“What is the village like?”
Mr. Castillo glanced sideways at me. “I forget, you’ve not been since you were a baby. Well then, you will have to see for yourself.”
He smiled and bounced in his seat to the rhythm of the Mexican music on the radio. My heart skipped off-key as I wiped my sweaty palms across my jeans. Where was Mom sending me?
By the time we reached the edge of the village, more than forty miles away, I had sneezed no fewer than twenty times and I could feel my eyelids swelling to the size of grapes. But I felt a pinch of hope as we crisscrossed back roads toward a lush valley where majestic trees crowned the sienna earth.
The truck bounced down a dirt road lined with adobe homes on both sides. The roofs were flat and the walls had thick rounded edges that made them look like packed mud.
Mr. Castillo stopped and pointed to the left as we approached a plaza bracketed with big, full trees and bordered by more adobes. “That’s the village center.”
A big round lady stooped over a crying boy with dark brown cheeks. He’d spilled his chocolate ice cream cone on his shoe. Two little girls in sundresses chased a Chihuahua across the grass as it darted toward the melting chocolate. To our right, stone steps led to a small adobe church with large cracks down its walls. Mr. Castillo made the sign of the cross as we passed.
“Is this where Nana lives?”
He shook his head. “She lives a couple of miles from the center, out in the quiet country.”
We started down a long dirt road lined with cottonwood and elm trees. A large adobe house with windows trimmed in bright turquoise lay at the end. Tree limbs bowed over the sides of the flat roof, screening out the hot New Mexico sun, and the house stretched from one edge of the shade to the next.
I hopped down from the pickup, tossed my backpack over my right shoulder, and followed Mr. Castillo through a crooked wooden gate that lead into a sunny courtyard. I had to be careful not to trip over all the terracotta pots filled with vibrant yellow-and-purple wildflowers lining the narrow brick pathway leading to the front door.
“Ah, mijita!” Nana burst from the front door and knocked over a small wooden statue of Mary. She swept past the statue as Mr. Castillo knelt down to pick it up. I didn’t remember her being so small.
She reached up and hugged me tight. “Isadora, you’ve grown like the elm.”
My body stiffened under her embrace. “Just Izzy.”
She stepped back and gazed at me, smiling. “Your mama sent pictures but they didn’t show me how bonita you are! Ay, you are so big. I haven’t seen you since that last trip to California.” She tapped her fingers on the side of her face like she were counting the years. “Do you remember? You must’ve been only six or so.” She waved her hand in the air. “Yes, I could never live in such a busy place. Too much traffic and so many people.”
Her small round frame made me feel even taller than the flamingo on stilts.
She turned to Mr. Castillo. “Gracias.”
He removed his hat and leaned forward. “De nada.”
Then he leaned toward me and said with a warm smile, “Bienvenida. Welcome.”
“Come, come—meet my amigas,” Nana said, bouncing toward the front door. Her rose colored dress nearly covered her small bare feet.
We made our way inside where a dozen women stood on each side of a long pine table, laughing and pressing their hands into big, silver mixing bowls.
“We are making fresh tamales for tomorrow’s fiesta.”
“Fiesta?”
“Sí. Mañana is my best friend’s birthday and you’re here. Two reasons to celebrate.”
Inside, I stood frozen like the Mary statue in Nana’s courtyard, staring into a kaleidoscope of colors—red rugs, purple pillows, pink flowers, and yellow walls. My stomach spun like a carousel going too fast and suddenly I ached for home where everything felt familiar. All the women waved and smiled.
“I didn’t know you lived out in the country,” I said as I wrapped my arms around my aching stomach and did my best to smile back at the strangers.
“This isn’t the country, just a small village on the outside of the ciudad.” She wrinkled up her nose. “And you smell like you just crawled out of a wet onion sack.”
“It’s the onions from the truck; my throat still burns. I think I must be allergic or something.”
“Sigame,” she said laughing.
