Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  “I like your robe,” I tell her.

  A smile lights her eyes. “Cookie made it for me. Isn’t it lovely?”

  Cookie settles her in the chair by the window and goes to put on the teakettle while I take the chair opposite.

  “Where shall I begin?” Liza adjusts the folds of the robe modestly over her lap.

  “Tell me how you met her. What she was like. Did she ever talk about me?”

  “I met her when she came to the shop to buy cream for her hands. She was working for a family in exchange for room and board and they were working the life out of her. She was young—I guess eighteen by then. And she wasn’t healthy. She had just had you, and it was a very difficult birth. Although I didn’t find it out till much later after we became close, I believe she nearly died.”

  I lean forward, feeling somehow validated.

  “We talked about herbs and she told me her mother was a curandera in Ortiz, but that she had died—which I found out later wasn’t true. Isabel started coming in regularly and we’d chat. That’s when I learned about her family—later on she quit talking about them. She said her father was an engineer who was with a mining company and who left Ortiz when she was about three. She was very close to her grandmother, Dona Maria Ebell, who was a shaman—”

  “A shaman?”

  “That’s what she called her. She said her grandmother could touch objects and know things about the people who owned them. I believe she died when Isabel was about twelve.

  “At any rate, one morning Isabel came running in all upset, with a very nasty burn on her arm. Apparently the husband of the family she worked for kept trying to corner her in the kitchen, and when she shouted at him to leave her alone, he slapped her and knocked her into the stove.”

  Liza’s head bobs with indignation. “I was furious and I told her she was not to go back there. I moved her in here, in the back room, and paid her to help in the shop with all the people who only spoke Spanish. I sent a man friend of mine around to collect her things, and she never went back to that house.” She sighs. “Then, of course, I found out that she was an artist.”

  I pull the first few pages out of my Isabel folder and show them to Liza. “Yes, back then it was watercolors. She was good at them, but she wasn’t satisfied with just being good.”

  Cookie appears with the tea and a pottery plate of some kind of crackers.

  Liza thoughtfully dunks a tiny piece of cracker into her tea. “Oh, yes, then she met this woman who did some kind of textiles. Maybe quilting—”

  “Cate Mosley?” I interrupt.

  “Yes, I think that’s it. She took Isabel into her little circle of friends and of course Isabel became interested in the fiber art that they were doing. Cate started showing her some techniques, but before long Isabel had left them all behind. That was when she started to become rather…driven, I guess you might say. She got to be very short with everyone—me, customers, whomever. All she wanted to do was read art books, sketch her designs, and work on her pieces. Several times I came into the shop and customers would be standing around, Isabel nowhere in sight. I’d find her in back working on something.”

  “Why didn’t you fire her?”

  Cookie chuckles. “My auntie could never fire anyone. That’s why she never hired many people. She always has such a hard time letting them go.”

  Liza takes a sip of tea. “Well, I don’t know what would have become of her if I’d fired her. And I do believe she couldn’t help herself. Sometimes I’d come in to open the shop and find her fallen asleep in the chair over a piece of work. She’d never have been to bed. Oftentimes she would forget to eat. Thin as a rail, that one. Finally I decided to move her into my house where I could keep more of an eye on her.”

  I set my cup and saucer down, lean back in my chair. “But did she ever talk about me?”

  Her face softens. “Oh, yes. One evening we had a bad thunderstorm and the power was out, so she couldn’t work. We sat at the dining room table and lit candles and drank wine and she told me the whole story of how she got pregnant. Your father was about ten years older than she was. And married, naturally. He was from a wealthy Anglo family. Very handsome, she said.”

  “Did she ever say—” I hesitate, not at all sure if I want to hear the answer to this question. But this is probably my only chance. “Did she tell you why she left me in the basement of the children’s home?”

  Cookie looks at her aunt, and Liza frowns. “In the basement? Whatever do you mean?”

