On the drive from the airport, Robin changed her mind about heading directly to the studio apartment. Imagining slices of mango drenched in lime, she asked the taxi driver to stop at the Mercado and wait while she shopped. Chatting in her rusty Spanish, they had developed a rapport on the long drive. But she heard Frank’s warning in her mind: You’re not leaving your luggage with this guy, are you?
The public market seemed unchanged since her last visit: the same rows of colorful fruit and vegetables stacked into neat piles, the vendors calling out their specials, and claiming to have the best of the best. Beyond the produce were dry goods, the dried beans and chilies displayed in giant plastic tubs, alongside bulk spices. She would browse the flower aisle too, bring a small bouquet to the studio. She knew as you progressed to the back of the market, the perfume of fruit and flowers faded into the funky tang of bloody meat. She would stay in the front end.
She had learned from experience to take her time, not buy from the first stall, where remarkably, the same vendor was still there, telling female tourists they were beautiful. First she wanted market bags. It took a while to pick from among the multitude strung above the produce stalls like oversize prayer flags. But the old seller was patient, using her long pole to unhook a dozen different bags before Robin made her choices: a yellow one sporting an image of Frida and a blue and green one with butterflies. It made her inexplicably happy to see that aside from some new images, they were the same useful shopping bags she loved fifteen years earlier.
A half hour later, she came out, her bags weighed down with a football-sized papaya, mangos, limes, a half dozen eggs, a wedge of queso Oaxaca, tomatoes and spinach. When she didn’t see the taxi, her heart started to flutter with a tiny prickle of dread. Then she heard a horn beep from the other direction and saw Moises stick his head out the window, grinning. “Muchas gracias” Robin said with relief as he stowed her purchases in the trunk.
“No problem. Moises at your service.” As they wound through the narrow cobble stone streets of San Miguel, Robin took it all in: the colonial facades bursting with color, vendors hawking street food from white carts, and throngs of people, from adolescents in the latest fashions to ancient indigenous women sitting impossibly cramped on the tiny sidewalks, offering nopales or squash blossoms for sale. The scene was as comforting as returning to her grandparent’s beach cottage each summer.
The studio was located on a tree-lined street, close enough for easy walking to the jardin, the center of town. The main reason she booked this particular rental, appropriately called Casita de Las Nubes or Little House in the Clouds, was its queen-sized bed and “top of the line” mattress with 400-count Egyptian cotton sheets. She had been sleeping like crap since Frank’s confession. Her plan was to rest, paint and write.
The upstairs studio was even better than she expected, with a tiny but well-equipped kitchen. A quick bounce on the bed confirmed it was as promised. There was even a small balcony with a chair and table, where she could drink a beer and watch people going about their day. She folded her clothes into the small dresser and carefully arranged her toiletries in the bathroom, happy she was not sharing the space with Frank, who usually left his things strewn around on every surface. After putting away the groceries, she took out a ceramic coffee mug to hold her watercolor brushes. Finally, although she was dead tired, Robin headed downtown at a leisurely pace to see if her favorite restaurant was still there.
On the way, candles caught her attention. Fat, golden bees wax pillars that would look perfect on her dining table. Approaching the shop window for a better view, Robin was startled by what came into focus beyond the candles: an array of caskets. The adult-sized models weren’t fancy, just plain wooden boxes with silver hardware. But the small children’s caskets were another matter; covered in snow white pleated satin, with pink or blue ribbons and brass handles. There was even a tiny casket with teddy bears and butterflies hand painted along the side. Thinking of her two-year old daughter currently in the care of her best friend, Robin shivered and continued on.
El Rincon del Don Tomas was still there. She chose an outside table, perfect for the action in the square. She remembered the delectable mole enchiladas and strong margaritas. The waiter gave her an appreciative glance as she sat down, and brought her an order of guacamole and chips right away. “Para usted, señorita,” he said with a bright smile as if he had brought the snack because she was special. The margarita quickly followed, delicious with fresh squeezed lime juice to compliment the tequila, not too much sugar, ice cubes and of course, salt. She took a long sip, admiring the ornate cathedral across the plaza, her mind drifting back home. She wondered how Sophie was doing with Lucy. Probably fine considering Lucy was like a second mother. “Just go,” Lucy had said. She will be absolutely fine with us. She might not even know you are gone,” she added with an evil grin.
