Finding Miracles (14 page)

(At least this is what I think Mom said—what with Dad remembering the movie’s name, and then mentioning something about calling the airline to see if my plane had gotten in safely, and all the static, I’m not 100 percent sure I caught everything Mom was saying.)

“Dulce said something about getting ready for a memorial. We’d love to send some flowers. Could you buy some in our name? We’ll wire you some more money if you need it.” Mom was always thinking of everything.

I’d heard about the memorial being planned for Tío Daniel. The family had been waiting for the Bolívars to come back from the United States so the whole family could be present. The trial of the murderers had been going on for months, and finally the officers involved had confessed and been sentenced. It was time to move on. The Bolívars had set out this morning to take care of last-minute details associated with the ceremony. They wanted to spare poor Dulce the painful preparations. The plaque to be unveiled by a delegation from the government had to be reviewed, the flowers for the memorial mass at the cathedral to be ordered. It was depressing to think that a funeral required as much attention to details as a wedding, and no happy ending to keep you going.

“I’ll get some flowers,” I promised. “Too bad I didn’t know earlier. We were at the market this morning, picking up fruit for this orphanage we visited.” My news was met with total silence. “Mom? Dad?” I could hear my echo:
Mom? Dad?

“What orphanage?” Dad finally spoke up. “Milly, our understanding was—”

“A search is a big emotional step—” Mom interrupted.

“To undertake by yourself—” Dad continued through Mom’s interruption.

“We would want to be there with you—” Mom’s voice was a softer version of Dad’s.

“You guys!” I cried. Riqui, who’d been absorbed in watching two colonels’ testimony on TV, shot a glance in my direction and turned the volume even further down. I pulled the phone cord as far as it would go into a narrow hallway. As calmly as I could, I explained that the orphanage in question was one where Dulce volunteered. I had gone with Pablo and Esperanza to deliver some leftovers. “I’m not on some search! Give me a break.” My voice broke. I felt defensive. They were accusing me of something I hadn’t planned. But they were partly right. I
had
started looking around in this graveyard of a country for the cradle of my birth—only to discover that every trace of me was gone.

“We overreacted,” Dad admitted. But he sounded relieved.

“It’s because we love you,” Mom added.

“Love you, too,” I said, and heard my echo repeat,
Love
you, too.

On the television, the judge was bringing down his gavel on two more of the accused.

After the call with my parents, I wanted to be alone, a concept that would not fly here, I soon discovered. Just mentioning taking a walk by myself caused a minor uproar.

“A girl can’t be out on the streets alone,” Mrs. Bolívar reminded me. She made taking a walk sound like a prostitute soliciting.

“It’s just a walk,” I defended myself.

Mrs. Bolívar shook her head. “Ay, no. One of the boys must accompany you, Milly.”

“Camilo went out,” Esperanza reminded her. We all knew Pablo was over at the orphanage on his angel mission. “I’ll go with Milly,” Esperanza offered, her face brightening at the possibility.

Dulce shot her daughter one of those looks you have to be family to know what it means.

“I myself will go,” Mrs. Bolívar volunteered, getting up from her chair. “I need the
ejercicio
.”

“Exercise? You need the rest!” Dulce reminded her. “All those months
allá
.” Over
there
. She pointed with her chin in the air. She made it sound like just living in the U.S. was exhausting.

It seemed my walk was not going to happen after all.

“Riqui can take her. Riqui!” Mrs. Bolívar called, but there was no answer from the patio. Riqui was giving the parrot remedial lessons, I guess you could call them. Pepito had stopped talking when Riqui was taken prisoner. Even after his master was released, Pepito refused to utter a word. Mrs. Bolívar and Dulce had actually expressed relief, as most of what Riqui had taught Pepito were swear words.

Just then, Pablo surprised us by walking into the kitchen.
“¿Ya?”
His aunt clapped her hands together. “You have fixed the problem already?”

Pablo shook his head. “It turned out the toilet was not the problem after all. The orphanage needs a whole new plumbing system. But Sor Arabia says there is no money for that.”

“God Himself will send an angel in due time,” his aunt reassured him.

I didn’t know about toilets, but God had sent me what I needed right now. “Want to go for a walk?” I asked Pablo before some new plan could come up.

“¡Qué buena idea!”
Mrs. Bolívar accepted for him. Not that Pablo needed any encouragement, judging from the grin on his face.

“But the poor boy is tired,” Tía Dulce worried. “A
refresco
first?” She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of what looked like beer. Pablo shook his head.