  “That’s where I was found. In the furnace room of Carson Foundling Home in Alamitos.”

  “Oh, good God.” Her voice is calm and quiet; the only sign of agitation is the rapid blinking of her eyes.

  “I always thought she must have hated me. I mean, why didn’t she just get an abortion?”

  “You poor girl.” Her bony brown hand covers mine. “That isn’t what she intended at all.” She shakes her head vigorously. “Your father, who I think was named Michael, wanted her to have an abortion. He even gave her the money to go to Denver and have it done. But Isabel refused.”

  “Why? It would have been so much easier. For both of us.”

  “You must remember that her mother was a curandera, and a very devout Catholic. That’s how Isabel was raised. And although by that time, she was no longer a practicing Catholic, Isabel had a great reverence for life. She never even considered abortion. She took the money and went to Durango, to work as a maid or cook for some woman. Isabel gave her the money, and she was supposed to have arranged for your adoption. Dear heavens. She obviously didn’t do what she was supposed to.”

  I turn my eyes to the window, losing focus in the yellow glare of autumn sun. My head is filled with questions that have no answers. Who was this woman? Why didn’t she arrange the adoption? Didn’t Isabel know? Or was this whole story just that—a story that Isabel invented to excuse herself?

  The bell over the door cracks open the silence, and Cookie gets up to wait on the two women who are flipping through the samples of essential oils.

  “Avery, I’m sorry if I upset you.” There’s a tremor in her voice, and I turn to find Liza watching me anxiously. She looks exhausted, as well.

  “I’m not upset. It’s just kind of a shock. All this time, I thought…something very different. It’s just kind of strange.”

  One gray eyebrow arches. “I know what you must think, but I knew her well enough to know she would never have done that to you, and I’m quite positive she didn’t know what happened.”

  Something prickles my eyes, and I blink away useless moisture. “How can you be so sure?”

  “How can I explain Isabel? She was like a little child in many ways. You know the tale about the sorcerer’s apprentice? Her talent was like that magic. She was never really able to control it. It overwhelmed her. She made her mistakes, like everyone, but she was a good person.”

  She takes another cracker and nibbles slowly. “She took care of me one winter when I had bronchitis so bad I couldn’t even get out of bed. I couldn’t breathe without my chest hurting. I was afraid of taking pneumonia and ending up in the hospital. She made me teas and mustard plasters and herbal steam to inhale, and she sat by my bed all night when the fever got high and sponged my face with alcohol.”

  Liza’s breath is coming faster and her face is flushed. “No, my dear, she was not the kind of person to go around leaving babies in the basement, of that I am certain.”

  The bell jangles again as the two women leave, and Cookie comes back, casting a watchful eye on her aunt. “You look tired, Auntie,” she says. “I think it’s nap time.”

  “I feel fine. I want Avery to ask her questions now, in case—” She breaks off.

  “No more questions today.” I give her the best smile I can manage. “Cookie’s right. Besides, I need to digest all this first. Then I’ll come back.”

  I watch as Cookie gently helps Liza to her feet and guides her, one arm around the tiny figure, to the back room. The curv
e of their bodies toward each other, the way their heads tilt together, radiates a tenderness that tightens my chest.

  September is unraveling faster than an old sweater.

  At last, three days before I’m supposed to move out of the apartment, I shake myself awake. I take a hard look at my assets—a couple of pieces of furniture, a cigar box of memories, my wardrobe of blue jeans and T-shirts, a carton of books, a stack of partially completed unemployment forms, some linens and dishes. My baby undershirt. And Paul DeGraf’s card.

  Time for drastic measures.

  Paul DeGraf.” He answers on the first ring, sounding annoyingly chipper.

  I draw air into my lungs. “It’s Avery.”

  “Avery, how are you?” A brief pause. “I heard you were no longer working at Dos Hombres.”

  How the hell did he—oh, yes. Lindsey. They would have had someone else take over her party. She’s a great disseminator of information.

