by Ruth Wind
The old woman herself stood between rows of an impressive vegetable garden. At her knees were tomato plants with ripening fruit the size of baseballs, and behind her the corn had tassled, but still hung in soft, pale green hanks. Impulsively, Sarah grabbed the camera at her side and got out of the car. She leaned on the hood and focused carefully, shooting a quick series of the woman in her garden, feeling she should ask permission, yet feeling it was urgently important that she shoot this photo, right now.
Mrs. Santiago looked up as Sarah shot the last picture, and by her smile Sarah could see that the camera alarmed her not at all. Still, as Sarah approached, she called out, "I hope you don't mind that I took your picture. You and your garden are a happy sight."
"No." She waved a hand, coming out of the garden to greet her. She was well past eighty, but Sarah saw only a hint of stiffness in her movements. She was small, with white hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her thin body was covered with a purple-and-white-print housedress. On her feet were rubber plastic thongs that matched the purple in her dress and were dotted with glitter of the sort young girls wore with their shorts.
"You must be Sarah," the old woman said. "So long I have heard your name, and I have never seen you."
"Same here, Mrs. Santiago. I'm glad to finally meet you."
She waved a hand. "Call me Octavia." Her dark eyes glittered. "Or bisabuela, like everybody else."
Sarah nodded. Octavia she could manage. Bisabuela seemed a little scary, for no reason she could pinpoint.
"Let's go inside," Octavia said. "I have made iced tea for us to drink while we talk."
Sarah waited respectfully for the woman to make her slow but steady way across the yard, then walked behind her to the steps, where Octavia paused. "Come, Sarah, give me your hand. My knee, she ain't what she used to be."
Sarah offered her elbow and Octavia leaned on her. She smelled of sunlight and sage, a scent that reminded Sarah acutely of Eli, and she scowled.
Octavia settled in an overstuffed blue chair and pointed to an opening between the kitchen and living room, where a blue glass pitcher of tea waited. "Bring that here. Sit on the couch."
It was surprisingly cool within the thick walls, even without a swamp cooler. Sarah fetched the tea and glasses, and poured for each of them before she settled on the couch as she'd been commanded.
"So, tell me," Octavia said. "Your papa is pretty sick, eh?"
"Yes. Nothing is really helping."
"I know." She took her time sipping tea. "It's in his heart, you know?"
Sarah nodded. "Yes. His asthma has put a strain on his heart. He had a heart attack three months ago."
"No, no. Inside." She pointed to her chest. "His soul."
"Oh." Sarah smiled at the misunderstanding. "I see."
"You been seeing my grandson again, yeah?"
Sarah took a breath, opened her mouth to deny it, then thought better of it. The scene in the yard below rushed back and a physical pain went through her chest. "We have been, but I think there's too much in the past for us to overcome."
Octavia folded her hands in her lap. "This war has gone on too long."
Sarah nodded wearily. "Tell me about it."
"You can stop it, Sarita."
The endearment wounded, but also made her want to please. "Me? No, I tried." She bowed her head. "I failed."
"No, not yet." She reached into a bag at her feet and took out a baggie filled with herbs and held it up in the air.
"This tea is what I made for your papa. It will help him if he drinks it every day." She didn't hand it over. "But you must do one thing – you must tell him where it came from."
"He won't drink it if I do."
"Let him have the first cup without telling him. Let him see it makes him feel better. Then tell him."
Sarah frowned. "I don't understand. Why?"
Octavia grew serious. Her gaze shifted, not to any external view, but one within. "When I was fourteen, my brother fought a Greenwood boy. It was a terrible, foolish fight," she said. "My brother was a—" she seemed to struggle for the word "—I think you say 'hothead.' He had to have his knife with him all the time. I was there, you know. The Greenwood boy only said hello to me, and my brother started a fight, and he ruined that boy's face. That was your grandfather."
"I've heard the story," Sarah said quietly. She'd heard all of them at one time or another.
