Magdalena's Shadow, page 16
The worst blow fell when Coco returned home from Gilman’s to find a box of white lilies in the atrium with a note from Rob. This was the gesture that nearly broke her. After a year of silence, he sent flowers because Magdalena was dead. Not because she had almost died having his son or because he had broken her heart in a million tiny pieces, but because Magdalena had flown into a tree. “Bitch,” Coco muttered, her eyes skimming over the briefly stated sympathies Rob offered her. Coco left the flowers in the hall. They stunk of death and betrayal, creating that sickly floral scent Coco now associated with funerals and false promises. Clutching the note to her chest she unlocked #2. Once in her room she laid the card containing Rob’s strong handwriting in her jewelry box next to a lock of Bebe’s hair and James’ hospital bracelet. Then, taking a deep breath, she willed herself to forget she had ever seen it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Three days after the accident that killed Magdalena Rodriguez, the lawyers began to prowl. They started first with Tia because she was the sole caretaker of the apartment.
“I take care of Miss Rodriguez and her children,” Tia replied repeatedly, explaining to each lawyer who called that Magdalena did have a daughter – no, two daughters – and that she had worked for them for almost three years.
“They have no record of you.” Tia turned to Coco after ending a particularly unsettling conversation. “We have to get your name into Magdalena’s probate case. If you are not represented, you’ll get nothing.”
Coco spoke to the next lawyer who called, explaining repeatedly that she was Magdalena’s daughter. He sounded incredulous even after she had given him her social security number and date of birth. The attorney called again the following day, insisting that her social security number belonged to a Nicole Valentina Rodriguez, not a Coco, and as far as everyone in the world was concerned Magdalena had no children.
“Well then who the hell am I?” Coco yelled into the phone before slamming it down. “You don’t suppose I’m some orphan she picked up on a whim somewhere and just decided to mother for a while, do you?” Coco turned to Tia, who waited anxiously nearby. “I mean, my God, the way these people talk it’s like I’m some freeloader messing with their heads.”
“I told you we need a lawyer.” Tia looked at Coco with renewed determination.
“I know, Tia, I know. We’ll get this sorted out. A simple blood test would fix everything.”
“They would just need to look at you to see that you’re her daughter,” Tia added, her face lined with worry.
The next stage in the invasion came with the arrival of men to inventory the furniture, appraisers to value the art, and real estate agents to assess the apartment’s current market value. None of them got past the chain that Tia kept perpetually across the door.
Coco’s lawyer was a small man, no more than forty, with sandy blond hair and small round glasses set in wire frames. He sat at the kitchen table with his briefcase and a smile.
“An international probate settlement can be lengthy and expensive, but the court has assigned an executor to oversee how all the money is managed in the interim. I don’t want you to worry. We’ll work with the executor to keep things running smoothly. Please don’t worry,” he assured them repeatedly – and yet they worried. Papers where signed and statements were taken all in the knowledge that there would be no immediate resolution. Worse still, the money on which they depended was cut to less than an eighth of what they were accustomed to despite the letters and calls made to the executor. The housekeeping account was reduced to only what would cover the dusting required in an “empty penthouse.” Coco’s personal account was frozen pending identity verification. The worst day came when the agency called Tia to work at another house. Coco instantly called her lawyer demanding that the executor pay her housekeeper’s salary during the probate process.
“You and the kids can’t live on one quarter of your housekeeping money alone,” Tia told Coco while going over the household expenses. “I’ve stretched it as well as I can, but Bebe needs clothes, and there is hardly enough money for food let alone diapers and tuition.”
Coco sat quietly across the table. They were becoming prisoners of the situation, never leaving the apartment empty in case someone got in – even remaining with Gilman’s was looking like less and less of a possibility.
“I’ll look for work.” Coco raised her eyes to Tia’s. “Maybe I could take in some alterations or make someone a dress?”
“Hmm…” Tia shook her head. “I think you should talk with the school. If you explain the situation they might be willing to cover your tuition. You are a bit of a celebrity. And….” Tia paused for a moment. “You could consider asking Rob for help. As I’ve said before, he should be paying child support.”
“Yes, but first I would have to tell him he has a child, wouldn’t I? And you know how I feel about that.”
“He has a right to know.”
