Owen's Daughter

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  “So does that mean you forgive me?”

  “Nothing to forgive. Once you quit drinking, you’ll see. Forgiveness is the easiest thing ever.” She placed her hand on his jacket sleeve, picking a piece of straw off it. “I’ve been thinking about something,” Skye added, and pointed to her dad, saying good-bye to Margaret. “Whether you decide to quit drinking or not, Pete, we have to find a way to get along. They’re going to get married. You can practically smell it on them. There will be holidays we’re invited to. Dinners where we both have to show up. We have to find a way to get along, because we’re going to be family.”

  He frowned. “Only because it says so on a piece of paper.”

  “Are you always this crabby?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  Skye nudged him with her elbow. “Pete, lighten up. You’ve gotta roll with the punches, or trust me, you’ll never get laid again.” Peter stood there with his mouth open, and before she walked away, Skye wished a fly would zip in there.

  Mr. Vigil tapped the microphone to get everyone’s attention. Skye tensed up, hoping he’d finally get to the staff introductions so she could leave this shindig and drive to Truth or Consequences.

  “Tonight I’m surrounded by the most generous hearts in our community,” he said. “Our mission with Reach for the Sky is to help struggling children and traumatized adults from all walks of life to overcome difficulties by teaching them horsemanship.

  “Phase one of the operation is our riding program for the physically handicapped. To begin with, it will run two days a week. The seeds of phase two have been planted,” he continued. “The most important endeavor at Reach for the Sky is to help those with invisible issues, from those who have undergone trauma to juvenile offenders. As you know, hurt manifests in different ways.

  “New Mexico has been called ‘the Land of Enchantment’ since 1879,” Joe continued. “It’s a great state, filled with history, talented artists, and multiple cultures, but it’s also home to a high rate of domestic violence and an unacceptably low high school graduation rate. We hope the programs at Reach for the Sky will make a small dent in those numbers. Already we have one renowned psychologist on staff. We’re especially grateful to Ardith Clemmons.” He smiled and waved at the therapist to stand and be recognized. “We also have a score of volunteers ready to assist riders. What we need is simple: sponsors, donations, and community support.”

  This was never going to end.

  “That’s what tonight is really about,” Joe said. “Making this place succeed, and keeping it going. You’ll find a brochure in the goodie bag you’ll take home tonight as a small way for us to thank you. It’s filled with locally sourced items, from my father’s Hatch green chile to a Navajo Christmas ornament, a jar of Bucking Bee locally produced honey, and even a signature Reach for the Sky wristwatch, designed exclusively for us by Peyote Bird. One hundred percent of the earnings will go directly to Reach for the Sky. But enough about that. For tonight, please relax, enjoy the music, and fill yourselves on the wonderful food. Be sure to look over the auction items and bid frequently! The silent auction will end at eight p.m. In the meantime, our barn manager is ready to take you on tours of the facilities.”

  Then he was done, and people clapped, and the Bosque Boys began to play music a person could dance the two-step to. The party was in full swing, with people talking, eating, and going to the auction table frequently. Skye supposed he wasn’t going to introduce staff after all, so she could finally get going. She needed to track down Mama and the gas money she’d promised. Skye saw Opal come in, dressed head to toe in another vintage Nudie Cohn suit. Her jacket was midnight blue, with a sky full of silver rhinestone stars winking from the shoulders, and the pencil skirt was like something out of a black-and-white movie. Her scarf was ivory velvet with satin flowers fixed to it. In her youth, Opal must have been quite the looker, Skye figured, because at eighty she was a grande dame. She waved at her, and Opal waved back. As hungry as she was, Skye ignored the taquitos, guacamole, beans, corn cakes, and rice. She was on a mission. Perhaps her mother was near the barn stalls. Skye walked as quickly as she could, ignoring everything that usually made her linger: the bales of hay stacked just so, the individual horses that nickered for attention, and the smell of the barn, with all its complex scents mingling. It could be bottled as a perfume, but it also had the unfortunate power to make a person cry.

