Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  Abruptly, he’s talking again. “I have to admit that I’m a little bit puzzled. I thought that as soon as you got used to the idea of knowing who your mother was, you’d want to know all about her.”

  “I don’t think I am yet. Used to it.”

  “Do you hate her?”

  “I can’t hate a stranger.”

  “Well, then.” He wipes his mouth carefully with the white napkin. “Why not approach it from the perspective that she’s a very interesting stranger that you might want to know about.”

  I twirl my Champagne flute around and around, watching the bubbles materialize in the bottom and float upward to disappear again. “Listen, I know you’re trying to be nice, and I appreciate you wanting to tell me about her, but I can’t help wondering what the hell difference it makes now. Especially since she’s…I mean, I know my life doesn’t look terribly exciting, but the thing is, I don’t have a lot of unrealistic expectations to make me miserable. It’s taken me a while to get to this point. Where I’m reasonably content. I’m just not sure I want to rock the boat.”

  He sets down his knife and fork. “But I can’t understand your reluctance to even know about her. I want to give you information. I’m not asking for anything from you.”

  “I’m not quite clear on your interest in this.”

  He glances distractedly at the candle, sputtering in its own meltdown, then looks directly at me.

  “I loved her,” he says. “We were to be married.”

  A tremor jiggles my knees, and my purse slips from my lap onto the floor. When I reach down to pick it up, I find my hands are shaking.

  “Oh. I’m…sorry.”

  He inclines his head slightly. “She was an artist, you know. Very gifted.”

  I lean back slowly into the chair, release my stranglehold on the napkin, and try a normal breath. “Actually…I did know that. Sort of. They gave me—the nurse on duty that night—gave me this little shirt. It’s what I had on when they found me. It was embroidered with flowers. I still have it.”

  “I’d like very much to see it sometime.”

  I don’t respond, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already launched into the story of their first meeting.

  “It was at a party,” he’s saying. “After a gallery opening. Typical Santa Fe. Everyone dressed to the nines. Loaded with jewelry, scarves, fringe—all the usual suspects. Isabel was wearing this plain red dress. Long skirt, high neck, long sleeves. All covered up. But the way it fit her…the way she moved in it. People would stop talking, stop eating and drinking, stop looking at the paintings, and just watch her.”

  He’s looking at me, but seeing her. Moving through a gallery in her red dress. I used to think that once I knew who my mother was I’d never feel invisible again.

  “I saw some of her work tonight,” I say. That seems to bring him out of the dream.

  “The Malinche vest.”

  “What’s a Malinche?”

  “Malinche was the Indian woman who served as the interpreter for Cortez during the Spanish conquest. That vest was one of Isabel’s favorite pieces. One of the few things she made that she wore herself. I’ve tried a number of times to buy it, but Elaine won’t part with it.”

  “Because she doesn’t like you?” It’s out before I have time to think.

  “I wouldn’t say she actually dislikes me…”

  “I would.”

  “You know what it’s like.”

  “What what’s like?”

  “This town. The politics, the gossip…who’s doing what to whom. That’s all it is.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Look, Avery, I’d like us to be friends.”

  “Why? Because you loved my mother? Who didn’t know me and who I didn’t know? It doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense.”

  “Maybe not. At least not right now. But I hope it will later on.”

  I look at my watch. “I’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

  “You haven’t finished your dinner.”

  “I’ll take it with me.”

  He reaches for his wallet.

  In the fountain, some poor black bug is fighting for his life in a foaming whirlpool.

  The dashboard clock of his white Mercedes reads 10:35 P.M. I can see him looking at the place, the overflowing Dumpster that some kids have pushed out of the alley, the crumbling plaster on the corner of the stairs, the dented sign for Alma’s Casa Blanca.

  “Welcome to the west side,” I say.

  He turns off the engine and it gets very quiet. I look up at our window, the glimmer of light as the curtains part just a fraction of an inch.

