The Orphan Daughter

by Cari Noga

  “I just . . .” I shrug. “I just couldn’t.”

  “You thought you caused the car accident. All this time. My God . . .” She leans back, shaking her head. “But you realize now you didn’t, right? That’s what you just said.”

  I nod, then shrug again. “I guess.”

  “Don’t guess. Know it. Believe it.” She reaches for my hand again, sandwiching it between hers. “Some bad things just happen. As much as we want to explain them, they just happen. Not because of us, just to us.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  She pauses. “Well. No. And yes. It’s not fair that your parents died while you were so young. But unfair things, bad things, they happen. It’s—how can I say this—universal.”

  My lip trembles. She squeezes my hand.

  “I don’t know—” I start to say.

  “Let me show you. We can take that walk to the orchard now, right?”

  Thinking of the grass, automatically, I hesitate.

  “In the morning. Eat now. And then more sleep.”

  My clock says seven thirty. I rush downstairs. “I’m going to miss the bus!”

  “I called in and said you were taking the morning off,” Aunt Jane says calmly.

  “You did?” Aunt If-There’s-School-You’re-Going? A plate with a muffin and a glass of juice sit on the table.

  “I did. You’ll learn plenty on our walk. Now how about some pancakes? Or an omelet?”

  “Pancakes.” I eat them in a daze, unable to take my eyes off the window. I’m finally going to walk on it.

  “Ready?” Aunt Jane says when I’ve swabbed up the last of the syrup.

  Lexie’s waiting at the door, too. She bounds off like always. Standing on the concrete threshold, I watch her go up the little hill toward the barn, where I spent so much time last summer. It’s not very green yet, which helps a little. It’s a little bit cloudy. That helps, too. It doesn’t feel like it’s a big deal day. Just an ordinary day.

  “Let’s go,” Aunt Jane says, heading off for the orchard up on the ridge behind the house.

  So I follow her. On the stepping stumps at first, but when I get to the gap, I don’t try to jump. I squeeze my eyes shut as my sneaker slaps the actual earth.

  Holding the rest of my body stock-still, I bounce on my toes. It feels resilient, like the mats in gym class. I open my eyes to peer at my feet. They look the same as always. I scuff my toe into the grass, corkscrewing the blades. Stooping down I see I’ve smushed a little of it, releasing that sweet smell. I let my fingers brush the tips, then grip a handful and tug. Momentarily the earth resists me, hanging on, then yields possession. I look up and see Aunt Jane watching me. A breeze blows hair across my face as I stand up and let go, too, the green wisps scattering gently back down. Then my stomach elevator rises, up, up, up, and I run, my feet pounding hard and wild, fast and free, so weightless that it feels like I could take off, fly right up over the orchard, Lucy in the sky, up to Mom and Daddy in heaven.

  But Aunt Jane is waiting and wants to show me something. She’s waving and smiling, and now clapping, and she looks so happy. And I can see the farm stand from here, waiting for me and Jared, and the barn where Lexie is. I look up again, tip back my head, and kiss the air, xoxox, and then run over to Aunt Jane, who I think might be crying, but she wipes her eyes so quick I’m not sure.

  “Well?” she says. “So far so good?”

  I nod. It’s quiet and still. No whispering voices, no elevators creaking. Just us and the trees.

  “OK.” She clears her throat. “Here we are.” She swoops her arms out. “These are my apples. Like I said, they may be all right. They shouldn’t look like this until May.” She lifts a branch dotted with green leaves and tight, pinched buds. “But so far, we’re lucky. It’s another story over here.”

  She leads me farther away from the house, to another bunch of trees. They’re a little smaller, and no leaves. Puckered greenish-brown buds dot the branches. Near the top some of them have opened into beautiful white flowers, but the edges of the petals are browning, too. Aunt Jane bends a branch down and pinches one of the buds. It’s soft, not tight like the one on the apple tree. “That would have grown into a cherry. Except it got too hot, way too early. The tree got tricked. And then, when the normal weather returned . . .” She waves her hand. “Well. You see.”

  Going off in every direction are trees just like it, rows and rows, branches sparsely sprinkled with the browning blossoms and buds, covering the whole hillside.

  “Miguel manages this orchard,” Aunt Jane adds. “Hires the labor, like Juan, to spray it, tend it, pick it, prune it.”

