Day in and day out, often until late at night, we worked. What I thought I knew about the Santana Band business and our personal finances was minuscule compared to all that was entailed in running the corporation and our personal lives. I had had no involvement with our insurance coverage—health, dental, workers' compensation, homeowner's, equipment floaters for touring, life insurance—and its complexity and expense was mind-boggling. Our taxes were filed in every state the band played in. But all of that was relatively in order and just needed review and comparative cost investigation. The real problem we discovered was Carlos's royalties. We had recently retained an auditor whose findings showed that we had a claim against Carlos's record label of more than $4 million for ten years. Legally we could file a claim only for the most recent three years, which was $1.2 million according to the auditor. I had had no idea that Carlos's contract, as with any record company, had a statute of limitations of three years for audit claims. We were told that we could expect the record company to pay no more than 40 percent of our claim for the three years. Carlos and I struggled to cope with the enormity of this financial loss. I blamed myself for not having known how the royalty system worked; Carlos was furious that this could have occurred.
Outside our kitchen windows, thousands of bright orange poppies sprouted among rosebushes—glorious hues of pink, yellow, and peach—in the backyard. Intoxicatingly sweet narcissus competed with the fragrance of star jasmine climbing up the side of the house. Cheryl and I would leave our files to sit outside and eat lunch, inhaling the April blooms that were re-birthing Marin. We lived on soup-size mugs of English Breakfast tea every afternoon. Salvador was eleven and busy with school-work and practicing the piano, imitating Thelonious Monk's wild style. Stella was nine, and she adeptly answered the phone, relaying messages to us in a businesslike voice. Jelli, four years old, played around our papers, her toys and dolls falling into the boxes; or, she sat at the computer playing math games. The children became part of our work and helped however they could, if only by being quiet so we could think.
Ultimately, we recovered what we could in record royalties. It was much less than what we had hoped, but we realized that we could not afford to dwell on the past or become mired in regrets about what had occurred. Instead, we decided to put our energy into the business going forward. As part of this effort, we decided to end our relationships with our outside business managers and accountants. By assuming complete control, we knew we could be confident that our business would be operated exactly as we wanted.
I held meetings with our employees to let them know how and why we were making changes and to hear their perspectives, as well as to tell them how we desired to go forward as a business. I hired a career counselor who worked with all of us to restructure our communication, and she helped staff work through the areas where they had not previously been accustomed to discussing business with Carlos and me. I found and purchased a building to move our office to, and interviewed applicants for an office manager position. I hired a general contractor to remodel the space for offices, and tried to cook and eat dinners with the children while Carlos toured Europe and the States.
In August—the time of year I adore in Marin—temperatures rose to the eighties; and at night, unseen tropical birds cawed loud cries that sounded as though we were in a rain forest. Afternoons, Rina filled up the wading pool, the children jumped in and out dumping water on the flowers from their plastic pails, and the dogs chased each other across the lawn. In the five months since we had taken over the business, I was working twelve hours a day as chief operations officer, signing every check—of which there were hundreds each month— monitoring insurance, tours, and Carlos's calendar. Not only was it a job, it was also our personal lives and an investment in our future and in our family.
At the end of the month, I was cleaning Carlos's studio in preparation for his return home from the road. I dusted the bookshelves and my cloth swept a small stack of color photos onto the floor. The glossy images revealed three Asian women with lithe bodies, long black hair falling over their shoulders, and dark, sultry eyes. Carlos was in a couple of the pictures. Who had taken the photos, and why? There was nothing risqué or outwardly abnormal in the photos, but with one look I knew Carlos was not living on the road with integrity toward our marriage. My spirit collapsed under the weight of knowing. Carlos's infidelity diminished my view of myself. I was unable to look at it as being about him, and I assumed his conduct had something to do with me.
