please stop.”

  “I’m fine,” Beatriz said, squeezing her husband’s hand. “Please, go on.”

  “She was much braver than I could ever hope to be,” Josie continued. “She was very private about her personal life, but the most important thing I know is that Celeste was the most precious thing in her world. In the end, all she wanted was for her to be here, with you.”

  As the words sank in, Josie could see a mosaic of emotions pass over Beatriz’s face. It was hard enough for Josie to share the news; she couldn’t imagine being the recipient of it. She tried not to stare as Larry reached over and put his large palm alongside his wife’s face, peering into her eyes for some indication of what to do next.

  “I’m okay. I’m okay,” she whispered.

  Beatriz finally excused herself and left Josie alone with Larry. He began punching keys on his phone again, and Josie watched him, unsure.

  “So,” he said, reading his phone screen. “You’re the Josefina Mendoza who was published in the Dallas Morning News?”

  “That’s me.”

  He scrolled through the other listings he brought up on his phone.

  “And the Atlantic? Impressive.”

  “Yeah, I just look like a nutcase,” Josie tried to joke. Larry didn’t smile. “I’ve been having some trouble sleeping lately,” she explained.

  Beatriz returned with the large envelope that Celeste brought with her the night she arrived and placed it on the table.

  “What can you tell me about this?”

  Josie gasped when she saw what was inside. “Where did you get this?”

  “Celeste brought it.”

  “These—these are my notes! Some of my notes, but I thought I’d lost…” Josie bit her lip as she rifled through the material. “There was a point when I wanted to quit, and Perla told me I couldn’t.” Josie’s mind raced, trying to figure out when Perla could have gotten hold of these notes. She remembered how she’d thrown them in a paper sack and said she was going to burn them. Was Perla there? Suddenly she felt sick. “Did you—did Celeste look at this?”

  “I don’t know what she saw,” Beatriz said. “I didn’t look at all of it, but I did look at this.” She pulled out one of the flash drives and held it up in front of Josie’s face. “Is this how my sister died?”

  Josie took the small piece of plastic from Beatriz and held it in her hand. She was overwhelmed with how such a small thing could carry so much misery and placed the drive on the table.

  “I’m so sorry,” Josie said. The three of them stared at the small flash drive, and Larry, who had no idea of the horrors that it held, knew to cover it with his large palm and pulled it off the table, as if he were closing the eyes of a corpse.

  “I can only hope to God Celeste didn’t see any of this,” Beatriz said.

  She began to shudder, and Larry threw the flash drive into the envelope. He was livid. He felt as if someone had infected his house and that there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Celeste knows you?” Beatriz asked.

  “We met once.” Josie didn’t want to tell Beatriz when and where they had met. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t remember me.”

  “I don’t know if she’s awake yet,” Beatriz said. “It’s been a long, very strange weekend. If you wait here, I’ll get her up and bring her out.”

  Larry put his arm out to stop Beatriz.

  “Where is this thing you said you need to give to her?” Larry asked Josie, remembering the original purpose of her visit.

  “Oh!” Josie stammered. “Of course! I’m so not with it. Let me go get it.”

  “Wait!” Larry said, as Josie rose to leave. “Would you please take all this stuff with you? I can’t have this in my house.” He began to stuff the notes back into the envelope.

  “All we need are the official documents,” Beatriz added. “The rest you can take.”

  “Sure,” Josie said. “I’d be happy to.” She gathered the notes and ran back to the bed-and-breakfast, where her car was parked. When she opened the trunk, she threw the envelope into an already heaping box of paper and dug for Celeste’s quinceañera book, carefully wrapped once in tissue paper, then again in plain brown paper, then again in plastic bubble wrap.

  “Thank you,” Josie said to the sky. She wasn’t sure who or what she was thanking. All she knew was she was grateful to have found Celeste, to have met the family she was to live with now. She looked down at the quinceañera book and felt an enormous weight leave her. It was a small gesture, bringing the book to Celeste, but Josie could already feel a balance brought to her mind, and a warm embrace of her heart. She knew that, at last, her restless mind would let her sleep.

  When Josie returned to Beatriz and Larry’s house, Beatriz was seated with Celeste on the couch in the living room. Larry escorted Josie into the house, but Josie could tell he was still uneasy with her presence. He hovered in the back of the room, occasionally pacing back and forth, peering at his phone or glancing at his watch, carefully watching everything from a distance.

  “Mi’ja, do you remember la señora?” Beatriz asked Celeste, who sat as close to her aunt as possible without sitting on her lap. Celeste looked at Josie and thought she looked familiar but couldn’t quite place her.

  “I thought you said you met?” Larry snapped, when he saw Celeste didn’t recognize Josie.

  “She said they met once,” Beatriz corrected her husband over her shoulder. Then, keeping her voice even, her tone neutral, she spoke again to Celeste. “This is Josefina Mendoza. She says she knew your mother and that she has something for you.”

  Josie handed the wrapped package to Celeste, who held it awkwardly, unsure what to make of it.

