Tortilla Sun (2 page)

I heard Mom’s footsteps coming toward my closed bedroom door. I held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t knock.

Tap
.
Tap
.

Silence.

“Izzy?” she spoke quietly.

My hands wandered beneath my pillow and gripped the baseball I had hidden there. I squeezed my eyes closed and whispered, “I wish I didn’t have to go. I wish I didn’t have to go.”

“I’ve brought your suitcase.” She stood outside my door for what seemed like forever. I pictured her on the other side, arms crossed, head down.

“I think you’re going to like the village.” Her voice became a little muffled now, like her mouth was pressed right up against the door. “It’s strange and beautiful at the same time and a perfect place to explore. You just might be surprised what you find there.” She paused for a moment then continued. “Would you please talk to me?”

I burrowed my head under the pillow with the baseball. A tiny piece of me felt guilty for stealing it, but it belonged to my dad and that made it special. That made it a part of me.

“I’ll just leave the suitcase here for you,” she said. Her bare feet slapped against the tile and carried her away.

Two days later, I stood at the gate waiting to board the plane. Mom adjusted my backpack and smiled anxiously. “It will go by fast, really.”

I didn’t know if she was trying to convince me or herself. I stared at the purple and blue threads zigzagging through the carpet and wondered why my wish hadn’t come true.

Mom squeezed me tight and pushed my hair from my face. “I’ll see you soon.”

I nodded and handed my boarding pass to the agent. I didn’t look back.

From thousands of feet in the air, Albuquerque looked like brown sandpaper stretched between a giant mountain in the east and a long green ribbon of trees in the west. The river beyond the valley curled back and forth across the landscape as if it were looking for a place to rest. I squeezed my eyes shut and felt my stomach churn as the plane drew closer to this strange place.

Moments after I got off the airplane and walked into the airport, I noticed a small man in a straw cowboy hat holding a sign that read “Isadora Roybal.” I looked around for Nana. I had a small picture of her in my backpack just in case I couldn’t remember what she looked like. As I approached, the man smiled.

The brim of his hat met my eyebrows and made me feel too tall for my age, like a flamingo on stilts.

“
Hola
,
señorita
. You must be Isadora.”

“Izzy,” I said.

His black almond eyes drooped at the corners and only turned up when he smiled, which he couldn’t seem to stop doing. He reached for my small suitcase. “I am Mr. Castillo, your ride home.”

Why would Nana send some stranger to pick me up? Maybe she didn’t really want me for the summer. I pulled my suitcase closer. “Where’s my nana?”

“Cooking for the
fiesta
.”

I could tell he expected me to follow him but I stood still, unsure of what to do next.

“Maybe I should call her first,” I said.

He laughed. “Yes. I agree. Except she won’t answer the phone when she is cooking.
Mira
, I can prove she sent me and I am who I say I am.” He took off his hat, as if this might help him think better.

I nodded.

“Your name is Isadora.” He smiled. “I mean Izzy Roybal, age twelve, a true New Mexican.” He put his hat back on his head. “And your mama is Maria Roybal.”

I twisted my hair around my finger. “What else do you know about me?”

“More details?” He laughed.

“You have your mother’s chin, and strong will, but your eyes remind me of your papa, as if he were standing here before me.”

“You knew my father?”

“Everyone in the village knew him. Jack was a very good man. You should feel proud to be his daughter.”

If he was so good, why did Mom keep him from me?

“Now,
ven
. Your nana is busy preparing for you. Let’s not disappoint her.”

He turned and led me outside to a rusted pickup truck filled to the brim with yellow onions. The hot, dry air scraped against my
skin just like the words Mr. Castillo said about my dad scratched at a corner of my mind.

“You must really like onions,” I said.

“
Sí
. But these are for sale. I grow them.” He smiled proudly.

I slid into the cab of the truck beside him and clutched my backpack on my lap. Soon we rolled onto the highway. The truck whizzed by sunburned earth dotted with dark green bushes too scrawny to provide any shade. Mountains loomed ahead in the distance as we sped down the highway.

“Those are the Sandia mountains,” Mr. Castillo said as we drew closer. “
Sandía
means watermelon in Spanish.
¿Hablas Español?”

