Grandma removed a fat, yarn-tied envelope, which had lain hidden beneath the smiling Cupid. I knew that here was something I’d never seen before. Grandma didn’t open it, though, but leaned against the headboard of the bed, resting for a minute.
“These papers have never been seen by anyone else alive,” she finally said. “No one, not even your mother, so much as knows of their existence.”
I asked her if she had written them, and she just smiled and replied softly, “Only the newest one.”
“You must keep these papers safe, and hidden. No one must know about them, not even your mother and father. After I am gone, you must open them up and read everything. Then you will know what to do. You must swear to do what I have told you.”
“Yes, Grandma, but . . . I don’t understand. Why must I keep it secret, and what if I can’t?”
“Just remember that I was able to keep the secret, and that other girls and women long before us kept it also.”
Somehow the intensity of Grandma’s gaze, usually so soft and loving, compelled me to nod my head and mutter, “I promise. Yes, Grandma, I swear,” not at all sure that I could be true to my word.
But I was. At first it was so hard, especially when Grandma died a few days later. I read the diary and letters, and for several days I barely spoke, which had my parents really worried. I was so afraid of telling the secret, I kept quiet. There was something else, though, too. I was angry with Grandma. I was angry that she had asked me to do something that seemed so hard. Even now, it seems cruel, and it makes me feel bad to say that, especially in light of the hardships she had in life.
I’ve often speculated about why Grandma chose me. Was it something she noticed in my personality that made her deem me worthy? Or was it the background she had given me? Or was it simply the convenience, since she lived with us? I suppose it could have just been chance that linked me to several other young women who had been entrusted with some papers that would confer on them, then and there, one last task in life.
In reading over what I’ve written here, I see that I’ve told you little of my life beyond the papers. If I’m gone before I can share something of myself, you’ll learn about me from Rachel. Yet there is something that no one else knows, and I want to share it with you, a secret piece of myself to pass on. I loved a man before I met your grandpa. The man’s name was David.
Like so many young men at the time, David joined up after Pearl Harbor. He was killed six months later. His mother came and told me a few weeks after she got the telegram. She apologized that she had not come sooner, but said she had been unable to talk about it. I remember thinking that I could easily forgive her, since it had given me that extra time of believing David was alive.
I found out later that he had died in the battle of the Coral Sea, on the USS Lexington, an aircraft carrier. I also learned that most of the crew were rescued. In war, you know that you may lose a loved one, that his chances are no better or worse than those of anyone else. But when I learned that most of the crew had been rescued, I questioned why he hadn’t been spared. Why did he have to die in a place I had to look for on a map?
I met your wonderful grandfather in 1949. I never did tell him about David. If I wronged him in that, he never knew. You’ll already know a lot about Daniel from your mother, who loved him deeply, as I did. You’ll know that he was also taken from me at a relatively young age, and for a while I cursed God for choosing me for pain again. Now I believe that He didn’t choose me. He doesn’t catalog our sorrows.
It’s still my hope that I will know you, but I’ve written this letter just in case. Because you are my daughter’s daughter, I already love you.
Your grandmother,
Helen Jordan Pearson
October 2, 1990
57
RACHEL
I heard Gabe come in and call me, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there, my feelings numbed, my mind running in circles. I’d thought I wanted to know the full truth, but now that I had it, I didn’t know what to do with it. I couldn’t even come up with how I was “supposed” to feel: duped by my mother or consoled because there was a reason for her aloofness? And why had she left the papers, all but this, in her house, where I was sure to be the one to find them if something happened to her? Another mystery I would never solve, another missing piece of the puzzle that was my mother.
Abandoned. Yes, that was what I was feeling.
I got up and went out to Gabe, whom, despite all her shows of affection, my mother had also scorned.
The next few days, it was as though I were on autopilot. I taught my classes, went to my office hours, bought groceries, ate with Ned and Gabe, but I wasn’t really present. Ned kept asking me what the matter was, but I couldn’t give him an answer. Part of me resented him for not having figured out sooner that something was really going on with me. I was hurt that he didn’t press me harder to find out what it was, even as I pushed him away.
Besides, I couldn’t tell him everything then. It would have required more than I had in me, and I didn’t know how to articulate what I was experiencing. I had found these amazing papers. I had been betrayed by my mother and cousin. I had not been honest with my husband and my son.
I should have felt more of a connection to Helen, but instead I didn’t feel connected to anyone. It seemed like I should do something, but I didn’t know what. Finally, something I had read in one of the letters made me go looking in the place where I had stashed everything. It was in Dolores’s letter. She had given copies of the papers to her twin sister, María, who had stayed in Santa Fe, as far as I could tell. Here was something I could do. I could go to Santa Fe and see if I could find any trace of María’s descendants, to find the woman who also knew of our Juliana. I knew it was a long shot, but it gave me a reprieve from facing my own deceptions.
