Cristóbal and Magdalena walk with Kate to the bus stop and wait to see her safely seated in a front seat, right behind the driver. Cristóbal gets on and talks to the driver for a while, wanting to be sure he knows where Kate should get off the bus. The driver nods his head impatiently. As he pulls away from the curb, Kate waves to them and blows Magdalena a kiss. Then the bus enters a main avenue. Kate watches the morning traffic of Lima, a swirling sea of motion and sound.
The bus heads over the bridge and into the Plaza de Armas and circles the huge plaza, heading down the Paseo de la República. It stops every two blocks, until all the seats are filled and people still pour in, crowding into the aisles. She watches the schoolchildren, their faces shiny, the girls’ hair slicked back in tight braids. Some wear the wool jumpers and white blouses or shirts of the private schools, where they are taught by the Religious of the Sacred Heart or the Jesuits. They chatter loudly and trade pieces of candy and gum as they balance themselves on the swaying bus, their book bags on the floor between their feet. Kate thinks of the children of Juliaca, so shy and quiet compared to these kids.
One little girl stands very close to Kate, her small hand gripping the back of the seat. When she looks at Kate, her green eyes are startling. This child could be her daughter. Her mouth feels dry as she watches the girl stare out at the street. The child wears tiny gold earrings that dangle from thin gold wires. Kate imagines the mother taking the child shopping for the earrings, or maybe they had been a gift from a grandmother. Kate feels a fierce pain at the thought of never having children, never having a child reach up for her in distress, moving into her arms for comfort. Suddenly the girl looks at her, a smile steals across her face revealing several missing front teeth, like any six-year old the world over.
“We’re going to the zoo today,” she whispers. “My whole class is going to see the llamas and alpacas and vicunas. They live in the mountains, you know. I have never seen them, only in pictures. Have you ever seen them?”
Kate can’t speak and simply nods. Then the bus stops and the girl moves to the back with the other children, pushing and shoving.
“Good bye,” Kate calls out to the girl. “Have a good time at the zoo.” But it is too late. As the bus pulls away Kate watches the girl swing her book bag at her side, picking her way neatly through the vendors that crowded in front of the school. Then she disappears inside.
Kate is surprised at herself, the pang of longing the child makes her feel. She always loved children because secretly she feels as if she is still one of them. But when she entered the convent she didn’t think much about giving up children. She was only eighteen herself. Now, though, the years stretch in front of her. She, like Josepha, would grow old loving other people’s children. Maybe she would have nieces and nephews someday. Then she could be the doting aunt that the teenagers would talk to when they had stopped talking to their parents. She pictures herself older, much older, stooped and wizened. A shawl is thrown around her shoulders. She is looking out to the Motherhouse garden from her wheelchair, surrounded by the other old nuns. Her eyes are bad, she cannot read, and she never really liked doing the embroidery so many of the nuns do in their long hours of waiting. Is this how she wants to live out her life?
In the street, people scurry to beat the light. Long American cars are everywhere, old models from the 1950s. As the bus moves out from the center of Lima, the people seem poorer. Squat women lug bags back from the market. Everywhere, crowded together on the sidewalks so that people have difficulty walking by them, are the street vendors. Young men stop to examine the goods, and their shoulders are hunched against the cold in thin sweaters. The bus passes now through La Victoria, with shabby shops and throngs of street vendors. Most of the crowds waiting at the bus stops are going downtown, and the bus is now nearly empty. Finally Kate hears the bus driver shout, “Balconcillo.” His eyes meet hers in the cracked rear-view mirror, and he nods at her.
She stumbles slightly as she goes down the steps. The door of the bus slams behind her, and she stands uncertainly on the sidewalk, gagging on the diesel fumes from the disappearing bus. The morning is still gray, but in the distance, just over the hills, a few pale specks of blue appear in the sky.
Now she begins to walk toward a starkly modern church she can see a block away—Our Lady of Guadalupe. Kate’s mouth feels dry. The flight is over. Now she has to face the things she has been running from, or to.
She walks around to the left side of the church, hoping she won’t run into anyone who might recognize her from the few weeks she had spent here a year ago. All the nuns will be in school. Maybe the