“I understand a little Spanish but my mom never really taught me. And they don’t look like watermelons.”

He chuckled. “Wait until sunset. They will turn the most beautiful pink you’ve ever seen.”

As we drove, each mile of desert seemed the same as the mile before.

“What are those?” I pointed toward the sky in the distance.

“Haven’t you ever seen a hot air balloon?”

“Only in the movies,” I said.

He laughed. “People come from all over come to ride our skies. They say our wind is perfect.”

“Can anyone ride in them?” I asked.

Mr. Castillo rubbed the back of his neck. “You know come to think of it, the village has a balloon. Or used to.” His voice softened. “Don’t know whatever happened to it.”

“What is the village like?”

Mr. Castillo glanced sideways at me. “I forget, you’ve not been since you were a baby. Well then, you will have to see for yourself.”

He smiled and bounced in his seat to the rhythm of the Mexican music on the radio. My heart skipped off-key as I wiped my sweaty palms across my jeans. Where was Mom sending me?

By the time we reached the edge of the village, more than forty miles away, I had sneezed no fewer than twenty times and I could feel my eyelids swelling to the size of grapes. But I felt a pinch of hope as we crisscrossed back roads toward a lush valley where majestic trees crowned the sienna earth.

The truck bounced down a dirt road lined with
adobe
homes on both sides. The roofs were flat and the walls had thick rounded edges that made them look like packed mud.

Mr. Castillo stopped and pointed to the left as we approached a plaza bracketed with big, full trees and bordered by more
adobes
. “That’s the village center.”

A big round lady stooped over a crying boy with dark brown cheeks. He’d spilled his chocolate ice cream cone on his shoe. Two little girls in sundresses chased a Chihuahua across the grass as it
darted toward the melting chocolate. To our right, stone steps led to a small
adobe
church with large cracks down its walls. Mr. Castillo made the sign of the cross as we passed.

“Is this where Nana lives?”

He shook his head. “She lives a couple of miles from the center, out in the quiet country.”

We started down a long dirt road lined with cottonwood and elm trees. A large
adobe
house with windows trimmed in bright turquoise lay at the end. Tree limbs bowed over the sides of the flat roof, screening out the hot New Mexico sun, and the house stretched from one edge of the shade to the next.

I hopped down from the pickup, tossed my backpack over my right shoulder, and followed Mr. Castillo through a crooked wooden gate that lead into a sunny courtyard. I had to be careful not to trip over all the terracotta pots filled with vibrant yellow-and-purple wildflowers lining the narrow brick pathway leading to the front door.

“Ah,
mijita
!” Nana burst from the front door and knocked over a small wooden statue of Mary. She swept past the statue as Mr. Castillo knelt down to pick it up. I didn’t remember her being so small.

She reached up and hugged me tight. “Isadora, you’ve grown like the elm.”

My body stiffened under her embrace. “Just Izzy.”

She stepped back and gazed at me, smiling. “Your mama sent pictures but they didn’t show me how
bonita
you are!
Ay
, you are so big. I haven’t seen you since that last trip to California.” She tapped her fingers on the side of her face like she were counting the years. “Do you remember? You must’ve been only six or so.” She waved her hand in the air. “Yes, I could never live in such a busy place. Too much traffic and so many people.”

Her small round frame made me feel even taller than the flamingo on stilts.

She turned to Mr. Castillo. “
Gracias
.”

He removed his hat and leaned forward. “
De nada
.”

Then he leaned toward me and said with a warm smile, “
Bienvenida
. Welcome.”

“Come, come—meet my
amigas
,” Nana said, bouncing toward the front door. Her rose colored dress nearly covered her small bare feet.

We made our way inside where a dozen women stood on each side of a long pine table, laughing and pressing their hands into big, silver mixing bowls.

“We are making fresh
tamales
for tomorrow’s fiesta.”

“
Fiesta
?”

“
Sí
.
Mañana
is my best friend’s birthday and you’re here. Two reasons to celebrate.”

