“Almost,” I said gently, looking at Rosa. “But we got away.”
“Oh my,” Maestra said, but before she could speak, I added, “And then we met Manuel on our way to Oaxaca, and he has helped us in so many ways. He is going to Temecula, California, to work with his brother.”
Señorita Garcia took a deep breath and looked at all three of us. Then in her matter of fact tone she said, “You will come home with me then. We will have dinner with my father, and from there, we will see what we can do.” She paused, then turned to Manuel, “You are most welcome to come as well.”
Manuel shook his head. “You are very kind, but I don’t think so,” he said, and my heart sank, though I understood his concern. He did not know her, and after all she was a teacher, a figure of authority. He had told us repeatedly to be careful. Not to trust anyone.
Before I could reassure him, Maestra had placed her hand on my arm and said, “Listen. I believe everything happens for a reason. I am here today because you needed an old friend. There have been times when I needed the help of others. Now it is my turn to help you, and one day, you will do the same. It is the way of the world.” As Señorita Garcia nodded her head, her large hoop earrings brushed her shoulders. “So, it is settled. Let me finish my shopping and add three more for dinner tonight. I will meet you back here shortly.” As she walked away, I watched her long dark ponytail sway back and forth against her flowing white blouse.
Manuel stood beside me, still as nervous as a cornered cat. I reached for his hand and said, “Por favor. Just for dinner. And then we will see.” I looked up into his eyes, pleading. If he wouldn’t go, I knew I couldn’t. He squeezed my hand in response and nodded, but his face looked unconvinced.
When I turned to Rosa, she had tears in her eyes, “I lit a candle in la Catedral while you were gone,” was all she said. For her, la Virgen was fast at work, but for me, I felt in my soul that it was Papá who was guiding us each step of the way.
Saying goodbye to Lupe was difficult for Rosa—how she had blossomed in those few days working with her. While I needed explanation and guidance, Rosa moved in an effortless rhythm right alongside Lupe. Even here at the mercado, Rosa looked radiant explaining the many uses of a rebozo to a young American tourist. First, she had wrapped it to hold a sleeping baby, then to carry school books, and finally with an uncharacteristic batting of her eyelashes, she demonstrated how a young girl used it coyly to flirt. Her giggle had warmed my heart. As we said our goodbyes, I wondered if Rosa might be happier staying right there, but I never said a word. If she was thinking the same, she didn’t mention it either. So, it was a tearful goodbye with Lupe with promises of meeting again someday.
I thought of my cruel parting from Mamá and my tears of anger. As for promises, what could I have pledged? That I’d find Papá? If he was alive, what could that mean for Mamá but a pain just as deep as that she already felt—or worse? Is abandonment in life more painful than abandonment by death? Or does hope sneak in, with thoughts of regret and return, to ease the pain and keep you half-listening for the door?
No matter what, I knew I’d always be listening.
Señorita Garcia lived with her father just outside of Oaxaca City. Her father had been a professor and her mother, a school teacher. That this was the home of three teachers was immediately evident upon entering their house. Where books didn’t line the walls on shelves, they were stacked haphazardly about. While this was the type of house in Oaxaca that usually had all the modern conveniences, one thing their home did not contain was a television. Her father, she said, lived in a world of poetry and ancient history. Newspapers and journals were his only link to the modern world. She, however, was planning to buy herself a computer.
I had never been inside such a house before. Mamá had friends who cleaned similar homes and told her of gleaming bathrooms with flushing toilets and tiled showers, separate bedrooms, a phone, and sometimes more than one television. This home, though cluttered with books and newspapers, was as beautiful as any hotel might be. It was literally built around a tree with large red flowers. From almost every room, you could enter, or at least see, the lovely garden where her father sat beneath the tree in a large wicker chair with thick red cushions. He was leaning forward so immersed in his book, he could just as well have fallen into it. Like his daughter, he was short and round, with thinning gray hair that encircled a shiny bald spot on top of his head. He wore his glasses half-way down his nose, just like Lupe. I watched as Señorita Garcia walked into the garden and spoke quietly to her father. He glanced toward the house and started to rise, but she shook her head and he sank back into the cushions. I watched him lean into his book again as Señorita Garcia headed back to us. What a life, I thought, to sit and read and read.
“Papá keeps a very disciplined schedule. I told him to wait until dinner to meet you,” she said, closing the door behind her. “He writes in the mornings and reads in the afternoons, and in the evenings, he eats and argues with me.” With a deep sigh, she turned to us and said, “You must be exhausted,
