Where Mercy Flows (13 page)

No one ever heard Hank ask to see a green card. He showed the stranger the bunkhouse and that was that.

When the Wilder family, their employees and guests gathered in the large informal dining room off the kitchen of the main
house, the lone Mexican spoke little. I usually sat by Tim, the first and only love of my life, the only man I would follow
to a remote Nevada ranch without a cottonwood tree within a hundred miles. So it was unsettling to feel myself blush when
the dark-eyed caballero looked my way. A rim of white showed beneath his black irises and full lashes shaded his eyes like
awnings. His nose had a slight crook in its bridge like that of a regal Indian chief I had seen in a picture. When his meal
was done, he often leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and surveyed the room. Once, when our eyes met
they lingered too long. The corners of his lips spread into a smile and I looked away.

He invaded my fantasies. I should not have been thinking what I was thinking in the cabin after twilight while Tim rubbed
my back. I should not have pretended as I kissed Tim’s blond hair in the dark that it was the color of a crow’s wing or that
his skin was as smooth and brown as a chestnut. But I did. I meant nothing by it. It was like my own personal movie of which
I was the director and the star, Tijuana the handsome and mysterious leading man.

The Mexican never stayed in the bunkhouse. He wrangled, broke and trained horses—some for sale, others to serve as riders
for the weekend cowboys. In the evenings after supper he could be seen walking out on the range, a bedroll and pack on his
back, until he disappeared beyond the low hills.

I have wondered since that fateful night when I stumbled upon him in a dry gully a mile outside the ranch if it was really
in the back of my mind all along. Hadn’t I thought I might run into him somewhere out there? The moment he saw me, he dropped
his blanket and stood forebodingly as my horse and I descended the sandy slope. When my face came into the fire’s glow, he
nodded and flashed that grin, almost like I was expected. As if I was as predictable as one of his wild horses. All it took
was time and patience and dark entrancing eyes that could tame the wild—or in my case, corrupt the tame.

He helped me down and tied the horse to the branch of a lone tree. I drank my first tequila from a red plastic cup, which
we shared. He told me he grew up in a small town in Michoacán and his papa was a
carnicero,
which I didn’t comprehend until he explained, “Ju know, he keel cows and porks,” which made me laugh. He was the oldest of
eight, and when I asked why he had left, he shook his head slowly and stirred the embers of the fire. Maybe he didn’t understand
the question.

“My father is a judge,” I said. “You know, he says, ‘You’re right; you’re wrong.’” I pointed my finger back and forth authoritatively.
“‘You live; you die. You’re good; you’re a worthless pile of dung.’” Now he laughed. I was glad he had beef jerky because
I was hungry and the tequila was going to my head. When I shivered, he opened his blanket and drew me in as if I was a wild
mare hypnotically yielding to the first rope around her neck.

What happened next was a wildfire—a blaze of passion that swept over us like flames on a dry plain. Hard, almost painful kisses
led to groping and clothes frantically discarded. His skin was hot and smelled of soap. I like to think now that I had no
choice. The fire was beyond my control and even a river could not quench it. But it did eventually burn out, leaving a charred
wake of stubble and bones that would haunt me for years to come.

I later realized that he never spoke my name. I lay awake staring at the stars until his breath was shallow, and then crept
around, gathering clothes by waning firelight. Tim. Kind, strong, tender Tim. I suddenly yearned for him and yet dreaded looking
into his clear blue eyes. I pulled the sleeve of my sweater from the embers. It was burned to the elbow.

The squeak of the saddle and the horse’s hooves on loose gravel woke Tijuana, and when I looked down he was up on one elbow.
“I was not here,” I said.
“Entiendes?”

He grinned. “
Sí.
Ju was not here.”

I couldn’t tell Lindsey everything. I couldn’t tell her about the lust or that I didn’t even know his real name. I told her
it was a terrible accident, which it was. She asked me why I never told Tim. “When you were pregnant, didn’t you ever wonder
if the baby might be from this . . . Tijuana?”