Inside, I stood frozen like the Mary statue in Nana’s courtyard, staring into a kaleidoscope of colors—red rugs, purple pillows, pink flowers, and yellow walls. My stomach spun like a carousel going too fast and suddenly I ached for home where everything felt familiar. All the women waved and smiled.

“I didn’t know you lived out in the country,” I said as I wrapped my arms around my aching stomach and did my best to smile back at the strangers.

“This isn’t the country, just a small village on the outside of the
ciudad
.” She wrinkled up her nose. “And you smell like you just crawled out of a wet onion sack.”

“It’s the onions from the truck; my throat still burns. I think I must be allergic or something.”

“
Sigame
,” she said laughing.

I followed her past the long tables and into the sky-blue kitchen. Dried flowers and plants hung in tied bunches from the ceiling, making the kitchen smell like a freshly lit cranberry candle. Nana pinched a few of the bundles between her fingers and ground up the dried flowers into a black stone bowl. Then she poured hot water over the mixture into a teacup.

“Here, drink this.” She handed me the tea and a
tortilla
from a basket shaped like a straw hat. “And eat this.”

The hot tea slid down my throat, warming everything on the way down. It tasted bitter, like peeling an orange with your teeth,
so I took big bites out of the
tortilla
, which made it easier to swallow. I rolled the leftover bits of herbs around in my mouth, not sure if I was supposed to eat those too. But I didn’t want to have an allergic reaction to onions ever again, so I pushed the bitterness to the back of my throat and swallowed hard.

Nana’s whole house seemed to be breathing with color and life. Everywhere I turned, angels and saints stared at me from the walls.

“You sure have a lot of paintings,” I said as Nana walked me down a long narrow hall to show me my bedroom.

“
Sí
. These have been in the family for generations. Each has a story.”

Nana paused in front of a small painting of Mary holding Baby Jesus that hung on the wall next to a large wooden door. I stood to the left of the painting and then swayed to the right. Mary’s eyes followed me back and forth.

“See this painting of Mary? My
papá’s papá
received it as a gift from a priest who painted it close to one hundred years ago. It has seen many sorrows and joys. And now it hangs on this wall, protecting all who sleep in this room.”

Why would I need protection? I felt light-headed. So many new things spun around me; I wasn’t sure what to focus on first. Nana pressed open the door. “Meet Estrella.”

A tall four-poster bed stood at the center of the room. Creamy gauze curtains hung loosely around the edges. At the foot of the bed lay a light blue blanket threaded with lemon yellow that matched the blue swirls layering the walls. Two French doors opened to a walled courtyard with a brightly painted yellow and purple fountain.

“It’s so … so colorful,” I said with a hint of surprise.

Nana laughed and leaned against one of the bedposts “But of course it’s colorful. Life is color, isn’t it?”

I glanced around the room waiting for someone to appear. “So where’s Estrella?”

Nana swept her arm in front of her. “The room is named Estrella. See those windows?”

A few inches below the ceiling were two small square windows. But you couldn’t see anything out of them unless you wanted to stare at the empty sky.

“Those windows were specially designed, to frame the view of the stars. And star in Spanish is …” Nana raised her eyebrows waiting for my reply.

“
Estrella
?” I said.

She nodded. “
Muy bien
.”

I gazed out those windows imagining the stars that would come to visit, but in the light of day all I saw were layers of clouds inching across a lonely blue sky.

“Do you name all the rooms in your house?”

“Only if the name feels right.” Nana pressed her small hands on her hips. A warm smile spread across her face.

“Feel free to explore the village,” she said as she turned to leave. “It’s an enchanting place.” She closed the door behind her.

That was the same word Mom had used.

A silent breeze rolled in through the screen of the French doors, brushing my cheeks. Water splashed over the bowl of the small stone fountain beyond.

I unzipped the small pocket on the side of my backpack and took out the baseball that I’d kept hidden for the last few days, in case Mom found it and took it away.

On one side of the ball, little red stitches made an upside down
U
that narrowed at the center and looped wide open again on the other side. At the center, the words
because
and
magic
were
written in script, one word stacked on top of the other. But there was this strange empty space about an inch wide between the two words, and when I looked closely I noticed the tiniest of smudges, like some words were missing.