  Skye thought of foaling season at her old stable in Aurora, where she rode when she was little. Vets were on call twenty-four hours a day. Lots of horse owners stayed the night, in sleeping bags outside the stalls. In the horse world, birth was an arduous process. So many things could go wrong in an animal so poorly designed for pregnancy. In humans, a breech birth was no longer that big a deal. But when foals came out breech, things could and often did go horribly wrong.

  Skye had seen foals taking their first steps on spindly legs, and though the babies were adorable, not all of them made it. A pregnant mare needed nearly as much prenatal care as a woman did. If a cheapskate owner skipped vital vaccines, nothing could make the baby right. But what truly broke Skye’s heart was the way the babies were weaned. Nursing was the most bonding of ties, and after the foals grew into colts and fillies, they were wrenched from the mares and moved to the far side of the barn, where they couldn’t even see their mothers. All day long, the mares and their offspring called to one another in distress, keening.

  Which was exactly the way losing Gracie felt. Cruel. Unnecessary. There was no way to explain how tired she was of nothing going right in her life, of scaling a mountain every day only to find another taller one waiting. Not even Duncan’s Navajo stories could put a spin on that.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a plastic drink cup someone had set on a hay bale and forgotten about. Skye picked it up and held it under her nose, immediately recognizing a black and brown. The ice hadn’t even begun to melt. With tears rolling down her cheeks, she walked over to Lightning’s stall and watched him polish off the last of his sweet feed. Her hand was shaking. Here in the barn, where no one could see her, why the hell not drink the drink? It was a party. Everyone else was buzzed, bidding on stuff, all in the name of a good cause. It would be just one small drink. Who would find out? Her mother might have left the party already. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d left Skye high and dry. Skye had the cup halfway to her lips and was just about to take her first sip when she heard someone behind her clear his throat.

  “Skye?”

  She set the drink down on a bale of straw. Both relieved and angered by the distraction, she turned around to see Peter, and he had someone with him, too.

  “I wanted you to meet my dad,” Peter said. “Skye, this is Raymond Sweetwater, my father, the film director.”

  Except he wasn’t, at least not to Skye. Raymond Sweetwater was the man she knew as Tesuque, Mr. Black and Brown, who ordered the drink every night but never drank it. He had paid for her rehab, and there she was, on the verge of drinking. They looked at each other, and Skye smiled. “How lovely to meet you,” she said.

  “And you as well,” he said, smiling back at her.

  A few minutes later, she heard her phone buzz, indicating someone had left a message. Stupid ringer must have gotten turned off. After fishing it out of her purse, she went straight to the message:

  Wolfgang Schneider here. Rocky Elliot has a bench warrant in Truth or Consequences. His last known address is . . .

  Skye thought, Holyshitholyshitholyshit, my luck’s finally turning. She began to look for Sheila in earnest, because she needed that gas money. Or hell, maybe she’d drive for as long as the car took her and then just pull over and walk.

  Skye found Mama waiting by the car, clasping her blanket coat around her, looking up at the star-studded sky.

  “Mama! Where have you been? I was looking all over for you.”

  “Just standing here watching the stars,” she said. “Making wishes.”

  That was going to be a d
iscussion for another time. “I finally got a lead on Rocky, so I have to go, like right now. This could be it. If all goes well, I could have my girl back by tomorrow.”

  “You’ll find her,” she said. “You always were stubborn, even as a toddler.”

  “Mama, I don’t mean to rush you, but I need that gas money.”

  Her mother opened her purse and took out her wallet. She took out twenties and fifties and even a few hundred-dollar bills.

  “Mama, that’s plenty. Listen, do you want to come with me?”

  Her mother’s eyes glistened in the moonlight. “No. Pearl’s waiting for me back at the house. You go on. Text me what happens.”

  “Thank you for the dress,” Skye said, and gave her mother a one-armed hug.

  “You do look beautiful,” her mother replied, and began to walk back to the party.

  Chapter 14

  Skye was pumping gas into the Mercedes at the Allsup’s when her cell phone rang. Who on earth could it be, unless maybe Mama had changed her mind? “Hello?”

  “Wolfgang here. By any chance is your daughter named Eleanor?”

  “Her name’s Grace. But her middle name is Eleanor. Have you found her?”

  “There’s an Eleanor Grace Ellis in foster care in the T or C area. Could be a typo for Elliot.”

