The Orphan Daughter

by Cari Noga

  “But the grass . . .” My voice trails off. “She said don’t do it without her.”

  “I can give piggyback rides, too.” Miguel’s rummaging in the box in the bed of his truck. Seeing a pile of newspapers, I wince. He was probably up even earlier than me. He thrusts a crowbar and a hammer into my hands. At the side door, he steps into the kitchen.

  Lucy’s there in a moment but keeps away from the door. “Can you open it?” She looks hopeful but wary.

  “Absolutely. Piggyback ride to the barn?”

  Joy breaks over her face. “What about Lexie?”

  “Put her back in her cage,” I say quickly. No more catfights today, please, God.

  “Climb aboard.” Miguel crouches down when Lucy returns minus Lexie.

  In the barn, Lucy slides off his back and runs up to the crate, her joyful scream cracking the thick heat of the barn. “It’s here! ¡Eso es! My crate! Open it, please, please, ábrelo!”

  Miguel pries the crowbar under one side, working his way down to one corner, around the other side. Lucy bounces on her toes, her hands clasped together. Miguel turns another corner, up the third side.

  “You’ve almost got it! Almost!” She’s not taking her eyes off the thing. With a grunt Miguel loosens the last side and lifts off the cover.

  A padded blue blanket crumples to the floor. Inside, everything is swathed in similar padding. Lucy tries to peel back a corner. Something creaks as it shifts inside.

  “Hold on. We have to do this the right way.” Miguel goes to the barn door. “Juan! ¡Ven aquí!”

  He looks up and, without hesitating, stands and heads our way.

  “Wait. He’s—” I say.

  Miguel shakes his head. “Strawberries can wait. She cannot.”

  “Excuse me?” But even as I object, I simultaneously realize my maternal instincts haven’t improved, even with six years of rest.

  “Lo siento, Jane.” Miguel bows his head for a moment. “I’m sorry. But she cannot wait.”

  Lucy’s watching him with a hero-worship gaze. She’s barely looked me in the eye. He and Juan start talking a mile a minute in Spanish, gesturing, touching the blankets. Together they lift down a box and set it on the barn floor. Lucy flies to it, unwrapping the blanket. “Winter clothes,” she reads on a label, disappointment obvious. “Keep looking!”

  More boxes follow. More clothes, computer, a PlayStation. Lucy gets increasingly restless with each revelation. What in the world is she waiting for? Miguel extracts a long, flat piece.

  “My mirror,” Lucy says. “My mirror, my mirror!” She pulls off the protective blanket. Indeed, it’s a full-length mirror in a wooden frame, set into kind of a pedestal.

  That’s what she had to have tonight? There’s a mirror in the bathroom. Even a full-length one on the back of my bedroom door. I shake my head, the weariness returning.

  “I’ll just head back to the house, then.” Might as well get back to work, since my presence seems superfluous. Just like when Gloria was born. Like mother, like daughter.

  I’m washing lettuce when Miguel opens the door, the mirror under his arm. He props it in the living room and turns to leave.

  “Lucy’s room is upstairs.”

  “You can take it up later. We just want to get everything across the grass while it’s still light.”

  “Both of you?” I see Juan heading this way, his arms full.

  “Sí.” He holds the door for Juan, then jogs back to the barn. Lucy hands him a big wicker half-circle thing. Juan leaves his boxes and departs again. My living room is turning into a warehouse.

  Back and forth they go, a half-dozen times before Miguel brings Lucy herself, on piggyback again. Above his shoulder, Lucy’s face is relaxed, almost happy.

  “Buenas noches, linda.” Miguel pats her shoulder after she slides off.

  “Buenas noches. Gracias,” Lucy says. With another little shriek, she bounds into the living room to review her inventory.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I say, grabbing my wallet. I hand Juan a twenty-dollar bill. I try to pay Miguel, too, but he shakes his head. “Take it. You worked for more than an hour bringing all that stuff in.”

  “No es trabajo.”

  “It wasn’t work? Then what was it?”

  He doesn’t answer for a long minute, placing his tools back in the box, climbing into the driver’s seat. Did he hear me? Then, a moment before he starts the engine, he answers. One word.

  “Duty.”

