The Orphan Daughter

by Cari Noga

  I set out the cream cheese to soften for the frosting, then root out my old mixer. A wedding gift, speaking of gifts. The outlet is loose, and the plug slips out a few times, but otherwise it works fine at twenty-four years old. Make do, that’s what I always did, and should have with the Internet. Should have asked Rebecca what to get her, or Esperanza. My maternal instincts backfire again. I never was good at gift giving, but what’s funny now is I feel as disappointed as Lucy looked.

  Vigorously I slather my old layer cake pans with shortening and pour the batter in. Haven’t used these in years, since Matt’s last birthday at home, probably.

  My eyes shut involuntarily, blocking the gloom-tinted memories. Matt’s birthday is February 4, just two weeks after the Alaska anniversary. I couldn’t say stillbirth, not even to myself, the two syllables packing double cruelty. Still as in motionless, what I failed to notice in the hours before. And still as in always. Forever. As soon as New Year’s passed, the dread would start.

  Grief stalked me after the anniversary date, too. Matt had already passed walking and talking, but every new milestone—riding a tricycle, first day of preschool, first lost tooth—was marked with a shadow, mourning for what I’d miss with my daughter. Poor Matt.

  I shake myself. Don’t go there. Not today. There’s the party to get through yet. I slide the pans in the oven and set the timer on my watch. Forty-five minutes. Enough time to scout out the old apple trees along the back of the property, where the power line fell.

  There are eight hundred kids at East Middle School, and the district got a pilot grant to serve them local produce once a week. Mrs. Montgomery estimates a quarter to half of them will try the Local Difference items, which are served Wednesdays. The menu’s written a month out, though, so I need to let her know what I’ll have now. Carrots and potatoes, yes. Probably some squash and tomatoes. Broccoli. But apples are what she really wants. The trees haven’t been tended in years, but they’re still bearing. Bearing at least two hundred apples a week through October, that’s what I hope.

  I follow the stepping stump path to the barn, then cut across on the verboten grass. This could be a godsend. Lucy’s window is fixed, but the twenty-five-hundred-dollar deductible on my homeowner’s is haunting me now, a tarp battened down with two-by-fours is all that’s covering the damaged part of the roof. The adjuster estimated fourteen hundred dollars. I’ve got about one thousand in my savings account. The tarp will do for another month, end of September at the outside. It’s got to be done before then, so a little extra cash flow from the school would be perfect. It’s not going to replace eighty thousand dollars in interest income, but I couldn’t really fathom that much money, anyway.

  What kind of debts could Gloria and Luis have had that would gobble up the entire estate? Deirdre seemed like a luxury, but Lucy told me she always had an au pair. So they must have budgeted for her.

  Still, who am I to preach about poor financial planning? Before Jim left, it was in my Plain Jane’s plan to get the apple trees pruned and back into managed production. Never got around to it. A half-million-dollar second mortgage, a twenty-five-hundred-dollar insurance deductible. It’s just a matter of scale, and timing, too. Bad timing on the Internet service, but it’s too late now.

  The apples look better than I’d hoped, though a little small. There’s a few weeks yet before picking. They could bulk up, especially if I thin out some of the leaves, let the light get in better. I snap one off and take a bite. A little tart, but again, it’s early. I count along the branch. Just two or three of the trees would serve Lucy’s school. Mrs. Montgomery gave me the food service director’s card. Munching my apple, I head back to the house to make a call.

  In the kitchen, the papers from school have gotten mixed up with the legal packet I reviewed with the Livingstons. Lexie was probably prowling up on the counter again. As I paw through the pile for the business card, the envelope with the UCLA Medical Center logo flutters out of Paul’s clipped stacks.

  I didn’t notice before, but it’s hand addressed to the family of Gloria Santiago-Ortiz. Maybe not a bill. What else could it be? Lifting the flap, I pull out two sheets of lined notepaper. The first has just three handwritten sentences:

  “This letter was dictated by Gloria Santiago-Ortiz during her transport to UCLA Medical Center on April 13, 2011. I am enclosing it with her hospital records. My sympathies.”

  It’s signed only, “LA County EMT.”

  The second sheet is covered front and back in the same handwriting. After the first word, I can hear Gloria’s voice.