  “I quit. I just couldn’t take Dale’s bullshit anymore.”

  “Are you working for another caterer?”

  “No. I haven’t decided what I want to do next. I’m just sort of kicking back for a while. Um…listen, I was just wondering if maybe you’d like to see the shirt that my—that Isabel made for me. When I was born. You know, I told you they gave it to me—”

  “Of course. Yes, I’d like very much to see it. When?”

  “I don’t know. Whenever. That’s the great thing about unemployment. You have lots of free time.”

  He doesn’t laugh. “Unfortunately, I’m tied up all afternoon. Maybe we could have dinner tonight? If you’re free, I could pick you up about—”

  “I’m going to be out this afternoon. Why don’t I just meet you somewhere?”

  “If that’s better for you, of course. How about El Rancho? Say seven o’clock?”

  “I’ll see you there.” I replace the receiver, rubbing gently at the smudge on it from the dampness of my hand.

  When I pull into the parking lot at El Rancho, I see the white Mercedes parked at the end of the row, a little apart from the other cars. Before I get out of the truck, I twist the rearview mirror around for a last-minute inspection. A stranger looks back at me. A stranger with a hair ribbon and makeup. Even mascara.

  I try on a carefree smile, adjust the black bow that holds my hair neatly at the nape of my neck. I’m wearing a black dress—the only dress I own. It’s about five years old, but it’s only been worn half a dozen times, so it still looks like new. It’s not exactly a trendsetter, but the guy I was dating at the time said it was a classic, and his sense of style was the only thing about him I could trust. The newly polished gold heart swings from its chain, the barely noticeable weight grounding me every time it thumps against my breastbone.

  I open the door and step down, brushing the lint off my skirt. I clutch my brown leather purse and plastic grocery store sack under my arm, and hobble to the door in Rita’s old black flats, which are about a half size too small for me.

  The El Rancho is an old-time Santa Fe restaurant featuring good steaks and red wine, if you must, but mostly martinis and manhattans, Scotch on the rocks and beer. They probably haven’t changed the décor since 1945—mellow pine paneling and black leather booths, photos of cowboy movie stars decorating the walls, branding irons hanging from the ceiling.

  Paul is sitting at the bar with a glass of red wine. I can’t read his expression when he realizes that the woman in the little black dress is me, but what he sees is obviously not what he was expecting.

  “Avery…” He smiles at me. “You look…wonderful.”

  “I feel like somebody sneaking out in their big sister’s clothes, but thanks.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  The aroma of prime beef sizzling on a grill has hit the hunger button in my brain. I can’t remember the last full meal I had, and I suddenly feel like I could eat a whole cow. “I’d like to eat, if that’s okay.”

  He gives his practiced nod to the hostess, and she hustles us to a booth in a far corner of the room. He orders a Chilean cabernet, and after they bring it and we order filets, rare, I reach into the grocery bag and bring out the undershirt.

  “Here it is.”

  He takes it from me like it’s the Shroud of Turin. For the longest time he sits there looking at it, holding it up to the light, setting it down on his napkin to trace the flowers with his elegant fingers.

  “This is a wonderful piece.” He holds the shirt up to the light. “Charmingly primitive.” My gaze steadies on the fabric of the shirt. I try to see it as a collector’s item, instead of as the only thing my mother gave me. “Look at the tiny stiches. They’re so delicate, but they have that sort of endearing clumsiness of a novice work.”

  “How much do you think it’s worth?” I ask.

  He casts me a look that mixes surprise with curiosity and a liberal dose of pity. “Surely you’re not planning to sell it?”

  I shrug with what I hope is nonchalance. “I haven’t decided what to do with it. I was wondering if maybe I could borrow money. You know, use it as collateral.”

  He folds it carefully and hands it back to me. “You certainly could do that.” His tone is very careful. “I’d be more than happy to provide a written appraisal. If you need one.”

  The server looms out of nowhere, setting salads down in front of us. “Fresh ground pepper?” she asks.

