The Long Ride Home

by Tawni Waters

  I yank off my helmet and look around. The way Mom talked about Omaha, I thought it would be like Oz. But Omaha is the anti-Oz. It’s only interesting if you’re into strip malls and cow sculptures. I’m not.

  At a sidewalk café nearby, a small boy plays with a truck while his mother eats a salad. He makes vroom noises and crashes his toy into a ketchup bottle. It tips over, squirting a bit of ketchup onto his mother’s blouse. She must be a saint because her only reaction is to pick up a napkin, dip it in her ice water, and dab at the red blob. I can’t imagine myself responding quite so benignly. Nor can imagine myself wearing a blouse.

  “Hank, eat your lunch, honey,” the mother says.

  “Vrrrrroooommmmm,” says Hank. He sends his truck careening into the saltshaker. It clatters to the ground.

  His mother bends to pick it up. “Hank, your lunch.”

  Clearly, he’s not interested in the grilled cheese sandwich in front of him. It remains untouched on his plate. His mother takes the truck from him, gently saying, “You can have it back when you finish half of your sandwich.”

  Hank looks at her like he’s considering matricide. In lieu of beating her to death with the mustard, he picks up a potato chip and flings it at a flock of pigeons nearby. Pecking at one another, they scramble for the prize. Bolstered by their response, Hank lifts another chip and tosses it. The feathered crowd goes wild.

  His mother does not approve. “Don’t give the birds your lunch, buddy. Eat it.”

  Hank picks up an apple slice and holds it in the air, a missile poised for launch.

  “Hank!” A warning.

  Hank throws the slice at her. It gets caught in her soccer mom hairdo. I picture myself sporting a highlighted bob perpetually decorated with food. As I pull on my helmet, Hank launches into a screeching tantrum. His mother goes to him. The last thing I see in my rearview is Hank’s mother attempting to restrain him while he kicks her in the stomach.

  Awesome.

  When I’m freaked out, I take the corners faster than I should. Somehow, translating my internal terror to actual danger stabilizes my emotions. Sometimes. But in spite of my foray into reckless driving, I can’t stop seeing Hank’s poor mother desperately holding on to his feet as he practices his best kickboxing moves on her. Seriously? I have one of these tyrannical creatures growing inside me? I’ll be lucky to live through two years with one of those in the house. The first time I confiscate a toy, whack! The kid karate-chops me to kingdom come. I seriously question my decision not to have an abortion.

  When my freak-out abates, leaving dull terror in its place, I pull into another parking lot and run a search on my phone for “Los Milagros.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” I mutter. I’ve been in Omaha for all of twelve minutes, and I’m already desperate to get the hell out. According to my GPS, Mom’s famed jewelry store is 2.6 miles away. I drive.

  I don’t know what I expected from Los Milagros, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t it. It’s situated in a strip mall between a nail salon and a check-cashing place. The sign, boasting several red roses and a dove, is faded. Through the windows, I see an old lady hunched over the counter reading. I wonder if that’s Mom’s fabled “otherworldly” woman. There are no customers.

  Feeling silly for thinking I could have some kind of epiphany in a jewelry store, I consider driving away. I mean, look at this shit hole. It’s almost certainly not going to deliver the experience I had in mind. Sure, if this were a movie, I would walk in and find a magic amulet, and my path would become clear. Music would swell, and I would walk back out the door a Hallmark commercial instead of an after-school special. But this isn’t a movie. This is real life. And as far as I can tell, real life is way better dealing out questions than it is answers. Still, leaving after I’ve come all this way feels stupid, so I get off my bike and go in.

  “Hello,” the woman at the counter says as I enter. She closes her book, a tattered copy of The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz. At least she has good taste in literature.

  “Hi,” I say, looking around. The walls are hung with various pieces of jewelry, all of them breathtaking. A turquoise moon pendant catches my eye. I go to it, turning it over and admiring the intricate silver rays surrounding the moon’s blue center. Mercy would love it. “This is incredible.”

