Owen's Daughter (8 page)

Margaret squeezed her hand. “Knowing for sure will help. I’m happy to watch the girls so you can have some alone time.”

“No, no,” Glory insisted. “I’ve got to keep busy. Also, I need to tire Aspen out. She must have had sugar at school. She’s wound up like a jack-in-the-box. Look at her.”

Aspen was spinning in circles. They watched as Echo nosed her, worried. The little girl giggled like crazy and then started coughing. “That’s enough, Aspen,” Glory said. “Come see Grandma.”

“No, I w-w-w-want to play,” she insisted, and skipped up the steps to Margaret’s house, only to turn and jump from step to step, coughing.

Aspen had been scarily thin when she came to live with the Vigils, but in five months she’d put on weight. She had a heart problem as a result of an illness that had nearly claimed her life only six months earlier. You’d never know it from the pace she kept up, which was high gear day in and out, starting at dawn and collapsing into bed only when her mother, Casey, sat on her.

“Maybe she needs a bicycle. Have you taught her how to pedal?”

“We’re waiting for the snow to melt. Do you think she has ADD?”

Margaret laughed. “No, I think she’s seven.”

“You’re probably right. Where have you and Echo been? Walkies?”

“A trip to Kaune’s, to pick up dinner,” Margaret said. “Want to come in for a cup of cocoa?”

“Not sure if I can muster the energy to get up.”

Margaret held out a hand. “Come on. If I can do it, you can, too.”

Walking inside her aunt’s house—hers now—felt to Margaret like stepping into another world. The wooden floor dipped at the foyer, from years of feet and boots. She wouldn’t dream of replacing it. To the right was the massive old sideboard that had come with the house. The full set of blue calico Staffordshire Aunt Ellie never used sat behind the glass-fronted doors. To the left was the living room, with white plaster walls and a built-in
banco
, a wraparound bench made of adobe and plastered white. Handmade cushions stuffed with horsehair had been there for as long as Margaret could remember. Margaret had sewn more pillows out of one of Aunt Ellie’s tattered old rugs. The
banco
culminated in a kiva fireplace, decorated with tile so old that it was worn in places to a matte finish. Walls of built-in bookshelves were filled to the brim with the British mysteries Ellie had loved. Her collection of baskets on the sideboard—
trastero
, as they called them here—reminded Margaret that she really ought to call the museum. There were some incredible examples of basketry, and she’d donate whichever ones they wanted; it would be a shame not to share them with the world. Procrastination was her biggest flaw. Well, that needed to change, as did a lot of things she’d let slide.

“Aspen,” Glory called, “come on into Auntie Margaret’s house. It’s too cold to play outside.”

Aspen stamped her snow boot. “I don’t wanna.”

“We’re going to have cocoa,” Glory said.

“No!”

“With marshmallows.” Margaret beckoned, and Aspen zoomed past them into the house.

Margaret hauled Sparrow and her bouncy seat inside and set it on the floor next to the table. She fetched a clip-on mobile from the baby things she’d bought at the thrift store so she and Glory didn’t have to cart toys back and forth when she babysat. She attached it to the table. “Is Sparrow old enough for a mobile?”

“I don’t know,” Glory said. “I haven’t gotten around to reading the parenting manual. I feel so guilty.”

Margaret laughed. “People have been successfully raising babies without manuals for thousands of years.”

“I never read the pregnancy books, either. Look where that has gotten me.”

“You don’t know for sure.”

“Yet.”

Aspen sped by with Echo’s leash in her hand. “Echo wuh-wuh-wuh-wants dinner,” she announced.

“You know where I keep her kibble,” Margaret said, unhooking the leash. “Remember, only one cupful.”

The little girl and dog ran through the kitchen to the laundry room, and Margaret pictured just how full Echo’s dish would be. Thank goodness she wasn’t a food hog. Margaret wondered where Nash was. Probably under her bed, in the very middle, out of Aspen’s reach. Nash lived life on his own terms, especially where children were concerned.

“May I use the bathroom?” Glory said, and Margaret laughed.

“Of course, Glory. You don’t have to ask.”

“I know. I was hoping you’d say no.”