  “I only wrapped it up like that to keep it from getting dirty,” Josie explained. “Go ahead. It’s yours.” As Celeste opened the package, Josie caught the harsh expression on Larry’s face. She wanted to witness Celeste being reunited with the quinceañera book but got the distinct impression from Larry that her welcome had long been worn out.

  “You know what? I should probably be on my way,” Josie offered.

  “Have a seat,” Beatriz said.

  Larry clearly didn’t like that Beatriz had invited her to stay but remained silent.

  When Celeste
finished unwrapping the package and realized what was in her lap she leapt to her feet. “Oh! How did you…? Where did you…?”

  “What is that, mi’ja?” Beatriz asked.

  “It’s the book. My book! The book ’Amá and I…” The girl could scarcely talk. She was so excited and so happy, she was speaking in fits and starts.

  Beatriz was ecstatic. The child, who had been terrified just hours earlier, was suddenly buoyant and alive.

  “Thank you, Tía! Thank you!” Without thinking, Celeste threw her arms around her aunt’s neck and held her tightly. Beatriz was as elated as she was the first time her own babies smiled their first smile at her, called her “Mama,” or put their small hands on her cheeks and said, “I love you!”

  “You should thank Ms. Mendoza,” Beatriz said. “She’s the one who brought this to you.”

  Celeste turned her attention to Josie and politely extended her hand to Josie. “Thank you, señora. You don’t know what this means.”

  “I think I know a little,” Josie explained, patting the girl’s hand. “You’re mother shared it with me once. That’s how I got to know about you.”

  “Can I see the book, mi’ja?” Beatriz asked from the couch.

  Celeste went back to her aunt and plopped onto the couch next to her. Josie smiled forlornly, recognizing Perla’s smile on her daughter’s face. She was struck by how such a small thing could open such a deep well of sadness, mixed with gleeful recognition.

  “I bet your aunt would love to know about your book,” Josie said, pushing past the catch in her throat. “But you know what? I probably should be going.” She was beginning to feel self-conscious, the way her emotions were rising to the surface. And Larry was still boring holes into her when he wasn’t looking over the back of the couch to see what Beatriz and Celeste were so excited about.

  As if suddenly remembering Josie was still in the room—and that she was a guest and not a danger—Beatriz slipped into the role of the good hostess. “Please, stay. Let me get you some coffee,” she offered. “We can have breakfast, and you can tell us how you came to have this book. I’d like to know. I bet Celeste would like to know, too, wouldn’t you, mi’ja?”

  Celeste nodded her head, but Josie couldn’t be sure if she was agreeing with Beatriz, or reacting to a memory sparked by one of the pages in her book. What Josie was sure of was that Larry was not thrilled with the idea. Not one bit. This was a private matter. Josie had done what she had to do. Besides, she had her own little girl waiting on her.

  “Thank you, but no. I really need to hit the road.” Josie stood up, reaching into her pocket. She felt something pressing against her leg and when she pulled out her hand she found a crumpled business card. “I knew I had a card!” She smoothed it on her leg and handed it to Beatriz. “Call me anytime. My number is right there.”

  “Let me walk you out,” Larry said. Josie said her final good-byes and followed Larry to the door. Beatriz and Celeste were soon immersed in the quinceañera book, talking and reveling in an unexpected happiness as they pored over the pages, with Beatriz asking questions and Celeste suddenly come to life, explaining what they were looking at.

  “Enjoy!” Josie called to them from the door.

  “Thank you!” Celeste sang, smiling appreciatively at Josie before turning back to her book.

  As soon as Josie stepped off the porch, she reached into her pocket for her cigarettes and lit up. Larry was right behind her, standing above her on the last step.

  “You’ll understand if you never hear from us again, won’t you?” he said to her back.

  Josie took a long, hard draw on her cigarette and inhaled deeply before she turned around. She knew her appearance was a shock, but Celeste and Beatriz seemed happy enough. Why was Larry still treating her like a criminal?

  “What exactly is your problem with me?” she asked.

  “My family doesn’t need to be involved in this thing you’re writing about. Let’s be clear about that. Whatever you’re writing, it doesn’t involve us, okay?”

  “Well, Perla Sánchez is your wife’s sister, isn’t she? She could help me fill in the blanks.”

  “But she doesn’t need to. You don’t need her. You don’t need us,” he said.

  Josie didn’t like how Larry was looking down at her, his chin at his chest, taking on a paternal air. But she could also sense that there was something else: a pleading look in his eyes that he couldn’t hide, no matter how tough he was trying to act. She blew an angry cloud of smoke out of the corner of her mouth and started to respond, but Larry cut her off.

  “My wife has been through enough.” His voice was quivering. “I just want to protect my family. I don’t want them involved. Whatever happened to Perla over there is done. Please, please keep my family out of it.”

  Larry wasn’t angry, he was frightened. As soon as she realized that, Josie’s anger dampened. Her thoughts turned to her own family, her own daughter, how she was long overdue at home, and how she wanted to share a quiet, tender moment with her Paz, like Beatriz and Celeste were having inside. She decided to put Larry’s mind at ease.

  “I don’t need to talk to your wife. I just had some unfinished business to take care of, that’s all. We’re through.” She paused to look into Larry’s face. His anxiety subsided and he began to return to his old self.

