The Orphan Daughter

by Cari Noga

  I clean the whole stand while Jared hauls out the six bins nobody picked up. The bucket water is practically black. I walk out to the last stepping stump and carefully hook up the sign.

  “Good work,” says Aunt Jane, bringing out a piece of paper and something that looks like another towel. She stands back and looks it all over. “Does this ever bring back memories.”

  “What kind?”

  “Oh, good ones. You know, the good old days, when I had just started Plain Jane’s.” She nods at the mailbox. “Matt made me those signs as a Christmas present. Miguel built it. Everything was so exciting, my own business.”

  Exciting? Now Aunt Jane just seems worn-out and tired all the time. What happened?

  She hands the towel thing to me. It’s what she was wearing at the farmers’ market that time we went, basically a pocket you tie around your waist. “Here’s your change apron. There’s not much, so ask people for small bills.”

  I have to cross the strings behind me and then tie them in front because they’re so long.

  “These prices are from three years ago, so add a dollar to everything,” she adds, tapping the paper. “I think you’re all set.”

  After she leaves, it gets quiet.

  “Is Lexie OK?” Jared finally says.

  “She’s fine. You can just play on your DS. I don’t need any help.” I don’t want to talk about why Lexie has to stay inside.

  “I didn’t bring it today.”

  “Oh.” Figures. “Well, let’s set everything out, then.” I grab two handfuls of tomatoes from the first bin and pile them on the counter. One starts to roll off, toward the front. Jared catches it before it drops to the grass.

  “Thanks.” We make a pile of each thing, emptying three of the bins before we run out of space. I try to arrange them nicely, remembering how they set out things in baskets at the bodega. When we’re all done I take a picture with my phone, admiring the bright colors.

  “Want me to take a picture of you?” Jared says, reaching for the phone.

  Of me? He walks in front of the stand, still not paying any attention to the grass. “Smile.”

  A minivan pulls over. Our first customer! Excitement flashes. Like Aunt Jane must have felt.

  “Your tomatoes look fabulous. How much?” says the lady driver.

  Aunt Jane’s list says three for two dollars. “A dollar each,” I tell her.

  “What a deal. I’ll take eight.” She hands me ten dollars. “Keep the change.”

  Keep the change? Darn, I don’t have anything to put them in, either. “Jared, go find some bags.”

  While we’re waiting, I carefully put the ten-dollar bill and all the money I started with in the apron’s right pocket. Then I take two dollars and move them to the left pocket.

  Before the minivan’s out of sight, two more cars have pulled over. They buy tomatoes and cilantro and zucchini and tell me to keep the change, too. Jared’s unloading the other bins as fast as I’m waiting on customers. Every time, I put the money they give me into the right pocket and stuff the extra change into the left pocket.

  When Mrs. Livingston comes out carrying two glasses of lemonade, we’ve sold all the tomatoes, peppers, cilantro, and eggplant, and only a few onions and zucchini are left. I can feel the rolled-up bills wadded into both pockets of the apron.

  “Nearly sold out. You two make a good team,” she says, handing us the glasses.

  “Can I do this every week, Mom?” Jared says.

  “Better than weeding, huh?”

  “Way better.” He nods, gulping his lemonade.

  “Lucy, was he a good assistant?”

  “Yeah.” I have to admit it. Lots of people had questions, how to get to the lighthouse and restaurants and wineries and beaches. I didn’t know but Jared did. I didn’t realize anything besides the lighthouse was close by. It might be fun to go to a beach one day. No grass there.

  “Well, we’ll have to see what Jane says. We’ve got to get going now, though, Jared. Your brother’s got a dentist appointment.”

  “Oh.” He actually sounds disappointed. I follow them back to the house, sticking to the stepping stumps and fingering the money in the left apron pocket, trying to guess how much is in there. We had at least twenty customers, and almost all of them told me to keep the change. Mostly bills and a few coins. And it’s mine.