“Ned, I want to talk to you about something.”
“What is it?” He was only half listening, and it annoyed me that he hadn’t looked away from the basketball game on TV.
“I wondered if you and Gabe could do without me for a couple of weeks.”
“What do you mean?” Now I had his attention, and I rushed into my well-rehearsed explanation.
“Just that. Gabe’s used to spending time by himself when you’re at the hospital and I’m at the university. You could scrounge up your dinners or go out. The only real problem is laundry, and I thought I could teach Gabe how to do it, even pay him a little something. It’s time he learned anyway.”
“Yeah, I guess we could manage, but where are you going?” I heard surprise and some hurt in Ned’s tone.
“You know that article I’ve been working on, about the Mexican playwright Hernández?” Ned didn’t immediately register recognition, and it was no wonder. This wasn’t really an article I had been actively working on, but one that I had started, then put aside about a year ago. I had turned my attention to another Latin American dramatist, and all of my research time before my mother’s accident had gone to that project.
“Well, through various sources,” I continued, “I’ve found out that there are a number of books at the University of New Mexico that would be essential for my research. Some of the original manuscripts are kept there, and apparently Hernández made a number of explanatory notes that aren’t in the published editions.”
“But I thought you’re always saying that the work should stand on its own, without any need of explanation from the author.”
“I know. I have. But the notes may help me to see something in the text that I’ve missed.” I knew this was contradictory, so I quickly continued, “Besides, I have to at least show in the article that I’m aware of them, or I’ll be open to criticism. UNM also has some foreign journals that we don’t have available here.”
“But couldn’t you get them on some kind of interlibrary loan?”
“No. The manuscripts they have are originals. They’re not going to let those leave the library, much less travel
halfway across the country. I really need to go, Ned. You know I’ll be coming up before the tenure committee next year, and this article is one that is really critical if I’m to have a good chance. It has to be well received, and to ensure that, I have to be thorough.”
“Okay. I guess we can be a couple of bachelors for a while. I’ll miss you, though. Try not to be away any longer than you have to.”
I relaxed but felt guilty as I kissed Ned. “I’ll try not to be gone too long. I’ll miss you, too.”
I lay awake for several hours that night, reassuring myself that everything I’d said to Ned was true. Of course, I hadn’t realized before that a visit to Albuquerque would be so crucial once I had returned to the Hernández article. I’d thought that I might ask a former student, who was doing graduate work there, to look into the materials and maybe send copies of things that might be useful, but now I could do a more thorough job and wouldn’t have to impose on anyone else. Of course, all of this was a cover for my real reason for going to New Mexico: to see what I could find out about María’s family.
Just before seven thirty, I looked over at the clock and turned off the alarm. Ned didn’t have to be at the hospital till later that morning, and I quietly got ready and left for my nine o’clock Beginning Spanish class.
After class, I went to the chairman’s office to perform the disagreeable task of getting his approval for my trip. In addition to everything else, I’d been working to get students’ papers graded and to calculate their grades for the end of the quarter. One of the weeks I wanted off would be the end of the quarter break, but I needed permission to get someone else to cover my classes for the first week of the following quarter. I hoped I could find what I was looking for in two weeks. Neither the chairman nor my family would be very happy if it took any longer.
As I entered his office, the chairman seemed rather preoccupied with some books and papers he had spread on his desk. While he had long ago achieved tenure, he still published articles with a studied regularity, sometimes to the detriment of his department and his students.
“Yes, Rachel. What can I do for you?” he asked, his tone implying much less friendliness than his words.
I told him about my plan to go to the University of New Mexico and do some research for an article. He seemed surprised.
“I think that’s a good idea. You know that I have always encouraged women faculty to travel for research.” His next sentence immediately contradicted that claim. “Are you sure your family can spare you?”
I answered in an even tone, used to this kind of question, which would never have been put to my male colleagues. I couldn’t help but think that if he himself had been more attentive to his own family’s needs, his wife might not have left him two years earlier.
“I have that all worked out, thank you.”
“Well, if Ned needs any advice, have him give me a call. I’ve got this kind of thing down to a science now.”
“I’m sure.”
The next quarter, I was supposed to teach the class on Latin American novels. Now all I had to do was ask Lorraine to cover for that. I could get a grad student to do my language classes for a week. Lorraine and I usually met for lunch in the cafeteria, next door to our building. I didn’t see her at first, so I got myself a sandwich and sat at one of the small tables. I wasn’t worried about asking her for this favor. Apart from being my friend, she enjoyed the challenge of doing a couple of classes in an area other than her usual field, nineteenth-century Spanish lit. She was certainly capable of it, since all doctoral candidates had to pass exams on all areas of Hispanic letters and kept up at least a semi-active interest in the other specialties.
“You’re going where? To do what?”
“Don’t give me a hard time, Lorraine, please. I need you to do this for me.”