"Two weeks later they found my brother dead in a ditch, his head smashed." Octavia looked at her, shook her head. "So foolish. All of it.
"When your papa put Elias in jail, I dreamed that he got out and killed your father. You would not have known your love in those days, Sarah. He was like a bonfire, burning hot, eating everything up in front of him. He was mad with grief."
At the terrible image of her father's blood on Eli's hands, all the air left Sarah. "But he didn't, thank God."
"I put a charm on him, but he has self-control, our Elias. He chose to go another way – and because he did not become violent, as all his people and your people did before him, the three of you have a chance to end it now."
Frustration welled in Sarah's throat. "I've tried!" she burst out. "Don't you think I tried? They always put me in the middle. They're still doing it."
"The middle is a good place to see both sides, eh?"
Sarah stared at her, gaping at the simplicity and clarity of the statement.
Octavia pressed the bag of herbs into her hand. "You are stronger now. You know what must be done. Only you can make them take the steps they must."
Tears of fear and frustration and loss and anger rose in her eyes. Furious with herself, Sarah brushed them away. "I don't think I can do this," she said. Her voice was unsteady. "I can't face it all again."
Octavia said nothing for a moment, then she got up and moved to a bureau against the far wall and brought back a very old miniature. She looked at it for a long moment. "This belonged to my mother, and her mother and her grandmother. Look at it, Sarita."
Sarah's hand shook as she reached for the small painting. It showed a young man in a vest trimmed with gold, a twinkle in his beautiful eyes. Eli's eyes. And his mouth, and his clean high cheekbones. "Who is it?"
"That was the Santiago boy who was hanged. Manuel Santiago." She paused. "I want you to have it."
Suddenly Sarah felt panicky. She shoved it back at Octavia. "I can't."
"Yes, you can." Octavia bent and closed Sarah's hands around the miniature. "Let him speak to you. Let the past tell itself to you and give you courage."
"I have to go," Sarah said shakily.
Octavia released her, and Sarah stood up jerkily, her vision blurred with tears. She'd cried more in the past two weeks than she had in a decade, she thought wildly. It was driving her crazy. Half-blind, she grabbed her purse and tucked the bag of herbs and the miniature inside. "Thank you," she said.
Octavia followed her to the door. "Heal us, Sarah," she said quietly.
Sarah bolted. She drove back down the hill and past the plant without seeing a single person, and only realized when she drove through the gates that she was holding her breath.
The market was on the way back to her parents' house. Sarah pulled in and turned off the car, her emotions a tangle. Her heart pounded and sweat broke over her brow and against her palms. Even her stomach rebelled with a nauseous rush. Her hands were shaking.
She put her head down against the steering wheel and took long, slow, deep breaths, trying not to think about anything. She pictured the garden of cosmos outside her door at the cottage, their pink and white loveliness after the rain, and breathed in. Only the flowers. Pink and white.
And to a degree, she was successful. The vision of flowers built a wall between her and the turbulent images that threatened to overwhelm her: Eli, so angry at her today, and Octavia putting the miniature in her hand, and last night…
As if lying in wait for a vulnerable moment, her dream suddenly came back to her, her dream of flying wit
h Elias and her daughter over the town of Taos. She remembered her pleasure at the freedom of flying with Eli, and the startled joy she had felt at seeing her daughter, almost twelve and beautiful.
But the moment she had really focused on that girl, Sarah had been unable to concentrate on anything else, and plummeted toward earth.
Shakily she lifted her head and rolled down the window to let in some air. It did not help much. Waves of nauseous terror washed over her and she didn't trust herself to be able to get across the parking lot and inside. She closed her eyes and again breathed deeply, in and out, in and out.
The symbolism of her dream was simple enough to decipher: she'd managed to fly with Eli – make love with him last night – only because they had not faced the past. And Sarah was afraid that if she did, if she looked back to make peace with her daughter, she would lose everything.
