Girl In The Mirror. Mary Monroe Alice
infant, talking excitedly. It seemed to take forever for them to finish fussing over her baby. At last they handed into her arms a baby swaddled as tight as a pierogi.
Helena’s breath stilled as she stared at the face of her newborn, nestled in the pink blanket. The baby’s face was puckered, and large blue eyes blinked heavily with wonder. But something was wrong. Very wrong. Now Helena blinked, and her attention zoomed in on the baby’s chin and jaw. They slid down into the neck, like a mudslide she had once seen in the mountains.
She shot a worried glance at the nurses standing beside her. Their eyes reflected pity, and without a word being spoken, Helena instantly understood that this was not normal. Like a madwoman she tore open the blanket to investigate the rest of the baby’s body. Exposed to the cold, the baby began to howl and kick while Helena’s gaze devoured the child. Everything looked normal. Ten fingers, ten toes. And it was a girl.
Helena looked again at the deformed chin on that little, scrunched-up face in her arms. She could not ignore it, nor wish it away. This deformity would not improve with time like the funny wrinkles or the pressed nose that she already knew would resemble Frederic’s.
Helena turned her head away. So…God had not forgiven her after all. She quietly wept. She hated the nurses who patted her arm and spoke garbled words of sympathy. Why didn’t they leave her alone? Didn’t they understand? This was her punishment—her cross to bear. Her pain went far beyond mere hopelessness and despair. Helena was like the dog that had been beaten so many times it no longer hid from the club. Her last vestige of hope faded. She resigned herself to her fate. Her one consolation was that at least she had Frederic’s child. She was not alone.
Twenty years later, Helena again sat in a hospital room and studied the face of her daughter. This new face. This stranger’s face, she thought. What was done to her child was a travesty! Heartbreak flared anew.
Where are you, Frederic? she asked herself. The scars were expertly hidden. Soon they would be invisible and there would be no trace of what deception was committed here. Unnatural thing! His nose…There was nothing left of Frederic.
Now, she thought bitterly, I am truly alone.
In California, the spring sun beat hard upon Michael’s neck as he watched the twenty-two men that made up his crews gather together at the Mondragon compound to kick off the new season. The men were mostly Americans, from their twenties to their fifties, most of them married, with children. There was one group of Mexican men, clustered together, separated by language and choice. These were men who came to the Mondragon nursery every spring to work especially for Luis. They all came in one single rusting truck that belched fumes and grunted like an old man.
Some men of the crews were more experienced in the business than he was. They’d worked for his father for as long as he could remember. A few were greenhorns and had to be trained. Like Cisco, his nephew. He was only nine years old, but he was here at Michael’s invitation, earning a good wage. It pleased Luis to see another generation in the business.
Young or old, experienced or green, citizen or not, it didn’t matter. As long as they put in an honest day’s work they were paid an honest day’s wage. They all understood this as Michael stepped forward and began outlining his plans for change in their routines. It was also understood that Michael was a Mondragon. And Luis had made it clear to all that this Mondragon was now in charge.
While Michael spoke to the men, he noticed that Bobby was translating his words to the small cluster of Mexican men who stood apart from the rest. They listened to Bobby, but they kept their dark eyes on him. He felt an old uneasiness rise up, the gnawing ambiguity that he couldn’t speak his father’s language well enough.
“Is good what you say!” Luis complimented him when he was finished and the crews had dispersed to begin their work. “You are El Patron now, eh?” His dark face was flushed with pleasure, and his eyes sparkled as brightly as the sun overhead. “But now is the real test. Now you must go out to work with your men. Make your soft hands work, eh? Shovel. Rake. Real work.” He slapped his back and laughed. Then, calling out to his foreman, Luis hurried away, boasting loudly to anyone who would listen.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Michael said to Bobby, who was smothering a smile behind his hand.
“Hey, better you than me.”
Michael looked at his brother’s long, thin frame and his linen trousers flowing in the breeze and realized that what he said was true for many reasons.
“I’m doing the designs and managing this place,” he replied gruffly. “Papa’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m wielding a shovel out there. I’m through with dirty nails.” He wiped the back of his neck, feeling the beginning of a sunburn. He muttered a curse under his breath for forgetting to wear a hat.
“Whatever you say, bracero.” Bobby reached out and placed his floppy-brimmed panama hat over Michael’s head, laughing.
Later that evening, Michael hobbled into the Mondragon office, clutching his back and limping like an old man. An old, enfeebled man.
Bobby looked up from his paperwork and his face broke into a grin of pure pleasure. “Hey, El Patron. I thought you weren’t going to do any hard labor,” Bobby teased, tilting on the hind legs of his chair.
“There was this tree root—” Michael waved his hand “—never mind. Give me a beer.”
The icy liquid flowed down his throat, feeling like spring rains after a drought.
“I’d forgotten what it was like out there.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve. After a brief pause, a sheepish grin crept across his face. “You know, it felt good to use my body like that again.” He stumbled over to the old sofa and collapsed upon it, stretching his long legs out before him. “Look at my hands,” he groaned, holding his palms before his eyes. Blisters were already forming where he’d grasped the shovel and pickax. He smiled, remembering how an old-timer had come up to him and told him he was doing it all wrong, then proceeded to show him how to do it.
Michael drank down his beer in a few chugs, then let his hand droop, his fingers barely balancing the bottle on the floor.
“Why don’t you go home and take a hot bath?” Bobby asked. “You earned it, bracero. And you could use it. Whew.”
“Yeah, yeah, I will. I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute. Just for one minute.”
In that short space of time, his hands loosened, the bottle tilted and rolled to the floor, and he was out.
Bobby rose and walked to his brother, picking up the bottle and resting Michael’s hands up on his belly. A bittersweet smile flickered across his face when he noticed the mud in Michael’s manicured nails.
“Welcome home, El Patron.”
Part Two
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
—George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron
Six
It had been a long year of recovery. Charlotte’s progress had been slow and agonizingly painful, full of medication and examinations, months of orthodontics and adjustments. There was a brief time of panic soon after the surgery when she’d had a bad reaction to the sutures, but she’d endured it without complaint, dreaming of the day when she’d begin the next phase of her plan.
And that day had finally arrived.
“You’re moving where?”
Charlotte’s hand hovered over the kitchen sink. Soapy water trickled in rivulets down her forearm to soak in the sleeves of her rolled-up, starched white blouse. Turning her head to look over her shoulder, she saw that her mother had thrown back her shoulders and her eyes were like sharp daggers of