  “Thank you.” She smiles, sweeping a strand of gray hair away from her face, which is quite beautiful in spite of her age. She must be pushing seventy, but her eyes shine like a child’s. Her voice carries faint traces of a Mexican accent.

  “You made it?” I ask.

  She sweeps her hand around the store. “I made all of this. It is in my blood, jewelry making. It was my mother’s work, and now it is mine.”

  “You’re good. Have you always owned this store?” I turn the moon over again, trying to act casual.

  “For the last thirty years,” she says.

  My heart pounds. So this is the woman who sold Mom the necklace. It’s weird to meet a legend from your childhood. I feel nervous, like I’m talking to Elvis or some long-gone, larger-than-life ghost. It might be creepy to tell her how much my mom talked about her, so instead, I hold up the pendant and ask, “How much?”

  “How much can you afford?” she asks.

  I smile. “Are you serious? You don’t set prices?”

  She smooths her colorful skirt. “Well, I do, but they are subject to change for people I like.”

  “How do you know you like me?”

  “I am a curandera. We know things.”

  “What’s a curandera?”

  “A medicine woman. Back in Mexico, healing was also my mother’s work. She passed this along to me too.”

  So she’s a witch, I think, wondering if she has a stash of eye of newt in the storeroom. “What kind of stuff do you know?” I ask.

  “I know you have guts.”

  One thing is certain: she is not psychic in any way. I want to tell her she’s nuts. If only she had seen me curled up blubbering in my hotel room a few nights ago. “I’m not sure about that,” I say. “I’m scared all the time.” I don’t know why I confess that to her. Maybe because I will never see her again. Maybe because she feels more like a myth than a person to me. Maybe because I want to show her that all of her assumptions about me are wrong. Maybe all of the above.

  “It’s not brave if you’re not scared,” she says. She taps the book. “He called women like you ‘bright stars.’”

  I recognize the phrase immediately. It’s from a poem called “No More Clichés,” about the difference between physical beauty and inner beauty, and frankly, it kicks ass. I wrote an essay about it. I could have an intellectual discourse about it if I wanted to. I could display what I know. But I don’t want to. I don’t like people who use their knowledge of literature to show off. To me, it’s sacred. I like to keep it in my heart, private, kind of like my pain. “I’m not much of a bright star. More of a dusty one at the moment.” I look down at my sweaty clothes and laugh.

  “Your eyes shine,” she tells me.

  I freeze, remembering Dr. Scapple saying she could see I was a good person by looking at my eyes. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “Why?”

  “You are the second person who said so today. It’s weird. My mom used to tell me that all the time.”

  “Used to?” she asks.

  “Yeah, she died.” Before she can tell me how sorry she is, I go to her and set the moon necklace on the counter. “Will you take one hundred dollars?”

  “Too much,” she says.

  I shake my head. “You know you’re haggling in the wrong direction, right? You’re supposed to tell me it’s worth more than that.”

  “But it’s not,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “Still,” I say. “I want to pay you that much.” I take out a hundred-dollar bill and set it on the counter. �
�This money was left to me when my mom died, and your store was really important to her. To us. It’s kinda a tribute to her.”

  “Who was your mother?” she asks. “Did I know her?”

  “Probably not.” I reach behind me and unclasp Mom’s necklace. “You made this for her years ago. I’m sure you don’t remember.”

  She picks up the pendant and runs her leathery fingers over it, her brow creased. Finally, she grins and says, “Ah, yes! I remember!”

  I’m stunned. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not kidding.” Her eyes tear up. I’m a little freaked out by the intensity of her reaction. “I remember your mother well. One of the most beautiful souls every to pass through my store. And her story. So sad. You found her then?”

  I’m confused. “Well, yeah. She was my mom. Kinda hard to miss her.”

  For some weird reason, she looks stunned. “She didn’t give you up?”

  “Give me up?” I ask, completely flummoxed.

  “Never mind,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “Yes, such a pretty piece. And your mother was a lovely girl.”