  I wave goodbye as their car glides away and then go inside, up to my room, to count all the money from the left pocket: $22.50. I fold it up and slip it into the gray velvet bag with Mom’s jewelry, hidden with my sweaters. I’ll need a lot more for a plane ticket, but I’m finally on my way to Mexico! I grab my phone to send Graciela a message. When I unlock it, though, there’s the picture Jared took. The “Plain Jane’s Produce” sign is behind me and all the vegetables arranged in front, bright and colorful, just like I’d hoped. The sun’s shining down on everything, all bright and colorful like a calendar picture, almost. And I’m smiling.

  Chapter 34

  JANE

  After lunch I count the money from the apron. Seventy-five dollars in little more than an hour. Not bad. Pretty good, really, considering the food would have otherwise gone to waste. Best of all is that Lucy initiated it. Two weeks ago she never would have tried something like this, but she actually seemed to enjoy it. Another good memory for the stand. I set aside five dollars for her, humming to myself.

  With her and Jared occupied, I had a chance to talk to Rebecca about the news from New York, too.

  “You mentioned you were a lawyer once,” I said as we left Jared and Lucy at the stand.

  “Once, yes. A lifetime ago.” She gazed up at the cloudless blue sky. “At least it feels that way. Why do you ask?”

  “I got a call from the lawyer handling Lucy’s estate last week.”

  “Oh?” She looked at me sideways as she pulled on her gloves, automatically like she does now.

  “It wasn’t good news.” I handed her a weeding fork. “Tomatoes today.”

  “I’m happy to listen.” She cocked her head to the side, waiting.

  “Well, when I was out there for the funeral, he told me Lucy would have a substantial estate once my sister’s apartment sold.”

  “Define substantial.”

  “Four million dollars. That included all the investments and insurance policies and estimated apartment proceeds.”

  “That’s substantial, for an eleven-year-old.” Rebecca nodded.

  “It was all supposed to go into a trust for Lucy until she turns twenty-one.”

  Rebecca nodded again. “And you’re the designated trustee?”

  “Exactly.” Relieved that she was familiar with the process, I started talking faster. “He told me that the trust would be invested conservatively and that I could expect about eighty thousand dollars in annual income for Lucy.”

  “Hmm.” Rebecca’s eyes narrowed.

  “Then last week he called to say that the apartment had sold. And they found a second, unknown mortgage on it. A ‘sizable’ one, he called it.”

  Rebecca’s eyebrows rose, but she stayed silent.

  “Basically, paying off that mortgage drained the estate. The sale price wasn’t enough. Between insurance policies and investments, it’s covered, but there’s nothing left for Lucy.”

  “Nothing?” Rebecca echoed, a note of incredulity in her voice.

  “That’s what he said, except for some special jewelry of Gloria’s. I brought that back with me in April, after the funeral. It’s probably worth a few thousand, tops.”

  Rebecca exhaled. “He told you all this in a phone call? Have you received any paperwork, anything to corroborate this story?”

  I shook my head. “He said I would, but nothing’s come yet.”

  “Jane, you need a lawyer. ASAP.” She stood up, her body literally overshadowing me in the tomato row.

  “That’s where I thought you’d come in.” I paused and sat back on my heels.

  “I’m happy to offer advice, but I haven’
t practiced in years, and I never handled probate. You need someone experienced. Preferably someone licensed in New York.”

  “Someone I can’t afford, you mean.” I turned back to the tomatoes. “What’s a Manhattan lawyer run? Five hundred bucks an hour?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t think you can afford not to. You’re talking Lucy’s entire future here.”

  Which is exactly what I didn’t want anymore! These big-stakes decisions, someone else’s fate in my unreliable hands. Small stakes, or at least limited stakes, that’s what I want now, limited to affecting me, myself, and I. This tomato variety or that one. To water today or hold out for rain tonight. Not the future of an eleven-year-old. I remember the big Amish family at the farmers’ market, wondering if one relationship strengthened others. Maybe, but they’re also all at risk if one cracks, the unpredictable fissures inevitably finding and rupturing weak points.

