Vanishing Acts (15 page)

The jury is still out on these findings, but I believe them. All I have to do is think of Sophie, and how there are certain details I wish I could freeze in amber: her munchkin voice or her iridescent pink fingernails or the xylophone of her laughter. It's no great stretch of imagination to assume that my father was the one who passed this feeling onto me, who made me conscious of the things we want to keep.

My mother's home is small and neat, afloat on a sea of white stones. There is a mailbox at the end of the driveway that says vasquez. I stop in front of a saguaro that is at least eleven feet tall, and has an arm lifted in a friendly wave. Ruthann says it takes fifty years for a saguaro to sprout a single arm. She says that their flowers are so bright and beautiful they have been known to make sparrows weep. I run my hand over my hair again. After pinning it back, and pulling it into a ponytail, I finally decided to leave it falling over my shoulders–surely she'd remember brushing it when I was little? I'm wearing the nicest outfit I threw into my suitcase in our hasty escape: a dark blue dress that I had planned on wearing to court. I smooth the skirt down, wishing I could will away the wrinkles. I take deep breaths.

How do you walk into someone's life again after twenty-eight years? How do you pick up, when you were too young to know where you left off?

For courage, I try to reverse the roles: What if it was Sophie coming to see me, after so long? I cannot imagine any circumstance where I wouldn't immediately feel a connection to her; and I have shared roughly the same short amount of time in Sophie's life that my mother shared with me. I wouldn't care if she was pierced, bald, rich, poor, married, gay . . . whatever . . . just as long as she was back. So why am I so worried about making a first impression?

I answer my own question: Because you only get to do it once. Every time after, you are only making up for what happened during that initial meeting. I stand on the front step, wondering how I will ever get up the courage to knock, when the door swings open telekinetically.

The woman exits backward. She's wearing faded jeans and an embroidered peasant blouse, and looks much younger than I would have expected. “Sí, bread and refried beans,” she calls out to someone still inside. “I heard you the first time.” Then she steps out and plows right into me. “Discúlpeme, I didn't see–” Her hand comes up to cover her mouth.

Her face looks like a photo of me that has been crumpled and then, on second thought, smoothed again–my features, but worn soft by the finest lines. Her hair is one shade blacker than mine. However, it is her smile that renders me speechless. Two eyeteeth, twisted just a quarter turn–the reason I spent four years in braces and a retainer.

“Gracias a dios,” she murmurs. When she reaches out I let her touch me, my shoulder and neck and finally, cupping my cheek. I close my eyes and think of all the times I had stroked my own arm in the dark, pretending to be her; failing, because I couldn't surprise myself with comfort. “Beth,” she says, and then she blushes. “But that's not your name anymore, is it?” In that moment it is not important at all what she calls me, but it is critical what I call her. My voice breaks. “Are you my mother?”

I don't know which one of us reaches for the other, but suddenly I am in her arms, a place that I had to imagine my entire life. Her hands run over my hair and my back, as if she is trying to make sure I'm real. I try to narrow my mind to a sliver of recognition, but it's hard to know whether this feels familiar because I remember it, or because I so badly want it to.

She still smells like vanilla and apples.

“Look at you,” she says, holding me far enough away to stare at my face. “Look at how beautiful you are.”

In the background, someone speaks: a low baritone with a hint of an accent.

“Elise? Who's there?” He steps forward, a lean man with white hair, coffee-colored skin, and a mustache. “Ella podría ser su gemelo,” he whispers.

“Victor,” my mother says, her voice so full it spills over. “You remember my daughter.”

I have no recollection of this man, but apparently he knew me. “Hola,” Victor says. He starts to reach for me, and then on second thought, slides his arm around my mothers waist instead.

“I didn't know if it was all right to come here,” I admit. “I didn't know if you wanted to see me.”

My mother squeezes my hand. “I've been waiting to see you for almost thirty years,” she says. “As soon as they told me who you were . . . now ... I tried to call you, but no one answered.”

The relief her words send through me, the fact that she was trying, nearly buckles my knees. It wasn't that my mother hadn't called, it was that I hadn't answered. Because I was flying to Arizona, to be with my father while he stood trial. We are both thinking this, and it reminds us that this is not just any reunion. Victor clears his throat. “Why don't you two sit down inside?” Her house is decorated with bright Talavera pottery and wrought iron. As we walk into the living room, I look for clues that will tell me more: toys that speak of other children or grandchildren; the titles of music CDs on the shelves; framed photos on the walls. One catches my eye–it is a snapshot of my mother and me, wearing matching embroidered dresses. I'd seen a similar photo, maybe taken the minute before, or after this one, in my father's secret stash.

“I'll get some iced tea,” Victor says, and he leaves my mother and me alone. You would think, when there is so much to say, that it comes easily. But instead we sit in an uncomfortable silence. “I don't know where to start,” my mother says finally. She looks down into her lap, suddenly shy. “I don't even know what you do.”

“Search and rescue. I work with a bloodhound, and we look for missing people,” I say. “It's crazy, given the circumstances.”

“Or maybe it's because of them,” my mother suggests. She folds her hands in her lap, and we look at each other for another moment. "You live in New Hampshire . . .

?"

“Yes. My whole life–” I say, before I realize that isn't true. “Most of it, anyway.” I dig in my pocket for the photo I've brought along of Sophie, and pass it to her. “This is your granddaughter.”

She takes the picture from me and pores over it. “A granddaughter,” my mother repeats.

“Sophie.”

“She looks like you.”

“And Eric. My fiance.”

