Beyond the Ties of Blood (30 page)

“Laurita,” she ventured, “do you want to take a look at this book? It has some really great pictures of Santiago.”

Laura took the book from her mother's hands and leafed through it, carelessly at first. But she was drawn to the dramatic picture of the city at sunrise, its new skyscrapers gathered in the middle of the shot like mystical towers, the snow-covered Andes mountains glowing orange with the dawn.

“Are the mornings always like this?” she asked.

“They were when I was growing up. But now, according to your
tía
Irene, the city's grown so much that the smog often covers the mountains unless it's been raining.”

“Bummer,” she muttered, but kept looking through the book.

When they switched planes in Miami, Laura had kept the book in her backpack and taken it back out once they were settled in their new seats. She asked Eugenia questions about several other pictures, including the central market, the Santa Lucía hill, and the Moneda. At least she hadn't brought her Walkman back out, Eugenia thought.

After the food was served and the lights dimmed, Eugenia suggested that Laura move into the unclaimed aisle seat. They'd lifted up the armrests between the seats in their row to make Laura more comfortable, and she'd fallen into a deep sleep, her stork-like adolescent legs stretching out into the aisle, her head at an angle against Eugenia's ribs. Now Eugenia felt trapped against the window. She couldn't even go to the bathroom, she feared, without waking her daughter up.

As she sat looking at the moon's glimmering reflection on the wing outside her window, she thought back to the last two weeks of frantic preparations. As usual, Irene had been a godsend, opening up a space in the attic of her ragged old house so they could store the things they couldn't take with them.

“Once we're settled I can always ask you to send anything we need,” Eugenia had said as they squeezed the last box into the corner.

“That's true,” Irene answered, “but you might not need these. Especially if you decide to come back.”

Eugenia had let that last remark go. She was optimistic that, maybe, Laura would feel happy in Chile. Irene just shook her head, repeating again and again that Chile had closed up like a fist under dictatorship.

“If you think our country was uptight under socialism, Chenyita,” Irene had said, “you should see people now. You couldn't go back before,” she added, “but I could. I know what I'm talking about.” Eugenia had decided that she'd just wait and see.

Ignacio told her the country was opening back up. “It's almost like a fresh spring morning,” he said, “when you open up the window in the living room. People are breathing in the fragrance of the first honeysuckle blossoms. They know democracy is on its way back.”

Eugenia hoped Ignacio was right. Ever since he'd held her in his arms in her Boston apartment, the need to return had been kindled somewhere deep inside. They smoldered together now, her desire for home and maybe for Ignacio, incandescent, fusing distinct memories into a single yearning. How the Andes looked on a winter morning, covered with snow after a hard rain in the city. The weeping willows of the
parque forestal
. The look on her mother's face that misty morning as she held Laura, barely a month old, on the way to the airport. The roughness of Ignacio's linen jacket on her cheek as she sat sobbing in the armchair in her Boston living room, and the way he smelled, that mix of cologne and expensive soap. She had to admit she was attracted to him.

Was she making too much of their connection? She was pretty sure Ignacio felt it, too, but was it more than the emotional impact of having heard her story? After all, when he'd held her in Boston she had been crying because of the memories stirred back up. She was sure he didn't hold all his witnesses in his arms. But maybe it had been the intimacy of the setting rather than any personal attraction on his part. Besides, she hadn't been with anyone since Manuel, and maybe she didn't know how to read the signals anymore. She didn't know if it would feel the same between them in Chile.

In fact, she wondered if anything would feel the same. She remembered the morning the soldiers came, only a few minutes after she'd gotten back from the store. That fear, the one she'd felt bubbling up from the cracks in the sidewalk every morning since the coup, had finally pounced and grabbed her by the throat. Would it still be hiding in unexpected corners, waiting for her to pass by?

Eugenia looked down at her daughter, still sleeping soundly, her head nestled now along one side of her mother's lap. Running a light hand across Laura's forehead and brushing back a strand of hair that had wandered over one eye, she wondered what the next few weeks had in store for them. Thankful for the predictable routines of her job, her daughter's school and new friends and Irene's presence, Eugenia had begun to feel a certain sense of rootedness and belonging in Boston. True, all it took was one missed cultural cue, one mispronunciation of her name, and the old familiar longing would well up. Yet what was she longing for? The military government? Her mother's controlling attitude? Then with the transition toward democracy, the plebiscite and the elections, everything had been turned upside down once again. When the Truth Commission's invitation provided an excuse, she had been surprised at how quickly she started making plans to return for good.