“Tired? Ha!” Mrs. Bolívar disagreed. “You should see the way that boy works
allá
with his father and
el señor
Kaufman.” Mrs. Bolívar began her account of her son’s daily schedule in Ralston.

Pablo flashed me a look I didn’t have to be family to know what it meant.
Let’s get out of here!

“It is difficult for girls here,” Pablo commiserated as we headed toward the central square. I had told him about the bad phone call with my parents, about my vetoed attempts to go on a walk afterward. “And girls have an even harder time in the countryside. Why do you think Esperanza does not want to move to Los Luceros?”

“We should have asked her along,” I said, feeling guilty. It had crossed my mind, but the truth was that I wanted to be alone with Pablo.

“Do not worry,” he assured me. “Her mother would never let Esperanza go on the streets like this. Only to church or the orphanage. I was not joking when I said it would take a miracle to change my aunt. I love Tía Dulce, but she is too strict. And as you can see, Mamá would be just as bad if she had daughters.” Pablo lifted his eyebrows. I already knew the brothers called their mother La Inquisición.

“You’d think people who’ve gone through years of being imprisoned in a dictatorship...” I trailed off. I didn’t want to be ragging on his family. “I mean, it’s understandable. They’ve been through so much.” Murders, disappearances, suicides. Suddenly, I felt spoiled, getting all upset about my parents. “My stuff is so stupid, compared.”

Pablo stopped midstride. “It is not stupid, Milly. Nothing is small if your heart feels it.” His gaze lingered on my face. He seemed to want to say something else but thought better of it.

As we neared the central square, the sidewalks grew even more crowded and noisy. Merchants hawked their wares from wheeled stands. Radios blared. It seemed like the whole country was still on a holiday. Pablo and I had to walk single file to get through the press of people.

He touched my shoulder and leaned forward so I could hear. “I have a special place by the ocean. Shall we go there?” I nodded, relieved.

We walked several blocks, climbed over a low sea wall, and there it was—the ocean! I took off my shoes and broke into a run. It always has that effect on me. I’m with Dad and his yearly push for going to the Maine coast. Nothing compares with the sea. For me, it’s better than a church or a temple. Gulls calling and sails belling out on windy days and that wonderful sound of the surf splashing on the sand. God saying over and over again,
here I am, here I am
.

Pablo caught up with me, laughing. We walked down the beach, the little waves breaking over our feet and washing away our footprints. The crowds of bathers got smaller. Where the beach ended, we put our shoes back on and climbed up a rocky cliff. On the other side lay a breathlessly beautiful beach, the kind you see on postcards and posters at travel agencies, with palm trees and a romantic couple walking hand in hand. That would be us, I thought. The secret in my heart rose up into my thoughts, then withdrew, like a wave.

On the opposite cliff at the far end of the cove, we could make out a stone marker, its metal plaque flashing in the sun. “It was not there when I was last here,” Pablo noted.

Once on the beach, we could not resist. Warm, tempting waves were splashing against our legs. Suddenly, we were both running into the ocean, clothes and all. Oh boy! If Mrs. Bolívar and Dulce could see us now! We swam until we were tired out, then lay down to dry ourselves in the late afternoon sun.

In the ocean, my clingy T-shirt and skirt had been hidden. But now I felt self-conscious lying on the warm sand beside Pablo. As we’d come out of the water, I’d caught his eyes taking all of me in. I started to wonder if maybe Pablo had secret feelings for me as well. But I told myself to be still. I had enough things on my mind right now.

We lay for a while, silently watching clouds form and dissolve, feeling the breeze picking up, the palm trees waving. Mom, Dad, the phone call . . . everything was melting into that big blue sky. Over and over, the waves broke on the beach, washing first our toes, but as time went on, our ankles, our calves. Slowly, my heart stretched out into that huge mystery of where we all came from. How silly to worry about my teensy part of it!

Nothing is small if your heart feels it,
Pablo had said.

“I think we better start going back,” Pablo finally said, sitting up. In the evening the tide came in and most of the cove went underwater. “But first, I want to see what that stone says.”

It’s funny how I had wanted to do the same thing before we left.

We slipped into our shoes and headed for the marker. The climb was easy. Steps had been carved into the side of the cliff all the way up to the monument. At the top, we stood a moment, catching our breath, looking out at the ocean, a palette of turquoise, aquamarine, navy—every blue you could think of. Above the water, the palette changed to reds—scarlet, orange, crimson-gold—as the sun descended toward the horizon.

