My heart fluttered with those words.
She took my face in her hands and kissed my forehead. Then shaking her head, she said, “I can’t believe how much you look like your father.”
“Tell me about him,” I said, squeezing her arms. “Tell me what you remember about Papá when he was young . . . about your sister and those early years.”
Her face softened with tenderness as her eyes filled with tears. “Oh my,” she said in a whisper. “Recuerdo.”
16
Dar a Luz
(To give birth; literally, to give to the light.)
We settled into the living room, Berta in the big soft chair, and me, curled up in the corner of the sofa. She rocked as she talked, occasionally turning toward the window and gazing out beyond the yard to a time that was clearly still vivid in her mind.
Her name, I learned, was Lara, and she was born the same year as my father, 1950. And just like Rosa, she was the older sister by two years.
“It was just the two of us,” Berta began. “My third sister died during delivery, and my mother lost her uterus as well. As it turned out, Lara was a handful anyway. Strong-willed and stubborn, muy terca, with a temper to match, yet she would fight to the death for you if needed,” Berta said, shaking her head. “Oh, she gave my parents such a time—always. Not that she did anything bad, just that she was perpetually involved in some great drama. Bringing home abandoned pets one day and neglected kids another. She’d feed the whole damn neighborhood with what little we had, and no matter what my parents said to her, she wouldn’t listen, scolding them as if they were the ones who were overstepping their bounds.
“When she was about sixteen years old,” Berta continued, “one of the priests in our church spoke about the farm workers, how they were being exploited—low pay, terrible living and working conditions—so Lara and some of her friends got involved. They would go to grocery stores and tell people not to buy grapes. That’s all she’d talk about day and night. Well, she heard that there was going to be a march from Delano to Sacramento, and she decided to go with some church members. I remember my parents trying to stop her, saying she would miss school, that she was too young even if a priest was going as well. But Lara always did what she wanted. And that’s where she met your father. Or so he told me years later. Lara never spoke of that meeting. She claimed they met a couple of years after that at a rally for Cesar Chavez.”
Berta paused and tilted her head to one side. “Now Juan’s story was that he had fallen in love with her during that walk to Sacramento, but she wouldn’t give him her number, saying if God meant them to be together, they’d meet again. And they did.” Berta winked. “Of course, they met again! Your father wandered every corner of Los Angeles every chance he got during those two years trying to find her! He said he’d be working in Oxnard or Fresno, and he’d take a few days off, hitch a ride to LA, and wander a different part of the big city looking for her. He was close to giving up when he heard about a rally to support Chavez, who was ill from fasting. It was to be held at the old church in downtown Los Angeles. Convinced that Lara would be there—and that God meant them to be together—he made his way to LA. That was two years later, mind you, and this time when he found her, he got her phone number. After that, he came to LA as often as he could. ¡Tanto amor!” she sighed.
Berta swiveled the chair toward the photo above the TV, and the two of us sat staring at the smiling eyes of my father as she spoke. “My papá didn’t like the fact that he was a migrant worker, traveling so much, but Lara kept telling him that there was nothing serious going on. They were just friends. And since Juan’s visits were months apart, my dad eased up. But when he did finally come to see her, he’d always bring something for each of us. A cigar for my father, a basket of fruit for my mother, flowers for Lara, and even a little something for me—like a ribbon or a barrette for my hair, which was very long back then, very long.” She smiled shyly and ran her fingers through her short hair.
I sank back into the cushion and sighed. I could see my father— the young Juan Cruz—with his arms full of gifts in the doorway, just as he would do years later for me. I wondered if he ever felt a pang of sadness standing at our door, yet remembering that earlier time. How humble I felt, realizing that his thoughts were not just of me—or even just our family.
Berta’s voice brought me back to this doorway. “Soon all of us were looking forward to his visits, even Papá,” she continued. “And of course, Lara fell in love. How could she not? He was so devoted to her.”
“So, they married?” I asked, picturing my
