The next morning, Fernanda awoke to Ignacio curled next to her whimpering in his sleep.
“Pobrecito,” she whispered, stroking his cheek. “Everything’s fine.”
“Nanda,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “I dreamed the cu’bra agua. So scary!”
“There’s no culebra de agua. You heard Mama say so last night. Look, the sun is shining.”
But shadows hovered over the bright day when Fernanda remembered Papa’s refusal to go to California, her fight with her mother, and her pending marriage. She’d tell her parents after discussing the plans with Nicolas. In the meantime, she promised herself she’d try harder to please Mama. After all, when she left for California, who knew when they would see each other again?
“Come, little brother. I’ll make the atole, and we can add a bit of chocolate, and sugar and cinnamon, too.”
Ignacio hopped off the bed. “Choc’late!”
After clearing the bed for the morning meal, Fernanda boiled and scraped the corn for the atole. She pressed the kernels through a sieve, ground the mush, emptied it into a pot, and then added water, chocolate, cinnamon and sugar. Her hands worked automatically, her mind on the wedding and the expedition.
Mama came into the room. “Buenos dias.” She kissed Ignacio, who stood on the bench, and then checked the atole. “Fernanda, it looks delicious.”
“Thank you, Mama,” Fernanda murmured. She forced a smile. “I took extra care with it today.”
“I’m glad, mi’ja.” Mama peeked out the door. “The sky’s as blue as a morning-glory.” She began to sing, “'This is the bright land, we arrive singing…'”
“Don’t stop, Mama,” Fernanda said. She loved her mother’s warm rich voice.
But Mama shook her head and took bowls down from the shelf.
“What song was that?” Fernanda asked.
“A song from my childhood. It’s nothing.”
Fernanda knew by her mother’s firm tone she’d get no more information about the song or Mama’s childhood.
Papa and the other boys came into the room and sat at the table. Ignacio scratched his tummy over his shirt. “Mama, I itch.”
Mama removed his shirt. “I’ll go to the river and wash some clothes.”
Ignacio jumped up and down. “I come, I come!”
“Not today, Ignacio,” Mama said. “I have too much wash to do to keep an eye on you. Stay with Fernanda and help with her chores.”
Fernanda’s feet dragged as she carried the bowls of atole to the table. A day full of chores, chores, and more chores. But, placing a bowl in front of Papa, she forced a smile. I promised I would try. I promised… I promised… I promised…
Papa drank some atole, and then said to his wife, “Our daughter is learning well.” He winked at Fernanda. “There’s hope for her yet, I think.”
Could they speak of nothing else? “Mama, if the rain returns, the river will swell like a drowned frog. Perhaps you should do the wash tomorrow.”
“If the river does rise, it quickly drops once the rain stops. It won’t be a problem,” Mama said.
Papa stood. “The rábanos, Luis, and I are off to gather wood to fix this leaky roof.”
“Fernanda,” Mama said. “You can prepare their noontime meal when they return.”
The boys glanced at each other, obviously concerned Fernanda would be cooking their food. She bowed her head over her bowl. If they didn’t like it, they could do it themselves. Then, again, thought, I promised… I promised… I promised…
After breakfast, the rábanos formed a line outside the hut with Antonio in the lead. “Soldiers,” Antonio said. “Are you ready for your duty?”
“Yes, sir,” Marcos said.
“Ready, sir sergeant,” Jorge said.
The three brothers raised their stick rifles and marched in a single file behind Papa and Luis.
Fernanda hefted the baskets over the mule and helped her mother load the dirty clothes, the mule braying with each armful.
“Oh, hush, you lazy thing,” Fernanda said. “You’ll carry this load for Mama and not complain.”
Her mother tugged Fernanda’s braid. “What does the mule have to say to that, mi’ja querida?”
Mama considered talking to animals one more of Fernanda’s unconventional ways, and in rare playful moments, she teased her daughter. Usually, Fernanda welcomed the teasing, feeling closer to Mama when she dropped her stern exterior. Now, though, she was reminded of all the things she did that displeased her mother. She pulled her braid over her shoulder out of Mama’s reach. She’d try harder with the cooking, but she’d never stop talking to mules or horses or any other animals she cared to converse with.
Ignacio came outside waving a shirt. “It itched my skin.”
Mama tossed it into a basket. “I’ll rinse the clothes extra well today. No more itchy skin, mi’jo.”
