Stolen Grace

by Arianne Richmonde

  Melinda put on her glasses and typed on her phone. “Okay, let me see. Sunset in Nicaragua . . . Managua . . . in June, six pm. Managua’s only a little further south, mas o menos el mismo, don’t you think?”

  “Tell the driver we need another car. If he could drop me off with a taxi friend of his somewhere. You go to El Viejo and I’ll go to the beach—we’ll meet later, depending on who has more info and where we need to be.”

  Sylvia looked down at her thumb and saw she’d ripped the cuticles with her teeth—she had blood on her dress. “And would you send Tommy a message?” she asked her cousin. “He needs to know what’s going on.”

  SYLVIA WAS GLAD to get out of the car. Several times she’d closed her eyes—the possibility of a head-on collision with a truck, swerving to avoid some poor pedestrian or a split in the road, was terrifying. The passing scenery was like going back in time. She observed cream-colored oxen pulling carts with wooden wheels, buses that looked, for the most part, like old American school buses from the 1960s, aluminum with long noses, but top-heavy with baskets, bundles, and great sacks, accompanied by passengers clinging onto the roof rack. She feared they might topple over with the weight. Sometimes a child waved and cheered at her; she heard the word “rubia” –the obvious tourist, as she was, in her clean dress (despite the blood marks), leaning out of the window, letting her blond hair blow in the warm wind. There had been a dash of intense rain, too, and potholes had filled up in a matter of minutes, turning into ponds of brown mud-water, soaking poor bicyclists quivering by; the goose-bumps on their arms almost visible as they swerved the flooded, scarred road.

  They’d hit the beginning of the rainy season. Sylvia was begging to whoever was listening, that Grace was dry. Alive. Safe. And that somebody could offer a clue as to her whereabouts.

  By a stroke of luck, the new driver was familiar with The Boom and dropped Sylvia halfway down a dirt track, which apparently led to the cabin, which he also knew about. This was the countryside—the locals must know each other, she surmised. The driver was acquainted with the American surfer who owned the cabin, said they sometimes shared a beer together. He informed Sylvia that a woman lived next door, local to these parts—he couldn’t remember her name—but that she looked after the cabin when nobody was there.

  Sylvia walked along the muddy path, the earth gurgling beneath her, squelching and sucking—a sound like several children simultaneously slurping sodas through straws. The sun was preparing itself for bed, casting golden dapples through the high coconut palms. She passed a hut, its thick straw roof toppled and cockeyed from the rain. A few chickens were pecking about in the fenced-in yard and she observed a small boy staring at her, barefoot, shirtless, holding a bleating kid in his arms as if it were a baby. She approached the gate, set her backpack down and took out a photo of Grace from her wallet. The child retreated.

  “Hola,” she offered tentatively. “Estoy buscando mi hija.” She could hear the clumsiness of her accent. The inquisitive boy continued to watch her. She pulled some candy from her pocket and a biro. She’d heard how children were feverish for pens. The little boy stood stock-still. “Venga,” Sylvia beckoned, “para tí.” Then she remembered she needed to use South American Spanish, not Castilian Spanish. “Para vos.”

  The boy, still clutching the animal, came forward. She handed him the pen and he inspected it like an artifact. She wondered if he even had any paper at his simple farm—probably not. She showed him the photo of Grace and said, “Conoces esta niña?” He shook his head and looked at the candy, which she handed over. He smiled coyly and ran back to his shack, giggling.

  Sylvia picked up her backpack, heaved it over her shoulder and strode on toward the beach. She could hear the lapping ocean and tasted its saltiness on her tongue. The air smelled brackish, of seaweed and damp earth. A vermillion sun was peeping through the trees, rendering reflections orange, and the muddy path shone like a mirror; her moving shadow elongated, the legs stretched out like a runway model, striding like an Amazon. She had reached the great sweep of beach, wide, empty. She wondered where all the surfers were. The sun was a fiery ball sinking lower behind the ocean, setting off twinkling crystals on its shimmering waters. There was no sign of wild breaks as Sylvia had imagined, no twenty-foot high rolls. All was quiet except for the sound of birds and the rhythmical slapping of waves. Had she already passed the cabin without noticing? She’d tried to follow the driver’s directions but realized her faltering Spanish had let her down. He’d had to let her off sooner, because of the mud. Left, right? Retrace her steps?

