Woman in Black (63 page)

“No, just one.” He dropped a kiss onto her forehead. “In the city where the sun never sets.”

“Maybe we could just pretend this was all one long day.” She gave a wistful sigh, peering out the window at the eternal sun in its golden slipper of haze. “That way we'd never have to leave.”

“Or we could just play it by ear,” he said. “I could spend more time in New York, and you could join me on the road whenever possible. In between, we could go on trips. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” She let her head fall onto his chest, where she allowed it to rest as she dreamed with her eyes open, of a different kind of future than the one she'd always imagined. She recalled what Lila had said about not every relationship needing to be conventional and realized that, in some ways, her wanting that had been as much a figment of her imagination as the cozy, domestic persona she'd created for herself.

“So where to next?” Vaughn whispered in her ear.

She pictured them sunning themselves on some remote tropical beach, shimmering turquoise water beckoning offshore. But right now she had another, far better destination in mind.

She tipped her head back to give him a kiss that left no doubt as to her intentions. “Bed,” she said.

EPILOGUE

LAS CRUCES, MEXICO

Not much had changed in the two years since she'd last returned to her village, except that it looked more prosperous. Small changes, for the most part, but they jumped out at her wherever she went: The house next door to where she used to live, which had worn the same blistering coat of paint for as long as she could recall and was now freshly whitewashed, its trim the festive red of a dried-chile wreath; the new tile-roofed building that had gone up in place of the crumbling former convent where Milagros had gone to school; the chapel of Sangre de Cristo, with its handsome new mosaic-tiled facade replacing the old adobe one; the sign in front of the tobacconist's where her husband Gustavo used to buy his cigarettes—
Juegos!
—advertising that you could now purchase lottery tickets there.

And, of course, there was the brand-new cinder-block structure in front of which she now stood, one that might have seemed ordinary to some but to Concepción was a shining monument: the Milagros Sánchez Clínica de Medicina. It was the reason she'd traveled all this way. The reason she'd risked getting on a plane, never mind Jesús's repeated assurances that her passport was perfectly legitimate and there was no reason to fear that she'd be denied reentry to the United States. She had wanted to see this with her own eyes. Eyes that shone now as she turned to her husband to say, in a voice filled to overflowing with emotion, “The angels must be smiling up in heaven today.”

He squeezed her hand and nodded, looking a bit overcome himself. “
Si, seguro.
”

It wasn't much by big-city standards. Two examining rooms and a small dispensary, staffed by a lone doctor and nurse—a girl Milagros had gone to school with, in fact—but to the community, it was a godsend. Lives would be saved: ailing infants and
viejos
who wouldn't survive the daylong trip to the medical center in Hermosillo; young women who might otherwise bleed to death after a visit to the abortionist's in the dark of night; victims of accident and fire who would succumb to their injuries without immediate medical attention.

It was too late as far as her daughter was concerned, but for Concepción it was redemption of sorts: that of the Señora, who'd kept her promise, and possibly of herself. For she'd finally and fully forgiven the Señora. She'd come to see the truth in her
abuelita
's words and know that in a heart filled with hatred, there'd have been no room for the blessings that had since come her way, blessings that would have been left shivering out in the cold like beggars denied shelter.

She could see the Señora up on the dais consulting with the mayor and the newly appointed director of the clinic, Dr. Gutierrez, before the commencement of the dedication ceremony. The canopy over the dais shielded them from the harshest of the sun's rays, but in the light that filtered through the loosely woven cloth, the Señora appeared to glow like one of the gilded statues in the chapel, where Concepción had knelt to pray earlier in the day. The Señora was no saint, for sure, but neither was she the devil Concepción had once imagined her to be. If nothing else, she'd had the ability to recognize where she'd failed and to try to rectify those errors. No, there would be no bringing Milagros back, but if not for the Señora, there wouldn't have been this clinic; nor would Concepción have known the quiet strength of this man at her side or—

Her thoughts were interrupted by the blare of trumpets and thrumming of guitars as the mariachi band under a thatched
palapa
in the plaza across the way launched into a spirited number. Concepción looked around her and saw that the small group gathered for the ceremony had swelled to more than a hundred. At the fringes of the crowd were vendors hawking their wares—steaming
tamales
wrapped in corn husks, fried
churros
dusted with sugar, peeled mangoes on sticks, sprinkled with chile powder, as well as all manner of trinkets and religious medallions. It might have been the festival of el Día de los Muertos rather than a tribute to something life-giving.