  Janey—

  They won’t tell me about Luis. I think he’s already dead. If I go, you get Lucy. I’m sorry. I should have told you. I couldn’t. Take care of her. You will, won’t you?

  The next part is in blue ink, like the EMT stopped, then started writing with a different pen. Was Gloria at her end, begging him to go on?

  You were such a devoted mother. I was afraid. I’m sorry. Too late now. Forgive me. Just take care of our baby. Watch out for Nando. His family must not—

  The end. Did the ambulance arrive and the EMT need to rush her out? Or did he drop first the black, then the blue pen as Gloria coded on the gurney?

  I read it again. My chest and head feel like the bay in November, a roiling tumult of waves. The handwriting swims off the page, the loops and swirls of the letters like the mesh of a net, dragging me under.

  Why couldn’t she tell me they picked me as Lucy’s guardian? Why did they pick me? I’m sorry. Forgive me. So she felt guilty, too. But for what? Afraid of what? Who’s Nando? Why should I watch out for him? Is it even a him?

  I imagine her face, her amends recorded, entrusting me. You will, won’t you? Devoted mother. She never knew the truth, how guilt was my puppeteer, putting me through the motions with Matt. How my grief transformed to resentment upon Lucy’s birth, trapping me. I thought I was supposed to feel bad, because until now, I never thought anything could be worse than a mother losing a child.

  There is, and Lucy knows it: a child losing her mother.

  Chapter 41

  LUCY

  At my birthday dinner, Jared sits across from me. Is he cute? He has brown hair and freckles. He’s not skinny, not fat. He’s dressed up a little bit—he always wears T-shirts, but tonight he has on a shirt with a collar. But he still seems just like Jared. I stop thinking about it and listen to Miguel, who’s next to me and ordering for all of us in Spanish, joking with the waitress, who looks kind of like Mom. Not as pretty, but dark curly hair and a big smile.

  “Voy en primavera,” he tells her.

  “¿Toma fotografías?”

  “Claro, me encantan las fotografías, ¡tomo muchas!”

  “Gracias, Miguel.” She smiles and pats him on the shoulder.

  Why does she want him to take pictures? Where is he going in spring? I ask after she leaves.

  Miguel smiles. “Home.”

  “Home—you mean to Mexico?” My breath quickens.

  He nods. “For my sister’s quinceañera.”

  Like Esperanza said! Could Miguel be my way to Mexico? “Why does she want you to take pictures?”

  “Her daughter is turning fifteen in two years. She wants to give her a traditional quinceañera, so she wants to see pictures of one.”

  I’ll be fifteen in three years. I bet Aunt Jane never even heard of a quinceañera, let alone is planning for it. She’s sitting on my other side, talking excitedly to Jared’s mom, about some heirloom thing. A tomato. An heirloom tomato would be dried up or rotten, wouldn’t it? What’s to get excited about?

  “Would the birthday girl like her gifts now, or after dessert?” Jared’s dad is talking to me. Gifts?

  “Now, please.”

  He hands over a big purple gift bag with curly ribbon on the handles and sparkly tissue paper sticking out of it. This looks more like the kind of present Daddy would have given me.

  Inside is a beach towel, a green hooded sweatshirt that says, “Lake M
ichigan: Unsalted,” and an iTunes gift card. I’ve seen Jared wearing one of those sweatshirts—his is blue. The towel is covered with peace symbols and flip-flops. I probably wouldn’t have picked them out myself, but they’re not bad. With the new Internet, I can use the iTunes card, too.

  “Thanks.” I pull on the sweatshirt since it’s kind of cold in the restaurant. I couldn’t find Mom’s hoodie before we left. I put the gift card in the front pocket.

  “You’re welcome. You look like a local,” Mrs. Livingston says, nodding.

  Like a local? Is that permafudge, like Jared said? I grip the gift card so tight the edge cuts into my palm. This is not home.

  “Now mine,” Miguel says quickly, handing me a small silver box with a bow.

  Inside are three delicate beaded bracelets. They’re so pretty, bright red, yellow, blue, and green glass beads on silver wire.

  “Esperanza makes them,” Miguel says. “I told her I needed something special.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I tell him, sliding them on my wrist.