Robin was hugely relieved to be alone. She needed time and space to think, impossible while caring for a toddler. She could not continue the charade, pretending to everyone but Lucy that her life was fine. She considered her options. One: she and Frank could return to therapy and work on their marriage for Sophie’s sake. Shortly after Frank’s drunken confession, they met with a couple’s counselor recommended by a neighbor. The meeting had deteriorated when the subject of sex came up.
“Are you having sex?” Dr. Martin asked abruptly, looking at Robin.
“Not right now,” Robin replied after an awkward pause.
“Well I wouldn’t wait too long to have sex; it generally helps a relationship to maintain intimacy” the doctor explained.
Robin felt her body tense. What the hell? She looked at the therapist with suspicion, an overweight man in his sixties. She was long practiced in being nice but this was too much. “Seriously? I think you are glossing over the fact that Frank committed a gigantic breach of trust. I don’t want to have sex with him right now.”
“I certainly don’t mean to be insensitive,” Dr. Martin soothed. “Of course both of you must be ready.” They had not returned.
Two: She and Sophie could move in with her parents for a while. Sophie loved being with her grandparents, and Robin could use the time to beef up her freelance work, and find a no-nonsense therapist for herself. It was time to face facts: Frank’s recent cheating was not the first.
Last option: Admit the marriage was damaged beyond repair and start divorce proceedings. This last thought made her feel sick but it had been buzzing in her brain like a pesky mosquito. She never imagined she would end up divorced and the words “broken home” kept repeating when she looked at Sophie. She sighed. By the time the waiter brought the plate of enchiladas, her drink was gone. She lifted the hand blown glass and nodded, too tired to speak. Frank, of course, had been remorseful, lobbying strongly for option one. “Robin, I love you. I know I hurt you; it’s just having a toddler around is . . . I thought you didn’t find me attractive anymore. I admit I screwed up but it will never happen again. I don’t know what I would do without you and Sophie.”
Robin didn’t have the energy for a sarcastic comeback. Her husband had cheated three times, to her knowledge, so his reassurance wasn’t very credible. The first time was when they were dating and technically didn’t count, according to Frank. The second time had been a foolish mistake, he said, caused by jet lag and high octane cocktails practically forced on him by a senior manager at an out of town conference. This time, it seemed Frank was blaming the fact she was exhausted from caring for a toddler and working part-time.
By the time she finished her second margarita, Robin was dizzy with fatigue. She paid her bill, leaving a generous tip, and returned to her little cloud where she slept straight through for nine hours.
The next morning, after a feast of fresh fruit and scrambled eggs, she went to the botanic garden, a place she neglected to visit during her first stay. She strolled along paths winding through native cactus and scrub brush. The blue sky was dotted with huge white clouds that occasionally obscured the sun except for rays of light shooting down like celestial spotlights. By the reservoir she sat on a bench, taking out her travel watercolor set.
The last conversation with Frank nagged at her. Just before she left he made another plea to give him a second chance. “Frank, I’ve already given you a second and a third chance. Why should I believe you this time?”
Looking very intense he said, “Robin, I had an epiphany. I didn’t tell you but I’ve been seeing Dr. Martin on my own. I realized I needed to get some things straight in my head. I figured it out; I know why I’ve been cheating on you!” Frank paused for Robin to comment but she just raised her eyebrows skeptically. “Dr. Martin has been asking me a lot of questions about my childhood and I remembered something. When I was about eight, my mom left for a few days and I thought she wasn’t coming back. I was terrified. My parents fought all the time and I guess she finally got fed up and took off for a while. I remember seeing her car backing out of the driveway and knowing that something was wrong because there was no one home to watch us. My little sisters began to cry and I had to deal with them on my own until my dad came home. It was very traumatic.”
Robin was caught off guard, flummoxed as her mother might say. The story sounded remarkably convenient but it hooked her momentarily like a tasty piece of bait. Was Frank suffering from childhood trauma?