  As soon as she’s gone, I start shoveling lettuce into my mouth, but he says, “Of course, that’s assuming that you have some appropriate credit history.”

  I swallow. “What do you mean?”

  “A legitimate lender—such as a bank—is going to want a track record. Proof that you’ve had credit before and used it responsibly.”

  “You mean like credit cards?”

  He nods.

  “I don’t have any of those. I’m sort of a cash-and-carry kind of girl.”

  “Have you ever borrowed money?”

  “I had a student loan…”

  “That would work.” He smiles.

  “But I’m still working on paying it back.”

  “Have you kept up the payments?”

  I concentrate on spearing a cucumber. “For the most part.”

  He takes a piece of French bread, spreads a microscopic amount of butter on it, and sets it on his plate. “I heard you were let go,” he says gently.

  I set down my fork and take a big drink of wine and just look at him. I know if I try to talk I’m going to cry.

  “I told you, Santa Fe is just a big small town.”

  I take another drink of wine. My voracious appetite is gone. One tear finally escapes. I wipe it away quickly, chase the lump in my throat with more wine.

  “Can your roommate carry the flat for a month or two?”

  “She’s gone.” The first word squeaks embarrassingly when it comes out.

  “Your roommate’s gone?”

  I take a deep breath, poke at the salad. “She moved back to Albuquerque with her boyfriend.”

  “When do you have to move out?”

  “Friday.”

  He chews thoughtfully, dabs at his mouth with the white napkin. “All right, first thing is, you’ll move into the guesthouse till you can find a job and your own place—”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t pay you anything.”

  “I think that’s the point,” he says patiently. “It’s only temporary, just till you get back on your feet. In fact, we’ll make it a business proposition. I’ve always wanted a personal chef. You can fill that job till you find one you prefer.”

  He extends his hand across the table. “Deal?”

  I take another gulp of wine.

  “It’s a fair trade. Your services for room and board. Deal?”

  “Okay.” My hand is cold and his is warm.

  Counting drive time, it takes an hour and a half to move my stuff from Columbia Street to San Tomás on Thursday
afternoon. It feels like a parallel universe.

  My rocking chair, coat rack, chest, and bed end up in a storage unit where Paul stashes art that’s not on display for one reason or another. The rest of it—clothes, shoes, books, linens, dishes—everything I own is contained in half a dozen cartons scavenged from the supermarket.

  Paul DeGraf’s guests are happy people. You can’t stay in this house and not be happy. It’s small, maybe even smaller than our apartment was, and has only one bedroom, but it’s like everything has been designed and arranged for your comfort and pleasure.

  The floors are Saltillo tile, cool and smooth against your feet in the hot afternoons, radiant heated in the cold mornings. Beautiful rugs. Some with a soft pile where your toes get lost, some flat woven, like Navajo rugs. The walls are adobe—well, not real adobe. White plaster or stucco or something, but there’s not a straight line or a right angle in the place. It seems to accommodate the human body, inviting you to nestle in.

  There’s no couch in the living room—just cushioned bancos adjoining the kiva fireplace in the corner opposite the door. There’s a small table in the kitchen for eating, or you can sit in the one big chair in front of the fire. The bathroom is all Talavera tiles, blue and green and earth colors, and the tub is big enough to stretch out full length. The antique hand-carved Mexican bed with a puffy, weightless comforter is situated directly under an oversized skylight so you can lie on your back and look at the stars.

  But the two features that—for me, anyway—raise the place from merely comfortable to unimaginably luxurious are the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on one wall of the living room, filled with everything from paperback mysteries to ten-pound picture books of European art, and hidden away in a hall closet—a stackable washer/dryer.

  After Paul hands me the key and leaves me to “get settled,” I spend an hour walking from room to room, reminding myself not to get too comfortable, that I won’t be here long, that I need to get busy finding gainful employment.

  This, after all, is the place where Isabel died.