Those few days at Lupe’s were a much-needed respite not only from what we’d been through, but for what lay ahead. Though the meals were simple, made with whatever Lupe had that day, and though her sons were worn out by their labors in the sun, there was a sense of communion that I hadn’t felt since Papá left, so on our last night there, I felt both sadness and exhilaration. It had been a joy to stop there and regain our strength, but it only made me ache all the more for what was and yearn to move on to what could be.
After dinner that last evening, everyone helped pack the crafts onto the truck, which was then covered with a tarp. Then, since many of us would be rising early to head for the mercado in Oaxaca City, we called it a night. But as Rosa and I prepared our little bed on the sofa, Lupe motioned us into her bedroom, where neatly folded on her small bed were a few blouses, pants, and skirts. “See what fits you, take what you need,” she said. “And Alma, see if one of these fits you better.” Reaching into a drawer beside her bed, she pulled out a couple of bras. They seemed huge, with large cups and thick straps, but they would serve me better than the small piece of cloth that made me look like a four-breasted beast.
“Lupe, you have been too kind to us. Gracias,” Rosa said, hugging her.
Lupe accepted her hug with a nod, then said, “There is no ‘too kind.’ We give what we have to those who are in need. And now you both do the same.” She placed her hand first on Rosa’s arm, then mine, and said gently, “I have been in your shoes before, and others have been kind to me. No one reaches my age, loses two husbands and three children, and makes it on their own strength. Nos ayudamos mutuamente. We help each other.”
Then her eyes opened wide. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, turning to the little table beside her bed. Lifting a cloth, she pulled out the little blue book with the calla lily. “This is for you,” she said, handing it to me.
I caught my breath. “Oh, Lupe. For me? Oh, thank you!” My hand trembled as I reached out.
“No, not from me. From your brother?” She said the last word with a twinkle in her eye.
I blushed as I looked up at her. “Manuel?”
“Yes,” she said with a smile. “He asked how much they sell for and insisted on paying the full price, though I did convince him that most customers bargain for a bit less, and he agreed.”
“And he said for me? You’re sure?” No boy had ever given me a gift before. And Manuel would certainly need every peso or quetzal he had.
Lupe only smiled and nodded her head. Then she turned to Rosa. “Someone should tell ‘tu hermano’ to be careful how he looks at ‘su hermana’ if he wants others to believe you are truly brother and sister traveling together.”
I glanced at Rosa, whose eyes were bright with curious surprise. “I had no idea,” she said. “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you know he cares for you?”
“I don’t know anything.” I suddenly felt uncomfortable and confused. “I’ve never said a word to him. And anyway, it’s just a book! A book with no words!” I looked from one to the other, holding the book forth as if in explanation.
Lupe laughed. “Ah, those are the best kind.”
Rosa shook her head. “Well, I have certainly been blind. I hadn’t even noticed.”
“There’s nothing to notice! So, he bought me a book. So what!” Then grabbing Rosa’s arm, I pleaded, “And don’t you say a word to him, not a word!”
Lupe ushered us out the door. “You both need your sleep. You’ve a journey to prepare for.” As I walked away, my cheeks burning like they did the night of the tequila, I heard her chuckle softly in her room, a light girlish laugh full of memory and delight.
But I couldn’t sleep. Long after Lupe blew out the last candle, after the tossing and turning in her sons’ room ceased, and after Rosa’s breaths became slow and deep, I was still wide awake. I reached for the little book that was in the top of my sack and crept to a table where I remembered seeing a pencil. It was still there. Then I sank down on the floor beneath one window where the light of the moon shone down through the bottom of the curtain. Sitting cross-legged, I could see the cut on my thigh. The length of a cayenne pepper, the line of clotted blood was thick at one end and curved to a point at the other. Mi pimienta de cayena. I ran my finger over the bumpy scab and thought of Manuel. “Go! I’m right behind you. Up. Now. Up!”
I repositioned myself so my little book was illuminated. The calla lily glowed in the dim light. I opened to the first blank page, paused, and wrote, “The Journal of Alma Cruz.” Or should it be “Journey”? I settled back to contemplate where to begin. Perhaps the day Papá disappeared? Or the day Rosa and I set out?
The year Papá left seemed important, so I neatly wrote the numbers “1997.” Then I sat back, looked at them, and stopped. The numbers. So neat, so compact, so certain. I had never been one to keep a journal of words. No, whenever I sat with a blank piece of paper, I always played with numbers. So that’s what I decided to do with my little book. I turned back to the title, erased, and began again. “The Math Journal of Alma Cruz.”
The room was still, except