  Just as she was turning to go back, she saw a figure in the distance. She stepped away from the wet of the sand, watching her footsteps get swallowed. She walked south—closer to the vegetation and the palm-fringe of the beach—in the direction of the form: a black outline silhouetted against the coral of the sky. As she got closer, she saw it was a woman, slight in build with long brown hair—a tourist not a local, by the way she was dressed. The girl was bending down, maybe collecting shells, Sylvia couldn’t see.

  Sylvia ran toward her. “Hello! Hola? Habla inglés?’” The woman didn’t notice. Sylvia shouted louder, “Do you speak English?”

  The girl, for she couldn’t have been more than nineteen or so, looked up, surprised. She’d been gazing at a multi-colored crab scrabbling across the sand. It was so bright it looked as if a child had painted it with neon pens.

  “Habla inglés?”

  “Sí,” the young woman answered. “I speak English.”

  “Thank God,” Sylvia panted, out of breath from her sprint and the weight of her pack. She detected that the young woman had a European accent, possibly French. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you staying near here?”

  “Just over there. But all the guesthouses are in the other direction,” she said, pointing to the distance.

  “I’m not looking for a guesthouse—I’m looking for my five-year-old daughter.”

  “Adela?”

  “Yes! You know her? But she’s not called Adela, her name is Grace. She was kidnapped.”

  “Lucho is innocent!” the girl yelled. “Why doesn’t the police believe us?”

  Sylvia exhaled with relief. Finally, someone who knew something. “I’m her mother. Are you Lucho’s girlfriend?”

  “Rocío is her mother. This is crazy. What the hell she thought she was doing, though, leaving Adela alone—”

  Sylvia looked the girl hard in the eye. “No. Rocío was the woman who stole her from me,” she said slowly, annunciating the words. Where could she even begin? The whole story was so complicated. “Look, Rocío was not her real mother. I’m Grace’s mother.”

  The girl smiled ironically. “Yeah, right. Adela was dark, like a Nicaraguan. You’re very blond. Rocío also has coffee-colored skin. And they spoke Spanish together.”

  Sylvia shifted her weight and sighed. She was already exhausted; the backpack, the explanations. “Look, can we go somewhere and talk? I’ll tell you everything. Are you living in the cabin? Are you Lucho’s girlfriend?”

  The girl raked her eyes over Sylvia suspiciously. “Lucho’s not here. He’s with the police.”

  Sylvia ignored her frosty attitude. She noticed how stunning the girl was, really beautiful, but being lost in this sea of deception, the girl had a little snarl playing on her lips. “I know. Boy, am I glad to have found you. My name is Sylvia.” She held out her hand.

  “I’m Elodie.” She didn’t shake Sylvia’s hand but tentatively offered both cheeks instead. Of course, she was European, thought Sylvia; that’s the way they did things.

  Sylvia said, “Look, the sooner I know all the details, the better for Lucho. The FBI are on the case, I can—”

  “American FBI?” Elodie’s face reddened with alarm.

  “Yes, I’m American. Grace . . . Adela, is American.”

  “Now I know you’re not Adela’s mom! Adela only speaks Spanish. I’ve never heard her speak English. Not once.”

/>   Sylvia stood there stunned. Things were beginning to make sense. She put her hand into her dress pocket and pulled out her wallet. She flipped out the picture of Grace and handed it to Elodie. The young woman inspected it, squinted her eyes and then capped her hands around the photo as if to shield the edges. “Adela has short hair. Like a boy. She looks so different here. I don’t know.” Doubt was etched across her face, crumpling her smooth, flawless brow.

  “Please can we walk to your cabin?”

  “Okay, come on then,” Elodie conceded, finally letting a smile creep into a welcome.

  Dusk was falling fast. Sylvia remembered that near the Equator, after the sun went down, night was already nigh, unlike the slow, meandering sunsets back home. She was used to lingering summer evenings when twilight danced between dusk and dark for almost two hours. But now it was nearly black. She followed the girl. She was a beauty, with a heart-shaped face, her skin unblemished, a few freckles scattered across her nose, but she donned a small pout on her lips like a spoiled child who had always gotten her way. When she at last cracked a smile, she had a real sweetness about her. Like a delicate doll.