  Chapter 21

  LUCY

  “When do the buses come?” I ask Aunt Jane at breakfast. I finally have my room the way I want it, with the mirror and papasan chair and nightstand and lamps moved upstairs, the picture of Mom and Daddy and me at Disney on the nightstand, and my fuzzy pink rug on the floor. The mirror and chair were too heavy for me to carry alone, so Aunt Jane helped, but otherwise I did it myself. I have a food and water dish for Lexie, too. Aunt Jane said the litter box had to stay downstairs, in the room she calls the mudroom. Otherwise, Lexie’s safe from Sarge.

  But now there’s nothing to do. No-thhhing. It is so boring here. No TV at all and barely any Internet. I tried to go online with my iPad, edit some videos I started in New Media class, and check Facebook for messages from Graciela, but it disconnects after, like, two minutes. So I didn’t even bother to set up my computer. Miguel and Juan haven’t come back; nobody comes except for a lady who delivers the mail. She does it in her car, instead of walking, and leaves it in the mailbox at the road that I can’t walk to. Sometimes people slow down near this wooden stand thing by the road, too, but then when they see there’s nothing there, they speed off again. Aunt Jane said she used to sell her vegetables there. I guess she stopped because she’s so busy with other stuff. She always says she never has time. I don’t get it. She says people like to live in the country because of the slower pace, but she keeps complaining about being behind.

  So I have nothing to do, and I’m so lonely, stuck in the house, surrounded by grass, everywhere. From every window, that’s all I see. It’s like being a prisoner, almost in solitary confinement like we learned about in social studies, except for Lexie. Gracias a Dios for Lexie. She’s saving my life.

  If I can take the bus into town, though, I could explore. Maybe go to a movie. Aunt Jane said there’s a downtown. Downtowns have sidewalks, so it will be OK.

  “When do the buses come?” I ask again because Aunt Jane hasn’t answered. She’s writing a list or checking things off or something.

  “Buses?” She says it like she’s never heard of one. “We don’t have regular bus routes out here.”

  “I’ve seen buses go by.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t work like you think. People make special arrangements.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s not enough people living out here for a bus to come on the chance somebody’s waiting to go somewhere. It’s not efficient.”

  “Then how does it work?” I tap my spoon against my cereal bowl.

  “You have to call and make an appointment for the bus to pick you up. More like a taxi, I guess.” She sticks her pencil behind her ear and pours more coffee.

  Actually, for taxis you just go out on the street and wait, too. “So how am I supposed to go anywhere?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Anywhere! To see the town. A movie. Anywhere besides here. I’m so bored. There’s nothing to do.”

  Aunt Jane sighs. “Well, I’d have to drive you, I guess.”

  And she doesn’t have time. “I know, I know. You’re too busy.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucy. This is the time of year when I simply have to work. Make hay while the sun shines, you know?”

  I shake my head.

  “It means as long as there’s daylight, there are things to do. Your mom had to work a lot, too, right?”

  That was different. My neck prickles. Mom had an important job, on TV. I stand up, leaving my dishes on the table, which I know bugs her. “Never mind.” />
  Upstairs I put my earbuds in and flop onto the bed that I just got out of half an hour ago. Lexie meows, and I unlatch her cage. I make her stay in it if I’m not with her. Sarge mostly stays outside, but you never know. With her lying on my chest, I open the funeral slide show again. The weight of her body breathing against mine and the sound of her purring feels good. I know the pictures by heart now, and that feels good, too, to see Mom’s and Daddy’s faces.

  At the Statue of Liberty picture, Lexie jumps off my chest, heading for the door. Time to do her business.

  “Don’t you go down there without me.” I pull out the earbuds and follow her.

  While she’s busy I turn my phone to video and wander around the house. Maybe I’ll send it to Phoebe so she can see where I’m living now. Except there’s not much to see. The only room I haven’t been in is the other downstairs bedroom, the one Aunt Jane said was her son’s, who’s in the army now.

  The door creaks, making my stomach jump, even though I know Aunt Jane is out in her garden and will be all morning, probably. Lexie brushes my legs as she darts in and up onto the bed, making me jump again. This is my house, too, now, right? So why shouldn’t I be in here? Still I tiptoe over to the window and lift one of the blind slats, aiming the phone at Aunt Jane wearing that weird white hat with the flaps. Some of the plants are as high as her waist, so when she walks around, it looks like she has no legs. Creepy.

