Carry Me Like Water

  “A twin?”

  “Yes, a twin. I’m sure of it. There’s another listing on the same day: Maria de Lourdes Aguila, born on the same day, and baptized by the same godparents. The parents’ names don’t appear.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  She nodded. “See.” She lifted the book and showed the place in each entry that listed both the parents and godparents. “It used to be that parents often did not attend their own children’s baptism. I know that sounds strange, but in the old days, the parents stayed home to prepare a big feast. Even so, their names always appeared in the record.”

  “Why do you suppose the parents’ names don’t appear?”

  “I don’t know. There must have been some special circumstances—otherwise the priest would have never allowed it.”

  “Are you sure the two are twins?”

  “Two children born on the same day, baptized by the same couple on the same day, neither one listing the parents. Yes, I’m sure they were twins. You have a better explanation?”

  Lizzie smiled at the woman. “It sounds reasonable.”

  “Did the sister go and visit him?”

  Lizzie shook her head, then changed her mind. “Weil, yes, she visited him once—but only once,” She wanted to move away from the subject of the sister. “Anyway, I’d very much like to give a gift in his name.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a pen and her checkbook. She wrote out a check for two hundred dollars, and handed it to the woman. She started for the door. As her hand touched the knob, she turned around and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know if he’s having his funeral Mass here, would you?”

  “No,” she said, “there’s nothing scheduled that I know of.”

  “Is it possible one of the priests forgot to tell you?”

  She laughed. “It’s possible. Anything’s possible.” She laughed again, “But I practically run this place.”

  Lizzie smiled. “Good for you,” she said. “Thank you so much. You’ve been very helpful.” She closed the door behind her softly.

  As she walked down the steps, she heard the woman call her name. She looked up at her. “If I hear anything about his funeral, I’ll call you. I’ll take your name and number from the check—would that be all right?”

  Lizzie smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” she said again. “You’re very kind.” As she got into her car, she noticed the church. She wondered what it looked like on the inside. She sat in her car for a long time fighting the urge to go inside. She did not know why she was afraid. She turned the key to the ignition and slowly drove away.

  “What brings you to Palo Alto in the middle of the day?” The old woman reached out and embraced her daughter. “You look a little tired.” She took Lizzie by the hand and dragged her into the kitchen. “I just now put on a fresh pot of coffee. Your timing is perfect,” She poured them both some coffee. “So, did you escape from the City to spend the day with Helen?”

  “Actually, Mom, I took the day off because I’ve been working too hard—and I needed a rest. And I needed to talk—” She paused and shook her head. “God, I wish I had a cigarette.”

  “It’ll pass, Lizzie.”

  “No it won’t!” she yelled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.”

  “What is it, Lizzie? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  “I’m your mother, Lizzie, just talk—but don’t yell. I hate it when you yell. I’m not up for a fight today.”

  “Oh, Mom, I’ve been telling you everything I wanted all my life—and that’s been the cause of all our fights. I’m constantly pissing you off about everything.”

  “A mother’s supposed to frown at her child for saying ‘piss’ in front of her. Don’t you know that, Lizzie? That sounds stupid, doesn’t it? It is stupid.” She reached over and touched her daughter’s earrings. “Where did you get these earrings? They’re lovely.”

  “I thought you’d find them a little overstated.”

  “Everything you wear is overstated, Elizabeth—but that doesn’t mean I don’t like what you wear. You’re outrageous, overstated, and stunning.”

  “Mama, how come you’re being so nice today? Your timing is awful.”

  “Elizabeth, you have an interesting memory. Why is it that you only remember our disagreements and never remember how well we usually get along? I don’t understand you.”

  “Do we get along, Mama?”

  “We both tike to fight—so what?”

  Elizabeth smiled, then looked down at the floor.

  “Elizabeth, what? Talk to me.”

  “Mom, I came here to fight with you—to have a real good fight—and as soon as you open the door, you’re so damned nice to me that I could just throw up.”

  “Sometimes I could just slap you, Lizzie.”

  “That’s more like it, Mother.”

  The old woman shook her head. Elizabeth reached for her hand. They looked at each other for a long time. “Mom, I’m going to ask you a question—and I want you to tell me the truth.”

  Her mother sensed the urgency in her voice. She became afraid, braced her body, felt her heart pounding faster and faster. She knew what the question would be—did not know why she knew but she knew—and wondered if, after all this, she was about to lose the young woman who sat in front of her. She let go of Elizabeth’s hand, “Ask me anything you want, Elizabeth. Anything.”

  Elizabeth sensed the resignation in her mother’s voice. She took a deep breath, sipped her coffee, and whispered her question: “Am I adopted?”

