Making two rights as the cop instructed, Christy found the place. Other than a jeans-clad woman answering phones at the PTA desk, the office was deserted.
“Can I help you?” the lady asked.
“I’m looking for Renata Ruiz. I think she’s in fifth grade. Her grandmother, who’s also her caretaker, just, uhm, passed away.” Christy whispered the words passed away. There was an enormous lump in her throat, and she could hardly speak.
The woman looked up at Christy sympathetically. “I’m so sorry. And you are?”
“I’m her grandmother’s employer. I mean I was.”
“And I’m Jenny, Cecelia Moreno’s mom,” she said, extending her hand. “Ce Ce’s in Renata’s grade. Everyone’s at the concert. Come. I’ll take you.”
Jenny accompanied Christy down the hall and up some stairs. Inside, the place was like every school Christy had ever attended. Wide halls, white-painted cinderblock walls, Formica floors, children’s artwork on display, that faint sweaty-gym-sock smell. Christy shivered. The place gave her the willies. School was never her strong suit.
The two women entered the auditorium. A group of students were onstage, arranged as a chorus, singing a medley of Broadway songs in Spanish. A girl and boy were featured soloists, backed by their classmates. Both kids had soprano voices.
“The girl performing is Renata,” Jenny whispered. “You stay here. I’ll get the principal.”
Christy stood in the back, staring at the child who was singing a duet of “Sunrise, Sunset.” “Sol se suba, sol se baia.” It had been at least a year since she’d seen Renata. She remembered her as a chubby little imp. Now she was a head taller than the boy she was singing with and had the face of an Hispanic princess. Her lashes were so long that Christy could make them out from across the darkened auditorium. Her black curly hair was pulled up into the same French knot that Maria always wore when Christy had formal parties. Corkscrew tendrils fell lightly onto the child’s face. Christy let out a sob as she pictured Maria spending her last morning on earth styling Renata’s hair for the concert she would not be able to attend. Christy would never forgive herself for this. Never. She watched Renata’s full lips move purposefully as she sang. There was a cleft in her chin, and she imagined there might be dimples when the girl smiled. She wondered what her mother had looked like to produce such an exquisite daughter. Or maybe it was her father? She didn’t resemble Maria, who had been plain and dumpy in the most comforting way.
Christy was struck with a wave of grief for the child. Her world was about to fall apart, and she didn’t have a clue. Nothing would be the same after today. As Renata performed “Memories,” Christy wept quietly for the child and Maria. “Memoria, solo en la claro de luna.” An older woman tapped Christy on the shoulder and motioned that she accompany her outside. It was the principal, who introduced herself as Enid Greene.
Christy explained the circumstances of Maria’s death and asked if she could take Renata to the hospital to say good-bye.
The principal clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Does she have family? Should I call social services?”
“No, no. I’m taking her. Maria always put me and my assistant down as her emergency contacts. And I’m Renata’s godmother.”
“Why don’t you go back to my office? I’ll bring her to you when her class finishes singing.”
Christy agreed. She took a last peek at Renata, who was singing “Tomorrow” along with the rest of the chorus. “Mañana. Mañana. Te amo. Mañana.” The child sang more enthusiastically than before, probably relieved that her soloing was over. In a fog, Christy walked back to the main office. Stopping in the bathroom to splash water on her face, she thought about the day her own mother died. There had been no chance to say good-bye because the crash happened right after she dropped Christy off at school. Mom kissed her, said she’d pick her up at three, and that was it. She never saw her again. Just like Renata. Christy knew what the girl was about to feel. There would be a hole in her heart that would never be filled. A feeling that something was amiss every morning when she opened her eyes. Christy looked in the mirror and for a moment saw Maria’s face instead of her own. Tears spilled from her eyes, so she stepped into one of the stalls for privacy. Sitting with her head in her hands, she let out a wail. Then the sobs began, coming in waves and spasms. They were loud, plaintive, sorrowful cries between gasps for air. They were the cries of a child weeping for her mother and her beloved Maria, both of whom left the world way too soon.
What’s Love Got to Do with It?
Christy met Michael in Aspen on Friday as planned. She heard the telltale crunch of gravel as his Range Rover made its way up their driveway. Peeking out the window, she was momentarily blinded by the vehicle’s brights, which Michael always forgot to turn off after he navigated the steep part of the road. It was starting to snow.
Christy put down her mug of hot chocolate, threw a cashmere blanket around her shoulders, and curled up in an armchair. There was so much warmth in this home. Michael had bought the place as a wedding present for Christy so he could share his favorite spot in the world with her. He chose a house that wasn’t too big and grand—he knew Christy yearned for a simpler life than Manhattan and a more casual space than his penthouse. He had it decorated for her in a traditional American folk-art style.