I picked up the photos and carried them back to the house. In my office, I wrote a letter to Carlos telling him of my devastation, and sealed the photos in an envelope with my words. I filled out a Federal Express form and mailed my broken heart to Carlos. Feeling disconnected and in shock, I sat at my desk, staring into the garden. Salvador's giggles rang from downstairs; I heard Stella singing and then Jelli saying, “Up, up,” to Rina. What will we do? Where will we go? How can Carlos reject us, his family?
I had a meeting scheduled with a prospective designer in one hour at the new office space. Smiling and hugging the children good-bye, I picked up my car keys and purse and drove to the office. I conducted the meeting, asking the designer's ideas for furnishings, paint, and carpet, barely surviving the hour of acting businesslike. I got back in my car and drove around Marin, looking at neighborhoods to see where I would want to live with my children. This was my answer to being so hurt that I could not even look in the mirror: Keep busy, make a new home, try to stay alive. Carlos called as soon as he received the package. All he could say was, “I'm sorry.” It was not enough. I had no idea at the time how afraid he was, how exposed in the life he'd kept secret from me. I moved the business into the new office building and concentrated on the children while rebuilding our management company. When Carlos came home, I was withdrawn and angry, ready to snap. We tried to talk, but his explanation of the photos struck me as feeble: He said that other women did not mean anything to him. It was just a physical release; I was whom he loved.
Love meant something very different to me—it meant commitment to one person and being devoid of desire for someone else because of feeling complete inside. I did not need attention from men to make me feel worthy as a person; my marriage was enough, and my children were my treasures. It was unfair for Carlos to live as though he were single and not tell me who he was, that this “release” was important to him. I could have made my own decision about staying in our relationship if I had known the truth.
My needs were so different from Carlos's. Trust and loyalty were part of my existence. How could I ever trust him again? Hours and hours of talking and trying to figure it out with my mind just made me crazy. Staying busy did not resolve the bitterness I felt at his infidelity. My anger almost destroyed us. I knew Carlos's struggle was graver than what it appeared to be. Really, all brokenness is a lack of oneness with one's own spirit and light. The real mountains to climb were my anguish and Carlos's confusion and lack of understanding that marriage— or even great love—must be treasured and honored on every level if it is to last. It took months for us to talk through the elements of the issue: what I wanted from marriage; the sacred unity of husband and wife; why Carlos felt he needed or desired sex outside of marriage; and my point that he would feel as betrayed as I did if I had lived as he had. He pleaded with me to not give up on him, but to work together on our marriage. At times the effort was so exhausting that I thought I should run away from the problems, with the children, and start anew. The solution seemed so simple to me: Live with honesty and integrity. But I had come from a strong home with parents who talked to Kitsaun and me and gave us spiritual values on which to build our lives. Carlos's parents had tried to give their children the best they had; but Carlos had gained a much different set of values from seeing his dad stray and from not receiving a foundation of unconditional love. When he was a young boy in Tijuana, Carlos had been molested. The American man gave him candy and toys, and the shame Carlos carried in his body had devalue
d his existence and manhood. I connected his feeling of lack to these experiences of abuse, and that made me believe our relationship could be healed if we could work through the pain.
We tried to protect the children from hearing our arguments and suffering, and we walked gingerly around each other. In therapy together, Carlos talked honestly and began to dig his way out of the underlying drive that allowed him to disconnect from our marriage and that fed his infidelity. I was able to vent my anger and frustration at trying to forgive what I could not trust. I knew I was holding on too tightly to the ideas and beliefs I had about marriage as partnership. Equality was my goal in marriage as well as life. I cultivated an image of two people sharing every responsibility and buoying each other up in their lifework. We discussed and questioned what we believed about love and our nature as humans on the path of life. Carlos had never received the lessons I had about fidelity and keeping promises. He said, “I love your family and your standards. I want to live up to them.”
I admitted that I resented the years spent chasing my husband around the world to have a relationship. Our marriage was crying out for reciprocal attention and commitment from Carlos. He responded by canceling his commitments and staying home for four months. It was the longest amount of time he had been off the road since we married.