“Oh, come on,” Margaret said, thinking how much better it would be to have Glory’s problem instead of her own. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“I will be sixty years old before he finishes high school.”

“You’re positive the baby you don’t know you’re having will be a boy?”

Glory frowned. “It has to be. I had morning sickness with Sparrow, but not like this. Every time I look in the mirror I expect to see a saltine cracker staring back at me.”

“I think they prescribe medicine for that now,” Margaret said. “Ask your doctor about it.” A rumbling that wasn’t quite thunder made them both look up. When the groan followed, they said in unison, “Dolores, go toward the light.”

“It’s so weird that my ghost moved into your house,” Glory said. “Rejected by a ghost. I wonder why? Is it because we have too many dogs?”

“Time Share Dolores, that’s how I think of her,” Margaret said. “Anyway, she doesn’t bother me. I kind of like the company.” Margaret could tell her friend was near tears. “Glory, go on, take the test. Splash some cold water on your face while you’re at it. I have ginger ale if you’d prefer that over cocoa.”

“I want cocoa,” Glory said. “If I’m pregnant, I’ll have chocolate for every meal.”

Then Sparrow cooed, and Glory couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

Margaret laughed to see how much in love Glory was with her daughter. She took hold of her friend’s shoulders and aimed her toward the hallway. “Go already.”

“All right, but if you hear a shriek, you might have to scrape me off the floor.”

“Will you just get your butt in there and end the suspense?”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Now you sound like Aspen. But you’re going to find out, and once you do you’ll feel better.”

Bathrooms in the older Santa Fe adobes were generally tiny compared with the ones in homes built after 1970, but Margaret’s bathroom was an exception. Inside was a commode with a pull chain, a pedestal sink, a stall shower, and a claw-foot tub that was a hundred years old if it was a day. Margaret loved to soak in the suds and let her hair fall over the back of the tub. She’d fallen asleep in there on occasion. On one wall was a pierced tinwork mirror decorated on the corners with tiles of a deep blue set against cream. Facing it was a mural by Pop Chalee, the Taos/Tiwa artist, featuring a string of fanciful rabbits amid flowering cacti and stars. “I love this bathroom,” Glory called out from inside it, just as she always did.

Margaret smiled. “Let me get you a clean hand towel,” she said, and went to the linen closet. On the way, she passed her studio, previously the guest bedroom. After Ellie died, Margaret had claimed it for a studio because the French doors opened onto the portal, which was bathed in northern light. There stood the larger of her easels, one she hadn’t touched in years. On the tray leaned the final horse painting in the series she’d done when she lived in Blue Dog, ten years ago. The painting remained unfinished. The chestnut horse in the painting, RedBow, had become Peter’s horse, and then Margaret’s when Peter went off to college. RedBow was twenty-two years old now, long retired and free to meander in the pasture adjoining the stable Glory’s husband, Joseph, had bought. Joseph was only days away from opening a riding stable for handicapped kids and adults. He’d named his project Reach for the Sky, and it would serve people with both mental and physical issues, as well as juvenile offenders. People recovering from trauma, like Casey, Aspen’s mother, who’d been a long-term kidnap victim until just six months ago, would groom and ride the horses. The governing idea was that the work would give them a sense of control and inspire mutual and unconditional love, and that both of these things would allow them to imagine for themselves a future. The responsibilities of caring for RedBow had certainly been good for Margaret’s son. And the gelding had fostered in Peter a deep affection for horses that still kept him riding, even in D.C.

Had Owen Garrett never thought of his beloved horse? she wondered from time to time. He might not even be alive, Margaret told herself, though the thought of that was unfathomable to her.

The painting of RedBow she’d started in Blue Dog was done in oil, on a four-by-four-foot canvas panel. The sweet-natured chestnut horse rested his muzzle on a split-rail fence, as he often had in Blue Dog. He loved children and would hurry to the fence whenever he saw one. Next to the horse’s whiskery muzzle, she had painted—as planned—a robin on a fence post. Over time, she’d realized the robin wasn’t right. One day she’d picked up her paintbrush again and painted over the robin. She’d gotten as far as outlining the image of an albino hummingbird hovering in flight but couldn’t finish it. Along with Dolores the ghost, Margaret’s and Glory’s yards were home to albino hummingbirds that somehow delivered a sturdy mutation: Every year they had babies, some white, others pigmented.

