Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  “And you have spoken to her?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Oh, Avery, I am very sorry.”

  “And then there’s this guy…”

  Her eyes go to the ceiling and she stares at the wooden fan turning lethargically. “Always there is a tipo. Always.”

  “It’s…he was with my mother…”

  Her eyes get very big. “Madre de Dios. And now with you?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “Not yet anyway.”

  “This is the man who was here with you.” Again it’s not a question, but a statement.

  I nod into the silence.

  “What else?” She wipes her mouth carefully.

  I laugh. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Not if there is more.”

  “My roommate’s moving to Albuquerque.”

  “And what else?”

  “I got laid off.”

  “Que chinga!” she swears, then blushes. With small damp wisps of hair curling on her forehead, her dark eyes throwing off sparks, cheeks pink, she looks like one of the video posters in the store near my apartment. Ed Farrell’s a moron not to have scooped her up a long time ago. “What do those pendejos think? Firing you!”

  “Oh, you know, high season’s over and times are hard. The usual.”

  She puts her hand over mine. “Maybe we need some help from time to time.”

  “Thanks.” I smile at her worried frown. “It would be fun, working with you. The problem is, driving down here from Santa Fe, just to buy gas would take a lot of what I make.”

  “So you can live down here.”

  I sit for a minute, daydreaming pleasantly about Querencia. But it would take a lot of work to make it livable.

  “Well, it’s something to think about,” I say.

  The Santa Fe Public Library is a rambling territorial-style adobe on Washington Street about a block from the Plaza. I haven’t had much to do with the Internet since I was at UNM, and I discover that access has changed a lot. The librarian palms me off on an assistant librarian who acts like I just started walking upright yesterday, but he manages to get me signed in and shows me how to access the New Mexican’s archives.

  “Thirty-minute time limit,” he informs me primly. “Then you must vacate the station if there’s anyone waiting.”

  After he’s gone back to the desk, I go to the Advanced Search and type in Isabel Colinas. Thirty-two matches come back in chronological order, beginning with August 20, 1980. I almost miss what I’m looking for because Paul said September 7, and the closest date to that is September 9, 1991. Of course. If she died on Saturday night, of course it wouldn’t make the paper till Monday morning.

  ISABEL COLINAS, FIBER ARTIST, DEAD AT 34

  With the death of Isabel Colinas, Santa Fe has lost, not only a preeminent fiber artist, but a dynamic citizen of the world, as well as the community.

  Her body was discovered shortly after 7:30 A.M. Sunday in the swimming pool at 505 San Tomás, the home of her fiancé, Paul DeGraf. Cause of death has not been determined.

  Colinas moved from Durango, Colorado, to Santa Fe in 1977, working at The Good Earth on Guadalupe Street while trying to sell her paintings. In 1980 she changed her medium to fiber arts, quickly becoming a respected practitioner, and finding the success that had eluded her as a painter. In the next few years her wide-ranging achievements mounted and the prices of her works soared.

  This has been partly attributed to her friendship with DeGraf, art dealer and owner of Buena Vista and Pinnacle Galleries, where her work was often featured. The two were romantically linked, but maintained a low profile socially until she took up residence in his home on San Tomás and they announced their engagement. No wedding date had been set.

  In the last four years, Colinas had become active in Katalysis, a nonprofit organization that provided loans to small enterprises in Central America, and last year she was elected to the board of directors.

  There is no known surviving family. A memorial service will be announced pending release of the body by the New Mexico Medical Examiner’s Office.

  Directly below is a thumbnail of the same photograph that was on the brochure at the Buena Vista.

  I sit and stare, letting the words slip out of focus. September 7, 1991. Where was I that night? Fall of my senior year in high school. Probably just hanging out at Cassie’s. Doing homework. Actually school wouldn’t have started that early.