“On this spot”—Pablo read the plaque out loud in Spanish—“the noble martyrs fell and with their blood gave
birth to a new nation.”
Eight names were listed. They had been shot personally by the dictator before he boarded his yacht with most of the country’s money packed in a specially installed vault.

How tranquil and happy we’d been, not knowing what had happened in this place only months before. I felt my head spin in that way it always does when I take in too much and don’t know where to put it. Some things, I thought, might be too big for the heart to feel all at once.

Or for the heart to feel all by itself. Suddenly, I was so glad Pablo was here beside me. I turned to thank him, and I was surprised to see
his
secret surfacing in his eyes.
Now?
my eyes asked.
Yes!
his said. Weird as it sounds to say this about a grave, it was the perfect place for what happened next—his lips touched my lips, and we fell into an embrace.

8

los luceros

UN MILAGRITO,
A LITTLE MIRACLE, had happened! I was in love with someone who was in love with me!

I couldn’t wait until I got back to tell Em! I bought one of those corny postcards of a couple strolling down a tropical beach and scribbled a note on it: “Little Miracles Do Happen.” I signed it “Milagros.”

Em would figure it out. After all, she was always saying it was going to take a miracle to make me fall in love. For one thing, I was older than most of the guys in my class— a stumbling block for them if not for me. Oh, I’d had crushes here and there—a big one on Jake in seventh grade; last fall, Dylan and I had sort of hung out together. But I’d never been in true love before. As Em herself said, it was hard to get serious with guys you’d grown up with, been through their voices changing, their braces, their zits. Of course, it never crossed our minds that they might feel the same way about
us
!

But now I was in love in love in love. Half the time, I felt like I was in a musical and wanted to break out in some hokey song. The other half, I worried I’d get in too deep and no one would be around to fish me out. I mean, what if what if what if. Somehow, I’d inherited Dad’s worry genes, no doubt about it.

Among my worries was that the Bolívars would find out and get as strict with me as Tía Dulce was with Esperanza. But everyone was too caught up in the preparations for Daniel’s upcoming memorial to notice.

Almost daily, Pablo and I found a way to slip away to our cove. We’d go out for an errand or Mrs. Bolívar would suggest Pablo show me this or that site in the capital. We’d rush through our mission, whatever it was, then go for a dip in the sea. I was making good use of my backpack and bathing suit and becoming adept at changing behind the sea-grape tree with a towel wrapped around me. Em would have teased me for not skinny-dipping, but I’m self-conscious enough in a one-piece. Mom’s Mormon influence, I suppose.

When we got back, our street clothes were always presentably dry, but honestly, didn’t anybody notice our tangled hair? Actually, Esperanza did. One time, in my backpack, I found a brush and comb I knew I hadn’t packed. That day, I brought her back a seashell still dusted with sand.

Esperanza let her mouth drop in mock surprise. “So, now they are selling these historic shells at the national museum!”

It wasn’t just that I wanted to be alone with Pablo. I needed to get away from the testimonies on the TV. I’d listen for a while. All the men in a village tied together, made to lie face down, and shot. Women raped in front of their families. Little kids stuck with bayonets. I’d have to leave the room. My nightmares started coming back, awful dreams like the ones I had when Mr. Barstow did the segment on recent Latin American history.

I don’t see how the Bolívars could sit there, hour after hour, listening to this horrible stuff. But it was like they needed to do it. As a way of bearing witness, that was what Pablo called it. He himself would sit up late with his brothers. One time, I walked in on them, heads bowed, their arms around each other. It was the night that Tío Daniel’s murderers got their sentence reduced. They had just been following orders, I think was their excuse.

The next day, Pablo was quiet as we walked on the beach. We weren’t going for a swim, as the day was overcast. Instead, we climbed up to the marker and looked out. “If I didn’t have you . . . ,” Pablo began, but he couldn’t finish his sentence. Tears welled in his eyes. I felt so helpless. Except for Dad’s voice breaking or Nate bawling, I really hadn’t seen guys crying. So I just did what felt right—I put my arms around him and held on tight.

As the day of the memorial approached, more and more visitors began dropping by to express their condolences. They hugged me right along with the others and told me that this too shall pass, that they would remember me in their prayers. No one questioned whether I was part of the family. They looked at my eyes and thought, Ah yes, one of Dulce’s people from Los Luceros.

And every time they mentioned it, I’d feel a strong desire to visit the place.

