A bed with a yellow and white flowered quilt sat along one wall beside a white dresser. And at the foot of the bed—a little white bassinet. I caught my breath. Did she know somehow? But how could she? I set down my bag and reached out to touch the lace edging. Inside sat two cloth dolls with flannel gowns and bonnets. Their braided hair of yarn was slightly faded and their faces soiled in spots. These dolls had seen better days, but they clearly had been well-loved. More photos on top of the dresser gave me a clue. Both were of the young woman in the sunflower frame. In one she was quite young, perhaps eight or ten, with the same teasing grin, her arm hooked around a smaller girl’s shoulders. In the second photo, she was a young woman in a simple white dress, holding a bouquet of white roses, one flower behind her ear and one hand clutching the arm of a young Juan Cruz. My father was dressed in a suit that was much too large, clearly borrowed for the occasion. His handsome face glowed with pride and glee. Their wedding day.
I sank onto the bed as I realized that, of course, he had been here many times. He had been in this house and probably slept in this room, in this bed, for this had been her room: Berta’s sister, my father’s wife. I knew so little about this part of his life, only that he had lost her in childbirth and her sister had raised the baby. Beyond that nothing—not even her name. Lightly touching my abdomen, I thought, there was so much Berta could tell me, but first, I had to do the right thing. I had to tell Berta my truth, or at least a small part of it.
I awoke to find a large woman with very short salt and pepper hair standing above me. I sat up quickly, startling her. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said almost in a whisper, “I didn’t mean to wake you. You must be exhausted.”
“No,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I’m fine now. You’re Berta?”
She nodded, “Yes, and you . . . you look so much like your father . . . and Diego.”
“Do I? ¿Mi Papá?”
“Oh yes. The eyes, the nose, definitely.”
I had never seen the likeness, but then my face had been much fuller until recently. I stood and looked in the mirror above the dresser.
“How long has it been . . . since you saw him last?” she asked gently.
My eyes met hers in the mirror. “June 1997. Almost three and a half years. He left after my brother’s birthday.” I sank back onto the bed. “We had had a party, and the next day he left.” I remembered sitting with him the evening before, talking about how he wanted me to continue on to high school after I finished secundaria. I looked up at Berta, whose eyes had filled with tears.
“Do you have any idea where he might be?” I asked. “Any ideas at all?”
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and as she exhaled said, “Oh, m’ija. Come into the kitchen. Let’s get some breakfast. I’m starving . . . and then we can talk.”
Berta worked in a French bakery making breads and pastries with French names like batarde, and baguette, and croissant. “I love to cook, too, all kinds of food, not just Mexican. So, I hope you’ll enjoy trying some new dishes.” She moved swiftly about the tiny kitchen, pulling out a wooden board from one corner, some vegetables and eggs from the refrigerator, and a pinch of herbs from her window plants. “I hope you’re a big eater—are you? With Diego gone, I always make too much, though I send it home with him when he stops by. Those boys sure can eat. ¡Grandes apetitos!” She chatted away as she laid out dishes and silverware, and though I asked if I could help, she shook her head and looked around. “Two cooks are one too many in this kitchen.”
Fortunately, I was already halfway through my breakfast when she sat down to join me, for as she lifted her first forkful to her mouth, she said, “Now tell me about your journey across the border. Was it terribly difficult?”
The food stuck in my throat.
“Did you have a good coyote?” she continued, giving me a chance to catch my breath—and swallow. “Juan said the old routes were no longer good, that with the fences and alarms he was being pushed east into the deserts, and without a reliable guide, it was very dangerous.” She paused and tore a piece of croissant.
“Did he?” I asked. “Did he use a guide?”
She frowned. “Not always. They cost so much money. But sometimes, yes.”
“So . . . do you think that he . . . ?” My hands trembled, so I set down my fork and placed them in my lap. “Do you think he used one this last time?”
“I don’t know,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I hadn’t spoken to him myself in months. He usually called us once he arrived in LA. Sometimes it was before he made his rounds in the fields, sometimes it was after, on his way back.”
She took a few bites, while I played with my eggs, and then continued. “Diego spoke with him sometime that spring. He was finishing up his paramedic program, and they were going to celebrate on his next visit. Juan mentioned the summer, but he wasn’t sure when.” Her voice softened, “That’s the last we heard from him, honey. Lo siento. I wish I knew more. Diego will tell you all about it. He contacted authorities, even went down to San