I followed her past the long tables and into the sky-blue kitchen. Dried flowers and plants hung in tied bunches from the ceiling, making the kitchen smell like a freshly lit cranberry candle. Nana pinched a few of the bundles between her fingers and ground up the dried flowers into a black stone bowl. Then she poured hot water over the mixture into a teacup.
“Here, drink this.” She handed me the tea and a tortilla from a basket shaped like a straw hat. “And eat this.”
The hot tea slid down my throat, warming everything on the way down. It tasted bitter, like peeling an orange with your teeth, so I took big bites out of the tortilla, which made it easier to swallow. I rolled the leftover bits of herbs around in my mouth, not sure if I was supposed to eat those too. But I didn’t want to have an allergic reaction to onions ever again, so I pushed the bitterness to the back of my throat and swallowed hard.
4
The Whispering Wind
Nana’s whole house seemed to be breathing with color and life. Everywhere I turned, angels and saints stared at me from the walls.
“You sure have a lot of paintings,” I said as Nana walked me down a long narrow hall to show me my bedroom.
“Sí. These have been in the family for generations. Each has a story.”
Nana paused in front of a small painting of Mary holding Baby Jesus that hung on the wall next to a large wooden door. I stood to the left of the painting and then swayed to the right. Mary’s eyes followed me back and forth.
“See this painting of Mary? My papá’s papá received it as a gift from a priest who painted it close to one hundred years ago. It has seen many sorrows and joys. And now it hangs on this wall, protecting all who sleep in this room.”
Why would I need protection? I felt light-headed. So many new things spun around me; I wasn’t sure what to focus on first. Nana pressed open the door. “Meet Estrella.”
A tall four-poster bed stood at the center of the room. Creamy gauze curtains hung loosely around the edges. At the foot of the bed lay a light blue blanket threaded with lemon yellow that matched the blue swirls layering the walls. Two French doors opened to a walled courtyard with a brightly painted yellow and purple fountain.
“It’s so … so colorful,” I said with a hint of surprise.
Nana laughed and leaned against one of the bedposts “But of course it’s colorful. Life is color, isn’t it?”
I glanced around the room waiting for someone to appear. “So where’s Estrella?”
Nana swept her arm in front of her. “The room is named Estrella. See those windows?”
A few inches below the ceiling were two small square windows. But you couldn’t see anything out of them unless you wanted to stare at the empty sky.
“Those windows were specially designed, to frame the view of the stars. And star in Spanish is …” Nana raised her eyebrows waiting for my reply.
“Estrella?” I said.
She nodded. “Muy bien.”
I gazed out those windows imagining the stars that would come to visit, but in the light of day all I saw were layers of clouds inching across a lonely blue sky.
“Do you name all the rooms in your house?”
“Only if the name feels right.” Nana pressed her small hands on her hips. A warm smile spread across her face.
“Feel free to explore the village,” she said as she turned to leave. “It’s an enchanting place.” She closed the door behind her.
That was the same word Mom had used.
A silent breeze rolled in through the screen of the French doors, brushing my cheeks. Water splashed over t
he bowl of the small stone fountain beyond.
I unzipped the small pocket on the side of my backpack and took out the baseball that I’d kept hidden for the last few days, in case Mom found it and took it away.
On one side of the ball, little red stitches made an upside down U that narrowed at the center and looped wide open again on the other side. At the center, the words because and magic were written in script, one word stacked on top of the other. But there was this strange empty space about an inch wide between the two words, and when I looked closely I noticed the tiniest of smudges, like some words were missing.
Judging by the size of the handwriting, I counted out how many letters I thought might fit in the small space. Maybe six or seven? It was almost as frustrating as trying to finish a story. Maybe it wasn’t even good for wishing anymore with the words rubbed out, but it was still my dad’s and I had a feeling that those missing words mattered.
With the ball in hand, I stepped into the courtyard and walked past the fountain onto a small lawn that led to a rose garden. Past the roses, a small slope cascaded down to a grove of trees that seemed to go on forever. Shadows danced and played beneath the swaying branches in the setting sun.