  “They certainly are,” Jared’s mother says, reaching for my hand, lifting my wrist up close. “Something to keep in mind for someone else’s birthday,” she says, raising her eyebrows at Jared’s dad. “Does she sell them anywhere?”

  “A few places, I think. The taco stand in Cedar. At a winery. I’ll find out,” Miguel says.

  Maybe we could sell them at the farm stand. That fudgie lady, she would have bought a whole armful. Under the table I spin the bracelets around my wrist. They look like a birthday present. Something pretty. Something special, not useful. “Gracias,” I manage to say, though my throat is tightening like it did this morning with Phoebe.

  “Feliz cumpleaños.” He leans over and brushes a kiss on one cheek, then the other. Like Daddy did sometimes.

  “¿Qué es esto? ¿Una fiesta de cumpleaños?” The waitress is back with chips and salsa, scolding Miguel for not telling her we’re celebrating a birthday. “¿Cuántos años tiene?”

  “Doce.” I tell her I’m turning twelve before Miguel can answer.

  “¿Hablas español?” Her eyebrows lift.

  “Sí.” I nod.

  “¡Fantástico! ¿Cómo te llamas, niña?”

  Next to me Aunt Jane’s elbow jerks and she drops a chip, spilling salsa on her shirt.

  “Lucy.”

  She smiles. “Me llamo Raquel. For birthdays, dessert is free.” She sounds like Mrs. Solomon this morning, all warm and smiley and motherly.

  “Oh, I made a cake,” Aunt Jane says, looking up from dabbing her shirt. “We’ll have dessert at home.”

  I saw her baking it. A carrot cake. “It’s the carrots that are growing like rabbits, not the other way around,” she told me, smiling at her oh-so-not-funny joke. “This will help use them up.” A useful birthday cake, even! She didn’t even ask if I liked carrot cake.

  “I want to have dessert here,” I say.

  The table goes quiet. Jared’s dad clears his throat.

  “Why not two desserts? What’s a birthday for, anyway?”

  “¡Qué bueno!” Miguel laughs. Mrs. Livingston, who looked nervous, does, too. So does Raquel. Aunt Jane forces a smile.

  “Two desserts it is, then.”

  Dinner is delicious. I have enchiladas and try all three salsas. The cake is a gooey, yummy chocolate. Raquel presents it with a pink candle and starts singing “Happy Birthday.” Closing my eyes, I blow it out and make my wish: to move to Mexico.

  It’s a little weird being the only one eating dessert. The table quiets again, until Miguel starts telling a long story about one of his birthdays. When we leave, I ask if I can ride with the Livingstons.

  “Well. If they’ve got room. I guess it’s all right.” Aunt Jane looks deflated, and I feel glad.

  At home they all sing again. Aunt Jane bought a number-twelve candle. It’s pretty babyish, but at least it’s special for me. I make the same wish. She serves the cake with vanilla ice cream. It does taste good, the frosting especially. Everybody seems to eat really fast, and all the adults say no thanks to coffee.

  “Paul, Jared, we should be on our way,” Mrs. Livingston says. “We’ll see you Tuesday,” she tells Aunt Jane. She hugs me. “Happy birthday.” She hesitates for a minute. “I know you’ve had a tough year. I hope this is the start of a better one.”

  “Thanks.” I hope so, too, but not the way she’s thinking. “Thank you for the presents, too.”

  “Bye, Lucy. Happy birthday.” Standing by the door, Jared kind of waves.

  “Time for me to go, too, bonita. Feliz cumpleaños,” Miguel says, picking me up in a bear hug.

  “Thank you for the bracelets. I really like them.”

  “De nada.” He sets me down. “I’ll be sure to tell Esperanza, too.”

  It’s just me and Aunt Jane. I yawn loudly. “I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll go to bed, too. Come on, Lexie.”

  “All right. Good night, then. And happy birthday.” Aunt Jane looks kind of sad, standing there in her shirt with the salsa stain still visible, all the dirty dishes and the little bit of cake left over. She gave Miguel a big piece to take home, so there’s not much left.

  Where is Lexie? “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

  “I’m sorry about making the Internet service your present, Lucy.”

