She cupped the ring hand in the other and moved the ring up a little and then back down. She wished her mother would just drop the subject. But how could she expect that when she herself had never fully let her baby go? She should have forgotten all about her, like the social workers said she would. But no, not her. She thought herself better than that. She had given up all her rights, but she would never forsake her child. Her child. So she had thought. How foolish she had been. Imagining someone else’s daughter her own child. Foolish. And selfish. Instead of protecting her, as any real mother would have, she had tracked her down. Had her watched. Accepted a clandestine photo.
She should never have seen the image of the woman her baby had become. Never imagined hearing her voice. Seeing her face to face. Taking her hand in hers.
Her stomach felt a little queasy. Lack of sleep? Or the thought of Gwendolyn’s voice, if she were taken by surprise, called against her will. Polite at first. Then cool. And finally sarcastic. Like her father’s voice. But then what else could she expect? She shivered and shifted lower into the covers. It was time she faced facts. She felt the pull of seeing Gwendolyn only when she could not. The real possibility of meeting her, even talking with her on the phone, had made her ill. She recalled that day in Chicago when she had sat by the phone all afternoon, waiting for the perfect time to call. Not too early. Not too late. Just right. The moment the sun began to cast long shadows, she reached for the phone. She had dialed the number. Waited while it rang. But the moment she heard it picked up, her baby’s face came to her. A question mark, wondering, Why? Nausea had overcome her. She had hung up before the person spoke. She pulled the covers over her head and curled into a fetal position.
She had comforted herself then with the thought that it would be different, that voice. Warm and sweet, it would sound, if Gwendolyn reached out to her. And, so, that’s what she had wished for. Every time the phone rang. Even after moving to Mexico. That’s what she wished for. That it would be Gwendolyn calling. But now as she lay there in the dark, images from “The Monkey’s Paw” filled her mind. The son who had died mangled by a machine. His mother in desperation pleading with her husband to wish their son alive, using a magic paw. Their realization, when they heard the knock at their door, that they had sentenced their son to suffering they could not ease. She pressed her face against her knees. She had to let her daughter be. Whatever it took. She had to let her be.
She dozed and drifted and dreamed. Something half hidden. Her heart racing. And then peace. A stream. A ripple. She stirred. A lake. Still. But not silent. She could hear something. She woke. Rain. Gentle rain. Washing the dust from the avocado leaves. She sat up. What had she been dreaming of? A place of peace. A lake. And then it came to her. The postcard. That was it. Her answer. She touched the ring on her finger. “I can do it,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
BY the time she finished showering and dressing, she had it all figured out. She took the file of information about Gwendolyn from the safe and went back to her bedroom for the hand-painted box on her bookshelf. When she dumped her socks out of the box, the key fell out with them. She put the file into the box, locked it, and took it to the garden.
It was easy to shovel the ground after the rains. She made a hole eighteen inches deep and rectangular with straight edges, just the right size for the box.
She would go to the philosopher’s retreat. She felt light-headed. But she had all her wits about her. She would be living in silence, meditating. She could fit everything she needed in her backpack.
She emailed her translation supervisor, explaining that an emergency had come up. And then she wrote out notes. To her mother:
Please forgive my outburst last night. It will never happen again. I have been under stress, but I will be all right. Please do not worry. I love you. Jorge will take you to the airport.
She reread the letter. And then added,
Thank you for coming to visit me here. I am grateful we had this wonderful week. I do not want to inconvenience anyone, least of all you. But I must go. Please give my love to Aunt Ida. And to John. I am happy knowing you will be with him. Love, Callie
To Armando she wrote:
I need to go away. Don’t worry. I will be fine. I just need some time. Please have Jorge take Mother to the airport and pay Doña Petra. I’ve left some things by the door for Juanito to sell, if he likes. Pat Tavelé for me. Un abrazo, Callie
She tucked pesos in Armando’s envelope for Jorge and Doña Petra and then wrote to Pamela:
I am sorry to be leaving in such a rush, but I have to. Doña Petra and Armando will help you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for asking me to be your baby’s local grandmother. Please tell your mother goodbye for me. Callie
She put the notes in unsealed envelopes, wrote their names on them, and left them in a row on the dining room table. She had not told them when she would be back. She didn’t know how long it would take for her to trust herself.
