Owen's Daughter (10 page)

Forgive me for loving you
, she said to the boy, who’d been fired from his work and sent off without a penny.
I hope you found someone else to love with all of the passion you showed me.

Even you, I forgive
, she said to her husband.

The horses went wild-eyed when he went into the stables. They knew what he’d done to the only person who’d treated them kindly. So did the maid. In her culture, such acts required consequences. For a week she made the daily bread, prepared the dinners, and cleaned the adobe. When she finished with her work each day, she went to the empty barn to stand in the blood-spattered dirt, feeling the energy of fear that lingered, the point of no return. In her culture, there was a ceremony that could have helped him, but she could tell he was not the kind of man who would believe prayers, songs, and sand paintings could help. The trader would have no peace. When he crossed over to the spirit world, his trip hastened by the maid’s cooking, his father-in-law was there to greet him. I don’t know what transpired between them, but there are consequences for every action.

Tonight I remain fixed firmly in the present. Next door Margaret is sleeping deeply, exhausted by the worry over her illness. A reunion she could never imagine is coming her way. Meanwhile, her son, Peter, is recovering from the five drinks he’d had instead of eating dinner. He’s passed out and misses every hurtful message from his wife.

Why haven’t you answered my messages?

We both want the same thing. Make it simple. Sign the papers and FedEx them to me overnight.

You were a terrible husband. I faked every orgasm. You don’t even deserve to be loved.

Every message she sends hides another message, a secret she won’t reveal until the papers are signed. But he knows already. It cuts him worse than any blow.

Next door at Glory’s, everyone is asleep except Casey. Her fear has handicapped her rest. She can sleep only on her right side, facing the door, in case it opens. The dream she has most every night is turbulent, not of this earth. When she startles awake, there is a period of vertigo as she struggles to believe she is safe.

I nestle close to her, wishing she could feel me. Sometimes, when I press, I can steer her away from the bad dreams. Sleep, dear girl, I tell her. You escaped. This family, they love you and will help you find your way. You have a beautiful child who understands the realm in which I exist. She’ll grow out of it, but for now she has no boundaries, so listen to her. Remember, you have Brown Horse, and your dog, Curly. The woman who died in the house next door loved her horses just as much. Rely on your dog and she will comfort you. Dogs are knowing beings. And I know this: The man who hurt you is on his way to be judged. When he arrives at his destination, all your tears and sleepless nights will end, because he will end. Those of us here will make certain of that.

Deep inside Glory’s womb, arm and leg buds are growing. Outdoors, the hummingbird is building her nest. I linger by the dresser, a weathered old pine thing with layers of varnish and paint, cleverly sanded and roughed up so that the age of the dresser becomes its best feature. Age begets wisdom.

Chapter 3

The next afternoon, Margaret sat at her easel, painting a watercolor of two bluebirds perched on a wooden fence. She added sunflowers, the bright yellow and gray-brown centers depicting a summer day, and in the distance, the outline of an adobe house. She set it aside to dry and lifted the next board stretched with paper, just waiting to be filled up. On this one, she painted an adobe house with a blue wooden gate. In front of the gate she added terra-cotta pots and had just begun to fill them with geraniums when a door creaked. Echo looked up, raising her hackles. Was the door in her house or Glory’s? She walked through her house, wondering which door it was because she didn’t remember leaving any open. But the door that led to the garden wasn’t shut. She must have left it open this morning when she let the dog out. It could have been knocking in its jamb for hours. Once she started painting, she tended to tune out the world.

Echo nudged past Margaret to the open door. The dog’s hackles smoothed down as soon as her paws hit the pathway outside. Margaret saw that the honeysuckle, which had been thick with leaves and buds yesterday, now had two yellow blooms. The sweet fragrance was faint but intoxicating. Then she heard the buzz of her cell phone from the kitchen counter, indicating a text. She turned and rushed back up the steps, losing her balance and falling to her knees. Lord, it hurt. Echo was at her side instantly, whining and nudging her with her nose. “I’m fine,” Margaret told the dog. “Just a scraped knee.” The fall had torn her painting jeans. No great loss. When she got up, she held the banister as she made her way into the house. She was limping, and she knew Peter would notice. She grabbed a cold gel pack and sat down, placing it on her sore knee while she read his text.