  “Give me half the weight,” Elodie offered, pulling away the backpack from Sylvia’s shoulders. “We can take half and half.” Her accent was adorable; the H silent—‘alf and ‘alf.

  Sylvia smiled. “Thank you.”

  They reached a clearing surrounded by banana, avocado and mango trees and a small garden full of flowers that looked like gladioli but weren’t. Almost hidden, was a wooden cabin, no bigger than a large garage. A rope hammock hung from between two trees, and a cement porch provided shelter for a couple of chairs and a table.

  “There’s no electricity here,” Elodie said apologetically. “The simple life. But we have a solar shower. Big luxury.” She laughed. She opened the door which wasn’t locked, and she and Sylvia placed the backpack on the floor. There were a couple of single beds pushed together and another at the end of the room. No kitchen, just a sink and a few tables. Sylvia imagined Grace living here and how it must have seemed a great adventure for a little child. Minus the Ruth part.

  She heard something crunching outside and a snorting sort of grunt. Her heart leap–she’d heard how Nicaragua was full of exotic animals, even jaguars.

  “Just the resident pig,” the girl explained, “no problem, it’s friendly.” She lit a candle, an incense stick, and then two mosquito coils. “You better put on a shirt. Les mustiques love it after the rain. They attack after the sun goes down.” She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply as if to calm herself.

  Sylvia took a light cotton shirt from her backpack and put it on. Then rubbed some citronella on her legs.

  “That smells good,” Elodie said.

  Sylvia massaged her knees with the oil. “Want some? All natural, no pesticides. Are you here alone now?”

  “Today I’m alone. They came and took Lucho away yesterday afternoon.”

  “So what happened exactly? When did Grace go missing?”

  “Adela?”

  Sylvia wanted to scream, “No Grace!” But said, “Look. Just so you understand, my daughter Grace, her name is Grace, is Indian. From Kashmir, in India. My husband and I adopted her. That’s why she doesn’t look like me. This woman, Rocío, who also calls herself Ruth, stole her. Kidnapped her. She’s wanted by the FBI for kidnapping and for stealing a lot of money. I know it sounds far-fetched and totally nuts and like some sort of Hollywood movie, but I swear it’s true.”

  Elodie capped her hands over her mouth. “O mon Dieu! That sounds crazy. Crazy!”

  Sylvia put her hand on her heart. “I swear, on my daughter’s life, it’s the truth. Now, when was it, exactly, that Grace disappeared?”

  “I was sleeping. Lucho, went surfing early, like five o’clock. The big waves are always very early. When he came back, he woke me up. Adela . . . Grace . . . had already gone.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  Elodie walked across the room and took out a digital camera from her handbag. She pressed a button on the camera, going through the pictures. “Please sit down. I’ll show you Adela.” She handed Sylvia the camera.

  Sylvia looked through the images—there were three of them. She pored over every detail. Grace having dinner. Grace playing on the beach. Eating fruit. She looked happy, thank God, but like a different person. It was strange how a haircut could change a face. It was cropped short like a boy’s buzz cut; her neck, without any wisps of hair about it, made her look like a scrawny bird. If it hadn’t been for her long eyelashes and her beautiful amber eyes, she could have been mistaken for the opposite sex. She was either in just bikini bottoms or wearing shorts. No skirts. No dresses. And clothes Sylvia didn’t recognize. She was very tanned, her skin darker than she’d ever seen. She could have passed for a local child, especially with the gold cross hanging around her neck. Most of the population was Catholic in Nicaragua—El Salvador too, she presumed. Grace had been converted into an inconspicuous local child. Ruth had been clever. No wonder no traveler had noticed them. Seeing Ruth’s latest photo, the passport photo, she too, was tanned. They could have easily been mother and daughter.

  “I think she was wearing a shirt and shorts like in the photo, the same clothes as she had on at dinner the night before.”

  “You had dinner? Where?”

  “At the restaurant by the beach.”

  “Who was there?”

  “Just us and some surfers.”

  “Was anyone paying particular attention to Grace?”

  “No, she was very quiet. She didn’t say a thing.”