  I’m opposite the door now, on the other side of the bed. Lexie’s in the middle of the blue plaid bedspread, washing her face, the only noise or movement in the whole still, quiet room. I’ve got lots of videos of her, so I turn it off and just look around. Another kid lived here. Even if he was a boy and even if it was a long time ago and even if he didn’t hate grass, he did it. It’s only been a few days, and I don’t know how I’m going to make it. Maybe he left clues.

  In the corner there’s a giant covered desk that matches the nightstand, both dark-brown, heavy wood. A tall bookshelf, dark wood, too, and a closet, the door open a little bit. I push it closed and sidle around the bed to the bookcase.

  The top shelf is filled with trophies. Most of them have little gold or silver baseball players on the top, tiny bats stuck to their shoulders. I brush the dust off the plaque on one. “American Legion Youth Baseball, 1997.” There’re some medals hanging around the trophies, blue and red ribbons with the medals lying flat on the shelf, or dangling below.

  ALL-CITY CROSS COUNTRY MEET, 2002, 2003, 2004.

  CHERRY CAPITAL 2-MILE CHAMPION, 2004

  Some plaques for basketball with later dates.

  MHSAA CLASS A DISTRICT CHAMPIONS, 2004, 2005

  Two and a half of the shelves are filled with a set of books, all black with gold letters. The pages have gold edges, too. Each one has a letter of the alphabet on the spine. “Aa–An” is the first one, then “Ao–Be,” then “Bi–Ch.” I tug that one out—they’re crammed in tight. Encyclopaedia Britannica, world edition. It makes a cracking sound when I open it. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Quickly, I close it.

  There’s a bunch of other matching books with blue covers. The Hardy Boys, they all say. Some yearbooks. I plop down with them on the bed next to Lexie, who meows and digs her claws into the bedspread.

  “Stop it. No, Lexie.” I pat her. She rolls over to have her belly rubbed. “Be a good girl.”

  “Trojans 2004–05, Traverse City Central High School,” it says in gold letters on the cover, like the encyclopedias. Inside, the first page has a picture of the school. It’s so small! Just one story, brick with a flagpole in front. Around the picture are signatures and notes. “Semper fi!” underlined a bunch of times. “GO ARMY” in all capital letters, like the poster that’s over the desk. “Matt, it’s been nice knowing ya. Good luck with Uncle Sam. Xoxox, Lindsey.” “It’s been a fun four years. See you at the reunion! Kelly,” who’s drawn a little heart. Some other boys have just signed their names, Dylan and Caleb and some others I can’t read. A few other people drew flags.

  I never knew a soldier before. At home, at the September 11 memorial, they were always around in their camouflage uniforms. Sometimes at the airport. But I never talked to one. Does he bring his guns home when he visits? Does he still sleep in this room? Aunt Jane said he was twenty-three. Only a year older than Deirdre. She’s probably back in London now. She was trying to get another au pair job but had to go back home first for her visa. She didn’t want to. Sodding suburbs, she said when I asked why, sighing. So boring. She should see this place.

  I flip through the yearbook. Lots of pictures show kids outside, on sports fields, sitting at picnic tables. Since the pictures are black-and-white, the grass looks gray, but it’s still grass. Prickly and cold and lethal and all. Tentatively I brush my finger over the picture. Just that makes me shiver, and involuntarily I clap the yearbook shut. Lexie startles, jumping off the bed over to the desk chair. I follow her. The desk has a bumpy cover with two little knobs, one at each end. I fiddle with the knobs, and the cover starts to slide up. Cool. You could hide whatever you wanted in here. Except it gets stuck. Something underneath is jamming the cover. I slide it back down and then up again, rattling the knobs, trying to coax it past the stuck spot. There, I’ve got it up a little farther.

  In the hall I hear voices. A man’s. Is Miguel here? Quickly I slide the cover back down, right to where it got stuck, then slip out the door, down the hall to the kitchen. Miguel and Aunt Jane are both there.