As for the house, it could be left as it was. Maybe one day she would sell it and everything inside the way the philosopher had, but in the meantime, she had left money for Doña Petra to come clean the way she always did. Enough for a year. She hoped that would be enough time. But she thought of the four years it took her mother to accept her father’s death. It could take her longer to stop imagining she had a daughter.
SHE checked her watch. Five-fifteen a.m. All she had to do was find some things for Juanito. There wasn’t much for him to sell other than what she had bought from him. He would be disappointed if she cast them off. She went to the laundry room, opened the box of Greek Philosophy, and took out Plato’s Apology. Not a bad book. But it was in English. Who would buy it? She didn’t have the time to think about it. She put Apology back into the box and closed it. What about Jacob’s package? Maybe it contained something Juanito could sell. She started to open the Ancient History box and then stopped. Whatever was in Jacob’s package would be for her alone. A symbol of some sort. No, not just of any sort. She knew Jacob well enough to know that. It would be a symbol of hope. Well, she did feel hopeful. She had a chance for a new life. Away by the lake. No need to open Jacob’s package. There must be something else for Juanito. She made a mental inventory of her house but couldn’t think of a thing. And then she remembered the look the jaguar had given her when she had left the notes on the table. He could go to Juanito, and his coyote and baboon friends.
When she turned to close the laundry room door, she paused. The case with the trumpet inside caught her eye. Give it to Juanito? She moved toward it. And then she stopped herself. No, not the trumpet.
Before she put the key in the entry door, she checked off her mental to-do list. Notes and an extra house key for her mother on the table. Cash card, water bottle, and clothes in her backpack. The jaguar, coyote, and baboon lined up ready for Juanito. She considered retrieving the cell she had left with the notes. Just in case. And then decided, no. The philosopher did not have one, and neither would she. Besides, her mother could use it. She smiled. Everything was under control.
Her backpack on and all ready to go, she put her key in her entry door, turned to wave good-by to the animals, and then tried to turn the key. It would not move. She jiggled it. It still would not move. She tried leaning against the door while turning the key. No luck. Neither did it help to pull the door. The jaguar looked on. “Well,” she said, “no reason to panic.” She would take the key out and put it back in again. More carefully this time. Everything would be all right.
She pulled on the key. It would not come out.
She felt feverish with excitement. There must be a way to get out. And she would find it. She looked down into the garden. Of course. The avocado tree. The pile of rubble. She would be out in no time.
On the way down the stairs, she shivered, but thought nothing of it. The exertion of climbing the tree would warm her.
She stood for a moment under the tree. Droplets of water fell from the leaves. But the rain had stopped. Sh
e put on her windbreaker. She would be fine. She stood back to calculate her route. Juanito had shimmied right up the trunk one day. But she would need something to help her reach even the lowest limb. A patio chair would do. She carried it to the tree and shoved it against the backside of the trunk. She looked up to the guest room window. Even if her mother woke and looked out, she wouldn’t notice her there behind the tree. And, besides, she was dressed head to toe in black.
She made sure her backpack was secure, patted the zipped side pocket to feel the key to the painted box, and then she stepped onto the chair. She studied the structure of the tree. The trunk divided in two about a foot above the back of the chair. Above the division, a thick limb went over the wall. All she had to do was pull herself up into the V of the tree limbs, and then she could stand and swing her right foot over the limb where she could settle down, as if she were riding a horse. From there she could scoot backwards along the limb to the wall and lower herself down to the pile of rubble.
Easy. She grabbed hold of a stub from a cut branch and steadied herself while stepping onto the back of the chair. She put an arm around the trunk rising from the left side of the split and stepped her left foot into the split.
