But my mind was not there in Los Angeles with Berta and Luz. Nor was it in Lone Pine with Diego playing near a stream as Berta anxiously glanced around with every crack of a twig. I was sitting in Oaxaca in our tiny house, and in my hands was my father’s wallet, soft black leather that folded twice, one he bought in the United States. Curiously leafing through, I found a letter, wrinkled and worn. Slowly I unfolded it, furtively reading words not meant for my eyes: “Forgive me, Juan, I am so deeply sorry. There is no easy answer for us. What else can I do? I never thought I was capable of such a thing, but love can overpower our reason and lead us down unexpected paths.”
I closed my eyes and thought of Berta’s grocery lists, the small, perfectly rounded script: milk, eggs, brown sugar, evenly spaced beneath the smiling cow pictured on the memo pad.
Papá’s secret letter was from Berta. And the love that he ached for, the love that he kept folded secretly away, was the same love that kept him crossing the border back and forth, year after year. The love for all of his children.
There was no secret lover, no other life that he might have escaped to; my father had disappeared in the summer of 1997 while crossing the border to see his son. My outburst of tears startled Berta until I unburdened my long-held secret belief—all based on what I thought was a clandestine love letter.
She was deeply moved that my father had carried this letter with him throughout his life, yet she was concerned that it may have been due to profound guilt. “Over the years I made a point of conveying how grateful I was, how well Diego was doing, how Lara would have been so pleased,” she said anxiously. “He would always murmur, ‘Yes, it was best for Diego. I know it was,’ but perhaps he was trying to convince himself.” She sighed, “But in the end, he was proud of what Diego accomplished. I think, in the end, he was okay with it.”
In the end. I sat rocking Luz, tears sliding down my cheeks.
“Oh Alma,” she said, sitting beside me and rubbing my back. “So that’s why you believed so strongly that he was . . . somewhere else.”
I nodded.
She pulled my head down onto her shoulder, and I nestled in, Luz lying on both of our laps. We sat together in silence for several minutes.
He was gone. I now knew that for certain. For if Papá were alive, he would find his way home . . . to his children. To me. To Diego.
Maybe he was with his Rosa. Sobbing, I pulled Luz up and buried my face in her neck.
Later that evening, after hours of heartfelt discussion, Berta left me in the cool comfort of her room, so I could make some important phone calls in private, using her purple bedroom phone. I sat on the edge of her bed, the lilac comforter plush and soft beneath me. The air conditioner hummed from the window, drowning out any distractions that Luz might create beyond the bedroom door. While I had been in touch with Ana and her mother a few times and shared the latest news of my life, there were those I knew I needed to connect with; it was time. I took a deep breath and smoothed out the papers that I had prepared containing the phone numbers of the Garcias in Oaxaca and the Mendozas in Chiapas, Mamá’s relatives who might be able to find her and Tito. The Garcias’ number I was certain of, the Mendozas’ I was not—those were foggy in my memory, since they came from somewhere in my childhood.
I began with Maestra Garcia, whose genuine joy at hearing my voice made my story all the more difficult to tell, but I felt she deserved the truth. We talked and wept for almost an hour, each of us comforting the other. She said her father wasn’t well, for he’d had another heart attack and now slept a good part of the day. For many reasons, she would not tell him what happened. When we had exhausted our talk of heartbreak, we spoke at length of my new life, of Berta, Diego, and especially of my Luz. Before we said our goodbyes, she said something that made me sit up and think; she said that perhaps I’d come close to what I was searching for—some answers about my father and a sense of family again. But at what cost! The truth was I still felt there was something more to find. I couldn’t put my finger on what, but I wasn’t finished.
She then asked if there was anything more that she could do on her end. Contact authorities or family? I hesitated and thought if she could find my mother and arrange for her to receive a call, this way she’d be prepared and, perhaps, we could talk without too much hysteria in between. I told her about the Mendozas.
She said she’d be happy to do that and ended with, “And please, Alma, call me Elena.”
When I stepped back into the living room, Luz was lying in Berta’s arms, gazing at a little doll that she jiggled above her. Luz kicked her legs in excitement and grinned until a little squeal filled the room, sending Berta and me into girlish giggles. I knelt beside them and kissed Luz’s little fist.
“Is everything okay?” Berta asked.
I nodded, too exhausted to explain.
“Well, I need to get ready for work,” Berta said, handing Luz to me.
As I settled into the warm chair, bouncing Luz on my knee,