A knock on the hood of the car startled her. She opened her eyes to see an older Indian man bending down to look at her in concern. "Hey, lady, you okay?"
Sarah straightened. "Yes. Thank you."
"The heat's bad today. You don't want to be sitting in a car like that if you're not feeling good."
She realized he was right. It was probably the heat that was bothering her. She wasn't used to the intensity of the high desert sun. "You're right. Thank you."
He dug in his bag and took out a can of soda. "It's cold. Make you feel better."
"Thank you," Sarah said for the third time, and began to feel a little foolish. She accepted the soda and he shuffled off.
She opened it and drank a long, cold swallow, and it felt so good, she put the cold can against her face. Immediately she started to feel better.
Just the heat, she thought, feeling the panic ebb away. The heat and too many ghosts. She'd do her mother's little bit of shopping, then go home and turn on the swamp cooler and sleep for a few hours.
* * *
By the time she carried groceries into her mother's living room, Sarah was feeling much better. She didn't know if it was the cool of the store or the cold drink, or maybe just the sugar, but the strange weakness had passed.
"Hi, Dad," she said, pausing to look over his shoulder. "What are you watching?"
"'Dragnet.'" He punched the mute button. "I can change it if you want to watch a movie or something."
"No, go ahead. I'm going to put these groceries away." Mabel came out, drying her hands on her apron. "You're an angel," she said, taking one of the bags. "Did you remember the celery? I thought I'd make some with cheese and onions, the way you like. I know you can't stay to dinner, but we can have a little snack, can't we?"
"Sure, Mom." She put her load on the counter and started putting things away.
"Your dad has some movies. Walked to the video store all by himself to get them." Her voice dropped. "It would thrill him if you'd sit down and watch one with him. I suspect he picked some of them with you in mind."
Sarah glanced over her shoulder at the stack of videos on the television. "You know, Mom, my plans fell through. If you have enough, I'd like to stay for supper. Maybe we can all sit down and watch a video together."
Her mother looked up with wary hope. "Really?"
All at once Sarah realized how careful they both were with her, as if she were some slightly dangerous forest creature that might bolt at any moment. Everything they did seemed calculated to placate and please her – and that was wrong.
For the first time, she realized how selfish and cruel she had been to her parents, dangling the one thing they wanted right in front of them – herself – threatening them with a precipitous withdrawal at any moment. It did not negate their crime against her, but she'd committed her own sins. "Really," she said firmly. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do."
They set up old aluminum TV trays that had been around as long as Sarah could remember. Mabel pulled the heavy drapes against the sunlight, and they all three came to a consensus on The Last of the Mohicans, which had something for all of them – adventure for Garth the ex-cop, historical drama for Mabel and romance for Sarah. She'd seen it several times already, but didn't say so. Eric Schweig as Uncas would be no hardship to watch even after a hundred viewings.
A fact she also did not share with her parents.
In the dark room, with the swamp cooler roaring softly in the background, they ate stuffed celery and Waldorf salad and cold cuts, with toffee ice cream for dessert. Feeling satisfied and renewed when the movie went off, Sarah had the courage to reach into her purse for the plastic bag of herbs. "Dad," she said. "I know you aren't a fan of alternative medicine, but I took the liberty of talking to an herbalist for you today."
"You went to all that trouble for your old man, huh?"
Sarah grinned, thinking ironically of just how much trouble she'd gone to. "Yep. You're stubborn, but I wouldn't mind keeping you around for a while."
Mabel patted her leg and picked up some dishes to take to the kitchen.
"She gave me this tea," Sarah said, holding it out for him to look at. "She said if you drink it once a day, it will make you feel better."
He lifted his glasses to the top of his head and took the bag. "Looks like grass."
"Grass you smoke or grass you mow?" Sarah teased.
He guffawed. "Good one. Both. What is it?"
Sarah lifted a shoulder. "I didn't ask. Mom might be able to tell by looking, but I sure can't."
"Tell what?" Mabel asked.
"What the herbs in this tea are."