  “Did she ever tell you about…me?”

  He shifts in the seat to face me. “She told me she’d had a child. When she was very young. That the father was married. He wanted her to have an abortion, but she refused. She said she gave the baby up for adoption.”

  Angry heat crawls up the back of my neck. “So dumping me in the furnace room of an institution was her idea of giving me up for adoption?”

  “I think she was young and alone and frightened.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “She didn’t tell me much more than that. I think it was a very painful thing for her to talk about.” His smile is just awkward and defenseless enough to be oddly comforting.

  “I have to go.” I fumble for the seat belt release.

  When he pulls the key out of the ignition, I touch his wrist, then snatch my hand back. “That’s okay, don’t get out. I’ll just run up.” My hand is on the door handle.

  “Avery, I’m glad we had a chance to talk. May I call you?”

  Without overexerting my memory, I can be pretty sure no man has ever said anything like that to me before. I turn to look at him. He’s got to be forty-five. Rita says with men it’s harder to guess age. She says it’s because shaving exfoliates their skin and makes them look younger than they have any right to. His face is smooth all right, but there are a few gray hairs at his temples, squint lines around his eyes, and deep smile lines from nose to chin. I think of tracing them with my finger, and my stomach turns over.

  “I have your card,” I tell him. “I’ll call you.”

  Sleep has never come easy for me, even at the best of times. Tonight I can’t seem to find the right place for my arms and legs. My shoulder hurts. I’m thirsty. The room is too warm. And when I finally manage to drop off, I keep jerking awake.

  Like something’s about to happen in a dream that I don’t want to see.

  In the morning I can still taste garlic. I’m dried out from too much alcohol and not enough water. I smell coffee brewing before I hear Rita tiptoeing down the hall. I roll out of bed, throwing the covers aside.

  She’s in the kitchen nuking a cinnamon bun from Cloud Cliff Bakery and looking mournful.

  I open the dishwasher and pull out my coffee mug. “What’s wrong?”

  She shrugs. “Nothing. I’m just depressed because Rick didn’t show last night.”

  The microwave timer dings.

  “Was he supposed to?”

  “Well…” She sighs and slathers butter on the hot roll. “I talked about it. I mentioned that I was going. I thought he might come. Since he knew I was going to be there.”

  “When did you mention it?” I fill my cup and add whipping cream, my big indulgence.

  “Last Friday,” she says around a bite of the roll.

  I take a sip of coffee. “You know how guys are. Unless you drew him a map, it probably didn’t register. Besides, he doesn’t sound like your type.”

  Another sigh. “Maybe that’s why I like him. He seems different.”

  “None of them are different,” I say flatly.

  She yawns, pushing her bangs back from her eyes. “Listen to you. The voice of experience.”

  I open the refrigerator and take out a carton of vanilla yogurt. “By the way, what time did you go to bed last night?”

  “I don’t know. I hung around Dream Weavers till eight, hopi
ng news-boy would show up, and then I came right home. I had one more glass of wine and then I read for a little while—then I guess I just zonked out. I didn’t even hear you come in. What time did you get home?”

  “About ten thirty. So you weren’t peeking out the window when we drove up?”

  Silence. Two spots of color stain her cheeks. “Well, what am I supposed to do? You never tell me anything. For God’s sake, I’m about to croak. So…? What happened? What did Mr. DeGraf say?”

  “That’s Paul. We’re close personal friends now. It seems that Paul DeGraf was in love with my mother. He said they were planning to get married.”

  “Jesus God. How did she die?”

  I stir the yogurt around and swallow a spoonful. “He didn’t say.”

  “And you didn’t ask?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? How could you not want to know how she died?”

  I can feel the top of my head getting warm. That’s what happens when I get pissed. “Because I don’t care. Because it couldn’t possibly make any difference. Okay?” I put the lid back on the yogurt and lick the spoon clean, then I turn on the faucet.