“Of course I wondered. But it seemed to me the odds were in Tim’s favor.” I shook my head. “Got that one wrong.” Lindsey smiled
sympathetically. “Anyway,” I continued, “when we found out I was pregnant, Tim was so happy. The first time, you know, he
sort of wanted me to keep the baby but the timing was all off. We didn’t have jobs; we weren’t married. I’m the one who insisted
on the abortion. But this time he was sure about being a dad. He danced me around and talked about the baby more than I did.
He told everybody at the ranch, and I guess he got me believing. . . .” I felt like an idiot. “Well, I just got caught up
in it, that’s all.”

Lindsey nodded as if she understood. “So, when TJ was born . . . ?”

“He came out looking like a little Milk Dud. Hair black as shoe polish. Tim knew right away, but I think it took a while to
sink in. At first he went along with everything—cutting the umbilical cord and holding the baby—but he looked like he was
in shock. He went out for a while and I held TJ for the first time. The nurse showed me how to breast-feed, which TJ already
knew. He just went for it like he’d been doing that forever. It was pretty amazing to me that he came preprogrammed. Anyway,
Tim came back about forty-five minutes later and just stood in the doorway of my room.”

At this part I felt myself choking up. I had to take a deep breath before continuing. “He said, ‘That’s not my son, is it?’
I couldn’t look at him. I just looked down at the little brown baby at my pale breast, and when I looked back up, Tim was
gone. Just like that. I never saw him again.”

Lindsey was respectfully silent. She brought me a tissue and I blew my nose.

“Mrs. Wilder had to come pick me up from the hospital the next day. She said Tim had packed up his things and left that morning
and asked her to bring me and TJ home. He never said where he was going or anything. I thought he might have gone to his uncle
Rich’s place, but the phone number there was disconnected and when I finally drove out there someone else was living in the
trailer. They didn’t know where Uncle Rich went, but they heard he got evicted for not paying his rent.”

“What about Tijuana? Does he know about TJ?”

“He was long gone before I was even showing. Maybe he heard that I was pregnant; I don’t know. One payday he got his check
and wandered into the desert, never to return. And that was fine with me.” Actually, it was a great relief. He had been an
unwelcome reminder of my shame every time our paths crossed.

“Sam.” Lindsey hesitated. “You were very young when you left home. You made some mistakes. My biggest decisions back then
were what outfit to wear with which shoes and fortunately, those weren’t life-changing choices.”

I was tired. We crawled under the yellow quilt and turned out the lamp. My sister prayed out loud, thanking God for the wonderful
day we just had. When she got to the part about forgiving us for our sins she added, “And help Samantha forgive herself.”

I didn’t say a word.

“Good night, Sam.”

“Good night.”

IN MY DREAM I was back in my first apartment in Reno. The one I got soon after the Wilders informed me that they didn’t need
my help on the ranch anymore.

The baby was crying. I was busy getting ready to go to my senior prom. Someone was there with me, the girl who sat behind
me in freshman English, who was suddenly like my best friend because there she was pinning up my hair and sewing a doily to
my dress. We tried to ignore it, but the baby just cried louder and louder like it wanted something, but we didn’t know what.
Finally, I picked it up, blanket and all, and wandered around the apartment like I was looking for something. My friend said
to quit wasting time. Get back there so she could sew a hanky to my sleeve.

There was a garbage can just outside the back door. I put the baby on top of whatever was in there and put the lid on. The
baby was fine now. It was real quiet.

Then I went to the prom. It wasn’t really a prom. It was dinner at the Wilders’ ranch. I just happened to be wearing a long
blue dress with doilies all over it.

I was back in my apartment. Someone knocked, and when I opened the door, there was my father, smiling and carrying a big pink
teddy bear with a bow. “Where is she?” he asked. Suddenly, I remembered the baby. I ran to the back door, but it was too late.
The lid was on the ground and the garbage can was empty.

I awoke with a start, my eyes wide open in the dark. Lindsey’s breathing was slow and steady. I tried to calm myself by concentrating
on inhaling deeply, blowing out slowly. My heart squeezed painfully. At least I knew now that the pain in my chest was physical
and not some heartache for which there was no cure.

The dream was not entirely new to me. It had come many times, in many versions. But this time was different. This time my
father said her name. “Where’s our little Annie?” he had asked.