When she drew her right leg up, she knocked the chair over. Oh, well. She wasn’t planning to go back down anyway.
She felt a little dizzy and had goose bumps, but she wasn’t worried. If Juanito could get to the limb that crossed the wall, why couldn’t she? She held onto the trunk to swing her right leg over the branch. Her foot fell short a couple of times, and she got a hitch in her hip. She looked at the balcony of her mother’s room. No giving up now. She took in a breath and swung her foot up on the outbreath. This time it made it across. In no time she was straddling the branch. Ride ’em, Cowgirl. She laughed. And then shivered again.
She looked up to the sky. Clouds were swarming around the crescent moon. It would rain again at any moment. She needed to get over that wall and down. Luckily, she was almost there.
As she scooted backward toward the wall, she felt a wave of nausea. She paused to steady herself. Just a little way to go. You can make it.
But the nausea was stronger than her will. She leaned her head over the limb just in time to cough up the remains of the egg sandwich. She sucked the saliva remaining in her mouth and spit it out. She shivered again. It didn’t feel like it was over. Maybe if she would just relax, she would make it. She rested her forehead on the limb and counted to ten. Another wave of nausea hit, and this time, she felt her bowels loosen as well. She tightened her sphincter. Not that. Oh, God, not that. But she could not stop it. Nor the vomiting, which went on until nothing came up but viscous fluid.
Too weak to move, she lay her face against the bark.
And then the rain started. At first in big soft drops that plopped on the leaves and trickled down her back. And then in torrents that soaked her clothes, diluting the diarrhea that came in wave after wave.
Wet, cold, and empty, she shivered and clung to the tree, more out of instinct than will, imagining herself floating in a secret river and praying the log would sink. But then a burst of lightning roused her. The rain. Gwendolyn. The photo. Locked in a box. Hidden. Ruined. It was all her fault, and there was nothing she could do. Nothing.
Forty-Five
THE PLACE CALLIE LAY FELT WARM AND SOFT. DRY and safe. She heard murmuring. The place before had been dark and cold. A man had come. Her father? He covered her with something, but she kept on shivering. She was still shivering, though now she was warm. And drowsy. She felt a hand on her forehead. It felt cool. And then a damp cloth. She roused and saw a figure leaning over her. “Go back to sleep.” The voice sounded like aunt Ida’s. Was she in Chicago? She turned on her side and drew her knees to her chest, cuddling herself. She liked Chicago. Warm, dry, and safe. She was happy there. Drowsy. Hearing the murmuring voices.
She roused again. Her right hip hurt. Why? And then she remembered the tree. Being sick. Grasping the limb. Sheets of rain. Someone on the limb near her feet. Trying to stretch out her legs to push him away. “Está bien, Señora.” Then she heard Pamela’s voice. “Ready.” An arm on her shoulder. Armando’s face by hers. “You can let go, Calecita. We have you.” She had shaken her head. No. No. No. But he kept his arm around her. “Suéltala, Calecita.” She had only held on tighter. But then, in the language of love, he had said, “Lâche-la, Chou. Lâche-la.” She let go and slid like a big fish into a net.
It seemed like a dream. Being carried in the net. Someone telling her to breathe. Warm water flowing over her in the shower. Someone washing her. Then the towel against her skin. Someone buttoning her pajamas, walking her to bed. Lifting the smooth sheets. Someone putting a straw in her mouth. “Sip, Callie, sip.” The sound of the curtains sliding shut. So, it had been light then, and now it was dark. How long had she been in bed?
There were candles all around. And voices. Subdued tones. As if at a wake. But she was not dead, just drowsy. She should let them know. But she was too exhausted to talk.
SHE heard the curtains open and then her mother’s voice. “Can you sit up, Callie? I made you some tea.” She opened her eyes. Light shone through the windows. “I had a dream, Mother. I was caught like a fish in a net.”
“Not a net. Your hammock. That kind Jehovah’s Witness suggested they use it to get you down. He’s the one who found you.”