  “I’ve still got some contacts in New York. I could find someone who would do a phone consultation, at least, with no obligation.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that, Rebecca.”

  “You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

  “Say I do it. Then what? They do the consultation, tell me I’m screwed. I’ve just wasted time.”

  “You don’t know that. It’s just due diligence. Like you do here, right? Researching the best varieties, all that.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “At least let me talk to Paul about it. He still goes to New York a couple times a year. He may even know someone who knows this lawyer. What’d you say his name was again?”

  That very afternoon, Martha delivers an oversize envelope with the return address, “Law Offices of William E. Langley.” Inside there’s half a dozen packets, most of them thick, held together with binder clips. Closing documents from the apartment sale. Insurance policies. Investment statements. At the bottom is a heavy envelope, embossed with a gold seal: “Los Angeles County, California, Official Records.”

  Los Angeles County? I open it up.

  “Certificate of Death,” it says in ornate script. “Luis Alejandro Ortiz, male, age 44. Cause of death, primary: Blunt-force cranial trauma. Secondary: Internal bleeding. Date of death: April 13, 2011. Place of death: Scene of car accident.”

  Underneath his is Gloria’s. “Gloria Santiago-Ortiz, female, age 36.” Same causes, same date. Under place of death, though, it lists UCLA Medical Center.

  On paper the words are so clinical, but their grisly implication sends a shiver through me. Gloria did crawl out of that car crash. Extracted, more likely. But she lived beyond the initial impact, which is not what Langley told either me or Lucy. I can understand why he told her the instant-death story, but why me? What other discrepancies would show up if someone checked things out? I call Rebecca and leave a message that if she or Paul can turn up a New York lawyer who would do a phone consultation, I’d like to talk to them.

  I’ll wait for expert guidance before I wade into the rest of it. I shove everything back into the big envelope and take it into Matt’s room, where everything Lucy-related has sat since April. I add the envelope to the stack of folders under the rolltop. There. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Except it isn’t. All afternoon, I find myself thinking about Gloria. In my memories, something’s always moving—her hair bouncing, mouth smiling, stride pounding. It’s hard to imagine her even asleep, let alone passive and prone on an ambulance gurney. Was she conscious? Did she know Luis had already died? Did she realize her own death was near? Was she agonizing for Lucy? Was she remembering the second mortgage, excoriating herself for leaving her daughter bankrupt? Did she feel grief, loss, or pain? Was there ever any hope of saving her, or was the ambulance really a hearse? As it carried Gloria away, I imagine Lucy, on the other side of the country, oblivious to what was about to upend her world. And me, in the middle. Another Venn diagram, three circles converging this time.

  The questions needle me into the evening, until I fall into a fitful sleep. A nightmare wakes me at five fifteen. It’s still completely dark. We’re definitely on the downslope to the equinox. Sitting up, I try to quell my pounding heart, grasping for the fragmented details. Something lost. Or stolen? A dream, or those questions about Gloria, still nagging? Propelled by the dregs of the dream, I cross the hall to Matt’s room and open the desk.

  Lucy’s jewelry is gone.

  Chapter 35

  LUCY

  Two customers called Aunt Jane to tell her to hold their deliveries this week, and there are three no-shows. I’m already at the stand with the money apron tied around my waist when Jared arrives.

  “A pair of entrepreneurs, aren’t they?” Mrs. Livingston says to Aunt Jane.

  “Never too early to learn what it means to earn,” she replies. “Jared, there’s one more bushel basket of tomatoes by the house.”

  The first customer pulls up just as they leave. “Keep the change,” the man says. This week I wear shorts with pockets so I can slip the change right into my own pocket. Using the neighbor’s Internet, I sent Graciela a message that I’d found a way to get the money for a plane ticket to Mexico.

  “Did you ask your mom about me moving there yet?” I typed.

  She didn’t answer, just sent back a bunch of smiley faces and this:

  “Siempre quise una hermana.”

  I never wanted a sister, but if it means getting a mother and father back, I’ll take one.

