The Memories of Ana Calderón (34 page)

Her son had been taken from her and she had found him only to lose him again. Unknowing, she had become his lover, and this perplexed and depressed her. She was far from understanding why this had happened to her. The world was large, inhabited by millions of people, and yet the most unlikely, improbable thing had happened to her. Her son had returned to her by accident. There was a void inside of her. For days, she floundered, struggling to keep from drowning in a sea of blame that filled her mouth with bitterness, choking her as if it had been caked mud sticking in her throat.

The day came when she could hardly breathe, and the idea of suicide began to obsess her. She sat for hours staring at a gun; its bluish glint seemed to seduce her and yet fill her with fear. At night, she became afraid of the darkness. During the day the light made her seek refuge in the
gloomiest corner of her house. She felt defeated by the memory of her sin because no matter how much she resisted, she was constantly assaulted by recollections of Terrance, of his kisses and caresses.

Ana knew that to remember was to sin all over again. But she was incapable of not thinking of him and of the love they had shared. She understood that by clinging to the memory of her love, she raised her fist in the face of God. But Ana could not erase the image of Terrance's face or the sensation of his body inside of her.

Driven by desire to be forgiven, she made her way to Mexico City with the intention of approaching the altar of the Virgin of Guadalupe. There, she was convinced, she would find the absolution that would keep her from losing her mind. Ana remembered again the penitent woman, and she now understood her grief. Her own misery, she told herself, had begun when her father had cursed her and Ismael.

She was suddenly jolted from her thoughts by prayers that signaled the penitents to move forward. Hail Marys blared from gigantic speakers, and people began to weep and shout words that she couldn't make out. There was a surge of bodies, and they pushed at one another roughly as they began to hobble their way across the pavement to the entrance of the church. Ana, trying to keep up with the crowd, began to lose her balance. Sweat coursed down her back and between her breasts as the
mantilla
wrapped itself around her neck. She felt a flash of searing pain which made its way from her knees up her body, and she realized that her legs were bleeding.

People began to sing hymns in honor of the Virgin. These merged with mumbled prayers and weeping, and with petitions that were yelled out. Body odors mingled with the pungent smell of incense and the smoke of the candles inside the church. The heat was stifling. Pain in her knees forced Ana to crawl on all fours. Then she realized that her hands were smeared with blood from those ahead of her, and she knew that behind her others were wiping up her own blood.

As she groveled toward the altar, Ana was overwhelmed by her nothingness. Her money, her success in business, the respect and admiration of her associates, her massive business with its corporate headquarters paled as her father's curse echoed in her mind. She was, as he had predicted, a
sinful, wretched woman who had lain with her son.

When it was finally her turn to kneel at the railing that towered above her head, Ana looked up to see the frame that housed the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe. She murmured, “
Virgencita, perdóname
.” She held her breath, as if expecting the image to speak, forgiving her.

Ana froze as she clung to the railing. Soon, people began to push her, grumbling that she was taking too long, and that it was now their turn. She didn't pay attention to any of them, although she was vaguely aware that a custodian was approaching. She knew that nothing could drag her away until she was given an answer to her prayer. But there was no answer. There was only stillness and emptiness inside of her. The Virgin was silent and there was no miracle to calm Ana or to help her rid herself of the disgust and shame that had stalked her ever since she could remember.

After a while, she got to her feet, turned and dove headlong into the crowd, elbowing through the tightly squeezed bodies without pausing to look back. She could not wait to get out into the sunlight and fresh air. When she emerged from the dark interior of the church, she saw a young woman seated on a mat. She was selling fruit. Ana gave her the shawl that had covered her head, saying that it was a gift. The girl took it gladly, her face showing that she was puzzled by the strange woman who did not stop even to be thanked.

It could be said that my story ended that day in Mexico City, but it didn't. I returned to Los Angeles convinced that like other people I would continue to live my life with unresolved doubts and questions. This thought made me feel shallow, and because I couldn't think of anything to fill the emptiness, I threw myself once again into my business.

During those years I still received letters from Amy and Franklin who had grown old but seemed always to watch over me despite the distance that separated us. A letter came from Franklin in 1975. It was brief, but what it said affected me as I hadn't imagined possible. Amy had died in her sleep, he said. There had been no pain. When he discovered her that
morning, he could tell that her passing had been serene.

He ended his letter saying, “Amy has left you something that I'll mail you soon. I want to tell you, also, that hardly a day passed in which we didn't speak about you and Ismael. You were the daughter we never had; he our grandson. And, Ana, just recently, we remembered Hagar all over again. Just before going to bed one night, Amy said to me, ‘If ever I die before you do, Franklin, I want you to promise me that you'll remind Ana of Hagar.'”

When I finished reading the letter, I sat up until past midnight. I stayed in the dark watching the images of my life drift by me. I reached far back into my memory to my girlhood, when I played and danced outside the hut with the palm roof. The faces of the campesinas of the tomato fields seemed to melt off the white plaster walls, and I saw Tavo's face as the setting sun wove strands of gold into his hair. I felt his caresses and kisses, which blurred with those of Ismael. I saw myself sitting at the kitchen table as I listened to Amy's high-pitched voice reading from the pages of the Old Testament. And the enigma of Hagar swirled around me, unsettling me as it always did.