  Her mother heard the question and sat perfectly still as if she were absorbing every word into the deepest part of herself. The old woman refused to simply nod. She wanted to answer her daughter’s question in words. It had been a hard question to ask—and she wanted to answer it. Somehow, she knew this day would come, and she refused to make herself the center of the moment, refused to play a helpless old woman begging for sympathy. She forced herself to speak. “Yes,” she paused for a moment and searched her daughter’s face. “Lizzie, you’re adopted. It was wrong of us not to tell you—but sometimes you’re so deep in a lie that the truth becomes impossible.” She stopped herself from saying any more, and waited for her daughter to speak.

  Elizabeth combed her hair back and looked straight at her mother. She studied her for a moment, her graying, thinning hair, the lines on her face, her hands beginning to twist from an arthritis that punished her body day after day. She looked at the woman she had known as her mother for all of her life. It wasn’t true that she didn’t feel cheated—but she knew she could never hate her, could only love her despite the fact they had never agreed on anything. It occurred to her that she was glad to love the old woman standing in front of her. She was almost surprised by what she felt. She could ask her anything, now. She could trust herself. “Mama, what was my name before you named me Elizabeth Edwards?”

  “If you know you were adopted, then you must know what your name was.”

  “I want to hear it from you, Mama. I want to hear you say my name.”

  The old woman nodded. “Maria de Lourdes,” she whispered, “Maria de Lourdes Aguila. It’s a lovely name. I wanted to keep it. Your father wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “And what happened to my brother?”

  “So you know about him, too. He was adopted by someone else.” “Do you know their names?”

  “Juan and Gloria Silva. He used to work for us. He was the gardener. They took your brother.”

  “Didn’t you want him?”

  “To tell you the truth I wanted him more than I wanted you. I was so in love with him.”

  “Why did you take me instead of him?”

  “Elizabeth, I don’t want to …” She reached for her daughter’s hand. Her lips quivered. She bit them to keep them still. “I’m so ashamed.” She let go of her daughter’s hand. She walked away from the kitchen table and looked out the window. She turned toward her daughter and gave her a crooked smile. She decide
d just to say it, to say it and get it over with, be free of it. Elizabeth waited patiently for her mother to speak, “Your father didn’t want your brother because he looked too Mexican—plain and simple. I don’t know how else to put it.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t have to explain your father to you, do 1. Elizabeth? He could ignore the fact that your mother was a Mexican maid because you didn’t look like her. Funny, how selective our biases are. Look at your skin, Elizabeth. Your mother called you Blanca when you were bom because you were so white. I wanted to call you that, too. But your brother could have never passed—it’s as simple and as ugly as that. Your mother left you both with me, and I had to find a home for your brother. She asked me to have you baptized—it was all she asked. So the Silvas had you baptized along with your brother. Your father never knew. He would never have allowed it. You know, Lizzie, when I was younger, I was an arrogant woman. I let your father break me. I begged him to let me keep your brother. I begged him. He said he’d let that baby die before he let him live in his house. I’ve been punishing your father for his refusal ever since. I hate him—but that’s not new to you, is it?”

  “Why don’t you leave him?”

  “Let’s not talk about me right now. There’s nothing pressing about my feelings toward your father. Never mind your father and me.” She wanted her daughter to say something—anything at all.

  “I think I resent you for staying with him, Mama.” She unhooked one of her earrings, and clenched it in her fist. She tossed it in the air and let it fall to the ground. She stared at it. “I met my brother, Mama. I met him before he died. Yesterday, he died of AIDS at St. Mary’s.” She thought of the gift he had given her. “Mama, was there something unusual about my mother?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was there something special about her?”

  The old woman nodded. “She used to tell me things about myself. She used to take my palm and read it. She said I would have arthritis when I was older. She told me my marriage would always be unhappy. She said my husband was infertile, and that I must never believe that I was barren. She said I would live a long time, and that I would die a peaceful death. She died less than a year after you and your brother were born. She wrote to me and told me she had always known she would die young. That’s why she’d given you up. Apparently, she died of some kind of cancer. Your mother was a seer. Is her daughter a seer, too?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “I hope she’s not afraid of it.”

  “Mama, I am afraid.”

  “Learn not to be. Don’t be afraid of your blood.”

  “Blood?” She shook her head. “Am I my blood?” She looked confused. “Do you know anything about my father?”

  “Only that he was killed just after you were conceived. Your mother never said how. And I know his name—his name was Jaime.”

  “I don’t know what to do now, Mama. I don’t know if I can face Sam again. I never liked him. He never felt like my father. But what will that mean?”

  “It will mean you can hate him freely.”

  “I meant, what will it mean for you?”

