Stripped Down (21 page)

Consuelo smiled and hugged me. “It's so nice to meet you,” I said, trying to hide my curiosity. “I wanted to ask you where you found our wedding gift. I've never seen a
retablo
like it.”

“Oh, just on eBay. There's an artist in Mexico City…Aixa Avilar, I think her name is…she paints them. They're not real, you know. I mean, I think she makes the stories up.” Consuelo had barely finished her sentence when she was called away into the kitchen.

 

It was after midnight when I got back to my apartment. Abel walked me to the door and kissed me on the neck. His hands were insistent, and I knew he wanted to stay over. If I let him, though, I'd have to wait another day to search for Aixa. I made up an excuse and sent him home.

With the door locked, I switched my computer monitor on and typed in Aixa's name. In a few seconds, I had a hit: she had her own website. I started breathing a little faster. As the pictures on Aixa's site slowly downloaded, I saw that it was
her
face in the
retablo:
she was the drowning woman. In the sole picture of the artist, Aixa sat in a window seat with her knees drawn up under her chin. Her head was bent forward, and she was looking past the camera. Her hair was long, wavy, and black and her eyes were a startling green against her tan skin. She wore a simple turquoise and silver crucifix around her neck and red cowboy boots. I was transfixed.

For the next hour or two, I searched for all the information I could find about Aixa, which wasn't a lot. She was twenty-six and lived in Mexico City. She had about forty of her paintings online, but none were self-portraits like the
retablo
I had, and none were as piercing. My
retablo
was unique, and I was convinced there was some reason I had received it. I had to find out why.

 

A week passed and I couldn't stop thinking about her. I desperately needed to get in touch with her, maybe even meet her. After five days of no sleep or bad sleep, I decided to email her. I had to find out why I was so taken with this woman I had never met.

After two glasses of pinot grigio, I finally worked up enough courage to email Aixa. “This is it,” I said out loud,
even though no one else was there. Trying desperately not to sound like a stalker or worse, I told her about my
retablo
and asked if she could tell me more about it. I held my breath and hit
Send.

 

Waiting for Aixa's response was worse than a thousand bridal showers. I was distracted at work, distracted with Abel, and practically attached to my computer. When she finally wrote back, three days later, I was almost too nervous to read her message.

“Dear Sera,” Aixa wrote, “I'm glad you liked the
retablo
. I painted it three years ago, after I almost drowned in a lake near where I grew up. As the water pulled me deeper and deeper in, I saw the color of the sun through the water, and I heard the voices of children playing on the beach. No one saw me, and I was convinced I was going to die. I never paint anything about my life—I guess it's corny—but I painted this right after. It was too personal to sell, so I kept it until now. I wanted to move on, so I sold it. Thank you for giving it a home.”

I had walked to the kitchen to look at the
retablo
again when my instant messenger dinged. I thought it was probably Abel IMing me. I'd been avoiding him. I checked the monitor: it wasn't Abel IMing me, it was someone I didn't know—
La Vaquera
. Intrigued, I sat down and read the message.

<
Buena sera
, Sera. I'm sorry if I'm intruding. I just couldn't wait for a response to my email.>

I scrunched my forehead a little bit.

I waited, watching my own message blink back at me. Finally, she wrote: <
Sí
—it's Aixa. Am I bothering you?>

I exhaled. My fingers could barely type as quickly as I was
thinking. retablo
again. You know how beautiful I think it is.>

We typed back and forth for hours. She told me about her painting and I told her about my childhood. I felt as if I had always known her—as if I were speaking to her face-to-face despite the computer between us. I was so taken by our conversation that I didn't even notice the faint line of sunlight through my window.

 

Being sleep deprived makes time slow
and
fast. It was all I could do, drinking espresso all day, to make it home to talk to Aixa again at six. I poured myself a glass of wine and logged on. Aixa was already waiting.