  I stare at the picture till it blurs, not sure what I’m looking for, but certain that whatever it is, I won’t find it in a publicity photo. Unfocused, her face becomes a mosaic of light and shadow, the image fixed years ago on the backs of my eyes, and the sudden perception pulls me upright in the hard wooden chair. How could I not have remembered? The clinic in Darby. The night I got bit by the rattlesnake. The night I saw Isabel.

  That was the night she died.

  The morning air is cold. I left my window open last night, and I wake up huddled in a ball under the covers, feet like ice cubes. There are noises in the hall—the kind made by people trying to be quiet—tiptoe steps, whispers. A faint smell of coffee reaches me. I lie there, comfortably drowsy, listening to the oriole whose nest hangs from the highest branch of the álamo outside. Till I remember it’s today.

  Rita’s leaving.

  I push away the internal coldness that rises from my stomach. No big deal. I’ve been alone before. When I think about it, I’ve always been alone. The few people in my life have all been sort of like mannequins in a store window. Just there to pretty things up, give the appearance of normal life for a while.

  The question is, do I get dressed and see them off with phony smiles and good wishes? Or do I lie here and sulk, which is really what I prefer? Based on the memory of seven years together, I drag myself shivering out of bed, pull on my jeans and a sweatshirt. Suddenly, for no reason I can explain, I feel ashamed. Rita has a right to this. To Rick. To a life that doesn’t necessarily include me.

  I hope we didn’t wake you up.” Rita tries to smile, but her eyes are red rimmed. I feel both touched and disgusted.

  “I woke up because I was cold.” I head for the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee.

  It’s a lesson I keep learning. Everyone leaves sooner or later. Usually just when you start to wish they wouldn’t. Rita’s only the latest in a long line of skippers.

  The sweet, nutty aroma of piñon coffee floats up from the mug. I sip slowly, listening to the sounds of moving. Grunts, steps on the stairs, whispered questions about time and filling up the truck. She’s finally gotten rid of the Plymouth. Rick’s driving the U-Haul and she’s following behind in his VW. I don’t remember when she told me this, but I know.

  By the time I finish my coffee, they’re done, having loaded all the furniture yesterday. Rick wanders into the kitchen ahead of her. He gives me one of his solemn smiles. “Remember, you’re always welcome,” he says. Then he turns and goes outside, leaving Rita and me alone. Tears run in rivulets down her un-made-up face. I feel like that, too, I guess, but I don’t seem able to produce any evidence of it.

  “Avery, I’ll miss you—so much.” She gulps it, the sound fading in and out.

  “Me, too.”

  “Promise you’ll come for a visit soon.”

  I swallow and nod. “Drive carefully.” I intend it to sound caring, but it comes off like some anonymous radio voice saying, “Have a nice day.”

  When she hugs me, I feel her tears soaking into the shoulder of my sweatshirt. I force myself to put my arms around her and squeeze gently.

  She pulls back and lays a piece of paper on the counter. “Our new address. I’ll call you when we get a phone number.”

  “Rita…” My tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of my mouth. “Take care.”

  She gives me another brief hug before she turns and runs down the stairs. I walk out on the balcony just in time to see them pull away through the screen of cottonwood leaves. The U-Haul lumbers out into traffic, and the
black VW follows nimbly. I can almost see Rita, seat pushed all the way forward, clutching the wheel with both hands and crying.

  twenty

  Somebody’s pounding on the door. I roll out of bed, thinking about getting my bathrobe, then realize that it won’t be necessary. I’m wearing yesterday’s jeans and shirt.

  Linda lounges against the doorjamb, taking a deep drag of a cigarette. She smiles, blowing the smoke up at the sky. “’Mana! Qué onda?” Her eyes take in my rumpled clothes. “A rough night?”

  “Sort of. What’s up?”

  “Alma’s got a fish on the line. She wants to show the apartment. Okay?”

  “Now?”

  She looks at me closely. “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah. I was out late, that’s all. When does she want to show it?”

  She shrugs. “Fifteen minutes?”

  I nod.