Plane arrived early. Can you come get me?

Of course
,
she text-messaged right back.
About half an hour, OK?

OK. ILY, Mom.

I love you, too.

Forty-five minutes later—the city was tearing up Cerrillos Road again—she arrived at the small commuter airport, where instead of punching a parking ticket, you went to a kiosk and left money in an envelope, the amount depending on how long you intended to be away. Peter stood by the glass door and waved when he saw her. Good, she didn’t need to park. She could stay in the car and he wouldn’t notice her stiff leg.

She popped the lock on the passenger door, and he opened it.

“Hi, honey,” she said, taking her hands off the wheel to sign.

He was chewing gum. He sat down and pointed to his left ear, grinning.

What the hell? Was the pale blue earpiece a cochlear implant?

Margaret couldn’t help the disapproving expression that came over her face. Why hadn’t Peter told her he was undergoing surgery? Peter did everything the hard way, and he rarely called except when he was in trouble or needed money.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said out loud. “It’s not like I got a tattoo, Ma. The only thing that’s changed is I can hear you.”

She pulled him close and hugged all six feet of him, including the backpack on his lap. Moms were always the last to know anything important. She pulled back. “You could have called,” she said, automatically signing as she spoke. “Would it have killed you to let me know you were going under anesthesia?”

He shoved the backpack to the floor in front of him. “No way. That would have spoiled the surprise.” He twisted around to the backseat in order to hug Echo, who was beating her tail triple time, trying to climb over the seat to get to him. “There’s my girl,” he said, and Echo began that yipping, keening whine she did whenever she saw him. A reminder that Margaret came second, always had, always would.

“Echo Louise the Second, I missed you oh-so-much,” he sang, and she rolled over to show him her belly.

Margaret shook her head as he reached back to ruffle the dog’s fur. “Peter, I wish you’d let me know you were having surgery. Did everything go all right?”

“Of course it did. Look at me. I’m strapping and healthy, all that. You worry too much. Want me to drive?”

“Not right now,” she said, not wanting to limp around the car to switch seats. “You must be tired, so just relax.”

“I slept on the plane.”

“I can’t imagine how. Those commuter jets have no legroom. School going all right?” she asked.

“Can we talk about work later? I just want a real spring break. No students e-mailing me, no meetings, just quiet.”

Well, you came to the right place, she thought. She drove back to Ave de Colibri, and though traffic was light, he still managed to nod off a couple of times on the short trip. He probably does need a nice, quiet vacation, she thought. I’ll let him use the car. Maybe I should give it to him. After her fall today, she was thinking maybe there wasn’t as much “normal” time left as she had imagined. If the MS got bad this early, she should stop driving. God, what next? Near tears, she parked in the carport that barely fit a car, let alone her ancient Land Cruiser.

Indoors, Peter spit out his gum and put it in the trash. He leaned against the kitchen counter while Margaret made coffee. “Look in my mouth. Way back, the molar on the right side.” He opened wide and showed her what looked like black plastic covering one tooth, held in place by a retainer.

Margaret smelled alcohol on his breath. Maybe he’d had a drink on the plane to numb his fear of flying. “What is that? A temporary crown? You’re awfully young to need one.”

“Nope. It’s a study I volunteered to be part of. With the cochlear implant, I can hear with my left ear. This device conducts sound from the bone in my left ear to the one on the right, allowing me to hear with my right ear, too.”

“What study?”

“Does it matter? Mom, I can hear. Both ears.”

Years back, a surgeon had told Margaret the auditory nerve in Peter’s right ear was likely beyond help. She’d thought, One ear is better than none, but he’d obstinately refused the surgery that would allow that ear to function. It had taken her years to accept that it was his choice to make, not hers. Clearly he’d finally changed his mind. “Does language sound like you remember?”