  “Don’t worry—please don’t worry. He made me promise I’d never tell you about your background. I had no right to make that promise. He had no right to ask me to keep it. Do what you have to do.” She tasted her coffee. “It’s cold,” she said. “Is there anything else, Lizzie?” Her voice was soft.

  “Well, one thing, Mama. How is it, if I was bom in Chicago, that I was baptized in a church in San Francisco?”

  “You weren’t born in Chicago. You were born here. We moved to Libertyville right after we adopted you. Your father had a business in Chicago—so we moved—he didn’t trust me to keep you away from your brother. The Silvas stopped writing me after a few years. I think your father had something to do with that. I’m sure he paid them off,” She looked at her watch. “Listen, your fath—I mean he’ll be home soon. He’s taking the afternoon off. You’d better go—unless you want to see him.”

  “No.”

  “Then go.”

  Elizabeth hesitated. “But—” She stopped, then started again. “Don’t you want to know how I found out?”

  “I think I already know.”

  “You know?”

  The old woman smiled and nodded. “Wait here,” she said. She left the room for a moment. It didn’t take her long to return with an old letter in her hand. “I received this letter before she died.” She opened it carefully and began reading. “The boy has a strong gift. Nothing will come of it in his life. I had a dream. My son was pale and dying. He’ll die young like me. He was holding his sister’s palm—and giving her his gift. I had the dream many times …” Her mother stopped reading. She handed her the letter. “Take it.”

  Lizzie didn’t look at the letter. She folded it, and held it in her hand. She looked at the old woman sitting in front of her. “You believe?”

  “Sometimes it’s not hard to believe.”

  Lizzie unfolded the letter and stared at her mother’s handwriting. “My mother could write English?”

  “Why shouldn’t she? She was a very literate woman. She was educated by nuns.”

  “Was she born rich?”

  “Very. Somewhere along the line she divorced her family.”

  “But why?”

  “She never said. Your mother kept a lot of secrets. I suspect it had something to do with her politics.” She looked up at the kitchen clock. “You’d better go, honey. He’ll be here any minute.”

  Elizabeth placed her hand on her mother’s face. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a pain in the ass all these years. I should’ve been nicer. Mama, I just didn’t—”

  “Shhh,” her mother said. “We do what we can with what we know.” She held her daughter as tight as she could, then let her go. “Don’t come back. Don’t ever come back, Maria de Lourdes. There’s nothing here for you.”

  “What about you?”

  “You’ll hear from me.”

  Elizabeth nodded. There were no words left inside her. When she reached for the woman she had known as “mother,” she heard her voice inside her just as she had heard Salvador when he had given her his gift. Only this time the voice was soft and at peace. The voice she was hearing was simple, and said only that she was loved, that she was deeply loved. She could say nothing. She kissed the old woman on the forehead and embraced her. “Come with me,” she whispered. The old woman shook her head. Elizabeth turned and walked toward the door. She heard the old woman’s voice in her body as she left the house. “Her name was Rosario—your mother’s name was Rosario.”

  When the old woman shut the door, she noticed her daughter’s earring lying on the floor. She clutched it in her hand and put it in a place where only she could find it, in the place where she had kept Rosario’s letter.

  On her way back to San Francisco, Elizabeth decided to take the highway along the ocean. She stopped in Pescadero and bought a sandwich. She drove to the beach and peacefully ate her lunch. The homemade bread was fresh—it was soft and good against her teeth and tongue. The breeze was cold, and she shivered as she hugged herself. She concentrated on the feel of the sand on her feet. It was a simple fact: sand on the feet. It was good to have a body, she thought. But she also thought it was good to know she was more than a body, more than something physical.

  She wondered if she could leap out of her body at will. She closed her eyes and imagined herself leaping into the air. She opened her eyes and looked down at her body lying on the beach. Oh this is good, she thought, this is good. She floated through the salt air and thought of what her mother had said: “Don’t be afraid of the gift.” She thought of the house she had grown up in and remembered she’d always felt a stranger there. Now she knew. She thought of her mother, the father she had never known, the brother who had found her and passed down this strange identity. She was new. She repeated her name until the strange word she was uttering became a part of the wind: Maria de Lourdes, Maria de Lourdes, Maria
de Lourdes. From where she was floating, her body was no more than a speck in the sand, just another grain. She willed herself to go back. She reached out for her body and entered herself again. She opened her eyes and laughed at the sight of the water.

  12

  EDDIE PLACED HIS HEAD on Helen’s stomach as they lay next to each other in bed. The full moon softly lit the room; the breeze flowed in through the open window and Eddie shivered. Helen combed her fingers through his hair. “Cold?”