Annie. The nice people with no faces vacuumed her out of me and then I got up and went away. Like nothing was changed. Like
I had a bad toothache but now it was gone. I went to Reno with Tim and got married in front of a justice of the peace with
a bouquet of marigolds from under the sign at the Mobile Haven trailer court and Uncle Rich as a witness, and then we went
to the Pancake House for breakfast. I got a husband and a job and a little cabin with checkered curtains. Life was busy. Life
was good. We never spoke of the abortion again. I never told Tim what I suspected—that the vacuum machine had gone too far.
That part of my soul was gone and irreplaceable, sucked out by a shapeless machine that I can’t remember because my eyes were
closed. It left a void. An aching, echoing void that even Tim could not fill.

Lindsey didn’t stir when I slid out of bed. I tiptoed down the dark hall to where TJ slept, his frog night-light illuminating
his face in an eerie green. It was only a twin bed, but I crawled in and held his little hand on my face. He didn’t know I
was there, or that I was crying for our Annie and wishing she was with us.

T
HE MORNING’S SERIES of tests had left me tired. More mining for blood from my tiny, almost invisible veins. Another echocardiogram.
That’s where some guy I’ve never seen before runs an instrument around my upper body like a little boy with a toy car while
we discuss last night’s Mariners game—as though neither of us have noticed my bare breasts staring blindly at the wall.

I slipped into my jeans and tossed the faded blue hospital gown over a chair. Dr. Sovold’s family, complete with a well-groomed
collie dog, smiled at me from a gold-framed photo on his desk. The last time I was here, Dr. Sovold, my cardiologist, mentioned
surgery. Open-heart surgery. I’d been having nightmares about them sawing through the bones in my chest and opening me like
some gory book.

Derek Klett gave a report on that in tenth grade and showed a documentary movie of open-heart surgery being performed on a
cow by a university medical research team. The boys in class loved it, especially the part where blood squirted all over one
of the interns while he fumbled with a clamp. I felt sick. I stood to leave but made the mistake of looking back at the bigger-than-life
cow with her guts exposed, her heart pumping madly—and then the cow turned her head and blinked. I dropped to my knees and
tottered like an indecisive nine pin before toppling to the floor. Mrs. Phelps sent someone for the nurse and someone must
have run to Lindsey’s algebra class too, because when I came to, it was my sister who helped me back into my seat and wouldn’t
leave my side.

Finally, there was a light knock and Dr. Sovold entered. He was tall and had a turtle’s neck with deep wrinkles that stretched
like limp rubber bands when he lifted his chin. Long strands of hair were carefully plastered across his bald spot. They didn’t
move when he bent to adjust his swivel chair. He straightened and looked directly at me without even attempting a smile. “I’ve
been reviewing your test results, Samantha.” His eyes dropped to the papers in his hand.

“I want my mother,” I said. “She’s out in the waiting room.”

“Yes. Good idea.”

After Mom slipped into the chair next to mine with a reassuring smile, the doctor continued. “Well, Samantha, as you know,
your heart is the most important muscle in your body. It pumps oxygen and nutrient-rich blood to every cell and organ. When
you work or play hard, your body’s need for oxygen increases and your heart pumps harder and faster. Your heart has been struggling
just to keep you supplied with adequate oxygen while you’re at rest.” He pulled out a picture of my floppy heart and pointed
out the deformities once again. As if the image was not already burned into my mind. “Unfortunately, I understand that your
family has lost contact with your birth mother. Having access to her family history, as well as your natural father’s, would
have been helpful. Still, we are convinced that this damage was caused by a virus.”

I had heard all this before. “Do I have to have surgery?”

He took a deep breath and nodded. My stomach rolled.

“Since reviewing your previous test results, I’ve consulted with the other cardiologists on staff here at the hospital as
to whether your heart walls can be repaired surgically. The consensus at that time and again after seeing today’s test results
is that the damage is too widespread. In fact, there are signs of decreased pulmonary function since those first tests. We
don’t feel that this can be corrected surgically. What I would like to do, Samantha, is get you lined up for a heart transplant.”