  “So then, what does that mean?” I point at the branch.

  She lifts her shoulders gently. “No work here this year.”

  “But—but, then how—” I think of Juan in the car. This is a great country. He and Esperanza, first a car, then a house, then a baby. That already didn’t go right. Now this. Miguel’s family, depending on him. “It’s not fair.”

  “No.” Aunt Jane is looking right at me. “Just like your mom and dad dying wasn’t fair.”

  My breath catches. I look around. From up here, I can see the water on both sides. I feel something between my ankles and look down. There’s Lexie, doing her figure eights.

  “Sometimes bad things just happen,” Aunt Jane says again. “And it’s no one’s fault.”

  I squat down to pet Lexie. “But that’s . . .”

  “Scary. You’re right. But it’s better than blaming yourself.” She squats down, too, and squeezes my hand. “Believe me.”

  I run my fingers through Lexie’s soft fur. I never took the bracelets off last night, and I spin them around my wrist again. I imagine Esperanza making them, choosing the colors, stringing each one. I think about her baby, and her and Juan wanting it to be born here. Americano, like Miguel. Like Daddy became. Like Aunt Bonita and Graciela wanted to be. I look up at Aunt Jane.

  “I want to spend some of the settlement money.”

  She raises her eyebrows, but I rush on before she can say no. “To help Esperanza and Juan. They need money to stay here till their baby is born. Esperanza could make more jewelry if she had money for more beads and stuff. I heard Mrs. Livingston talking about it.”

  I hold up my wrist, jingling the bracelets. The sun glints off the beads, making them sparkle. Aunt Jane looks, but it doesn’t seem like she sees them. She’s looking past them, at me. It’s completely quiet. She has to say it’s OK.

  “She wanted to help them, loan them money, but I don’t think Mr. Livingston does. So I want to. I won’t need the money for a long time, anyway.” I take a deep breath. “They need five thousand dollars.”

  Another minute passes. She’s still looking at me.

  “Aunt Jane?”

  “I think that’s a fabulous idea. Finding work beyond the farms seemed like the best solution, but I didn’t know what. And you’re right, you won’t need to access the money for a while, so there’s time to make a loan.” She looks at her watch. “We can call the bank as soon as we get back inside.”

  I exhale a gust of breath and grin. I pick up Lexie and rub my face against hers.

  “It’s very touching that you want to help Esperanza and Juan. Your parents would be proud of you,” she says, reaching out to scratch behind Lexie’s ears.

  I swallow hard and look down at my feet, on the ground. Her hand moves to my shoulder and squeezes.

  “I, uh, I’m very proud of you, too,” she says.

  Then her arms are all the way around me, and I feel myself lifted up, but it’s not a stomach elevator; it’s just her hug, abrázame muy fuerte. And I hold her very tight, too.

  Chapter 66

  JANE

  Lucy can well afford the five-thousand-dollar loan. The settlement is for one million dollars, which doesn’t seem like much for losing two parents. But it’s more money than I’ve ever seen at once, and it secures Lucy’s future a lot better than it had been.

  I t
ake the notification letter to the desk in Matt’s room, where I’ve finally organized her files in the bottom drawer. It could be considered the start of a home office, in fact, since I’m gradually migrating in the CSA records. In it goes to the car-accident folder, the label typed by Langley’s secretary so long ago. Mixed in are a few folders with labels I’ve handwritten, like the newest, “Hermanas Hermosas,” containing the loan papers from the bank. Beautiful Sisters, Esperanza named her jewelry business, since her sister, Rosa, is coming up from Mexico to help her.

  Hermanas Hermosas drops in alphabetically behind the thinnest folder, its label also handwritten, bearing simply the letter G. I take out the notepaper filled with black and blue cursive.

  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?

  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—

  Each time I read it, something else sticks out. First it was the devoted mother characterization. Then the warning about Nando. Tonight, the repetitions strike me, the regret and fear echoing. I’m sorry. Take care of her. I’m sorry. Take care of our baby.

  Biologically we were half sisters, but emotionally we could have been identical twins. Regret and fear, fear and regret. The only difference is I have more time.

  Opening another drawer, I turn to a fresh page in the notebook where I journal about Nina.

  Dear Gloria—

  I’ll take care of Lucy. She’s a kind, thoughtful, smart girl. Don’t be sorry. Be proud of her. Love her.

