I had never once asked my mother about her childhood or about her and Papá. It was only now that I found myself aching with curiosity, so when Berta wearily pushed open the door with her arms full of groceries, I offered to trade bundles—an offer that I knew would energize Berta despite hours of baking. She adored Luz and loved nothing more than rocking her, even when I had just put her down for a nap. The minute she would as much as gurgle, Berta would snatch her up. So once Berta had settled into the rocking chair, cooing and making faces at Luz, I quickly put away the groceries and joined them in the living room.
I knew exactly what Berta’s first response would be, so I addressed that point immediately. “Please don’t start in again about me trying to contact my mother, please . . . but I was wondering . . . what do you know about her? Did Papá ever talk about her at all?”
Berta’s startled face settled into a puzzled squint, though I may have caught a brief wince in the middle, but she averted her eyes as she shifted Luz over her shoulder, and said, “Flora?”
My mother’s name floated between us for a moment. Even Luz seemed to lift her little head, briefly, in response.
“Yes,” I answered.
Berta rubbed the baby’s back in small circles. “Well, your father and I had a falling out of sorts, and I didn’t see much of him for a while, but . . . .” She sighed. “It was a difficult time for both us, m’ija.”
I couldn’t imagine my father quarreling with anyone. “A falling out? What do you mean?”
Luz began to fuss, grunting and squirming, so I reached for her just as Berta started to get up. “I’ve got her!” Berta snapped, swinging to the side and standing with the baby in her arms. She turned, and we looked at each other for a moment until I stepped back, letting her pass. She jiggled Luz as she walked, talking softly in her ear.
After a few paces back and forth, she stopped and said, “No, Alma, he didn’t talk about Flora. I’d been telling him to get on with his life for so long, and that’s what he did. Went down to Mexico to find a young wife, got married—and then called for his son.” Her eyes glazed with tears. “He called and said he decided he wanted to raise his son in Mexico. But we both knew what that meant. Without papers . . . I’d never see Diego again.”
“Without papers?” I asked, confused.
“I wasn’t a U.S. citizen then. My parents and I . . . we didn’t become citizens until the amnesty of 1986, so I couldn’t travel back and forth easily. And though Diego had dual citizenship, Juan didn’t, so he wouldn’t be able to bring him here for visits. There was no easy answer, so I . . .”
She began to shake, trembling so much that when I reached for Luz, she let me take her. Then she eased herself back into the chair.
“Alma, if anyone can understand, it is you.”
I sank onto the sofa and held Luz so tight she didn’t budge. We both seemed to hold our breath.
Berta exhaled. “Diego was my life. He was my son for five years, day and night. I had just enrolled him in kindergarten when Juan called. Everyone assumed that I was his mother, only family and close friends knew the truth. And Juan had agreed—all those years, he had agreed that this was the best for Diego—my parents, me, and the schools here in the United States. There had never been any question until that year that Juan went down to Oaxaca. He said he found a job as a manager or foreman on a plantation. A few months went by, then a few more. He’d call to talk to Diego, but no mention of when he’d return.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and then continued, “A part of me was relieved, thinking he had finally turned him over completely to me. But then I’d worry; what if he changed his mind? What if he wanted his son? And then it happened. He called to say he was married and wanted me to send Diego down with a cousin who would be traveling through Los Angeles.”
Her chin lifted, and she looked at me squarely without saying a word. I hugged Luz even tighter.
“He was his son,” she said in a whisper, “but he was my son, too.” Tears streamed down her round cheeks. “You understand, don’t you?”
I nodded.
Berta leaned forward. “What would you do? If you were me, what would you have done then?”
“I don’t know,” was all I could manage, but I knew. I too had lost a sister. I too had lost someone I loved who might have been my future. Luz had become my reason for living again. I knew exactly what I would do.
She echoed my thoughts in cold, crisp words. “I fled with Diego north to a place appropriately called Lone Pine. My father had an old fishing buddy who offered us his cabin. But before I left, I sat down and wrote a letter. I poured my heart out to Juan, begging him to have mercy and let me keep his precious son as my own.”
Berta began to sob, the pain on her face as fresh as if she were sitting in that cabin in Lone Pine. “Bless his soul, Alma. He consented, though not at first. He told me later how he agonized, how he read my letter over and over . . . until he was finally able to let Diego go.”
She continued talking about how long she stayed in Lone Pine afraid to return to Los Angeles, even after Juan had agreed. How even once she returned, she held her breath each time she dropped Diego off at school, fearing that Juan would appear to sweep him up and