  My stomach elevator starts creaking.

  “I should have asked you what you’d like. And how you’d want to celebrate. I guess I’m just not very good at this.”

  My hands clench each other. The birthday card is still lying next to the computer. Purr-fect. Hah.

  “It’s been so long since I had a child in the house. And this time of year is just so hectic. But I should have tried harder for your birthday. So I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK.” I shrug. Why do I feel guilty on my birthday? But all of a sudden I feel bad about eating the cake at Osorio’s and riding home with the Livingstons. “That was a pretty good cake. I liked the frosting,” I tell her.

  “It’s cream cheese,” she says.

  “Uh-huh.” Lexie finally brushes by my legs. I stoop to pick her up quickly, before she can run away. “Well, good night.”

  “Good night, Lucy. Sweet dreams.”

  She’s never said anything like that. In my room I jam the chair under the door so Lexie can’t go find Sarge in the night, and flop down on my bed with the iPad. Might as well use my useful birthday present. It is nice not to have to go out to the barn.

  I check my Facebook account. Now I’m only lying about my age by one year. There’s the little red number that shows a new message. I click on it—from Graciela! It takes me a second to understand, since it’s in Spanish, which I haven’t seen written for a couple of months now.

  “Lucy. I asked and asked, but Mama says you can’t come live with us. Lo siento. I’m sorry.”

  Chapter 42

  JANE

  Rebecca’s invited Lucy to go to the beach with them. Invited us, actually, but a day at the beach is something I can’t afford in August. Miguel took her into town, and I’ll tack errands onto the pickup trip. We need kitty litter again. It’s Lucy’s job to take care of the cats, and I have to admit she keeps the litter box cleaner than I did. We go through that stuff three times as fast as I did with only Sarge. Then I’ll stop at the bank to see about a business loan, to put in some new apple trees for the farm-to-school program. Miguel told me about some new dwarf varieties, trees that bear heavier and sooner. The food service director still hasn’t called back, but if the bank can turn it around quickly, I could get them in yet this fall.

  Do I really want to put myself in debt again? Jim and I were always conservative. We got a fifteen-year mortgage on this place and only had four years to go when he left. Either he felt guilty enough not to ask me to put the house up for sale or he was just in too big a hurry to get to Florida with her. Them. At any rate, he abandoned the equity. With Matt in the army we divided his intended college account, which I earmarked strictly for t
he payments. Last year I got the deed.

  Fresher still is Gloria and Luis’s financial spiral, precipitated by the second mortgage. But no, this is different. Not just a loan, but an investment. In Plain Jane’s, in a local business. In my local business. I’m arguing half to convince myself, half to practice for the loan officer. But first stop is delivering the sod tray back to Sarah Fischer.

  The door to her inner office is open, and she’s sitting at a desk strewn with papers, glasses perched on her nose.

  “Well, hello again, Jane.” Sarah smiles a surprised welcome, taking off her glasses so they dangle on that beaded chain.

  “Brought this back.” I hold up the tray. She looks puzzled for a second, then clarity dawns and she takes it.

  “Did it help?”

  I shake my head. “She wouldn’t go near it.”

  Sarah nods. “I expected as much. For a first visit it was a lot to ask of her, even here.”

  I shrug. “We tried.”

  She nods again and taps the tray with her finger, like a tambourine. “You know, you really didn’t need to return this.”

  “It was no trouble. I was in town, anyway.”

  “I see.” She seems to be waiting for me to go on.

  “It’s part of the ethic of farm life. Always return what you borrow.”

  “A good motto.” Sarah smiles. “Remind me what you do again?”

  “I run a CSA. A community supported agriculture.”

  “That’s right. Basically a small farm?”

  I nod.

  “Which creates the problem for Lucy.”

  I nod again, then consider. Well, is that the truth? Lucy arrived afraid of grass.

  There’s another pause, like she’s waiting for me to say more. “I’m sure you’ve got a busy schedule, so I’ll let you get to it.”

  “No clients today. Paperwork catch-up,” Sarah says. “If you’d like to talk more, I’m happy to listen.”

  “Me? What would I have to talk about?” Even as I ask, I’m remembering the doctor in Alaska.