THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Page 16

  Dosey called softly as she opened the door about nine o’clock. Patricia felt a cloth wipe sweat from her brow as she writhed with another contraction, twisting on the water-soaked bed. Soon Carmina was bathing her forehead. First, Dosey and then Carmina came into her view and her consciousness.

  Patricia heard Dosey say she was going to tell Natty to stay near, just in case they needed a doctor. Carmina held Patricia down when she tried to stop Dosey.

  When Dosey returned, Carmina was sitting in the rocking chair near Patricia’s bed, holding the china doll. It was naked. Its little dress and panties, tiny shoes and stockings lay in a crumpled heap in the corner of the room. One arm had popped from its shoulder socket and was hanging awkwardly by a cord.

  “Lordy, what happened?” Dosey took the slender doll from Carmina and bent to pick up its rumpled clothes.

  “I do not know. She take the clothes away. Why she do this to la muneca? She love it.” She stood by the bed and fingered the little dress hanging from Dosey’s hand. “She must be crazy with the pain, si?”

  “Leave it alone,” Patricia pleaded.

  The two women stared as Patricia started a low groan that gained in volume and ascended in pitch. Her face twisted in pain.

  Dosey pushed the doll’s arm back into the shoulder and gave it to Carmina. “Put its clothes back on.” She took a wet cloth from the night stand and patted Patricia’s forehead.

  “You should have called me when you first started this, honey. You didn’t have to go through this by yourself. And what’d you do to that doll? Pretending it’s your baby?” Dosey smiled. “It’d be a funny lookin’ thing, come here grown up like that doll.”

  Patricia’s eyes opened wider and wider. Beyond surprise and pain to terror that was like another skin that trapped the sweat covering her body. Dosey was bathing her face faster, pushing against her hair as if she saw the fear. “Don’t you worry now,” she crooned. “This baby’s gonna be fine. It’ll be prettier than any doll baby you’ve ever seen.”

  Patricia stared at the doll as Carmina held it out to her. She reached out, flailed and struck the doll, hurling it into the rocking chair where it slumped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Carmina and Dosey looked as if they shared the hurt meant for the doll.

  Patricia didn’t turn her head to see where it landed. She didn’t care. The pains came harder, faster, ripping her, punishing her. For what? For getting pregnant? For hating the baby? Maybe it wouldn’t live. The words were a prayer. A pain gripped her and she was almost sorry for the thought. She heard screams. Were they hers? She stared into the round globe of the overhead light. She could see the farmhouse. She was sitting in the yard and sunbeams were glancing off the tin roof. She heard screams again and saw one of the boys running. Was it Billy? He was yelling something. Something about it was two. Two babies, that’s what he was saying. “No, no,” she cried aloud. “I don’t want two, I don’t—”

  Dosey’s voice came to her out of the light. “You might not want to, but you have to push to get that baby out. Now when I say push, do it!”

  She had to tell Dosey she didn’t want the baby. Or was it babies? Billy had said two. Two dolls to play with. She could give one to Rachel. The one that wouldn’t have eyes. Dosey was telling her to push. Why? Wouldn’t it come out by itself? She’d watched some kittens being born at Elsie’s. Five of them. They came out by themselves.

  Dosey’s face was blocking the light. Carmina was yelling, “Adelante!” What did they want her to do? Carmina was holding her down, but Dosey kept wanting her to push. How could she move with Carmina holding her arms?

  “It’s crownin’. Just a little more, honey, and we’ll have ourselves a baby.”

  Patricia squinched her eyes. She tore her hands free of Carmina and put them to her ears. She heard only the word “No” coming from her mind and mouth, but she screamed pleas to Dosey, begging her to take care of it. She didn’t want to see it. IT. IT would be deformed, or retarded.

  It would look like Pa.

  The heat enveloped her, like a dark, hot oven. She couldn’t get her breath before the searing pains came again. One last push reeled her in and out of consciousness. Voices buzzed around her. Carmina’s. Dosey’s. Did she hear a baby’s cry? She forced the sounds back; she didn’t want to hear.

