Rosa had always been the one I turned to, and I wanted her so badly now, I couldn’t bear it. But she was gone—and all because of me.
“Oh Rosa,” I cried, “please forgive me! I’m sorry! Lo siento!”
Suddenly a warm hand grasped mine and pried my fingers from my hair. A gentle voice, soft as feathers, cooed, “Está bien. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault at all. It’s okay.”
Startled, I opened my eyes. “Rosa? Is it you, Rosa?” The loving eyes that gazed back were as warm as the hand that held mine, so warm I could feel the heat flow through me, easing the chill away, soothing the pain, erasing the fear and guilt.
And I remembered.
Rosa. Those last moments. There on the ground, when I had turned toward her, she had answered my pleas for forgiveness. She had touched my hand and told me, no, no, I was not to blame. And her eyes had filled me with light. The light of the blinding stars. Light that brought warmth and peace. Peace that flowed through me, bringing forgiveness and love. I remembered. And I let myself think of Manuel. His aching words of comfort and love in the midst of the horror. His tender hands on my shoulder. His tears on my cheek.
Lying back, I closed my eyes and let their love flow through me. I felt the beat of my heart slow down gradually from a gallop to an even pace. My breathing deepened. I opened my eyes.
It was Ana who was holding my hand and stroking my forehead. Ana, whose eyes held all of the world’s kindness, and, trembling beside her, her mother. Both so worried, so concerned—about me. It was as if I was seeing them for the first time.
Taking a deep breath, I gazed up and smiled. I could still feel the light of Rosa’s love and the tenderness of Manuel’s touch; it warmed my chest and made my cheeks glow.
Whispering so as not to disturb the little life within me, I said to the two startled women hovering above, “I want to have this baby, mi bebé. I want to because it was conceived at a moment that I was most loved.”
They nodded with open mouths.
Though I yearned for it to be Manuel’s, if it wasn’t, if it was created amidst that horror, it was also at the instant that I experienced the most sacred love I would ever know.
“And I want to name her Luz. Luz de Rosalba. Rosa’s light.” For I knew, just as I knew Rosa had not made it back to Chiapas, that the life within me was a girl.
14
¡Sí, Se Puede!
For the next few days, Ana, Señora Lopez, and I crowded together on their tiny sagging sofa to catch the latest news. The minute Dolores’s picture flashed on the screen, we would silence each other and listen. Her children spoke of her resilience. Yes, she was seriously ill and doctors considered her condition delicate, but family recalled for reporter after reporter how Dolores had suffered a ruptured spleen at the hands of police during a demonstration years before, yet she had recovered quickly and returned to her work. Though she was in her seventies now, everyone was confident that she would still pull through with the same determination.
“¡Sí, se puede!” a daughter proudly exclaimed, repeating her mother’s famous words. “My mother said this morning, ‘God has a plan for me, my work is not done.’ She’ll be back on her feet and in the face of injustice within a year!” Only time would tell if this proved to be true, for it was also reported that Dolores’s condition had left her so debilitated that she was learning how to feed herself and walk again.
Occasionally these news stories included clips of Dolores alongside Cesar Chavez during the United Farm Workers strike. I would hold my breath and scan the faces in the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of a young Juan Cruz. But, like life itself, the film was blurry and ran for but an instant.
Just as the umbilical cord attached my baby to me, I felt fiercely connected to Dolores. She was the first thing on my mind each morning as the sun rose and filled the small room with light. I would think of her starting her day, so I would rise and run my own bath, dress myself, and help prepare the meals with Señora Lopez. As I lifted each forkful of food to my mouth, I pictured Dolores doing the same. As I placed one foot in front of the other during my morning walks, I knew she was making just such an effort.
If she could regain her strength to fight again, so could I. If God had a plan for her, perhaps He had one for me as well, and my work was not yet done.
And so, I began to consider my future. I could not bring myself to even contemplate a return to Oaxaca, and certainly not Chiapas, at least not yet. Should I stay with Ana in Nogales? They had opened their arms to me and offered to help me make a new life. Should I contact Diego and Berta in Los Angeles? They were, after all, a connection to Papá.
What, I wondered, would Dolores do? The answer was simple; she would continue to move forward, to pursue the cause she believed in. But what was my cause? To care for this baby, certainly, but still try to find Papá? To learn the truth about his disappearance? My stomach churned at this thought for so much had been lost in this pursuit. Was it still the right thing to do?
On the eve of Día de los Muertos, All Souls Day, with Ana at work, I knelt with Señora Lopez before her shrine as she prayed for her