  “What did you mean ‘give me up’?”

  She reaches out and touches my hand, seeming to weigh her thoughts. Finally, she says, “Majita, would you like the ugly truth or a pretty lie?”

  My stomach flip-flops. “The ugly truth,” I whisper. Instinctively, I understand I’m stepping off a cliff I will never come back from. I consider changing my answer to “a pretty lie,” but I don’t.

  “I knew you had guts,” she says. Warmth from her hand seeps into mine. “I can tell you do not know the whole story. I can also tell you need to know. So I will tell you. When your mother came to me, she was pregnant with you. She didn’t think she could raise you, so she was giving you to a couple that wanted a baby very much. She asked me to make a necklace for them to give to you on your eighteenth birthday. She was going to write you a letter to go with it. She hoped you’d come looking for her.”

  I stare at the woman. “You must be thinking of someone else,” I say. “My mom never wanted to put me up for adoption. I was her home. She said she knew it the moment I was inside her.”

  “Of course,” she says. “Yes. I’m thinking of someone else. You’re right.”

  But I can tell she’s lying. My throat tightens. Struggling to maintain my composure, I grab my mother’s necklace and shove it in my pocket. Then I push the moon necklace toward her. “Can I pay for this?”

  “You take it,” she insists. “It’s a gift.”

  “No,” I say, trying to be all business. “A deal is a deal.” I slide the hundred-dollar bill across the counter and turn toward the door.

  “Majita!” she calls after me.

  I don’t look back. I don’t want to cry in front of her, and I will if I look at her again.

  “Your mother loved you very much. Sometimes the best things come when we aren’t ready for them. Sometimes roses bloom in the desert.”

  I want to say something—anything—but the words get caught in my throat. I nod and keep on walking.

  Twelve

  That fucking store. Los Milagros, my ass. More like Los Shit Tacos. Driving out of Omaha, I laugh at my bad joke, because I’ve cried enough on this trip. I’m so stupid. What did I think was going to happen? Did I think Mom was going to manifest among the earrings and tell me what to do with my maybe-baby? Whatever I thought was going to happen, I sure as hell did not expect to find out my mom didn’t want me. I must be driving shittily because a guy in a truck honks at me. I flip him the bird.

  My mom was going to put me up for adoption. Everything she ever told me about who I was, where I came from, was a lie. I want to hurl her ashes over a bridge, walk away from her, never speak to her again. But petty tantrums are pointless, as she isn’t here to be affected by my rage. With or without my approval, she will never talk to me again. “Fuck you, Mom!” I scream. My words blow back in my face, sounding garbled. That doesn’t stop me from shouting them again.

  I think about calling Mercy to talk through this, but I feel betrayed by her too. She must have known, right? Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me? “Fuck you, Mercy!” I yell.

  I squeeze my bike with my knees, as if it’s the last reliable thing I have to hold on to. A storm brews in the distance. Sooty clouds hang heavy over endless plains. Jagged lightning tears them once, twice, three times in just as many seconds. I wonder why the ferocious bolts don’t explode the sky. I wonder why the earth doesn’t go up in flames. I watch the electric carnage, thinking it feels right, mimicking the way I feel inside. How many times can I be torn before I rip in half forever? Again, I wonder if I am on some reality TV show where the producers hurl shit-situation after shit-situation at contestants to see if they will crack. “You win!” I scream at the imaginary producers. “I give up, okay? Uncle!”

  Thunder booms. I wonder if god is responding, if Yoda is replying, if whatever the hell is out there is communicating with me. “I’m glad I have your attention!” I yell. “You took my mom, you asshole! I hate you!”

  A few raindrops splatter on my face. I lick my lips, loving the taste of them, feeling for the first time in a long time that I am connected to something that isn’t me. For better or for worse, I’m talking to this storm.

  “Did you hear me? I hate your guts!” I shout. God is done toying with me. Rain falls fiercely in thick, stinging sheets. Just when I think I will have to pull over, I see a sign that says HOLY FAMILY SHRINE.