If only soap were more plentiful. Instead, they used the crushed fruit of the soapberry tree. The white milky liquid foamed like soap and cleaned well, but their skin itched if the clothes weren’t rinsed thoroughly.
Mama yanked on the lead rope and led the mule in the direction of the river. “Fernanda, don’t forget the noontime meal.” Then, smiling, she said, “The atole was delicious this morning.”
Fernanda knew Mama was trying to make amends, but their fight the night before still had a hold on her feelings. She murmured, “Thank you.”
“Perhaps when I come back we can talk,” Mama said.
Fernanda thought how pleased her mother would be if she told her now about the wedding. But first she would discuss the plans with Nicolas. She nodded, her mind on Nicolas, the journey, marriage… She took Ignacio’s hand and walked toward the hut. At the door, she hesitated and glanced back at Mama, thinking to call out to her, to give her a small hint of what they might talk about when she returned. But her mother was trudging determinedly toward the river, and, deciding not to stop her, Fernanda led Ignacio into the hut.
She counted the chores off in her mind: clean the breakfast dishes; string and hang the chilis for drying; weed the garden; make the noontime meal. Brushing the end of her braid across her chin, she wondered what would she cook. Perhaps a stew. It would be easy, and if she made enough they could eat it for the noon and evening meals, so she’d only have to cook once.
She eyed the dirty dishes and waved her hand as if they might disappear. She’d string the chilis first — the least disagreeable job — and they could begin drying while she finished the other chores. Using a knife, Fernanda poked a hole in each chili, and then showed Ignacio how to thread them onto a leather string.
A hot breeze occasionally wafted into the hut as the morning wore on. Every so often, Fernanda dashed outside to scan the horizon, hoping to see Nicolas on his way to visit her, hoping to speak with him before the family returned. But the desert remained quiet and still except for the high-pitched screech of a hawk or a darting jackrabbit.
She and Ignacio draped string after string across the table until the basket was empty. “Next,” Fernanda said, “we must hang them in the sun.” Looking around the room, though, she realized she’d accomplished little since starting her chores. Where had the morning gone? She piled the strings of chilis into the basket. She’d hang them later. Quickly, she washed the earthen dishes and laid them on the table to dry. Next she chopped sweet potatoes and carrots for the stew. She’d add some lentils and try to make tortillas again. Surely they’d be an improvement on last night’s.
The rábanos walked into the hut, pushing and jostling each other.
“Antonio,” Fernanda said. “Are you all back so soon?”
“So soon? It’s time to eat, and we’re starving.”
Marcos sniffed the air. “Did you cook anything?”
“Where’s Mama?” Jorge asked.
Fernanda chopped faster. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Is Papa on his way, too?”
“No,” Antonio said. “He and Luis are helping Julio Sanchez fix his wagon. Julio will bring them home with the wood.”
Fernanda’s tense shoulders relaxed. She had time to cook something before Papa came home. A few splatters of rain hit the roof. Soon, a steady downpour doused the tiny hut. “Oh, poor Mama with all the laundry, and Papa and Luis with the wood.”
Antonio shrugged. “It’ll probably stop soon.”
True enough, Fernanda thought.
The boys settled around the table, waiting for their meal. Fernanda plopped the vegetables into a pot of water, and then dropped the lid on with a loud clang. Couldn’t they do something to help? She carried the heavy pot out to the stove and lit the fire. Turning to go back inside, a movement in the distance caught her eye. Why, it was the mule. That foolish animal hated the rain and left Mama stranded, unable to bring the laundry home.
I’ll take the mule back to her, she thought. I’ll show Mama I truly mean to try harder.
Back inside, she said, “Antonio, that ridiculous mule left Mama at the river. You three watch Ignacio while I go help her with the laundry.” She hesitated. Could they be trusted to take care of Ignacio? If something should happen… well, Papa would return shortly.
“But Nanda,” Jorge whined. “What will we have to eat?”
Fernanda pounded her fist on the oxhide table. “Are you a little baby? Can’t you see I have to help Mama? The soup is on the stove. Antonio can serve it when it’s ready.” She whirled away from their horrified faces and stomped from the hut.
Just as the mule walked up, the rain stopped. Fernanda grabbed the animal’s lead rope and pulled it toward the river. “You’ll return to Mama and carry the laundry home, do you hear?”