“Teach your Latin American Novels class.”
“Yes, please, Lorraine! I’ve done all the prep, so you shouldn’t have to do much work, other than just teach the class.”
She looked at me skeptically but agreed. “Okay, sure. But when did you decide you needed to go to UNM? You’ve done lots of articles before without gallivanting all over.”
“I know, but this one is different. Besides, I need to get away for a while. Be by myself.”
“I hear you. I never could understand how you married people get anything done. I mean, how do you think with all those people around?”
“All those people? Lorraine, it’s just Ned and Gabe.”
“I know, but still. Of course, I’m not saying that if Mr. Wonderful appeared right now to sweep me off my feet, I’d turn him down. I’d just make it clear that I need a lot of private time.”
“Good luck with that!”
“Speaking of Ned and Gabe, how are they going to manage without you?”
“Not you, too! I just got through explaining to the chair that they’ll do just fine, thank you very much.”
“Great! That means that you can go with me to those meetings in New Orleans next fall.”
She had me, she knew it, and she walked away in triumph. “See you later, Lorraine!” I called to her retreating figure. “And thanks for taking my class!” She just waved, without looking back.
58
RACHEL
I concentrated on relaxing as the plane began to taxi down the runway, gathering speed for takeoff. During childbirth classes many years before, I had made the invaluable discovery that relaxation is something you can teach yourself. I willed my stomach to be still. It wasn’t that I was afraid of flying; I simply didn’t like to be airsick. The bouncing of the plane often made me ill if I didn’t go through the ritual of concentrated calm.
I tried not to think in precise terms of what it was I was doing. Much of my resolve rested on the obscure possibility of finding some very distant cousins, and I had so little to go on. Dolores’s twin was named María. Dolores had signed her letter “Dolores Martín Luengo.” I assumed that at that time, she and her sister had followed the system of using your father’s family name, then your mother’s, and of not changing your name when you married. So I would be looking for María Martín Luengo in Santa Fe. Dolores had written her letter in 1844, and she was already a grandmother, so that gave me a rough time frame for María, too. I considered myself good at research, but not this kind of research. Given that I had so little to go on, this was more like divination.
I leaned back in the seat, pulled out the magazine from the pocket in front of me, and settled in to work on the crossword puzzle. As I filled in the white squares among the black, my concentration deepened, as though filling in all of the spaces would be an omen from some unknown power. I had most of the puzzle completed but was stuck on one long word. The adjacent words indicated that the last three letters were ion. “Period of time.” The obvious answers surfaced first. Minute, hour, day, month, year, decade, century. But none of these ended in ion, and none of them had enough letters. I counted the staring boxes. Ten. I sipped the juice the steward had brought, and stretched my perspective. Span, season, era, epoch, eon, interim. I stared out at the clouds below. Several possibilities ended in the correct letters. Duration, intermission, dimension. Across the aisle, a little girl was telling her mother that her ears hurt, and her mother told her to open her mouth very wide and try to yawn. “It worked, Grandma,” she told the woman on the other side of her. Trifling as it seemed, I envied that girl, flanked by mother and grandmother, surrounded by the protection of their love. That was it: generation.
Filling in my discovery, I found that the surrounding words were suddenly clear, the long word having supplied the clues I needed. I closed the magazine and returned it to the pocket, glancing at my watch. The time had passed more quickly than I had realized. My mind must have wandered as I was contemplating the puzzle. I leaned back, focusing on the relaxation I needed for the landing.
I was glad to be arriving while there was still light. We were approaching the Albuquerque airport. I looked out the window and s
aw the dry terrain and the hills in the distance, turned golden rose by the setting sun. So different from home.
I’d taken a room at a hotel near UNM. I checked in, then called to tell Gabe and Ned that I’d arrived and that I missed them already.
59
RACHEL
I found the library for the humanities and was there when it opened at nine o’clock. The white plaster walls became adobe in my midwesterner’s mind. The wooden beams and murals on the walls provided a very different atmosphere from my own university’s library. It was appealing and inviting. As a teacher, I am to be a lover of learning, and a library is a source of knowledge, catalogued and compartmentalized for us, there for the taking or the borrowing. The library can open the doors to unimagined journeys of the mind. I had always loved the quote from philosopher Daniel Dennett: “A scholar is just a library’s way of making another library.”
My research on Hernández, the purported reason for my journey to New Mexico, went well. The library really did house some original manuscripts. I thought that the marginal notes supported my theory that Hernández’s interest in Mexican identity was at least as important to her as her desire to portray what it meant to be a woman. Many male critics had written off Hernández as a playwright beneath their level of study, because she examines what it is to be a woman in her society. By emphasizing her interest in the meaning of being Mexican, I was hoping to bring about further discussion of her works. Comparing her with such writers as Octavio Paz or Carlos Fuentes, I hoped to reintroduce her to male scholars.
The Lines Between Us Page 27