This time allowed Carlos to practice a simple existence completely foreign to our family. Rather than rushing to interviews or band rehearsals, Carlos picked up the children from school, ate meals with us, and experienced our world. He videotaped the children dancing and clowning as they performed for the father they worshipped but were usually waving good-bye to. Through my sessions with the therapist, I faced the realization that I could not live in fear of losing Carlos to another woman, of my life changing, of a loved one dying, or of the unknown: Fear paralyzes. My goal needed to be to live in each moment, forgive the past, and be the best person possible by meditating on God and following my heart. I could not magically or easily transcend the hurt I felt, but somehow I had always known that being in a relationship is work, and that marriage needs care and the commitment of time, love, and sacrifice.
My parents had weathered their storms. I had heard them argue, but never had been party to significant discussions or turmoil. Perhaps their marriage was different from ours in some way. But I thought not. Their stakes were the same. Perhaps I would always be a romantic. I had fallen so deeply in love with Carlos—without inhibition or insecurity, wearing my love openly for him to see. Our family was sacred to me, and Carlos and I united in maintaining the communion between our children and us. There was nothing that could abolish my commitment to our tree of life.
Our office complex had a large room in the back, where the band rehearsed. One day, before rehearsal began, Carlos stood in the front doorway with Chester, the keyboardist. I watched him from my desk. His black knit cap was pulled low on his forehead, and he looked tall and slim in a black silk shirt, exquisitely handsome, his full lips drawing me to him as he talked to Chester. I felt a familiar spark inside, like I'd felt when we first met and he was all I could think about. It was instant recognition, without words, of something reaching inside to claim my heart. Carlos's innate affirmation of spiritual truth, his dedication to seeking God, made me love him as I had when we first met. I remembered our conversation from a day earlier, when we drove into the city to pick up Stella from school.
“I was so nervous when we first went out,” Carlos had said. “I thought you were so hip and so cool and that I was such a dork. I was careful not to breathe too hard so that my nose wouldn't wheeze.” I laughed. “Come on,” I said.
“No,” Carlos replied. “I was so scared. Then, later, when I got to know you, I saw you were as dorky as me.”
We looked at each other as Carlos drove past the marina, sailboats bobbing in their slips, joggers huffing along the bay. Just like in 1973, when we met.
“You're so beautiful—your arms, your neck, your hands, your face. I just love everything about you,” he whispered.
I looked over at my husband as he said those words, and I pictured us twenty-three years earlier. Who would have thought he was worried about being cool? The tall, quiet guitar player in sunglasses and full-length snakeskin coat with cowboy boots, gliding across the stage, hitting notes that fell like rain inside my body and awakened the one great love in my life.
The sun was falling across my face, making me glow as he offered me his ardent praise. I smiled. I couldn't help myself. “I adore you,” I said.
Our family was back to a semblance of serenity. The children and I traveled to Montreux, Switzerland, for the annual two-week Jazz Festival, where musicians from around the world performed together and created exciting music by playing cutting-edge jazz and big-band arrangements. Kitsaun and a friend, Aaron Estrada, who was a couple of years older than Salvador and the son of Santana's first road manager, came with us. We hiked the hilly city and took the tram to the Alps, where we gazed over sparkling Lake Geneva. We went to Château de Chillon, an eighteenth-century castle, and walked back to our villa, Stella complaining the whole way that her feet hurt. Jelli rode on my back or on Auntie's, and sang little songs. Santana arrived and played in the Festival Hall; Van Morrison was the opening act. After the concert, we traveled to the south of France, where the band would play in Nice. Carlos and I laughed when Salvador and Aaron grabbed towels from their room and said, “We're going to the beach!” as soon as we checked into our hotel. All beaches in the south of France are topless, and we knew the boys were not swimming with their bodies as much as with their eyes.
On our way to the venue, Kevin, our tour manager, came onto the tour bus, his face a tangled storm. “A plane went down last night …,” he said, pausing with a heavy sigh.