Looking back on it now, Eugenia realized that she should have seen how disruptive the trip to Chile would be for Laura. When they'd moved from Mexico City to the United States, her daughter had not yet been a teenager. She'd seemed to fit in so easily, and the friendship with Marcie had been a great help. But Eugenia had forgotten about the missed school year, the early difficulties, the isolation that she and Laura had felt at first despite Irene's help. She could still remember the look on Laura's face when she'd come back to the apartment to find Ignacio. Eugenia had felt shocked at her daughter's hostility and hadn't known what to do or say, so she let Laura go to her room and hadn't tried to explain. By the next morning, she realized now, it had been too late. Laura even refused to celebrate her sixteenth birthday.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking.” The smooth Texas drawl over the loudspeaker caused Laura to stir, and she moved back into her own seat, still half asleep. “I hate to wake you up, but we're about an hour and a half from touchdown in Santiago. Our flight attendants will be coming through the cabin soon to serve you breakfast and pass out the forms you'll need to clear customs and immigration. So this would be a good time to stretch your legs, use the facilities if you wish, before things get busy. And thank you for flying with us.”

Eugenia stood up and squeezed out into the aisle, joining the line for the bathroom that was forming at the first row of the coach cabin. As she waited, she went back over the list of verbal instructions Ignacio had given her. For now, Laura could enter on her Mexican passport, and Irene had helped her get a visa at the Mexican Consulate in Boston. Once they got their bearings, they'd decide if they wanted to go through with the paperwork it would take for Laura to apply for Chilean citizenship. As for Eugenia's situation, Ignacio had explained that the problem of returning exiles was still a work in progress, especially for those who, like her, had been classified as “subversives.” Inevitably there would be some bumps in the road. They'd gone over the papers she had in her possession: her proof of exit from Chile, issued by the Mexican embassy and stamped by the military police on the way out; her exile identity papers provided by the Chilean consulate in Mexico City; her green card and employment record in the United States. For the moment Eugenia had no passport, but it would be just fine, Ignacio had assured her. With copies of her papers, the newly formed Office of Return would issue her an entry permit, and they could take it from there once she was in the country. He promised he'd be waiting at the airport.

Still, she was nervous. She remembered how she'd been treated on her way into exile. She wondered if the military police were still in charge of immigration. And would her mother be waiting at the airport too? Irene had promised to call and let her know the details of the flight. But it had been a long time, and they'd not been in close touch.

“Sorry to interrupt you again, ladies and gentlemen.” That southern drawl, the vowels multisyllabic. “Those of you who have your window shades raised might've noticed that the sun's coming up. If you're on the left-hand side of the plane you'll be able to see the Andes mountains. On a personal note, though I've flown this route for years, I must admit the dawn glow on 'em still gives me a thrill. Take a look if you can.”

Along with the other people in the bathroom queue, Eugenia bent down and looked across the cabin to the windows on the left side. The blush of first light shimmered salmon-hued off the snow-clad peaks. In between, the jagged, cliff-like indentations looked lilac, almost purple. Violet valleys plunged down into the clouds, drawing her into a place where only phantoms could survive. Her vision began to blur. When she finally looked up, her eyes locked with those of the man ahead of her in the line. His long, dark hair, greying now, hung in waves to his shoulders and was matched by a huge handlebar moustache. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

“
La cordillera
. First time back?” he rasped. She nodded. “Me, too,
compañera
,” he said. Swatting at his eyes with one hairy paw, he turned to open the door to the bathroom.

By the time the plane had landed and taxied to the gate, Laura was wide awake. After wolfing down her breakfast and half of Eugenia's, she'd struggled to pass her hairbrush through the sleep tangles in her thick hair. She gathered it up in the one barrette capable of holding it all and, after the plane reached the gate and the seatbelt sign was turned off, stood to rummage through the overhead compartment for her backpack and leather jacket. She struggled to squeeze her thin arms into the sleeves without hitting another passenger, then took Eugenia's bag out and passed it to her along with the guidebook she'd retrieved from the seat pocket.

“Are you sure you have everything, Laurita?” Eugenia asked as she stood up.

Laura nodded, then took and squeezed her mother's hand for a second before turning to stand in line. Eugenia's eyes filled at the unexpected gesture. Perhaps things would be all right for Laura in Chile after all.

They exited the plane into a glass-enclosed, tube-like passageway. A late winter drizzle made it hard to see much, and in any case they soon entered a sanitized, fluorescent hallway. Small icons with arrows pointed them in the direction of immigration. They entered a large room with a recently waxed linoleum floor, red velvet ropes dividing the space into five separate lines, each headed toward a booth at the far end. The person sitting in each one of those booths, Eugenia realized, her stomach suddenly recast into a single burning knot, was wearing the toad-green uniform of the military police. Trying to control the violent trembling in her knees, she focused on reading the signs above each booth in an effort to choose the line that was correct for them. Two lines for Chilean citizens. Not really, at least not now. Two lines for foreign visitors. Well, not exactly. One line for foreign residents. That wasn't it, either.

“Mamita? You all right? Where are we supposed to stand?” Laura had taken her mother's clammy hand and was looking at her with concern. “What's the—”

“I'm so sorry I'm late. You wouldn't believe the traffic! I don't know what's up with Santiago, no matter what time of day or night, it just seems you can never—well. I'm here, you're here, and everything's going to be all right.” It was Ignacio, his formal grey winter coat and dark blue tie contrasting with his impossible youthfulness. As he ran his hands through his hair in a vain effort to smooth it down, the one long black strand over his right eye stood out at an apologetic angle. Eugenia relaxed into his embrace.