  “¡Buenos días! ¿Cómo estás?” He’s smiling. I smile back. He’s the nicest person in Michigan so far. “Brought you dinner.” He taps a bag on the table. “You like tamales, ¿sí?”

  The word sounds so good. Like home, with Daddy at the stove, wearing his el cocinero apron, smiling while he stirred and Mexican music on the CD player. I nod, afraid I’ll cry if I try to talk.

  “Excelente. There’s plenty for two. Y arroz, some chips—”

  “When do you find time to cook?” Aunt Jane says.

  “I didn’t.” He shakes his head. “Señora López did.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “The best Mexican cook on Old Mission.” Miguel grins. “Every weekend we meet for soccer games at the park. Las mujeres all bring food. There’s always some left over.”

  Just like we’d take leftovers to Mom’s office for lunch on Sundays, all three of us eating at the anchor desk on set. I blink fiercely, before any tears fall. I guess Mom did work a lot. Still not as much as Aunt Jane. And I had Daddy.

  “That’s very kind,” Aunt Jane says.

  “It’s a big party,” he says, turning to me. “Maybe you can come to the next one.”

  I look down at the kitchen floor, making sure one foot is squarely in a black tile, and the other in a white. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Step on the grass, make her car crash. Soccer’s played on grass.

  “What do you think? The games are muy divertido.”

  I shrug. Aunt Jane’s watching me.

  “Jane says you’re bored.”

  “A little, I guess.”

  “A little, you guess?” Aunt Jane raises her eyebrows.

  I look down again. I can’t go to a soccer game.

  “Tell you what. Juan’s wife, Esperanza? She is lonely, too. It’s her first summer up here. She doesn’t know anyone. I could bring her out, tomorrow maybe, and you could take the bus into town together. Maybe see a movie.”

  That sounds fun. Esperanza. Hope. If she’s Juan’s wife, she’s probably older than Deirdre but younger than Mom.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Aunt Jane frowns. “A stranger?”

  “She is very responsible, Jane. She should meet you, too,” Miguel says. “She is trying to build her own business. She makes jewelry, Mexican jewelry. She and her sister, back in Mexico. Muy hermosa.”

  “I don’t wear any jewelry,” Aunt Jane says, holding out bare wrists, shaking her hair behind naked earlobes.

  “I mean about the business part. You k
now about all that. You could tell her where to sell it. And Lucy could help her practice English.”

  “I want to go. Come on, Aunt Jane.” Anything, anyone, is better than another day stuck here.

  Aunt Jane sighs. “Is she legal?”

  “Of course.” But Miguel looks unsure, too.

  “Bring her over tomorrow and we’ll see.”

  Chapter 22

  JANE

  After Miguel leaves I head back outside. A dark patch of soil over in the lettuce section catches the corner of my eye. The drip irrigation’s on an overnight timer that should have shut it off at 5:00 a.m. By now the soil should be back to its uniform sandy gray.

  Must have gotten kinked or blocked somehow. Crouching down, I inspect the length of plastic hose all along the row. No visible problems. But when I flip the switch to test it, rather than the efficient, steady drip, the water spurts up at the wet spot in a wasteful, geyser-like spray.

  I flip the switch off again, then stoop over the dark patch of soil, groping for the line. My back sends up a mild protest. Something’s been nibbling at the line. Damn it. I can patch it, but those never hold for long. More important, all the plants past the hole missed last night’s watering, and today promises to be a scorcher, unseasonably hot for late June.

  Instinctively I check the angle of the sun. The lettuce is still in shade. I could get in an hour or so with my old sprinklers. Delivery day was yesterday, meaning everything’s got to last another week. Withering from heat or ripening too soon means wasted food and unhappy customers. Even though riding out the ups and downs of a real farm is supposed to be part of the CSA experience, I’ve always been leery of testing that tolerance.

  For the hundredth time, I wish for a walk-in cooler. I could pick early and keep everything fresh until delivery day. But that remains on the wish list, part of the whole washing and packing assembly line that always seems out of Plain Jane’s reach.

  Maybe next season, a voice whispers. You’ll have the estate money.

  That’s Lucy’s money. It’s for her benefit. I locate the old rotating sprinkler in the shed and screw it onto the hose.