It seemed like the house was crowded day and night with visitors. Poor Dulce was being run ragged, attending to everyone.

“This is too much on your shoulders!” Mrs. Bolívar worried. “The truth is, these people have no manners!”

“Ay, Angelita! It is a sign of their love for Daniel,” Dulce reminded her sister-in-law. “And I have more helpers than tasks.” She motioned toward where Esperanza and I were setting up a table with the snacks she had made early that morning. Pablo was carrying the parrot inside for fear it would steal the little cakes. “God always sends an angel when a soul is in need,” Dulce exclaimed, looking up with heartfelt gratitude.

“They are the only angels you’re going to see around here!” Mrs. Bolívar grumbled.

I had to agree with Mrs. Bolívar. Dulce was looking more and more worn out. At night, between my bad dreams and her own, she wasn’t getting much sleep. I’m sure Mom would have recommended antidepressants and therapy.

As for me, I had my therapy: Pablo to talk to and be with. And I was drinking tons of
yerbabuena
tea.

The opportunity to go to Los Luceros came in the form of being a good guest.

It turned out that Daniel’s memorial ceremony would be in two parts: a public ceremony on Friday, in the capital, which included the unveiling of a plaque at the park near where he had been murdered, followed by a High Mass at the cathedral; then Saturday, Daniel’s remains would be taken for private burial in the cemetery near the old family farm, where his mother still lived, next to the village of Los Luceros.

At first, Mrs. Bolívar would not hear of taking her guest on such a sad, tiring trip. “This is not turning out to be a vacation for you, Milly.” She had made arrangements for me to stay the weekend with some friends who lived near the beach. I must have looked super disappointed, because she added, “Of course, if you would like to accompany the family, Milly, you are very welcome.”

“It would be an honor,” I told her. I was starting to sound like a native.

It was a slow, sad caravan up the winding mountain road behind the hearse. When we passed people on foot, the men took off their
sombreros,
women fell on their knees and made the sign of the cross. This had been happening frequently, I guessed: the dead being brought back for their final rest to the place where they’d been born.

I didn’t want to ask a whole lot about it—but from what I understood, when his body was found, Daniel had been given a quick, secret burial. The family had been afraid. The dictator often used funerals of his enemies to round up people who might be against him. So it was only now, months after Daniel’s death, that the double ceremony was taking place. This drive up to his mountain home was the final part of Daniel’s journey.

I never in my life thought that I’d be part of anything this sad. But I didn’t want to be an overprotected American wimp about it. Especially when I thought about what Dad had said, how our government had partly caused some of this tragedy. Besides, I really wanted to go to the mountains. Maybe my body needed to go back to the spot where it had come from, too.

I rode in the car with Mr. and Mrs. Bolívar and Pablo. Riqui and Camilo were up ahead in the rented vans with officials from the Liberation Party who had known Daniel. Whenever the Bolívars got distracted, involved in their reminiscences or pointing out some landmark on the road, Pablo’s hand reached across the backseat and met my own reaching toward his.

We didn’t arrive until late afternoon. The light was falling. The village was deserted. An official riding in one of the vans had a cell phone to call the mayor. Everyone was already at the cemetery, we were told.

Our first stop was the old farm house where Abuelita was waiting for us. She had a bad, bad heart, Mrs. Bolívar had explained to me, which is why the family had thought it best not to drag her down to the capital for the first part of the ceremony. “If anything were to happen to her...” Mrs. Bolívar could not continue. Her eyes filled with tears. She seemed to have a special place in her heart for
viejitas
.

Abuelita came out to meet the cars, a thin, birdlike woman about Nate’s size, I swear. In her old, lined face, I could make out the dark, beautiful eyes I kept getting lost in when I looked at Pablo. The minute she saw Mr. Bolívar, she threw her arms around him and wept.
“Ay, Antonio . . .
el único que me queda.”
The only one left to me. Suddenly, it struck me. It wasn’t just Daniel she had lost. That general who killed himself was also her child.

Pablo came forward. He kissed her hand, then bowed his head, asking for her blessing:
“La bendición, Abuelita.”
Pablo had told me this was the old country way of saying hello and goodbye to your elders.

“Pablito, how you have grown!” She had to crane her neck to look up at her tall grandson. The pleasure of gazing upon the young man she recalled as a boy put a momentary smile on her tragic face. She hooked her arm in his and said, “
Ya,
it is time. Let us go bury my Daniel.”