It was midmorning by the time the dedication ceremony commenced. Concepción, who had been standing for the better part of an hour, having arrived early with her husband to be assured the best view of the podium, shifted from one foot to the other, still weary even after two days of resting from their long trip. But excitement soon triumphed over exhaustion as the speeches began, the first one by the portly mayor, Señor Hidalgo, followed by the director of the clinic, Dr. Gutierrez, a boyish-looking man sporting an earring in one ear, who went on enthusiastically at some length about how deeply honored he was to be serving his own community.

The Señora was the last to speak. Watching as she approached the podium, Concepción thought she might have been a deity for the reverent hush that fell over the crowd. In that moment the Señora almost seemed to be one as she stood poised before them, so radiant she nearly glowed, her arms lifted as if to deliver a benediction rather than a speech. Certainly she looked like no one else in her white dress belted at the waist and stylish straw hat tied with a polka-dot ribbon.

Concepción found herself leaning forward expectantly along with the rest of the crowd, gripping her husbands arm while holding her shawl tightly wrapped around her with the other. She had declined the Señora's invitation to take part in the proceedings, despite her repeated urgings. Concepción hadn't wanted this day to be about her when, in her eyes, it belonged to her daughter alone. For, however tragic the origin, there would have been no clinic without Milagros.

The Señora leaned in to speak, but something was wrong with the microphone. It let out a series of squawks and squeals, and as the Señora stood by patiently waiting for the man fiddling with it to get it working again, Concepción found herself reflecting on the journey that had brought her full circle. The hellish trek through the desert … meeting Jesús … rescuing the Señora's daughter from the fire. She recalled little of the immediate aftermath of that fire, during which time she'd drifted in and out of consciousness for what she was later told was the better part of a week. Her only clear memories were of the Señora appearing at her bedside in the hospital from time to time: holding a glass of water to her chapped lips, fetching her an extra blanket when she was cold, bringing bouquets of flowers to brighten the room.

Then one day Concepción opened her eyes, and there was Jesús standing over her. She was so disoriented from the drugs they'd been giving her that her first thought was that she was dreaming.

“Jesús?
Estás tú?
” She'd touched him to make sure he was real.

“
Sí, mi corazón.
” He gently took hold of her hand, and though even that slight pressure caused her to wince—her bandages had been removed by then, but her hands were still red and swollen—she didn't pull it away. The sight of Jesús's dear face hovering over her, his brown eyes peering at her with a mixture of love and concern, was more healing than any medicine. “I got here as soon as I could,” he told her. “It was only yesterday that I learned what had happened.”

She nodded, her cracked lips forming a smile. “I'm glad you came.”

“The doctor tells me you're being released tomorrow. I've come to take you home,” he informed her.

At first she was confused. Home to her village? Was that where he was taking her? “It's a long way for you to travel,” she rasped in her scratchy whisper of a voice.

To which he responded, with a smile, “And where else would you have me go? Don't I live there, too?”

Then she understood. He meant home to LA.

She shook her head. “I can't go with you.”

His smile faded, his beautiful but not handsome face seeming to crumple into itself. “
Porqué no?
” he asked. “Did you not promise to come back to me when all this was finished?”