“OK . . . that sounds difficult, but so what? Robin was in the middle of packing her suitcase. She needed to finish her bag and make sure Sophie’s things were organized for Lucy. She had no time for Frank’s sudden epiphany. Frank looked surprised at her cold tone but he soldiered on. “Dr. Martin says that I probably have a subconscious fear of being abandoned. I do these things to test your loyalty; to see if you are going to leave. You see? It isn’t because I don’t love you; it’s because of this childhood trauma I suffered. Dr. Martin says—
“Dr. Martin thinks we should just have sex, and forget the whole thing ever happened,” Robin snapped. “The problem, Frank, is that I’m tired. I’m tired of wondering when it will happen again.” She was also tired of lurking near Frank’s laptop hoping to catch a glimpse of an inappropriate email, tired of scrolling through his text messages when he was in the shower. Frank’s deception had brought out an unwelcome side of her.
“But that’s the thing Robin; I know for a fact this . . . will . . . never . . . happen . . . again.” He looked at her with utter sincerity as if his certainty was a paid-in-full insurance policy she could depend on. In that moment, she noticed a tiny flame of hope sparking. Had Dr. Martin uncovered something that would allow her to stay in the marriage?
“I’ll think about it but right now I’m running late. We’ll talk when I get back.”
A string of geese flew over the reservoir. Robin watched them working together to maintain their v-shaped formation, awed by the instinct that kept them migrating along the same route year after year. Didn’t geese mate for life?
Thinking about Frank’s assurances during their last conversation reminded Robin of the time Frank proposed. He suggested a picnic at the beach, preparing the food and drinks himself. After sharing a bottle of wine and watching the sun set, he told her how much he loved her and wanted to get married. However, he needed to tell her something first. In an agonized voice, he begged forgiveness for an indiscretion that had happened several months earlier during a period when they were fighting. He had gone out with a co-worker and they ended up having sex. Robin had been deeply shocked; she thought Frank was rock solid. He told her over and over how sorry he was, that he felt so ashamed, he knew he had to tell her. It was so out of character, he said. He blamed it on a fear of commitment, a fear that he had banished once and for all.
He was in such obvious distress, tearful even, that Robin forgave him right then. “Thank you for telling me. Let’s just put it behind us.” Everyone made mistakes, she reasoned. She told Frank she needed time to consider his marriage proposal. During the following weeks, he had been charming and persuasive, talking about their future with so much enthusiasm, it was contagious. Now she was experiencing an uneasy feeling of déjà vu.
The bench was becoming uncomfortable. She shifted her position but her back was killing her all of a sudden. She packed up her painting gear, still unused, imagining a late afternoon beer and nap. She had almost reached the studio when she heard him.
“Hey, it’s me, Carlos. Soy Carlos.” Robin looked up from the uneven cobblestone sidewalk she was navigating. She assumed the man was speaking to someone else but no, Carlos was staring directly at her. “Remember me?”
The man was a few years older than Robin, dressed in freshly ironed jeans and a button down shirt. He looked familiar and this fact made her hesitate. Ever since Sophie’s birth, her memory had been so unreliable. She felt like she should know him. Was he one of her Spanish teachers from before? She said, “were you at Centro Bilingue.?
“Yes, yes, Centro Bilingue. How are you?”
Robin explained she was here on a short visit after many years away. After a few minutes of conversation, she was ready to go. She started to move but Carlos shifted his position slightly to block the narrow sidewalk. “My wife and I have been here a month and she is pregnant, six months pregnant. Yes, these days are very sad,” he said earnestly.
Robin was confused. “Your wife is—–
“Yes, my wife fell down and she lost the baby.”
“Oh, that’s awful. I’m so sorry . . .” Robin didn’t know how to extricate herself gracefully from this awkward situation. She wanted to move on but didn’t, her feet planted by indecision. Shouldn’t she give Carlos the benefit of the doubt?
He continued, “yes, very sad times. We are having the funeral tomorrow and we cannot put together enough money for the casket, the little casket we need to buy today.”
Robin immediately pictured the children’s coffins she had seen earlier with the utterly sad pink and blue ribbons. What an odd coincidence that Carlos needed to buy one. Her shift from sympathy to suspicion didn’t happen instantly, it was more like a slow blending of watercolors, blue bleeding into yellow, turning to green. Is this bullshit?