  “It’s better this way.”

  “Pobrecita. Is what she want.”

  “She can start over.”

  “I take care of him. She thank me if she know.”

  Him. Patricia moved under the word. It was a heavy rock sliding down a hill. She was beneath it, struggling. If she could just get it over the top, but the hill kept getting higher, higher. She was exhausted.

  When she struggled into consciousness, Dosey looked away and quickly whispered that the baby was dead. “Poor, little th—”

  “No.” Patricia whimpered.

  “I know you—”

  “No. Don’t say it. Please, Dosey. Don’t ever say anything. I don’t want to know.” Tears bathed her cheeks. Suddenly, you was wracked by deep, shuddering sobs. “I’m so sorry,” she cried. “I didn’t really want it to die.”

  Dosey held her until she quieted. “Well, it, it’s better child. It’s really better this way. You’ll see. You can forget all about it. Go on with your life.”

  “I’ll never forget, Dosey. I’m the reason it died. I said I wanted it to,” she said quietly, resigned.

  “Nothing you said caused anything. You don’t worry your head about that. Things happen. That’s all.” Dosey smoothed her hair and held her so close she could hardly move.

  Through a blurry mist she searched the overhead light for the distant farmhouse she had seen in her pain. “It’s over then, isn’t it, Dosey? Really over?”

  “Yes. It’s over.” Dosey rubbed a cool cloth across her head, then kissed her on the cheek. “Get some sleep, honey.”

  Patricia heard the door close and knew she was alone. She lifted the heavy rock she had been under, shifted and struggled with it, until it was out of sight and mind, buried somewhere with Dorothy and Pa. Then, she cried until unconsciousness claimed her.

  She slept in a feverish state for days. She knew at times that Dosey was bathing her, changing her milk-stained gown, watching her, giving her a soothing tea.

  A cool breeze blew the curtain from the window one morning. Her hand slid from her breasts over her slightly swollen stomach. She opened her eyes and gazed around the small room. Everything looked the same. The closet door with her poster of Elvis that Natty had given her for her birthday. The dresser, its mirror circled with magazine clippings. The rocker. In it sat the china doll, fully dressed.

  Slowly, Patricia slid from under the sheet and sat on the bedside. She lifted the doll, turned it and straightened the clothes. She brought it closer and started to fold her arms around it, but stopped. She looked at her pillow, placed the doll in its special place, then went to the closet. From behind her shoes, she dragged Jeff’s old duffel bag into the room and placed it onto the bed. She opened it and without hesitation, picked up the doll and slid it head first into the dark circle of canvas. She retied the cords, knelt, and slipped the bag and doll gently into the corner of the closet.

  Even though she knew all that Dosey said was true, guilt smothered her. But, no matter how she felt, she gradually came to understand that nothing could change things. She would just store away the memory of the child, like the china doll, where she wouldn’t have to see it.

  For a long time, she sat in her chair, rocking and looking out the window, listening to the wind and breathing in the fresh, sweet scent of rain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MEXICO September 30

  Children squealed in the courtyard. It was past midnight and the fiesta was still going on. Feliz Compleaños. Happy Birthday.

  Patricia didn’t want to be reminded that babies were born in September.

  She had come in from the little terrace outside her room at La Mansion and now lay
on the hard mattress, watching the ceiling fan circle slowly. The blades became bats held by children circling a piñata. She felt dizzy and closed her eyes. She was moving round and round.

  It was her sixteenth birthday. Carmina twisted cereal boxes into cone shapes and attached them to a clay pot. Covered with crepe paper, it all looked like a star, with tassels streaming from each point. Dosey blindfolded her and spun her in a circle. She swung a broken broom handle at air until she felt drunk. Natty pulled the rope up and down, keeping the prize out of her reach. He tired before she did and allowed her to whack it several times. One last sound hit and the pot fell into pieces on the driveway, spilling its load of candy and surprises.