  “Foster care? Man, oh, man, do I have an earful for Rocky when I get there.”

  “Don’t drive angry. And keep in mind you don’t know the whole story yet.”

  “Who on earth puts their own child in foster care?”

  “Let me give you the number to call. Got a pen?”

  Skye laughed. “As a matter of fact, I have a gold Cross pen with the initials W.S. in case you want it back.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that, though I have a million of them. Pens are what your children give you when your ex marries a rich guy.”

  “You’re divorced?”

  “Isn’t everyone?”

  “Did you represent yourself?”

  He laughed. “Every judge will tell you, ‘When you decide to represent yourself, you have a fool for a client.’ How about I tell you all about it when you get back? Over dinner?”

  Whoa. Well, thanks to Mama, she had a date dress. “Let me think it over. Do your close friends call you Wolfgang?”

  “Mainly they call me Wolf.”

  “That’s light-years better than Wolfgang.”

  She heard him chuckle. “Now that’s settled, here is the number for Social Services. You want to ask for Mrs. Rodriquez. Skye, I’m not a hundred percent sure this is your daughter. Even if it is, the return process can take a while. You can’t let this upset you. I’ve faxed paperwork from Judge Iglesias to speed things up for you.”

  Skye twisted the gas cap closed and got in the car, the phone still pressed to her ear.

  Traffic was light, and no drunk drivers seemed to be out. Skye couldn’t help wondering where Gracie was, and if she was hungry, or cold, or worse, having an asthma attack. Damn Rocky anyway, and what the hell was Rita thinking? Where was Grandma? Playing the slots at Fort Sill Apache?

  “Hey, Skye?” Wolf asked, bringing her focus back to the road. “Drive carefully.”

  “I am driving carefully.”

  “You going to find a motel to stay in until morning?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t afford a motel. I’ll sleep in my car.”

  “Skye,” he said, “absolutely not. I’ve just now made a reservation for you at the Comfort Inn off Date Street.”

  “What? I told you, I don’t have the money.”

  “I’ve put it on my corporate card. Right now, I consider you my client. Once the case is settled, we’ll talk about repaying me.”

  “How am I your client? I don’t recall hiring you.”

  “Lawyers are allowed to take on cases pro bono. You go get a good night’s sleep, and call me tomorrow. I have to go now. Good luck.”

  “Wait,” Skye said. But he was already gone. She pressed END on her cell phone.

  She drove for miles and miles in silence, passing by red rock, the yellow-brown plains covered with rabbit brush, interrupted only by scrubby piñon. The appearance of a cottonwood tree meant there was a water supply nearby, because cottonwoods were water suckers. She smiled to think of rehab being named Cottonwoods, but how close she had come to drinking tonight made her shiver.

  The farther south she drove, the drier things got. Small rocks kicked up by passing big rigs dinged her windshield like shrapnel. She hated the wind. “Nil-chi-tsosie,” Duncan would say. “It’s only a small wind.” Maybe she and Gracie should move somewhere else, like California or Hawaii? No, she knew she wanted to be near her dad. Her mother, well, she’d have to wait and see what was going on there.

  There was the exit for the Comfort Inn. Skye clicked on her blinker, slowed down, and took the exit. She pulled up to the registration office, shut her engine off and got out. It was warmer here than Santa Fe. Stars were out big time.

  She knew for certain that she wouldn’t sleep a wink. If I shut my eyes, she thought, she’ll disappear again. I can’t take the chance.

  Chapter 15

  Margaret had lain awake for hours after the kids were in bed. After stories, a video, cuddles, and kisses, she felt pinned to the couch, unable to muster the energy to go down the hall into the bedroom, but surprisingly awake, mentally. Glory’s kids were a lot of work, but the entertainment factor made up for that. Margaret felt an urge to call Nori in London, but she couldn’t remember the time zone hours. How was she going to explain everything that had happened in the last week?

  She heard the car pull up, the engine turn off, and the driver’s door open and slam shut. The gate creaked as Peter headed to the casita without stopping in to say good night. Good for him. He was building his new life, and as a mother it was her role to watch from the sidelines. She thought of Aunt Ellie and the letters she sent, those checks always seeming to arrive at the exact right times. How did Ellie always seem to know? That reminded her of the letters she’d brought in from the casita, which she’d taken from the grocery bag and tucked into a shoebox in her closet without reading. Now was the perfect time to read them. She wanted to know what would make her unsentimental aunt hold on to them for so many years.