  “No man was, like . . . flirting with her or something?”

  “No! She’s a little girl! No, of course not!”

  “Where did Lucho meet Rocío?” she asked, already knowing the answer. The Panama attaché had told her.

  “El Salvador. On the beach, I don’t know the name. Lucho already wanted to come here for the surf.”

  “Was Lucho Ruth’s lover?”

  Elodie winced. “She wanted to be. She tried, but Lucho said he didn’t sleep with her. I believe him. She was much older than him.”

  Sylvia tried not to roll her eyes. Men. Always in denial. Always telling fibs. “What was Lucho doing hanging out with Ruth, then?”

  “His money got stolen. He had nothing. She helped him.”

  “Whose idea was the cabin?”

  Elodie took another drag on her cigarette. “He’d heard about it from other surfers. The Boom is famous. So they came across the frontière by boat.”

  “The border? They crossed the border by boat?”

  “Yeah. Oh yeah, Adela left this.” Elodie walked over to the bed—the one that was on its own, and rolled back the sheet. Carrot was lying cozily in bed. “You see, I don’t think she wanted to run away. She took her other teddy with her.”

  “Pidgey O Dollars?”

  “The yellow one.”

  “Pidgey is white. Well, kind of. Half and half. Have the police seen these photos of my daughter?”

  “No way! They could steal my camera! Worse, they think Lucho killed her or something. I need your help. He’s the sweetest guy, ever. He would never hurt a child. He loves Adela. He loves her!” The girl broke down in tears, her slim shoulders heaving with grief. “He is innocent. The jails here full of Sandinista and Contra scum! The police are violent. Please help me. I don’t want my mother to know where I am, but . . .” she trailed off.

  “Let’s make a deal, okay? I will help you. And you must help me. The sooner we find Grace, the sooner Lucho will be proved innocent. Okay?”

  Elodie gulped air between sobs, the cigarette still alight in her hand. “Okay,” she sniffled.

  Sylvia suddenly felt maternal. “You really shouldn’t smoke, you know, Elodie. Your beautiful skin will get ravaged.”

  “Yeah, Lucho tells me the same thing. He hates it when I smoke.”

  “Well stop, then. For him. Surprise him.”

  “Yeah, I guess I cou
ld do that. Hey, I almost forgot something that could be important. Adel . . . Grace’s funny pen is next door with Angela, the caretaker.”

  “Pen?”

  “Yes. Grace’s pen that records voices.”

  “Oh my God, she brought that with her? I forgot all about that thing. I gave that to Tommy years ago and Grace had her eye on it. She’s such a little magpie. I didn’t know it still worked.”

  “Yeah. Lucho says it was a secret from Rocío.”

  “Why is it next door?”

  “To charge. Angela has electricity. Also, we keep all valuables there. She keeps things safe. Passports, money. Computer. Lucho didn’t give the police his ID—he said he lost it. The police are crazy here, you know?”

  Sylvia’s stomach flipped with hope. “Well what are we waiting for? Take me next door.”

  ANGELA WAS IN her late fifties, Sylvia guessed. An affable woman, with round, jolly cheeks, although with Elodie she was less friendly, but then Elodie, she soon realized, could hardly speak a word of Spanish. The French girl was brave to have come all this way at such a young age to a country so alien to her and launch into a relationship with someone she could hardly communicate with. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Young love. Long gone were the days when she and Tommy discussed world politics, movies, books. They always talked about Grace, or about the house, or bills. Their communication was different, but perhaps just as basic as Elodie’s and Lucho’s. But at least the young couple would be having passionate sex on a regular basis.

  Angela was in her kitchen, cooking. In her rudimentary Spanish Sylvia explained her saga and asked the woman if she had Grace’s recording pen. Without even asking, Angela set down two plates full of a steaming rice and bean dish, and insisted that she and Elodie have a meal. Sylvia was grateful, her stomach had been rumbling all afternoon from eating nothing but snacks and picking at bland airplane food.

  “Ah, ha!” the woman cried in Spanish, after Sylvia had revealed Ruth’s crimes. “I knew there was something fishy about that woman, Rocío. It wasn’t normal to leave a five-year-old alone like that.” Angela bustled out of the room and came back with the special pen.