  She opened her eyes and watched the fan whirl. Birthdays begat birthdays and she shifted her thoughts to Max. He had been born on February fourteenth. They had always had a heart shaped piñata for him.

  “Max,” she whispered the name. Would they find him tomorrow? Was he all right? She tightened her arms around her body and felt their emptiness. She’d tried to tell him there was nothing that he could do here in Mexico. Why hadn’t he listened to her? She clutched her hands into fists.

  He had called the people of Real “his people.” He had always looked to the past for someone to identify with, but the past is nothing, she thought. Ancestors aren’t important. It’s who we are today, who we’ve become that matters.

  She should never have told him about her impoverished childhood. Even the little she did tell. She had only wanted him to understand. She’d only lied to protect him. So many lies. The hollowness she had felt after that September her unwanted baby was born was filled by Max. She always felt that she didn’t deserve him, making every ounce of love from him more precious. Now that he was missing, she wondered if her punishment had finally come. She wrestled with that thought until her whole body ached. All she could do was shut her eyes and pray for another chance.

  In the few, hot restless hours she slept, the children moved inside her head with their games, but she was up at dawn, dressed and ready to leave. While she waited for Miguel she stretched out across the bed. She jumped at a noise and sat up, unaware that she had fallen back asleep.

  Miguel sat in a leather strap chair, his feet propped on the end of the bed. He was staring at the tossed covers she had so recently left.

  “Miguel,” she said quietly. She picked up the spread from where it had fallen to the floor and straightened it across the sheets. She knew how meaningless her action was, but it gave her distance and time. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she finally asked, walking away from the bed and him.

  “I thought maybe you needed to sleep.”

  “I’ve been up since dawn. I just fell back asleep waiting for you.” Her words were sharper than she meant for them to be, but she didn’t stop there. “You know how important it is for me to get there soon.” She tried to calm herself. “Let’s go. I’m obviously ready.” She pushed by him on the way to the door. His hand caught her arm.

  “It is still early. Here,” he picked up a shoebox. “Some boots for you to wear. Pants and shirt are hanging in the closet. I will wait for you at the desk. As soon as you are ready we will leave.”

  He started to walk past her, but she caught his arm.

  “I’m ready now. See?” She held her arms out to her sides, as if presenting herself to him.

  “You can go no farther in what you are wearing,” he said like some over-bearing father. His eyes took in her floral silk blouse, tan silk-blend pants and thin slippers. He opened the closet and brought out a new pair of chino pants and a denim shirt, and held them out to her.

  She stood with her arms to her sides, staring at him.

  “Put these and the boots on. There are socks inside,” he said with force.

  “Where do you think we’re going, the Alps?”

  She didn’t take the clothes, so he dropped them in a heap on the floor.

  “The mountains are rugged and cold at night.”

  “Well, I don’t plan to climb them. That’s what vehicles are for. And I certainly don’t plan to spend the night outside.”

  The words “especially with you” hung in the air between them and they stared at each other.

  “We will go when you change. I will meet you by the desk.” He slammed the door.

  She stared at the heavy, metal-banded wood. Her anger was revved, like a race car engine. She couldn’t let it go, and since Miguel was no longer a target, it turned inward. Why was she turning on the one person she hoped would help her? Why did she care what clothes she wore? Naked or in a space suit, what difference did it make? She hurried into the thick, hot clothes. Miguel was offering to get her to Max. Bottom line.

  She thought what a kick Rachel would have at this turn of events, but even that idea didn’t put her in a better mood. Then she remembered she needed to call Rachel.

  “So, you are at La Mansion. Separate bedrooms?”

  “Don’t get cute,” Patricia answered. “Jim will be calling today, I’m sure. I want you to tell him now where I’m going. Have him bring some men and meet us in Real tomorrow. They may have to finesse their way in, but I want them there in case there’s trouble with getting Max free.”

  “You got it. He’ll probably yell at me, but I can handle him. You just be careful and stay in touch. Promise?”