A crowd of mostly relatives was waiting at the village graveyard. Blood family—I could really see what that term meant here. Grandsons and nephews, granddaughters and nieces to continue the story. I wondered if, in a nearby village, a grandmother was grieving a daughter or son without the consolation of a granddaughter to carry on.

That night, by gas lamp, we ate the feast that Abuelita and several of the women in the village had prepared. We hadn’t eaten all day, so we were starved.

“Cuéntenme, cuéntenme,”
Abuelita kept saying. Tell me, tell me. She was torn between wanting to know right away all about the Bolívars’ life
allá,
over there in the United States, and wanting them to have seconds and thirds.

While we finished eating, Abuelita started in on her own stories. Fondly she recalled the days when Abuelito was alive. Plantains, sweet potatoes bigger than the ones we were eating tonight, oranges, coffee, you name it. Everything Abuelito planted turned a profit. She laughed, twisting the gold band on her finger as if to be in touch with him. In the old face, I could see she was still in love with the man she had lost over a decade ago. What a pity that none of her sons had taken up farming! Daniel, her youngest, always so clever, went off to the university; Antonio, the hardworking oldest, became a builder;
el pobre
Max, poor Max, with his bad temper, joined the military. A strange silence followed the mention of this name.

Late that night, the visitors began saying farewells. I was so drained from the long trip and the sad burial ceremony that I could have fallen asleep right where I was sitting. But somewhere on the list of dos and don’ts for guests—even though Mom had not mentioned it—I knew there had to be a rule about not going to sleep while your hostess is still talking.

One thing I wondered was
where
we were all going to sleep. The house looked tiny. Maybe in the Bolívars’ car . . . Pablo and I in the back seat . . . our fingers intertwined . . . heads together . . .

Mrs. Bolívar must have seen my eyelids drooping. “We have to get everyone situated, Abuelita. Where are you going to put us?”

Abuelita stood up, taking charge. “I have it all arranged!” Riqui, Camilo, and Pablito were sleeping in her sons’ old room. The dignitaries were being housed by the mayor. Mr. and Mrs. Bolívar here in the front room, on a mattress she kept stored in the back. She, on that cot. Esperanza and Dulce and I could take the big bed in her room.

“No, no!” Dulce protested. How could that be! Take away her bed? “Don’t even think it.” Especially when Los Luceros was just a short distance away, and her family would be upset if we didn’t stay there.

“I’ll drive them over,” Pablo was quick to volunteer. My heart started beating so loud I was sure everyone could hear it.

“¿Tú estás loco?”
Mrs. Bolívar scolded. Was he crazy? “You are not accustomed to driving in this country, no less on mountain roads!”

A discussion followed about whether or not Pablo should be the one to drive us in one of the rented vans. I thought about how everyone had opposed my taking a walk down crowded, daytime city streets. Years of fear, Pablo had mentioned, made everyone’s worst-case-scenario imagination work overtime.

Riqui finally cast the decisive vote. Good old Riqui, who had supposedly lost his knowledge of women in prison, seemed to have picked up on the
milagrito
everyone else had missed.

“Let this boy become a man!” he pronounced, holding up the keys to one of the vans. “He’s the safest to drive, Mamá, believe me. The rest of us have had our
tragos
tonight.” I had seen the rum bottle making its rounds. Pablo, I knew, did not have a taste for the liquor, which along with overly sweet sodas,
cafecitos,
and
yerbabuena
tea seemed to be the favorite beverages in this country.

“Bueno,”
Mrs. Bolívar finally conceded. Okay. Pablo could drive us over, but she did not want him driving back alone tonight. “You stay there and bring everyone back in the morning.”

Pablo and I glanced at each other, both of us trying hard not to smile at this added opportunity to be together. When I looked away, I noticed Riqui winking at his brother.

And so at that late hour, with the headlights of the van and a star-studded sky and half moon to guide us, we drove the short distance to the neighboring village of Los Luceros. If I had been sleepy before, I was wide awake now. Every little house we passed, I held my breath, hoping for a voice or a silhouette in a dark doorway that would trigger some memory of my original family.

“That must be the old coffee estate.” Dulce was pointing out the window.

Two tall posts held the twisted remains of a gate; many of the bars were missing. Overhead, the iron grillwork spelled a name I couldn’t make out. The driveway led up toward what looked like the ruins of an old house.

I was about to ask about it, but just then Esperanza called out, “Look!” Hundreds, no thousands, of stars filled the night sky. There were so many, I couldn’t really say there was a “first” to wish by. I wondered if people here wished on stars the way we did in the States.