As Franklin had promised, a package came from him some weeks later. I put the bundle on the coffee table and sat for a long time staring at the brown wrapping paper and twine that held the parcel together. I knew what it contained even without opening it. I could tell by its weight and by its shape, because I had held it in my hands countless times.

When I finally unbound the ties and ripped the paper away, the worn edges of Amy's Bible appeared. I noticed the faded leather marker, and I knew what I would read when I opened the book at that place. When I stuck my fingers between the pages, the book opened to the verses telling of Ismael and Hagar.

I closed my eyes to calm my nerves. When I looked again, I focused on those lines that had been underlined over and again with different shades of ink, as if Amy were trying to tell me something. I took the book in my hands and read the words. “You are with child and shall bear a son; you shall call him Ismael because the Lord has heard you in your humiliation.”

“The Lord has heard you in your humiliation.” These words hit me with such force that I think I stopped breathing.
I searched my memory, recalling the night that Amy had read about Hagar. Had Amy skipped that verse? I couldn't remember. I put the book aside, but the turmoil inside of me went on for days, and my agitation grew with each hour. My mind groped and floundered until I decided to return to the place of my birth, hoping to find the answer there.

I left Los Angeles not knowing what I would discover in the land of my childhood. When I arrived in Puerto Real I went to where the palapas had stood and found that in their place were condominiums and hotels. There was nothing left of the hut in which I and my sisters had been born. There wasn't a trace of Tía Calista's house, either, or of anything that might have reminded me of my childhood days when I sat gazing at the sea, dreaming of becoming a dancer.

I returned to the cove of my childhood only to find it crowded with bathers and skiers. I was surrounded by people and children who shouted as they played games, as well as by vendors who peddled coconuts and fried fish. I left and returned next day at dawn, hoping that it would be as it used to be.

It was still dark that morning as I walked from one end of the cove to the other. I was alone, waiting for the sun to rise. I felt excited because I had not seen the sun come out over the gulf since the day we had left to go to the Valley of the Yaqui. I sat down and buried my toes in the black, moist sand as I watched the yellow ball begin to peek over the horizon.

My mind recreated the steps that had taken me away from Puerto Real, and those that had brought me back. I remembered when my father cast me away from him, as well as the loneliness from which Amy and Franklin Bast had rescued me. I felt Doña Hiroko's gentle hands, and I saw Doña Trini's face.

I looked out toward the rising sun and my heart filled with memories of César and my sisters. I felt my heart beating faster because Ismael, still a baby, was walking by me. He was so real that I saw his footprints on the sand, and when I reached out to him I saw that he was grown, and his name was Terrance.

I raised my hands to my eyes to get a closer look at them, and I saw that they were spotted, and that the veins bulged against skin that was beginning to wrinkle. I felt under my
chin, running my fingers over the loose layers around my neck. I had grown old, and I knew that only now was I beginning to see what before had been blurred shadows.

I listened to the early sounds of people beginning their workday, and it struck me that I would be one of them if 'Apá had not taken us north. I thought of the people I would not have known and the moments I would not have lived. Then I tried to visualize my sisters and Octavio just as we had been at the time we trudged, single file, over the very sand I was sitting on. I tried to see our faces as they had been when we were children. Finally, after some minutes, I was able to draw up that picture.

The sound of the ebbing waves receded and Amy's voice suddenly sounded inside of me. She was repeating the Hagar verses, those telling of the slave girl being cast out into the desert, and of her fear because she desired to live. I closed my eyes, partly because the sun was now coming over the horizon and its brightness was almost intolerable, but also because I was straining to reach farther into my memories, trying to unravel the mystery of Hagar and what meaning it had for me. I wanted to return to the ranch and to the kitchen table where Franklin and I had sat listening to Amy.

I gazed at the emerald-colored water as it connected with the deepening blue sky, and then I looked into myself, remembering the words I had uttered while I was still a young girl. “It seems to me that the Lord saved Hagar because she was important on her own, because she was who she was. She came first, and God needed her so that her son could exist. That means that Hagar was more valuable than her son.”

My body stiffened and I yanked my feet out of the sand when I remembered how Amy had answered my interpretation of the verses. “Well, now, I'll just have to give this whole thing a bit more thought.” Yet, she never again said what she really thought. Not until now, after her death, when she finally showed me the verses that told of Hagar's importance; that she had been heard because she was she, and because her distress had meaning, even if Ismael had not existed.

I began to see that what Amy must have meant was that despite my father's hateful curse, despite Octavio's betrayal, despite my sins, and even after finding Ismael only to have him disappear from my life, still, like Hagar, it was for me to choose to go on living because I was given a life to live. This
thought coursed through me. It gradually flooded my being, freeing me at last from the desert of worthlessness into which I had been cast by my father's disdain.

I rose from the sand and stood with my face lifted to the morning sun. I felt its warmth bathe my forehead and cheeks. After a while, I turned away from the water's edge and began to make my way back home. I was at peace because now I understood that I had lived and loved, and that I had discovered the value of who I am.