  Miguel was not at the desk, but in a corner of the restaurant when she was finally ready to go. She sat down across from him, as a waiter placed two huge plates of pancakes on the table with a pot of coffee. She pushed the pancakes away and asked for a glass of water. It was too hot to eat.

  “You will be glad of the clothes. The mountains are cool.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be cool again,” she wiped perspiration from her neck.

  He shrugged and motioned the waiter for more coffee. “I have learned some more of Max.”

  “What?” She came half out of her chair.

  “I sent Daniel to Potrero yesterday. He talked to the people, to some of the miners. They had not seen Max, but the word is, he is being treated well.”

  It was all she could do not to jump up and hug him. The thought made her stare at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Her tenuous hold on eighteen-year-old indignation tightened, and she pushed her chair back, stood up and walked to a window. Through tears she saw fragments of piñatas that still littered the ground from last night’s fiesta. He was alive. Max was alive.

  She composed herself and returned to her seat. Suddenly, she was hungry. Fresh pancakes were brought and she ate greedily. Over a last cup of coffee, she remembered something. “Wait a minute. You told me in your office that it wasn’t the miners who were holding Max, but some renegade bunch that didn’t like the name ‘Morelos’. Or was that just a story you made up to keep me away from there?”

  His eyes dropped. “It was no story. Most of the people in Real hated Tomas Morelos.”

  She bit her lip. “And because they disliked him, for whatever reason, some of them took my child?”

  His eyes squinted, as if assessing whether to answer her. “They asked the government for help before the cave-in, but no one did anything. They might have thought they would keep your son until something is done for them.”

  “Do you mean Max may be caught up in some political mess?”

  He shook his head, dark strands falling on his brow, and stared at her. He seemed to be expecting her to read between the lines. To figure out what he meant by looking into his eyes, as if they were crystal balls. “That we will have to find out. Maybe we should stay here for more word.”

  “No way,” she said. “We go, or at least I’m going. Today. Now.” It was only a little disturbing that arranging for Max’s release might not be as easy as she’d thought. Paying a ransom, bargaining with goldthirsty thieves was one thing. She did that in the business world every day. Dealing with ideal-crazed political movers and old grudges was something else. An uneasy thought entered her mind. Max had come down here in a fer
vor to help “his people.” What was he mixed up in, and how much was he to blame? How much was Tomas to blame?

  “What do you know about the miners, Miguel? What did they want from the government?”

  He looked at her hard, as if to see what she meant.

  “I would think that as the owner of the Morelos mines you would know better than anyone, Patricia.” He raised his dark brows.

  She felt her face redden. “I have someone who is in charge of the mining division. You may know him, Marco Cortina. I can’t personally see after every detail of Morelos Enterprises. It is too vast.” She hated the haughty sound of her voice. First, she knew nothing of Tlantaloc and now she had to admit to more ignorance. For a fleeting moment, she was sure she saw a look of disgust on Miguel’s face. A look so like the one-sided, half-smile, half-smirk Max often wore that she turned her head.

  “Do you not know the story of Real?” He waited, but when she didn’t say anything, went on. “Silver was found there by accident in the late 1700’s. Spaniards came in and mined it. Thousands of them lived in grande haciendas all around the mountains and in Real. It was a beautiful ciudad, but in this century, Revolution came and the wealthy left. The poor stayed behind. The mines had almost played out anyway. Real de Catorce became a, how-do-you-say, a town of espiritus. Fewer people every year. Houses falling in.

  “Then about thirty years ago, my greedy step-brother and some of his amigos bought the land and reopened some of the mines. Machines could locate silver that was unseen a hundred years ago, but workers were still needed to get it to the top.”

  “Why was that bad? Didn’t the people need work?”

  “The machines that made the work easier also made it dangerous. The mines are old and fall in. Over a hundred people have been killed since they were opened. “The men want a safer place to work, maybe a better way to take silver from Real. You can see, I am sure, why they want help.”

  “Well, why hasn’t the government done something?”

  He gave her the little half-smile, half-smirk again. “Why has Morelos Enterprises not done anything?”