  “I swear, girl. You’re crazy as popcorn.” She stuffs the rest of the roll in her mouth and heads for the shower.

  I refill my coffee cup, top it off with more cream, and sit at the table tracing the gold pattern in the red Formica. I don’t care, and it couldn’t possibly make any difference. So why am I wasting time thinking about it? DeGraf probably thought it was strange that I didn’t ask, but who cares what he thinks?

  His card is in a cigar box that I keep on the floor by my bed. It’s where I keep everything I own that’s worth keeping, which admittedly isn’t a lot—two or three photos, a tiny locket, an old embroidered handkerchief, a circle of turquoise on a leather cord. My baby undershirt.

  I know I put the card in here. Then my fingers brush against something cool and weighty, and my heart gives a tiny shiver. I pull out the small heart made of gold nuggets, hung on a flat gold chain. I rub it against my shirt but it still looks dirty. Needs a real cleaning. The last time I took it off, I promised myself I’d never put it back on, but on this morning, I find myself drawn to it. The chain has a strange kind of clasp that looks like a question mark. I know there’s a special name for it, but I can’t call it up just now.

  Instead of opening the clasp, I slip the chain over my head, and the heart nestles comfortably against my chest. As the giver intended, I think. I look into the box and see DeGraf’s card, standing flat against one of the sides. That’s why I missed it. But instead of taking it out, I close the lid and crawl back under the covers, rubbing the gold heart gently against my T-shirt.

  “Ave? Are you asleep?” Rita calls.

  I sigh. “Not anymore.”

  “Sorry. I’m leaving. See ya later.”

  The front door bangs and I lie still, eyes shut tight, taking shallow breaths.

  Will Cameron. Jimmie John. Cassie. Florales. The names pop in my brain like those flash cards they used to teach reading with. The tightness in my chest moves up in my throat, and my face gets too warm. I should just get up and get busy doing something.

  Thinking about it serves no purpose. I’ll never go back to Florales. Cassie’s dead. So’s Jimmie John. Will Cameron might as well be. Those years are a blank. Like the hole that’s left after you lose a tooth. When you poke your tongue into the space, it seems oddly tender.

  Like yes, once there was something there. But it’s gone now. And it’s never coming back.

  PART TWO

  florales

  May 1988

  five

  Florales, New Mexico, was no place to be coming off a ride, hungry and flat broke. If you turned the entire population upside down and shook them hard, you might end up with a couple of bucks and some change.

  Being a thirteen-year-old runaway didn’t help either.

  I wasn’t good at panhandling. Not cute enough to make people sorry for me, too small and skinny to be intimidating. And of course, there was my eyes. A lot of people took one look and got so creeped out that they forgot whatever kindly impulses they may have had.

  The ones that didn’t turn away somehow felt entitled to ask a lot of stupid questions. Even people who’d never dream of staring at a cripple or asking some guy how he lost his arm think nothing of getting right in my face and asking me where I got the weird eyes. Like maybe I picked them out at Wal-Mart.

  I worked the three shabby streets of downtown in the morning, coming away with enough change to buy a candy bar and a Coke. By noon I was thinking about another ride south, but I was so hungry I could practically feel the sides of my empty stomach rubbing together.

  I was sitting on an upside-down bucket in a service alley between a hardware store and a feed store, watching the dust settle and feeling sorry for myself when I saw my deliverance across the street. A man stepped out of Mami’s Café holding a white sack of take-out food. He looked like a big rooster with little twiggy legs and a gut that hung over his belt like he was eight months pregnant.

  He carried the sack carefully over to an old green pickup truck angle-parked at the curb and stood there for a minute looking around. He patted one pocket, then switched the sack to the other hand and patted the other pocket. He touched his shirt pocket. Obviously he’d forgotten something—keys, glasses, wallet. He set the food on the truck’s driver-side fender and followed his stomach back into Mami’s.