  She studies the end of her cigarette, the print left by her purple lipstick. “I can still cut your hair, you know. For cheap. I don’t mind.”

  “Gracias.”

  “Luego,” she says. Later.

  Rita’s been gone for a week now, and it’s still sort of a shock to turn around and see the apartment empty. Like somebody broke in while I slept and cleaned the place out. The living room is bare except for the unfinished pine chest that I always meant to paint, the old hat rack that Rita found at a garage sale and gave me for my birthday the first year we roomed together, and the rocking chair that she said they didn’t have room for in the truck.

  Of course, she was lying. She left it because she felt sorry for me, not having any furniture to speak of. Or maybe it made her feel less guilty. I wander into the kitchen. Even barefoot, my steps echo softly in the silence. I wish I could turn on some music, but the boom box was hers.

  I open the refrigerator and stand squinting into its bright, cold emptiness. I sniff the contents of the milk carton. Dubious. I pour it down the drain. I settle for peanut butter on a stale tortilla, warmed in the oven, with a water chaser. Looks like a trip to the store might be in order.

  I’ve just finished throwing the blanket up over my bed when I hear voices outside the door.

  Alma’s prospective tenants are a very young couple. They look still in their teens, and the girl is about seven months pregnant. I watch them walk around, looking at the appliances, checking out the balcony, peering in all the closets. He acts like she’s made of porcelain; his hand is at her elbow, guiding her. He smooths her hair back. He opens the doors and lets her look first. Shit. How long will that last? Wait till they’ve got two or three screaming kids running around here and all he wants to do is go shoot pool with his ’manos or lay outside in the parking lot tinkering with his car.

  My Spanish isn’t that great, but I hear him ask Alma when the place will be available. She looks at me.

  “September 30, hmm?” She pats my arm on her way out.

  Early in the afternoon, I drag the rocking chair out on the balcony and sit rocking, watching the puffy white clouds mushroom into the anvil shapes of thunderheads, silvery on top, blackish purple like an angry bruise on the bottom. Before long, snake tongues of lightning flicker between them, and on the horizon, black streamers of rain straggle to the ground. Thunder grinds in the distance like an old car starting up.

  A sudden breeze lifts my hair, and then huge drops begin to splatter around me, on the top of my head, my face, the backs of my hands where I grip the chair arms. Finally a car alarm going off rouses me enough to get up and pull the chair back inside before sheets of rain start blowing across the parking lot.

  I dry my face on my T-shirt and go into the bedroom. A file folder is wedged between the wall and the bed under the window. On the tab I’ve written “Isabel” and inside are some pages I printed off at the library—newspaper articles, mostly stories about her work. I punch up my pillow for support, lay down, and open the folder.

  The first page is nothing but a photo dated August 20, 1980. Isabel and an older woman and a very young man standing in front of some paintings. The caption reads,

  Isabel Colinas, Elena Chavez, and Abelardo Gonzalez are among the artists whose work will be on display next weekend at Spanish Market.

  The next page is a listing of gallery openings from Pasatiempo, May 3, 1981.

  Elliot-Newnan Southwest Arts—242 Canyon Road Watercolors by Isabel Colinas, acrylics by Les Rafferty Opening reception 5–7 P.M.

  Then another, larger photo. April 20, 1982. This time Isabel is solo, standing in front of a large landscape of some kind, but the reproduction quality isn’t good. Caption:

  Red Clouds watercolor by Isabel Colinas

  Shows at Brier Fine Arts, 125 Grant Avenue through May 15.

  In September 1985 there’s a review from Santa Fe Scene Magazine, featuring a full-page photo of Isabel, dressed head to toe in black, standing beside the yellow piece I saw at The Good Earth.

  Painting with Fiber by Maxine Engels

  Mystery and magic, memories and dreams—the stuff of which Autumn is made. And it’s pure gold for Isabel Colinas, who, two years ago turned over a “new leaf,” abandoning her work in watercolors for a new direction in fiber arts. If her first solo show at Moon Dancer Gallery is any indication, she’s definitely on the right track.