“In the tree?” He had seen her like that? She started to sit up, and then she saw the box. Gwendolyn. Someone had found her, too.
“Would you like to take a shower? You have company,” her mother said.
She took her eyes off the box. “Company?”
“A houseful, actually,” a familiar voice behind her said.
She turned to see her aunt approach the bed. “So I wasn’t dreaming your voice. What are you doing here?”
“Making breakfast at the moment. But I suppose you mean, why am I here. You can thank Armando for that. He called right after they found you ‘white as a sheet and incoherent.’ Your mother’s dear John raced me to the airport.”
Her mother put her hand on her shoulder. “Do you feel like eating?”
“I sliced some papaya,” Aunt Ida said.
“Yes, then papaya. Thank you.”
“And chamomile tea,” her mother said.
“Will do,” Aunt Ida said and left.
She turned to her mother. “A houseful?”
“Oh, not so many. Let’s see. Armando, of course. And that other young friend of yours, Pamela. Pearl went to get vegetables for soup, but she will be back soon. And Aunt Ida. The others left.”
“Others?”
“Juanito, Doña Petra, and that nice Jehovah’s Witness, Señor González. After they got you down, Señor González tipped his hat and left, but he came by every hour or two to check on you. He’s been by several times this morning, too.”
Hoping for some vulnerability to exploit? She had thought that once, hadn’t she.
“Armando wanted to take you to the hospital, but we convinced him to have a doctor come instead. The doctor said you were dehydrated and needed rest. He prescribed electrolytes and a sedative.
“Armando started yelling, then, in some mixture of French and Spanish I didn’t understand. Pamela finally figured out he thought the doctor was out of his mind not sending you to the hospital. Pearl convinced him we should start with the electrolytes. Pamela planned to go to the pharmacy so he could stay by your side, but Señor González was at the door again when she opened it, so he went instead. Pamela stayed. And Pearl. All day and all evening. By then Aunt Ida had arrived, too. Armando took her to a hotel and came back with her early this morning. It was still dark, she said, when his driver Jorge knocked on her door.” Callie’s mother smiled. “I thought Armando never got up before noon, except for rehearsal.”
He would have circles under his eyes. “Pamela and her mother, how did they know?”
“Armando called them. It was a good thing, too. You only had on
e ladder. Pamela brought another one. I was so worried. It seemed to take hours for them to get everything ready, but Pearl stood by me the whole time. She tried to reassure me. But still, when Armando finally convinced you to let go, I screamed.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “It seems silly now. But then I was terrified you would fall.”
“I suppose I was afraid, too.” She looked beyond her mother to the box. Was that the key on top of it? She looked back to her mother. “How did they get me down?”
“Pamela climbed up a ladder on one side of the branch, and Armando climbed up on the other side. Señor González and Armando tied the two ends of the hammock to the branch on either side of you, so the hammock was just below the branch. Pamela pulled one side of the hammock out, and Armando the other, opening it wide. Then when you stopped gripping the branch—it took a while for Armando to convince you—he and Señor González gave you a little push, and you slid right into the hammock. Armando and Pamela let go of the sides they had pulled apart, and there you were wrapped in the hammock.”
She sighed. Or caught like a fish in a net.
HER legs were trembling, but she managed to convince her mother she was strong enough to shower and dress herself. At the door, her mother turned to say that papaya would soon be on the way. She sounded as if it were a normal morning.
But there was nothing normal about it. She didn’t normally have breakfast in her bedroom. Nor with a houseful of company. And certainly not after having been found filthy and soaked, clutching the limb of an avocado tree.
And though neither her mother nor her aunt had asked any questions, they and the rest of them must be wondering what she was doing in that tree. Not picking avocados. They would have known that she’d been running away from the notes she left and from the broken lock. But they wouldn’t have known why was she in such a rush that she would climb a tree. Or why she would flee during her mother’s visit, and with no plan to return.
The Trumpet Lesson Page 26