I'd hoped that by seeing my mother some floodgate would open, and all the gaps in my mind would be filled with memory. I'd hoped that some reflex recollection would take over, so that when I heard her laugh or saw her smile or felt her touch, it would be familiar, instead of new. But after that initial embrace, we've gone back to what we really are: two people who have just met. We can't rebuild our past, because we haven't even leveled common ground.

For years, I'd sketched my mother out in my mind by stealing bits and pieces of other people's lives: a woman who stood in the town pool, coaxing her tiny daughter to jump off the side into her arms; a fairy-tale character who died tragically young; Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice. Any of those women, I would have known in an instant; I would have been able to fall into easy conversation. Any of those women would have known what I have been doing all my life. In none of my imaginings was my mother Spanish-speaking, or remarried, or awkward. In none of my imaginings was she a total stranger.

When your mother is made out of dreams, anything real is bound to disappoint you.

“When is the wedding?” she asks politely.

“September.” At least, that was when it was supposed to be. I expected my father to give me away–before I learned he might be going to prison for not being able to do that in the first place.

“Victor and I are celebrating our silver anniversary this year,” my mother says.

“Did you have children?”

She shakes her head. “I wasn't able to.” My mother looks down at her hands.

“Your father . . . did he remarry?”

“No.”

She lifts her gaze to mine. “How is Charles?”

It is strange to hear him referred to by that other name. “He's in jail,” I say bluntly.

“I never asked for that. I'm not going to lie–there was a time I was so angry at him for taking you I would have willingly sent him to prison for life–but it's been so long. The only thing I cared about, when the prosecutor called to tell me they'd found him, was you.”

I picture her standing in the driveway of this house, even though I know it isn't where I grew up. I imagine her expression at the moment she realizes I am not coming back. I see her face, but it has all of my own features. My mother looks at me, hard. “Do you ... do you remember anything?” she asks.

“From before?”

“Sometimes I have dreams,” I say. “There's one about a lemon tree. And one where I come into a kitchen with broken glass all over it.” My mother nods. “You were three,” she says. “That wasn't a dream.” It is the first time someone has been able to confirm a memory that I couldn't make sense of, and I feel my arms and legs go weak.

“Your father and I, we had a fight that night,” my mother says. “We woke you up.”

“Was I the reason you got divorced?”

“You?” She seems surprised. “You were the best part of our marriage.” The question, now, is burning a path up my throat; the words come out like fire.

“Is that why he took me?”

Just then Victor enters the living room, carrying a tray. There is a pitcher of iced tea, and cookies the size of a baby's palm, covered in powdered sugar. Under his arm is a Shoe box. “I thought you might want this, too,” he says, and he hands it to her.

She is embarrassed by it. “I thought it might not be the right time,” she tells him.

“Why don't you let Bethany decide that?”

“It's just some things I kept,” my mother explains, pulling the rubber band free. “I knew that one day I'd find you. But somehow, I always expected you to still be four years old.”

There is a lacy christening cap, and the placard from the hospital bassinet with my name–my other name–written by a nurse in red ink, along with my weight: 6 lbs, 6 oz. A tiny china teacup with a chip in the handle. A square of paper with the carefully printed pencil letters of a child: I LV U.

Proof, that once I did.

The only other item in the box is a miniature patchwork quilt, made of triangles of red silk and orange shag and paisley print and sheer voile.

My mother shakes this out over her lap. “I made this for you, when you were a baby, out of every bit of comfort I could find.” She touches the red silk. “This came from a slip that once was my grandmother's. The orange was the throw rug from your father's dorm room. The paisley, a maternity dress of mine. And the voile, that came from my wedding veil. You ate with it and slept with it and I had to force you not to bathe with it. You used to hide underneath it when you were afraid . . . like you thought it might make you disappear.”

I had forgotten my blanket. I want to go home, I'd told him. We can't, he said, but he didn't tell me why.

“I remember,” I say softly.

I am four again: reaching up as she lifts me out of the bath; holding tight to cross a street; clutching this blanket with my fist. In a half hour my mother has managed to give me what my father couldn't: my past.

I reach across my mothers lap to touch the blanket, wishing it still had the same magic powers that it used to, that I might press it to my cheek and rub the corner of it against my eyelids and know that everything is going to be all right by the time the sun comes up. “Mami,” I say, because that is what I used to call her. I may not know my mother yet, but we have this much in common: Neither of us, it turns out, has been the only one who lost someone she loved. It is strange, suddenly having a memory come back out of nowhere. You think you're going crazy; you wonder where this recollection has been hiding all your life. You try to push it away, because you think you've hammered out the whole timeline of your life, but then you see that one extra moment, and suddenly you are breaking apart what you thought was a solid segment, and seeing it for what it is: just a string of events, shoulder to shoulder, and a gap where there is room for one more.

There is so much I want to ask her; there are still so many questions. When I get back to the trailer, Fitz is fanning himself with the phone book and Sophie is asleep on the couch. “How did it go?” he asks. I have been thinking about what I should tell him–and Eric, for that matter. It's not that I have anything to hide, but there's something about talking about the fragile bridge my mother and I just built that in some way would diminish it. “She wasn't who I wanted her to be,” I say carefully, “but that didn't turn out as bad as I expected.”

“What's she like?”

“She's younger than my father. And she's Mexican,” I tell him. “She grew up there.”

Fitz laughs. “And to think, you failed Spanish.”

“Shut up.”

“Was she happy to see you?”

“Yes.”

He smiles a little. “And are you happy you saw her?”

“It's weird–not knowing anything about my own mother. But in a way, it's okay, because she doesn't really know anything about me. With my father, it was all imbalanced. He knew everything, and he kept it a secret.”