I tossed the ball up, up toward the wispy clouds beyond the treetops. And with a rush it fell back down from the sky. The weight of the ball dropping into my hands felt safe and solid, giving me confidence. So I skipped the ball off a few tree trunks and ran to scoop it up. But with one poorly aimed throw, it bounced into a nearby bush. I dropped on all fours to search for it, but couldn’t see much in the shadows of the grove.
“Where are you?” I murmured.
When I stretched my arm into the tangled underbrush, it got caught in the branches. “Ouch!” I removed my arm swiftly and surveyed the small scrapes across my wrist and elbow. Getting the baseball out wasn’t going to be so easy. I plunked down at the foot of a large cottonwood, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. A light breeze caressed my cuts. Drifting off, I heard whispers bounce off the trees, and had a strange feeling I wasn’t alone.
Whoosh, whoosh.
After the faintest whoosh, one word echoed clearly across the grove: Come.
I pressed my back against the tree and scanned the area.
“Who’s there?” I called.
Come …
The breeze wrapped itself around me. I started to make a run for it but then I remembered my baseball nudged under that nasty bush. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it there, not overnight. Just as I was about to reach into the thorny branches again, it rolled out from under the bush on its own. In one swift motion, I snatched it up and dashed back toward Nana’s, hoping and praying there was enough sunlight to lead the way. My feet raced over the lawn and the breeze followed me. Only when I reached the house and bolted Estrella’s French doors behind me did I exhale at last, my hot breath fogging up the glass.
I darted into the hall to grab Mary’s picture from the wall. Back in the room, I propped the painting up against the French doors, figuring she’d be better protection from whatever was outside in the trees than a little lock.
“You’re back,” Nana said from the doorway. “Is everything okay?”
I whipped around, clutching my chest. “You surprised me. Oh yeah, just tired. Thought I’d go to sleep.”
Nana glanced toward Mary against the French doors and back toward me.
“I … I was just looking at it more closely.”
“You are welcome to anything in this house, mija.” Nana’s soft caramel eyes glistened.
Glancing out the window, I nodded slowly.
“I left a burrito by the bed if you’re hungry.” She tilted her head to one side and stared intently at me. “I am so happy you are finally here. Let me know if you need anything.” She turned to leave. “Breakfast is at seven o’clock sharp.”
“In the morning?”
Nana laughed and closed the door.
Sinking into the chair at the desk with flaking green paint, I flipped through my story cards until I found a blank one and wrote, Gypsy found an enchanted forest where the wind spoke to her.
If Mom were here she would have said, “Be reasonable, Izzy. There must be a logical reason why you heard a voice in the wind.”
I repeated the word logical over and over as I tried to piece together the events of the day, and that’s when I remembered the herbs I ate with the tea. Maybe they had a strange effect on people who weren’t used to them, like making them think they heard things.
A few moments later I lay in bed listening to the silence. I longed for the familiar sounds of home: the low hum of traffic, beeping horns, the distant buzz of the street lights. Wedges of moonlight shone across the wall above my bed where an angel statue hung. He had small delicate glass eyes that stared down at me, and one wing stretching upward. I’d never seen an angel with a missing wing. Starlight danced across the angel’s face and for just a moment I didn’t feel so alone.
And I soon realized I wasn’t, because I heard a hushed male voice coming from the walls. I sat up and strained to hear, but couldn’t make out the words. I slipped from bed and tiptoed toward a long turquoise Indian rug hanging near the closet. Behind it was a padlocked door. I pressed my ear against it.
“Who’s there?” the stranger’s voice said.
I jerked back, unsure of what to do. Settled on waking Nana, I turned and headed toward the hall when I heard, “How about some music?” and then a guitar strummed softly. A sweet melody drifted through the walls, filling the room with a steady rhythm that slowed my feet and quieted my mind.