“It’s just that we need $1,000 pesos for the casket. We have some family coming tomorrow and I will be able to get money from them to pay you back. I can meet you downtown after the service, first thing.” Carlos sounded completely sincere. His face was drawn, and he had dark circles under his eyes. Robin looked for signs he was an alcoholic or drug addict but he looked perfectly normal, albeit distraught. He continued to talk about the funeral, the little casket they needed, his family on the way.
Frank’s voice came into her mind again: You always fall for a good story. He had said that recently when Robin gave their babysitter an extra $200. Silvia took care of Sophie twice a week while Robin worked in their home office. That day, when Robin went to the kitchen for tea, she found Silvia standing at the sink, crying. Silvia explained her husband had been sick and unable to work, the rent coming due. Robin listened, feeling ashamed she hadn’t asked more about Silvia’s family. Later, she added the extra money to the envelope she always left for Silvia near the front door. When Frank came home, he apparently felt the need to check the envelope. Robin was sitting at her computer when he came to the office.
“Why is there so much money in Silvia’s envelope?” He stood in the doorway demanding an answer like a prosecutor. Robin explained the conversation with Silvia. “Frank, she was very upset, I felt terrible I didn’t know her husband was sick.”
“Robin, you always fall for a good story. She probably made up that tale. I’m not giving Silvia money she didn’t earn.” After a bitter fight, Frank removed the extra money from the envelope. Robin was infuriated by his suspicious attitude, but in hindsight, it was her pathetic weakness that made her most angry.
Robin’s thoughts were interrupted by Carlos. “I really need this money for my little baby,” he insisted. “My wife is heartbroken. How about $600 pesos? Please, I will meet you tomorrow and pay you back.” He was staring intently at her, shaking his head slightly as if to scold her for her indecision. She had noticed the same tactic used by children asking her to buy candy. “No seas mala,” they would say, shaking their heads, “Don’t be mean.”
“I can pay you tomorrow,” Carlos urged. Please have mercy on our little baby.”
She hesitated, the image of the white satin casket still in her mind. “Were you a teacher at Centro Bilingue?”
“Yes, I was a teacher there before,” Carlos responded eagerly. “Now, with this tragedy, we don’t know what we will do.”
For another moment, Robin sifted through the facts but logic didn’t hold the key, she realized. She had given Carlos a fair chance and she wasn’t convinced. She could picture him drinking a cold beer with friends, recounting the story of the tourist lady he ripped off.
“I’m sorry Carlos but I can’t lend you any money. I have to go now. I’m meeting someone.” She stepped off the sidewalk and walked past, not looking back. At the next corner she glanced around but Carlos was gone. He had been very convincing but Robin had to trust her intuition. Silvia needed that extra money, and Carlos was a fraud.
She arrived at the studio as the sun was casting its final magic glow on the distant mountains. She went inside and took a beer out to the balcony, watching people go in and out of the little convenience store across the street. She felt oddly happy. It seemed like every other house had a small business on the ground level: a butcher shop, a beauty parlor, a pet store. The businesses brought people in the neighborhood together to talk and commiserate.
When Robin went to the convenience store that morning for coffee and cooking oil, the owner asked what she was doing in San Miguel. She explained she came to write and paint. He offered to read her a poem he had written just that morning. He recited the lines with great sincerity. When he finished, he offered it to her, a gift. Robin smiled. Mexico was like that; full of unexpected pleasures, a place where people lived more from the heart. Coming here was the first thing she had done in a long time based on pure instinct.
She thought again about the strange interaction with Carlos, wondering if she would see him tomorrow in a funeral procession, a possibility that made her cringe. But she knew that wouldn’t happen, there was no funeral. Frank’s scornful voice interrupted once again. Robin, you always fall for a good story.
Out loud she said, “Not this time Frank.”
*****
Terrie Adden is a part-time immigration lawyer and writer living with her second husband in Santa Barbara, California. Her writing has appeared in Skirt! Magazine and she is completing her first novel, set in Mexico.