She hadn't promised that, exactly, but she didn't argue with him. Besides, there was now a different reason why she couldn't remain with Jesús. “I'm in this country illegally,” she reminded him. “They know about it—a man from La Migra came to see me yesterday.” A big, official-looking
gringo
holding a clipboard who had asked her a lot of questions in his rudimentary Spanish. “The Señora has said she will try and get me a green card, but there are no guarantees. And even if she succeeds, I'll most probably be sent home while the matter is being decided.”

Jesús surprised her by bursting into laughter. He laughed so hard, tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. When his laughter subsided, he said, shaking his head and dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief, “Ah,
mi corazón
. Is that all that's worrying you? I was afraid it was something worse than that.”

“Isn't that enough?” she asked, puzzled by his behavior.

He leaned closer to kiss her on the lips, whispering, “La Migra can't send you back when we are man and wife.”

A week after they arrived back in LA, they were married at City Hall. And now Concepción was no longer the widow Delgado but Mrs. Jesús Ramírez, wife of a U.S. citizen, and as such, the proud possessor of the blue passport now safely tucked in her purse. She had her own home as well, the one that she and Jesús had moved into shortly after they had been married. It even had fruit trees in the backyard. Not only that, she was taking driving lessons so that she could someday drive her own car—though she'd made Jesús promise not to buy her one that was new or fancy, lest she be mistaken for a
gringa
. In short, she was living the life that her daughter had once dreamed of when Milagros used to talk of joining her husband in the Promised Land.

Concepción felt the old sorrow well up in her at the thought. How she'd have loved to share her newfound prosperity with Milagros! Briefly, she wondered about the Señora's daughter. How was she faring? Well, she was alive, at least. Which was more than Concepción could say of her child.

The microphone let out a final earsplitting squeal before the Señora's voice at last came floating forth on a sea of applause. For those who'd been expecting her to address the audience in English, Concepción among them, it came as a welcome surprise when, ignoring the translator who stood in readiness at her side, she did so in Spanish, albeit haltingly, eliciting approving murmurs from the crowd. “
Señores e Señoras, estoy aquí en este día de tan importancia
…” She didn't wish to be thanked, she went on to say, this time with the aid of the translator (of which Concepción herself had no need, as her English had vastly improved over the past year or so). Instead, it was she who should be thanking the people of Las Cruces. None of this would have been possible, she reminded them, without the labor they'd provided, much of it free; she knew they had also worked hard to make the factory a success, which in part had enabled her to fund this worthy cause. Without their help, the dream of the clinic would never have been realized.

“There is one more person I would like to thank,” she said in conclusion. “She would be up here with me if she weren't so modest, so I'll have to speak for her in saying that she wishes for her daughter's memory to live on with this clinic that bears her name.” The Señora's eyes, bright with tears, scanned the crowd in search of Concepción. “I can honestly say I wouldn't be standing here today if not for this remarkable woman. She's the real reason for this clinic. Concepción Delgado—excuse me,
Ramírez
—I know the angels are smiling down from heaven today.”

Concepción felt a light chill go through her, hearing the Señora echo the very words she herself had spoken to Jesús earlier on. Only for her, it wasn't the angels smiling down from heaven but one angel in particular.

She felt hands nudging her from behind. Mañuel and Magdalena Veléz, former neighbors of hers with whom she and Jesús had been staying. They were urging her to step forward and make her presence known. They couldn't understand why she would prefer to remain in the shadows, for if they'd had any memory of the dark time when she had blamed the Señora for the death of her daughter, they had forgotten it. And now others who knew her were propelling her forward as well. Concepción looked to Jesús in mild panic, but he only smiled helplessly in return, as if to say,
We both knew this would happen. It's no use trying to escape
.

Becoming aware of the commotion, the crowd parted before her, and Concepción had no choice but to step forward, her shawl clutched tightly around her. People were cheering, but she ignored them. She would not use this occasion to reap glory for herself. She'd done nothing to deserve it. She had lost her child, and, as any mother could testify, there was no glory or honor in that.