  “Well, you have a safe trip back,” he said. As he turned to go back into the house, Josie spoke.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” The words froze him. “Perla was a good person. I’m sorry you didn’t know her the way I did.”

  Larry thought for a long time before he finally said over his shoulder, “Thank you.”

  Larry went inside the house, and Josie could hear the final, hard click of the deadbolt bidding her good-bye.

  When Larry stepped back inside the house, Celeste and Beatriz were still huddled over the book splayed open on Celeste’s lap. He stood in the archway that separated the foyer from the living room and tried to appear small and unobtrusive while listening to every word that was spoken.

  Celeste was showing Beatriz the notes and pictures and drawings she and her mother had collected over the years to prepare for Celeste’s quinceañera. They looked at each page, and Celeste carefully explained what she or her mother had been thinking—the ideas that seemed great one year but silly the next. She showed Beatriz the pages from the year Celeste thought it might be perfect to be dressed as a fairy, followed by the year she wanted to be dressed in bright checks.

  “I’m glad you let that idea go,” Beatriz laughed. “You would have looked like you were dressed in Chiclets!”

  The two of them laughed. Celeste pointed out her crayon drawings, explaining when she made them and why, when she could remember, and was as amused as Beatriz was by some of the things she herself had placed in the notebook—bubble gum wrappers and the game from a cereal box.

  As Celeste shared the book, she was astonished by the younger version of herself. “This is kind of stupid, huh?”

  “Oh, no!” Beatriz said. “Are you kidding? I love this! It’s like looking at a map of your life.”

  As they examined the pages, Beatriz read her sister’s handwritten notes, looking both familiar and strange. Here and there, Perla’s random thoughts about dresses, flowers, and cake flavors were interspersed with single lines about her daughter: “She moves like a dancer” or “Celeste’s poem—third grade. She can say it out loud by heart.”

  Celeste watched Beatriz linger over the notes written by her mother—like she was trying to pull information from between and behind the handwriting.

  “So, you don’t think this is dumb?” Celeste asked.

  “I think this is beautiful. I know this is something you and your mother did together, but this is a great gift for me. Thank you for showing me,” Beatriz said.

  “You have lots of stories about my mother, huh?” Celeste asked. “From when she was a girl, like me?”

  “Of course,” Beatriz said. “I kne
w her when she was just a button. And maybe you can tell me your stories from when you knew her. When you want. I want to hear them all.”

  Celeste looked at Josie’s card and then handed it to Beatriz, who placed it into the pages of the book. The two of them sank into the delicate happiness that they shared with the arrival of this one, small book.

  Beatriz turned her thoughts to fresh orange juice and pan dulce. She was about to ask Celeste what she’d like for breakfast, when Larry’s cell phone bleated loudly. Beatriz and Celeste jumped. They had forgotten he was still there.

  “Cripes!” he said, fumbling with his phone. He had set his phone alarm to go off for a meeting he had at work in thirty minutes. “Damn it!”

  “Larry!”

  “Sorry. I forgot about this meeting, and I need to get a few things from my office. Do you mind?” He was looking at Beatriz, and she looked at Celeste.

  “He needs to go into the office for a bit, okay?”

  Celeste shook her head and held the book close to her chest. She smiled tentatively at Larry. He nodded to her and Beatriz and finally left his perch to get his things.

  “All right, young lady,” Beatriz began with the enthusiasm of someone who has been given a second chance, “I think we should eat, and then we’ll get dressed. Then I think we should discuss how we are going to make your quinceañera happen. Now we have a guide and no excuses!” She nodded toward the quinceañera book. “We’ll get a calendar and some markers and work backwards from there. How’s that sound?”

  As Larry made his way down the hall, he could hear his wife and Celeste chattering softly. The girl seemed to be feeling more at ease, and Beatriz sounded elated. He wanted to go along with the obvious happiness that had finally brought Beatriz and Celeste together, but something inside him just couldn’t let go of the idea that he was losing something he would never recover.

  FIFTEEN

  Larry got to his meeting just in time. He took notes, asked questions, spoke when spoken to, and gave the appearance that he was listening attentively. But in reality he was distracted. He figured in time he could get used to having a new person in the house, but it was the other thing—the trauma behind Perla’s death—that he wasn’t sure he could handle. It filled him with the same dread he felt when the police came to his house when he was a boy, looking for trouble and knowing they would find it there. Larry believed that if you let bad things into your life, they only attracted more bad things. Celeste seemed like a good kid, but the drama of her mother’s death made him writhe with worry about what this girl was capable of drawing to his calm and peaceful world. She’s just a girl! he’d screamed to himself last night as he drove around, no destination in mind but feeling like he couldn’t be at home. She was just a girl. He knew this. He knew she was not to blame for the circumstances of her life. But what if this Mendoza person, this chain-smoking writer who seemed to know all about the violence that was part of Perla’s world, wasn’t the only stranger who had followed Celeste? As hard as he tried to shake his worry, the more it gnawed at him. And the more it gnawed at him, the guiltier he felt. He was the adult, after all. Celeste was just a kid. A kid who needed all the help she could get. But why did it have to come from them? Why did she have to come into their lives now?