  She got up, leaning against the arm of the couch until her feet felt steady. Joe had given her one of his hiking canes, saying as if it were perfectly normal conversation, “This is a good starter cane. Bear your weight on the cane as you step with your strongest side. Get used to it for a few days. If it doesn’t suit you, then we’ll try another. And I think you should start trying to get your handicapped parking sticker. Believe me, those things are lifesavers.”

  She took the cane into her left hand and made her way down the hall, checking on Aspen and Sparrow, who were sleeping like angels in her studio. Echo was stretched out at the foot of the foldout bed. She wagged her tail and Margaret smiled at her. In her bedroom, she took the shoebox of Ellie’s letters out of her closet, opened it, and tucked the lid under the box. She turned, intending to take them to bed, read a few, and then doze off. Who could say? Maybe she would have a lovely dream in which her aunt made an appearance. But she dropped the box, and the first packet of letters fell out, scattering on the floor. “Darn it,” she said, trying to believe this was simply late night clumsiness. She sat on the floor and gathered the letters to her, arranging the postmarks by date. The letter that had fallen farthest from her was the last one she picked up. She recognized her mother’s handwriting on the envelope at once. Mother had a distinctive way of breaking a single word into two when she wrote in cursive. It had always intrigued Margaret. The postmark was around forty-one years prior. Margaret opened it, and the faint scent of roses came from the tissue-thin pages.

  Dear Eleanor,

  Ted and I have discussed the matter for a week now. I’ve prayed about it as well. While I admire you for continuing the pregnancy, I wish you’d
learned from your earlier mistake with Margaret. Nevertheless, we’ve come to a conclusion that we hope will work well for all of us.

  We’ll send Margaret to Lake Bryn Mawr Summer Camp for three months. When she returns, we’ll have the new baby and tell her I was several months pregnant when she left. And that the baby came early.

  Margaret smoothed the crease in the letter. What the hell? Was this why Ellie and her mother always seemed on the brink of fighting? In fact, when letters or packages from Ellie arrived for the girls, her mother always wore a disapproving expression and insisted on reading the letters first.

  Just as we have done with Margaret, this new child will be raised as our own, unequivocally, and must never know of our arrangement. You can’t expect them to grow up with us as disciplinarians without believing we are their parents. If one day you step into their lives and reveal you are their birth mother, they will rebel, have no respect for their elders, and then who can say what path they’ll take? If you want them to grow up properly, that simply cannot happen. This has to be a one-hundred-percent parenting situation or none at all. Consider this. If they find out that you’re their mother, then surely they’ll wish to know who their father is, and that’s the whole point of keeping this secret, is it not?

  Margaret pressed her hand to her mouth and set the letter down in her lap. She barely heard the rattle of the bedroom window. It was the only window moving in the entire house and there wasn’t any wind outside, so it had to be Dolores’s work. Margaret sat there on the rug while images played in her mind. Christmases when Aunt Ellie came for Christmas Eve dinner but left before morning. Her father had never liked Ellie, saying her sense of humor was bawdy and inappropriate. The way Nori’s laugh sounded so much like Ellie’s that Margaret accused her of copying her. She remembered the occasional drawing Ellie scrawled in the margins of letters she sent, one of tide pool life in Maine, another of the Eiffel Tower. How Margaret had sent a drawing back. The out-of-the-blue present of colored pencils from England for Margaret and the Native American wooden flute for Nori. Margaret had made a life being an artist, and Nori still played the flute. There was the birthday she had given them matching turquoise bracelets. Margaret still had hers. She’d wondered why if it was Nori’s birthday, there was always a present for Margaret and the other way around? They’d spent a summer riding horses at Ellie’s lake house, the prize for a year’s worth of straight-A grades. Until Santa Fe, Ellie never really had a home base other than that lake house, but it was primarily a summer cabin. She rented it out but always kept the month of August for them, though Mother, the killjoy, didn’t allow them to go except for that one summer.