“It seems tinny, but hey, it’s been ten years. I’d still know your voice anywhere. And I can listen to music. I just have to remember to charge the apparatus.”

“Peter, I’m floored.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” he said, but his smirk told her otherwise. He sat at the table.

“Well, I’m very happy for you. Is there anything special you’d like to do while you’re here?”

“Ride Red. Hike Bandelier. Eat home-cooked meals.” He smiled at her hopefully.

“I’ll cook whatever you want. Just give me a shopping list.”

“I can cook, too,” he said.

“I know you can. So, where’s Bonnie? She couldn’t take some time off work to join you?”

Peter scratched Echo’s neck, and the dog groaned in pleasure. Ignoring Margaret’s questions was an art form Peter had developed since adolescence. She opened the fridge, and the dog got up. The sound of Echo’s toenails on the linoleum sometimes drove her crazy, but if the dog had a single bad attribute, it was going nuts when someone had to trim her nails. Margaret needed to take her to the vet and pay them to do it in order to keep the peace, but she hadn’t made time. Now that Peter was here, maybe he could take her.

Margaret looked out from the fridge. “I can tell you right now, there’s sprouted bread and lemon tarts in the freezer, almond butter and one leftover green chile enchilada. I haven’t had a chance to go to the market yet, so we could go out to dinner. La Choza? Plenty of restaurants within walking distance.”

“Maybe I’ll just have a cheese sandwich,” he said.

Peter still ate dairy, which Margaret was supposed to remove from her diet immediately. He’d been a vegetarian since his early teens, which she blamed on a school report on factory farming. She always thought one day he’d pick up a burger and that would be the end of it. But he’d stuck to his principles, and just look at him, so trim and healthy, with a bloom in his cheeks.

Echo whined. “Why don’t you take her out for a quick walk? The air will do you good. Meanwhile, I’ll fix you a plate.”

“Sounds good,” he said, and stood up.

And when your stomach’s full, and you’re ready for a nap, I’ll tell you my news. The diagnosis. How I fell today. Why I’d better stop driving.

Chapter 4

Skye pressed the button on her watch, and the face shone blue. Two in the morning, officially Friday, thank God. It felt to her like anytime, any year, anyplace out here. Or some kind of dream landscape, maybe. But her dad had come for her. After ten years not hearing from him, he was like a stranger to her, but here he was. What Skye remembered about the day her father left was this: She’d just gotten home from school, lugging her books in the pink backpack he’d bought her for the new school year. She didn’t have any homework because she’d done it during lunch. She didn’t have many friends. Other kids didn’t like her because she was smart, always getting the top grades on tests and winning spelling bees. She also tended to hit first and try to work things out later, which did not go over well with anyone. Nobody sat with her at lunch, so she figured she might as well get her homework over with so she could spend the weekend riding her horse. She was twelve and a total barn rat. Not one horse, not even that insane Arab her teacher owned, scared her. When a horse bucked, she made herself limp as a sack of potatoes, hung on to its mane, and knew all she had to do was wait it out. A tired horse gave you a better ride.

Back then, she thought about horses constantly. How to improve her skills and win more blue ribbons in gymkhanas, the monthly riding competitions. Learning tricks. Did she want to be a trick rider more than she wanted to be a veterinarian? It was a tough choice. Why not do both? The veterinary degree would prove to be most useful, but training on the weekends seemed possible. When Mama and Daddy were seriously fighting, like lately, she had to think of something besides their yelling or go crazy. Horses it was.

Her parents were the kind of married people who never actually engaged in normal conversation with each other. Instead, they threw barbs and guilt bombs that would explode later. Daddy would come home from shoeing and say, “I picked up six new clients,” by which he meant this month the bills would be paid on time. Mama’s response should’ve been,
Good for you, and congratulations, because I know how hard you work
, but instead she’d say, “And when are you ever going to mow the lawn? Our house is the shabbiest one on the street.”