  As they always said at Carson, For what we’re about to receive, Lord make us truly grateful. I started to run, eyes locked onto that sack like radar. I barely slowed when I passed the truck, and I was well into the next block clutching his lunch before I heard him yell,

  “Hey! You come back here! Somebody grab that kid!”

  As it turned out, nobody had to.

  In my imagination I was already digging into tacos—that’s what it smelled like—and he was too far behind me, moving slow, maybe already given up and gone back inside to order some more. I was past most of the little stores and feeling suddenly spacey from no food and not much sleep, but I put on one more burst of speed. I needed to make it to the big weedy yard by the cottonwoods at the edge of town where the last driver left me off. It was full of decrepit RVs, empty flat-bed trailers. I figured I could duck in there long enough to inhale a taco or two.

  I was flying so fast my heels were kicking my butt. Then I turned my head just to glance behind me and when I turned back, something loomed up in my path like a brick wall. I saw stars.

  Bags went sailing, spilling cans and boxes. White powdery stuff was everywhere, including up my nose. I coughed and sneezed. I sat up, brushing my face, and I winced when I touched my forehead.

  “Cassie! You okay?”

  “Fine, Delbert. Just let me get my breath. See if that child’s hurt.”

  Even though I was choking and half blinded with flour or whatever it was, I knew that was my cue to leave. I got as far as one foot and one knee before a big hand latched onto the back of my shirt.

  Apparently the two things I’d just rammed were an old lady and a very husky Indian.

  “Easy there, kid. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

  “That’s what you think, Delbert Begay. That little shit stole my lunch.” The pregnant guy wheezed as he came limping up. I was rubbing my eyes, which only made them worse, but I didn’t have to see him to know he was pissed.

  “Missin’ a meal or two won’t hurt you none, Harlan.” This from the old lady, who was still sitting on the ground. I thought her hair might’ve been pinned up to start with, but it had gotten knocked loose by our collision, and some wiry gray strands hung around her face.

  “That ain’t the point, Cassie.” He bent to help her up and the Indian held out the hand that wasn’t bunched in my shirt, and between them, they got her to her feet. “It’s a wonder you’re still in one piece. She could of broke your leg or something.”

  The old lady brushed herself off. “Well, she didn’t
.”

  “Maybe not,” he insisted, “but she stole my lunch.”

  “She was probably hungry. Is that right, child?”

  I just nodded, looking at the ground.

  He walked over to where the sack was laying, miraculously intact. “Lookit that, wouldja.”

  The Indian said, “No harm done, then, Harlan.” But he didn’t loosen his grip on my shirt.

  Harlan lifted his cowboy hat and smoothed his greasy hair back, replaced the hat. “Reckon we oughta call Austin. Think I saw his cruiser go by awhile back.”

  “What on earth for?” The old lady rubbed her hip, like it was sore.

  “What d’you mean what for?” His voice rose. “She stole my lunch. She ran you down…” I didn’t like the way he was looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “And she looks pretty young to be out on her own. Probably a runaway.”

  “The way I see it…” The woman picked up a sack from the ground. “You got your lunch back. I’m in one piece…” She looked me up and down. “As to her being a runaway, whether she is or she’s not, she needs to get a decent meal in her regardless.”

  When she smiled at me, I noticed she had a lot of wrinkles, but her cheeks were firm, and she didn’t have old lady whiskers like Ridley had. She bent down very slowly and started picking up cans and boxes and putting them in her sack. “So…” She looked up at him. “Why’n’t you just go on back to your lunch, Harlan, and let me and Delbert take care of this.”

  “You suit yourself, Cassie, but you’re gonna be sorry for taken up with the likes of her.” He rolled the top of his lunch bag closed and limped off muttering, “Sick and tired of these goddam kids runnin’ wild and stealin’…”

  The Indian laughed. “She’s a regular one-girl crime wave, Kemosabe.”