Carlos and I looked at him, waiting.
“I think Wayne's wife was on it,” Kevin said, dropping his head.
“Kevin. Are you sure?” I asked.
“It was TWA Flight 800. The promoter said Ana Maria was on the flight.”
Carlos put his head in his hands. Wayne Shorter, the man of ten thousand hearts, who gave love and joy through his horn, had played the Nice Jazz Festival the night before. I wanted to jump off the bus and run back to the hotel where Wayne was staying. But what could I say? What would it matter?
Kevin's head was still hanging. “Wayne is on a flight home.”
What would he go home to? My heart broke for him. I remembered the last time Ana Maria and I were in Antibes shopping in boutiques, her soft, dark brown hair falling sexily into her eyes. Her voice was low and husky from years of smoking, and her eyes were bright. She tried on a tight skirt and cropped blouse, turning to the side in the mirror. “I look too fat, don't I, Deb- bie?” She pushed her stomach in with her hands and turned to face me.
How could someone with her luscious golden skin and gorgeous legs ask such a question? “You look wonderful, Ana,” I said. “Buy it.”
I walked through the trees behind the venue, thinking about Ana Maria's spirit, her smile, her joy and fire. She and Wayne had been together since she was seventeen. Portuguese and black. Both brilliant.
The next morning the children and I were scheduled to fly back to the Bay Area. They were amazingly brave on our ten-hour flight. During every bump in the air, I knew they were thinking of Ana Maria and fearing we were going down, too. I was searching the clouds with reverence and faith to see her soul dancing by.
moke billowed behind Bald Mountain—gray, red, and yellow—the acrid smell of dry California shrubs and grasses burning. From our house, the plume of smoke covered half the sky in the west, above Stinson Beach. I drove to pick up the children from school and listened to the news on the radio. The fire was in Point Reyes, the pristine national park and seashore where gray whales migrate in the winter. The burning began on Mount Vision; and residents of Point Reyes, Inverness, and surrounding towns worried as ashes fell on their homes and cars. After twenty-four hours, nine thousand acres were burned and fou
r teenagers were suspected of starting the devastation. I watched and listened with concern and compassion for the boys. What must it feel like to have something in your care rage out of control, leaving you helpless? News reports said that acres and acres of burned trees and flora would be scarred for years, as well as the animal population. Yet, just a few months later, after winter rains, regeneration began. Grasses sprouted rampant across the land, songbirds birthed in record numbers, and abundant new seeds sprang up from beneath the charred ground, turning hills and trails green again.
African traditions impart the belief that fire can remove a block and keep one's vision alive. The Vision Fire represented what happened in my life after the personal changes and growth I experienced in 1994. Everything I knew about myself, my marriage, and life had been burned to ash—and a new energy and concept of who I am was born. I connected with a spiritual awareness that was outside the constraints of all I had followed before, and I searched for a spiritual place of worship that would not dictate but inspire. I visited nine churches in Marin, looking for a haven that would not tell me to love and obey my husband while forsaking my female power, and that would not have a limited view of women. Finally, I found Unity, whose belief is that God, Divine Mind, is the Source and Creator of all and that we are spiritual beings with the breath of God within us, a church that embraces the world and people's varied beliefs. I breathed in the power of my body, spirit, and mind, further exploring my soul.
There was not enough time for me to study, raise our children, and manage Santana. With a heavy heart and a sense of duty to our business, I decided to leave Mills College. It was as if, once more, I had to choose between serving others and developing myself. I felt creatively starved, so I enrolled in a six-week writing course on autobiography taught by Melba Pattillo Beals at an independent bookstore. She had written the acclaimed memoir Warriors Don't Cry, about her year trying to integrate Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, and the brutal racism she had lived through. With her encouraging instruction, I wrote about hearing the hurtful words of the children on the playground when I was eight and discovering that I was biracial. For the first time, I comprehended how deeply that event had affected my life.
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