  “Ugh.” Jared returns, lugging a giant basket full of tomatoes. A few spill out as he sets it down, rolling toward the road.

  “Watch it! If they get bruised, people don’t want them.” He’s put the basket on the scrubby gravel spot between the stand and the last stepping stump. The tomatoes rolled onto the grass, beyond where I can reach them. “Pick those up.”

  “You pick them up.” He flops down on the grass and closes his eyes. “I carried them all the way here. I’m tired.”

  “You spilled them.” I cross my arms. Another car is slowing down.

  “So what.” He keeps his eyes closed.

  “Another car’s coming. Come on. Get up,” I hiss. “It looks bad.”

  “Jeez.” He sits up and shades his eyes as he looks at me. “You’re not Jane. You can’t boss me around—”

  “Shhhh!” The car doors are closing. It’s a white Mercedes. A man comes out the driver’s side, talking on his phone, and a lady in wedge sandals comes out the passenger door. She scoops up the spilled tomatoes as she approaches.

  “What is this, a yellow-brick road?” she trills, lifting her sunglasses on top of her head. With her other hand she’s swinging a giant straw bag with a skinny loaf of bread sticking out. She looks kind of like Mom did when we went on vacation, even though she’s blond. A perfect sundress and sandals with straps wrapping around her ankles. Sparkly earrings and bracelets, a big diamond wedding ring on her finger. I haven’t seen anyone that dressed up in Michigan. My own T-shirt and shorts are wrinkled. I stand up straighter and brush away a stray cat hair.

  “Everything looks luscious. Just what we need for our picnic.” She plops the tomatoes on the counter. “Fresh picked, I presume.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “Well, let’s see, we’re here through Sunday. There’s the picnic, then salad for the dinner Friday. I’ll need at least four and—oooh, bruschetta! Steven, we could make a divine bruschetta, couldn’t we? Steven?”

  The man is still standing by the car, talking on his phone. The woman sighs, then repastes her smile as she turns back to me. “Let’s make it eight tomatoes, some of your garlic, some parsley, and two onions.”

  “That’ll be fifteen dollars.” I put everything in a bag.

  “Steven. The young lady needs fifteen dollars.” Her voice is sharp again. “Steven!”

  He turns around, reaching for his wallet while he keeps talking, and hands me a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Let me get you your change.” I reach into my pocket.

  “Oh, keep the change
, dear,” the lady says, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, tugging him back to the car. “Steven, for God’s sake, we’re on vacation. Can’t you put the damn phone—” And the doors slam, the engine starts, and they’re gone.

  Five dollars! The most anyone’s told me to keep. I turn away from Jared, trying to slide the money in my own pocket so he doesn’t notice. I wore Mom’s Venice Beach sweatshirt, too, which is long enough to cover the pockets.

  “Fudgies,” says Jared from the grass.

  “Huh?”

  “Those people. Fudgies.” He stands up and waves his hand in the direction of the white car. “That’s what we call tourists.”

  “How come?”

  “They like to buy fudge.” He stands next to me and leans onto the counter.

  “They bought tomatoes. And garlic and onions.”

  “They’re still fudgies. They had Illinois license plates. Probably from Chicago.”

  “So?” A few blades of grass have fallen off his shorts, onto the floor of the stand.

  “You’re, like, kind of one, too,” he says, tipping his head back.

  “Me? I never ate fudge.”

  “It mostly means somebody who’s not from around here.”

  Oh. Well. That’s for sure.

  “Someday you’ll be permafudge, though. Like us.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s people who moved here from someplace else.”

  “Uh-uh.” I shake my head emphatically. “I’m going to live in Mexico.” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “No way.” Jared’s mouth falls open. “Mexico?”

  “Yes way. My dad’s family lives there.” Another car is coming. “Never mind.”

  We’re busy with customers for the next half hour. It feels good to have told him, even by accident, like it’s a real plan, not just a wish or an idea. I manage to brush the fallen blades of grass off the floor with my shoe. Good thing I wore my high-tops today instead of flip-flops.