Instead of following the road, she cut across the field of rocky soil, hackberry shrub, and devil’s claw, thankful the devil’s claw’s brilliant yellow flowers sprawled before her instead of the sharp hooks of its seedpods. And Mama’s favorite blue morning glories. And orange poppies. All blooming with the August rains. On the way home, she’d pick flowers for a bouquet. Perhaps it would help the family forget they’d eaten vegetable stew for lunch and dinner.
Halfway to the river, the sky darkened, and showers started again. The downpour increased. Wind buffeted Fernanda, slowing her pace and reminding her of the culebra de agua Ignacio feared. Surely the rain would stop as it did earlier.
The mule halted, and she yanked on the rope. “Come, you old fool! Why did you leave Mama, anyway?” The question made her pause. Mama, more stubborn than the mule, would never have let it get away. Perhaps, in the rain, she didn’t see it leave. Fernanda slapped the mule’s behind. “Oh, for once will you hurry?” The mule brayed but started walking.
By the time she reached the cottonwood trees that lined the river, rain was half-blinding her, and her drenched clothes clung to her body. The trees creaked as they swayed in the wind. A gust bent them, straining, over the river. Fernanda wiped water from her eyes and looped the mule’s rope around a tree trunk. Lifting her rain-soaked skirt, she ran to the bank that overlooked the river. A few pieces of clothing hung from the branches. Clothes that perhaps earlier flapped in the breeze now hung limp and lifeless. Looking up and down the surging river, she saw no sign of Mama.
Abruptly, the rain stopped. Fernanda scooted down the bank and peered past the trees and overgrown brush. She squinted and then gasped with relief. Mama! She raised her hand, ready to call out, but dropped it back to her side. It wasn’t Mama, only a pile of clothes on a rock near the other side of the river. Foreboding tightened her chest. Where was her mother?
Fernanda stepped onto the nearest rock, looking for the best route to cross the river. It would have been easy before the rain, but now the water boiled over the rocks. She hopped to the next boulder, stepped on her skirt, and tottered. Cursing, she tied her skirt above her knees. She pulled off her sandals and tossed them onto the shore. With her bare feet gripping each rock, she leaped from boulder to boulder, moving farther into the roaring river. Hopping over an eddy, she landed on the flat rock that held the pile of laundry. The large makeshift table rose above the swirling water.
Mama’s favorite spot for rinsing the clothes, a voice whispered in her mind.
Fernanda glanced back to the river’s edge, knowing how easily someone could slip and fall, and be carried away with the powerful current. A strangled cry escaped from her constricted throat. Mama, where are you? She swallowed the next sob and set her lips. She’s farther down the river, I know it!
Still, the other voice said, Why are the clothes on this rock?
Fernanda picked up a shirt covered with the milky suds of the soapberry fruit. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: “No more itchy skin, mi’jo. No more itchy skin, mi’jo. No more…”
Fernanda fingered the shirt while studying the river downstream. Her fingers froze. Just before a bend, close to the bank, she saw a piece of material the same blue as her mother’s blouse.
Her heart pounded. She stood and, forcing herself to go slowly, stepped across the boulders. She reached the other side. The river had begun to drop. Pulling the overhanging branches from her path, she waded along the shore. Thorny twigs scratched her bare legs. She stumbled but caught herself and continued walking. Then a wave of coldness flushed through her body and froze her steps.
“Mama.” She gagged and held her hand over her mouth as she heaved. There, caught in the tangled brush and fallen branches, was her mother. Blood trickled from her forehead into the water, mingling with her hair that swirled around her head. Mama’s face was an eerie white with the green tint of the river flowing over it. Her eyes stared up, unseeing, at Fernanda.
“Maaaamaaaa!” Fernanda screamed. She grabbed her mother under the arms and with incredible strength dragged her onto the bank. She laid her ear against Mama’s chest and moaned when she heard no heartbeat. Holding her mother’s face between her hands, she shouted, “Mama. Mama!”
But her mother’s skin felt so unnaturally cold, so lifeless, she knew Mama was gone.
Fernanda stared up into the tangled trees and, with horror, disbelief, and despair bursting from her chest, shouted, “No, Mama, no!”
She collapsed across her mother’s body, weeping and moaning, saying over and over, “Mama. Oh, please, no. Mama. What will become of us now? How can we live without you, Mama? What will become of us now?”