Another painter might say that by stopping at the hardest part of the painting, Margaret had failed to reveal its emotional heart. She saw things differently. If she left it unfinished, the series would never come to an end. She still clung to the happiness she’d experienced in Blue Dog. All it would take was a few more strokes and the bird would transform the painting, but then what?

Margaret blew on the canvas, appalled at the layer of dust. Endings were never easy for her. Relationships, her art career, Peter going deaf. She’d had miscarriage after miscarriage when she was married to Ray. Only Peter came out of their efforts, though she’d dreamed of babies, little girls, running just ahead of her, through flowers and meadows, so often that she recognized and named them. Charlotte, Rose, Katie. Ridiculous. She’d put an unhealthy amount of hope into Peter’s eventual children, but shortly after they married, Bonnie had said she didn’t want kids—she wanted to make a difference in the deaf world. Funny, Margaret thought, isn’t that the point of having kids? But she kept quiet, not wanting to interfere.

A tall gray flat file held her other work. Margaret hadn’t opened the drawers since she’d moved in. There was a drawer on her draftsman’s desk, too, filled with colored pencils, markers, Conté crayons, pastels, charcoal, and erasers. All of it unused. She should donate it to a school. Against the wall leaned stretching boards with watercolor paper ready for painting. She usually stretched five at a time and filled them up in a week’s time. Spring will inspire me, she told herself. Ellie’s garden in full bloom would inspire anyone.

The towel in her hand was long forgotten. In its place were thousands of memories, flooding her heart and mind. Glory came into the studio. “There you are,” she said. “Come on out into the front room. I’m heating the milk. If we’re going to make cocoa, let’s do it up right.”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “Sorry. Lately I’ve been so absent-minded,” she said, knowing it was probably due to the MS.

From the kitchen window they could see Aspen racing around the backyard with the dog. “Hard to believe she has a heart problem, isn’t it?” Margaret said. “Any news from the doctor on that front?”

“We’re thinking about taking her to Cedars in Los Angeles. It depends on Casey’s wishes. I’m an honorary grandma, so I have to walk a fine line.”

“How is Casey?”

Glory smiled. “That girl astonishes me. She’s nearly finished her GED. Joseph has her working at the stables, helping to design the programs for Reach for the Sky. Casey loves the horses. We trailered Brown Horse down from the pueblo just after Christmas, and her dog, Curly, is already part of the pack. Having Brown Horse at the stable gives her a reason to get out every day. I look at her and think, How tragic to have missed your girlhood. I wonder if she’ll ever get over that.”

“I’m no psychologist, but between raising Aspen, riding horses, and living with you, she will.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know,” Glory said. “After all she’s been through.”

When Casey was fourteen, two brothers had kidnapped her. They’d kept her in terrible conditions, brainwashed, assaulted, and raped her. Aspen was the result of rape, and Casey had given birth to her while she’d been held captive. Her freedom had come about through her daughter’s grave illness, which led to finding her sister, Juniper, Glory’s adopted daughter. Watching Casey’s progress amazed Margaret. Surviving that trauma had taken real courage—Casey was strong.

While the milk warmed on the stove, Glory and Margaret sat at the table and Margaret jiggled Sparrow’s bouncy seat with her foot. “Humans are endlessly adaptable, Glory. When Peter got sick, I wept in the hospital corridor and prayed my heart out, making bargains with God to just let him live. When he went deaf, I thought it was the end of the world. Now he has a lovely wife, a teaching job, and a whole community. The fact is, despite horrible things, people manage to go on.”

Glory nodded. “Juniper says that every time she calls home.”

“I’d take that girl for my daughter in a minute,” Margaret said. “Look at all she’s accomplished. Finishing college at the same time others are starting it. So patient with her sister. She’s a wonderful aunt to Aspen. And do you know that Chico, her beau, stacked my firewood without me asking? What a thoughtful young man. Casey will get there, too. By the way, how is your mom?”