"Let me see." Mabel took the bag. "Looks like mostly yarrow and some kind of mint." She opened the bag and sniffed. "Not peppermint or spearmint, though. Hummph." She gave it back to Sarah. "Try it, Garth. If you don't like the way it makes you feel, quit."
"All right." He shrugged. "I'll drink a cup."
Sarah went to the kitchen, feeling faintly nauseous again as she considered her upcoming betrayal of his trust.
Maybe she just wouldn't tell him. She'd let him drink it, see if it helped, and go from there. It seemed the ultimate cruelty to trade on the ease between them tonight.
But wasn't it a false ease? If she marched in there and told her father she'd slept in Eli's bed last night, he'd be furious. And if a grown woman had to lie to her father, what kind of relationship did they really have?
Standing there in her mother's kitchen, Sarah realized that in order to heal the past, they first had to clean the wounds and let them heal properly. Octavia's words came back to her. The middle is a good place to see both sides.
She made the tea, tasting a little to see what it was like. To her surprise, it was faintly sweet, with a pleasant, interwoven taste of summer.
Her father liked it, too. "Hey, this is pretty good," he exclaimed.
Sitting on the couch with some darning in her lap Mabel asked with mild curiosity, "Where did you get it?"
Sarah took a deep breath. She had not expected to reveal the source yet, but something told her not to lie. She was tired of lying, of sneaking around, of pretending to be so many things she wasn't. She'd pretended so long, she'd almost lost herself entirely. Letting go of the breath, she said calmly, "Octavia Santiago made it."
Garth, who had taken a swallow, spit the remaining tea back in the cup and slammed the rest of it on the table, spilling tea everywhere. "How dare you!" he roared.
"Sarah!" Mabel cried. "How could you?"
Surprised at the lack of agitation she felt, Sarah lifted a shoulder. "She's the obvious choice. Where do you think all those recipes for Santiago Teas came from? She's been doing this for more than sixty years."
Garth turned red. "You've been whoring around with him again, haven't you?"
"Garth!" Mabel said sharply.
Stung, Sarah narrowed her eyes. "I'm a grown woman, and my personal life is no longer any of your concern."
"I knew it." His color darkened to a brick red. "You haven't changed a bit. Still sneaking around behind my back."
Sarah jumped up. "Sneaking around? I'm thirty year
s old! I don't need your permission or your approval for anything I do."
Mabel wrung her hands. "Stop it, you two. This minute!"
"I saw those pictures in the paper and I believed you when you said it was nothing! You made a fool of me!" He shifted and took a breath, his hand automatically going for his inhaler.
With alarm, Sarah saw that he was on the verge of an asthma attack and she leaned forward to put her hand on his shoulder. "Dad, calm down. I'm sorry I tricked you, okay? I just wanted you to try—"
He pushed her hand away. "Get out of here. I don't want to talk to you anymore. You betrayed me." He used his inhaler, his blue eyes shooting fire.
"I betrayed you?" Sarah asked in a hot, steady voice. "I'm not the one who tore the love of your life out of your arms. I'm not the one who sent his daughter away to bear her child alone, without support of any kind. I'm not the one who badgered that child until she gave in and let her baby go!" Her hands shook with the force of her long-denied fury. "I didn't betray anyone except my daughter."
"Stop it!" Mabel said, lifting a hand.
"If you hadn't been lying and sneaking around, you never would have been pregnant in the first place!"
Mabel stood up and put herself between them, a hand on Sarah's chest. The action was so out of character, both Garth and Sarah stopped in sheer surprise. "Stop it!" she cried, and stamped her foot for emphasis. "I will not have this in my house again, do you understand? A more stubborn pair of mules I have never met, and you made my life miserable for years."
Sarah stared at her mother, and words rose to her lips, but did not fall: Where were you when I needed you?
"Garth, apologize for that 'whoring' remark." Mabel gave him a hard look. "Now."
His breathing came hard, but he didn't give in. He turned his face away.