  Most days, this sign would elicit a dismissive snicker from me at best, a blasphemous pun at worst. So why do I go there now? Why do I do anything I do? Why did I sleep with Dean? Why did I almost get an abortion? Why did I go into that hellhole jewelry store? I suppose because I’m doing my best to follow Mom’s highway of diamonds, except figuring out which step shines is way harder than she let on. I suppose because I’m willing to overturn any and all stones, looking for answers. But under every rock I upend, I find another question. Still, I have to keep looking, or I may go insane.

  So while I follow the signs pointing to the shrine, suffice it to say that I don’t have high hopes. I drive the unpaved roads, mud splattering my boots and jeans. My already paltry expectations fade to nothing when I find out that the grassland near the hill where the shrine is situated is inhabited by cows.

  “Nothing says holy quite like a herd of cattle,” I mumble, realizing only after I say it that my statement would be considered accurate in India and ancient Egypt. In America, however, cows don’t mean sacred. Cows mean lunch.

  I pull into the shrine’s parking lot. It’s empty. The rain has abated, and as I dismount, water drips from flowering bushes lining the path to the shrine. The world smells new. Drenched and shivering, I climb the rocky trail, watching bees dart and long grasses sway. When I reach the top, the sight of the shrine stops me cold. It’s like no church I’ve ever seen. Composed almost entirely of glass, it acts as a prism, reflecting and refracting the red rays of the setting sun. In spite of myself, I catch my breath, hardly believing its ethereal beauty. Hesitantly, I walk toward the church and pull on the door. It’s locked. I can see rough-hewn benches inside. There’s an altar, but no priests. I am alone and apparently barred from entering the sanctuary. Probably to be expected considering I just screamed “I hate you” in god’s face.

  I’m not sure that I’m disappointed. I do well with solitude. It’s my thing. My encounters with other humans almost always seem to end in catastrophe. As for church services? Well, you can guess how I feel about that.

  I turn away from the doors, wondering what to do now. The trail I walked to get here continues past the shrine. I start to walk again.

  As I shuffle along the trail, quiet swallows me. It feels more profound than physical silence. It feels like peace. The storm inside me dies down. Ahead, a giant gray rock looms. When I step around it, I find a li
fe-size statue of the Virgin Mary standing at the center of a rocky enclosure. She’s pure white stone. The ground beneath her feet is dotted with flowers, along with a small marker engraved with the words, “Perfect love casts out all fear.”

  I sink onto the bench in front of her, finding myself moved by her beauty in spite of my decidedly irreligious leanings. Her face is gentle, and were she human, I imagine she would be the perfect mother. Loving. Accepting. A great listener. Kinda like the mom I used to have. Kinda like my very own Mary. As I realize her resemblance to Mom, I start to cry. Again. And I know by now you probably think I’m just a big wuss, but I’m not. Until my mom died, I almost never cried. Now, I never stop.

  I make a split-second decision, the kind of unfounded, impulsive choice I’ve been making ever since I found myself living in a world that didn’t have my mother in it. I pretend the Virgin Mary is Mom.

  “Momma,” I whisper. My voice sounds childlike, broken. I’m so glad no one is here to hear me. I imagine the statue cocks her head a tiny bit to listen. “I’m pregnant, just like you were. I don’t know what to do. No matter what choice I make, it’s going to rip me apart. I know this maybe-baby is just a fetus. Still, I already love it.”

  The sun drops behind the horizon, and purple twilight falls. I stay quiet for a while, listening to the chirping of crickets and the lowing of cows in the distance. After a few minutes, I go on. “I can’t raise this kid. I’m not ready to get kicked by tyrannical, tantrum-throwing, apple-tossing demon spawn. And Mom. I got drunk the day after I found out. Seriously? Did anyone ever teach me about fetal alcohol syndrome? Yes, they did, but I did it anyway because I’m the worst person who ever lived.”