“Who are you?” I whispered as I climbed into bed.
5
Pink and Joy and the Guy Behind the Wall
The next morning, sweet smells floated under the bedroom door, urging me to get up. I blinked at the clock on my nightstand: 6:45.
I shuffled to the kitchen and found Nana swaying to the Spanish ballads on the radio. Her soft yellow dress swayed with her, nearly sweeping the floor. Another woman sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee. The woman winked at me and smiled.
“You must be Isadora.” She had a thick Spanish accent, and had on her “painted face,” as Mom would have said. Thick black pencil lined her upper eyelids and her lips were filled in past their natural line with orange lipstick that matched her bright orange sundress dotted with little pink roses.
“Izzy,” I said as I tried to straighten my messy hair by tucking it behind my ears.
I pictured myself on top of the roof shouting to the whole village: Newsflash. My name is Izzy, NOT Isadora!
Nana turned down the music. “Buenos días, mijita. This is Mrs. Castillo. Her husband is the one who brought you home yesterday.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Castillo.” I sat next to her at the long pine table in the middle of the kitchen.
She waved her arms vigorously. “No, no, no. You call me Tía.”
I didn’t know much Spanish but I knew enough to know tía meant aunt and that she wasn’t my aunt.
She must’ve read my mind. “All the kids in the village call me Tía. It sounds so much younger than Mrs., don’t you think?”
I nodded to be polite before a yawn slipped out.
Nana chuckled. “Your mama was never an early riser either. She used to show up in her robe just like you, hair all tousled about her face. Half the time she had her eyes closed.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “Well, she’s changed a lot then. She usually leaves the house before I’m even up for school.”
“Well, who feeds you?”
“Nana, I’m twelve years old. I can pour myself some cereal.”
Nana shook her head. “Not in this house. No siree. You will eat home-cooked comida every day. No wonder you’re just skin and bones.”
I felt swallowed by my robe all of a sudden and pulled the tie around my waist tighter.
Mrs. Castillo set her coffee cup on the table and examined her long red nails, then turned her attentio
n back to Nana. “Did you hear Ramona is quitting the church?”
Nana spun around. “Really?”
Mrs. Castillo nodded. “It’s that man she’s been dating. The old coot. He’s brainwashed her into thinking she won’t get into heaven unless she goes to his church in the city.”
Nana nodded with concern.
“So what are we doing today?” I interrupted.
Nana looked at me and smiled like she had forgotten I was there. Then she snapped her fingers above her head and spun around. “La fiesta, remember?”
I wondered if I was going to like this party.
Mrs. Castillo added, “There’ll be música. My son plays the guitar. His room is on the other side of the door in your room.”
“Is that who I heard talking last night?” I said.
Mrs. Castillo frowned. “Did he keep you awake? I told him you were here and to be quiet.”
Nana slid scrambled eggs and chorizo onto a plate and set it before me. “Mateo’s bedroom backs up to yours. I rent the front of the house to the Castillos. I didn’t want to close off the walls permanently, so we just bolt the doors closed for privacy.
“Before that, this house felt like a wide open canyon. I’m too old to be filling so many empty spaces.”
I folded the eggs into a tortilla and pushed the spicy sausage to the side. “How old is he?”
“Thirteen,” Mrs. Castillo said.
“He’s a nice boy. All soap and water,” Nana said.
“And good-looking too,” Mrs. Castillo added with a wide grin and a wink.
“His father helps me a great deal around here.” Nana said. “Don’t worry, mija. He can’t unlock the door.”
The back of my neck grew warm. “Soap and water?” I could barely understand Nana’s Spanish and now her English confused me.
Nana laughed. “Sweet and clean.”
Mrs. Castillo wore a gold ring on every finger. She twisted each mindlessly. “Well, I better get to the beauty shop.” She stood and kissed Nana on the cheek. “Gracias por el café.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek too! “Adiós.” Then she sashayed out of the room, her chubby ankles hanging over her strappy high heels.
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