  I know I do.

  My hand stops, like my mind can’t quite believe what it’s written. Yet it’s true. Somehow I’ve managed to outrun the regrets and fear to get here. It’s not much, but it says it all. Carefully I tear the sheet from the notebook and slip it into the G folder.

  I stand up, and my eyes fall on the desk calendar. I have more time. That lone difference is huge. I turn two pages ahead, to June. Matt said around June 1. I don’t know about army leave policies, but it can’t hurt to have another set of hands with a newborn.

  What about Lucy? School won’t be out quite yet. Rebecca would let her stay with them. But then, what about the cats? Find a house sitter? And all the to-dos for the start of the season? The new school wellness subscribers?

  Finding work beyond the farms seems like the best solution. For a week or two, Esperanza and Juan could house-sit and manage the CSA. Lucy could start summer vacation a little early. She has another cousin to meet, after all.

  It’s time to silence the echoes of fear and regret. I pick up the phone to call my son.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book is often likened to having a baby. My thanks to those who midwifed this work during almost four years of literary gestation. (That’s twice as long as an elephant. Just sayin’.)

  The Powerfingers: Mardi Link, Anne-Marie Oomen, Teresa Scollon, and Heather Shumaker. You guided me to the essence of this story.

  The beta readers: Kandace Chapple, Patti Link, Barb McIntyre, Jennifer Pedroza, Sonja Somerville (again!), and Barb Wunsch. Their individual expertise on farming and CSAs, bereavement and grief, and Mexican-American family life helped authenticate Jane and Lucy and made their story a page-turner.

  The Lake Union team: Miriam Juskowicz, Danielle Marshall, Chris Werner, Laura Petrella, Karen Parkin, and cover designer David Drummond.

  Developmental editor Tiffany Yates Martin, who coaxed the best of Jane and Lucy out of the draft she read; Blanca Berger Sollod, who inspired Lucy’s grass phobia; Rick Coates, whose coverage of deportations in northern Michigan inspired Miguel’s character; the Leelanau chapter of the League of Women Voters for their work and studies on migrant labor issues; and Dan Hubbell, for walking me through the legal aspects of guardianship and custody. The Traverse Area District Library offered work space when home wasn’t available. And at home, Mike, Owen, and Audrey rode out the highs and lows all along. Gracias, familia.

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  Lucy doesn’t think Jane acts “motherish.” What do you think of Jane as a mother? Did Gloria and Luis make the right choice when they selected her to be Lucy’s guardian?

  As she returns from meeting Lucy, Jane thinks: “Beginnings come from endings. All you can do is try to hang on to everything so it doesn’t get lost along the way.” Do you think we ever resolve grief, or does it continue to impact our lives? Is it possible to let go? How have grief experiences affected your life?

  What do you think about Jane suspecting Juan and Esperanza as the jewelry thieves? Do unflattering stereotypes have a place in literature, if only for the sake of exposing them, or not?

  Do you think Juan and Esperanza have a human or moral right to stay in the United States? Why or why not?

  After talking to her son, Matt, at Christmas, Jane feels absolved of her maternal guilt. Do you think she is justified? Why is her recollection of Matt’s childhood so different from his own? Whose is correct?

  Had the Livingstons not discovered Lucy’s runaway plan, do you think she would have boarded the plane for Mexico instead of returning to Traverse City?

  Lucy’s grass “phobia” is really a form of magical thinking. Have you ever developed an irrational belief like this? How did you overcome it?

  Would Lucy have been happier with her Mexican relatives? What do you think happens to Bonita and Graciela?

  When the spring frost hits, Jane thinks that “the bigger picture [of climate change] feels a lot less urgent” than the consequences of a season without work for the migrant community. Can short-term and long-term ramifications of our decisions ever be balanced?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2014 Sarah Brown Photography

  Cari Noga is the author of Sparrow Migrations and The Orphan Daughter. She wrote the first drafts of both books during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), which takes place every year in November. Sparrow Migrations, her debut novel, has been adapted into a five-part miniseries script. Cari earned a bachelor’s degree in journalism from Marquette University in Milwaukee. In 1997, she landed in Traverse City, Michigan, for a summer job. For four years, she covered the region’s evolving agriculture economy as a reporter for the Traverse City Record-Eagle. She and her husband live in Traverse City with their two children. Visit her at www.carinoga.com.