  Both technically accomplished and spiritually vibrant, the works elicit an immediate emotional response. Composed of multiple layers and incorporating many techniques, these pieces draw the viewer’s attention inward, beckoning him to look below the surface for the truths that are not always apparent.

  Central to the collection is the paean to fall in the Southwest, aptly titled In Memory of Yellow. It’s a complicated piece, utilizing embroidery, photo transfer, loop-pile embroidery, collage and silk ribbon work, and it rewards careful attention with fascinating insights into artist, viewer, and the whole Southwest milieu. The amazing part is, Colinas stitches all her designs freehand.

  “Painting the design on first, then stitching over it feels somehow like cheating,” she says with a mysterious smile. “I’m drawn to the danger, I think. The risk of committing to a design before I know exactly what it will be.”

  The show, Memories and Dreams, runs through Halloween at Moon Dancer Gallery, Galisteo.

  The caption under the photo reads,

  In Memory of Yellow —In high-desert autumn the days seem to shrink down and glow with sun’s last heat, like the coals of a dying fire. The wind feels melancholy, as if mourning a loss that is sad, but inevitable. There is a sense of anticipation, too, as winter approaches. It is death, but life waits on the other side.

  There’s a story about The Good Earth, in which Liza mentions proudly that Isabel Colinas used to work there, and a feature on Katalysis that lists Isabel Colinas as a new board member. The last one I had time to print off before I was unceremoniously ejected from my computer station by a determined seventh grader is a sort of gossipy piece about an association of women artists founded by Yrena Castellano and Cate Mosley. It quotes Isabel Colinas calling Cate Mosley her mentor, and there’s a picture of a group of women at a restaurant. A woman with long blond hair stands slightly behind Isabel, hands on her shoulders, as if she’s about to present her as a gift to somebody.

  I close the folder, letting it rest on my stomach. Then I lie there and meditate on the patterns of dots in the acoustic tile ceiling. I know I should get up and do something. I need to find a job, another place to live. I need to fill out all those stupid unemployment forms—as a safety net if nothing else. In the immediate future, I need to go to the grocery store and get some food. Somehow, I can’t convert those thoughts into action. My stomach growls, but I’m not listening.

  Ever since I saw the picture of Isabel, I feel like a fly in a spiderweb—no, it’s not that simple. It’s more like having those nearly invisible threads woven around me so that I’m not just the captive, but part of the web. Cassie told me once how the Navajo weavers leave a “spirit trail,” one thread that leads to the outs
ide border of a rug, sort of an escape route so their spirit doesn’t get trapped in the work. It seems I’ve neglected to provide one of those for myself.

  Over the next three weeks, I haunt the library, ransacking the New Mexican archives, pulling up still more articles on Google and Yahoo! I call the people at Katalysis in Stockton, California, where the friendly woman on the phone suggests I talk to Nancy Wethersby, the Director of Program Development, who’s in Honduras at the moment, but will be back in two weeks.

  Elaine helps me track down Cate Mosley and make an appointment to meet her at her studio when she finishes some big commission she’s working on.

  And I call The Good Earth and ask Cookie if I can come talk to her aunt again.

  “I’m so glad you called,” she says. “Auntie’s feeling really well. When we went to Albuquerque last, the doctor said this new drug they’ve got her on seems to have shrunk her tumors somewhat. And then the side effects finally sort of petered out, and for the last day or two, she’s been absolutely marvelous. Can you come today? I’d like you to see her when she’s her true self, and we mustn’t count on it—I mean, the doctor said he couldn’t predict how long it would last.”

  Liza still looks like a gray-haired twig, but her face is transformed, alert and relaxed. Her royal purple chenille robe gives her skin a warm glow.

  “Hello, Avery.” She takes my hand in both of hers. It’s like shaking hands with a bird.