“No one has a right to my son. Tia, if you tell him I’ll never forgive you.”
“James needs a father,” Tia insisted, but Coco didn’t reply.
They’d had the argument before. Each time Tia begged Coco to be reasonable and each time Coco assured her that she was being completely reasonable. Sharing her son with his father wasn’t something she was willing to do.
“If I had material I could make Bebe some clothes. I’ll look around and see what I can come up with.”
Tia looked suddenly uncomfortable, shifting ever so slightly in her chair.
“What?” Coco looked up at the old lady who was looking at the floor. “I promise not to cut up anything you like, okay?”
“Um…” Tia mumbled before she folded her hands looking thoughtful. After a moment’s hesitation, she glanced up at Coco, that same look of discomfort on her face. “I never threw your clothes out. I couldn’t. They’re all in the basement. I kept thinking you’d come to your senses so I’ve been storing them. You could sell some?”
Coco didn’t speak for a long time. When she did it was to ask, “Do you ever do as you’re told?”
Tia flared up with indignation, but Coco was laughing, teasing the old woman.
“I’m only dictated to by my own God-given good sense, child,” Tia snapped. “When you gain some common sense then I might consider listening to you.”
“You’re a wonder, Mrs. Brown,” Coco laughed. “So, will you show me where you have hidden the bags, or do I have to ask Benny?”
Coco sorted the stowed-away clothing into what could be sold and what could be used to make Bebe’s new wardrobe. By the end of the week little Bebe had a gray wool pinafore embroidered with black silk thread that she wore with a black long-sleeve, crew-neck blouse Coco had found at the thrift store for a dollar. Each week, Coco made Bebe a new outfit, each one more creative and fun than the last. Overalls, skirts, dresses, and shorts embroidered with flowers, vines, and colorful bugs hung in Bebe’s closet. But even with Bebe’s wardrobe problem solved, they still needed more money.
Gilman’s wasn’t interested in coming to any sort of agreement. Either Coco paid her tuition or she left the school. As fourth term came to a close, Coco gathered her materials and said goodbye. Carmen took the news the hardest, persecuting Jack relentlessly for not having the power to do anything.
“I could give up my apartment, move into one of the guest bedrooms and pay you rent,” Tia said that night while they sat in the kitchen going over the Rodriguez’s absence of fortune on a yellow legal pad.
“And after that you could start paying me to work here,” Coco added sarcastically. “Besides, where would your family live?”
“Luciana moved out last month. I’ve been living alone ever since.”
Coco didn’t reply. That moment marked the first time Tia had ever mentioned a member of her family by name. Even after everything they had been through together Tia hadn’t mixed her home life with work.
“Well, you should live here then. Living alone is awful.” Coco wondered quietly what Luciana looked like and where she had moved to.
“It does take some getting used to,” Tia admitted. “I like having people around me.”
“So do I.” Coco rose slowly to her feet. “And I’m done worrying about money for tonight.” She walked toward the hall to the bedrooms to check on the kids.
Bebe slept peacefully in the first room, a stuffed animal clutched under her chin, quietly unaware that her big sister was watching her.
Next Coco checked on James who lay in his crib at the foot of her bed, a tiny hint of a smile on his sleeping lips. His dark hair curled at his temple exactly the way Coco had imagined it would all those months before he was born. In reality, he was far more beautiful than the baby she had imagined. Gently she pressed her finger into his open hand, delighting in the way his sleeping fingers grasped it, sending a flood of warmth through her heart.
From the hallway, she heard Tia gathering her things for the night.
“I’ll walk you out.” Coco joined Tia by the door.
The old woman wore her purse slung across her shoulder over a tightly buttoned raincoat, a hat pulled resolutely down over her brow. Her chrome wheeled basket leaned by her side. This was the image Coco would always have of her: Tia prepared for the elements and whatever else came her way. And yet the image was somehow sad and solitary – Tia was an elderly woman with no one to go home to.
“I hate sending you out into the night like this. I would love it if you came here to live.”
Tia smiled and shrugged. “If you insist.”
“I do.” Coco opened the front door to #2 and walked with Tia to the elevator. “I’m glad that’s settled.” They stood together in a comfortable silence until the car arrived and the doors slid open. “See you in the morning, Tia.” Coco smiled and hugged her goodnight.
Coco lingered in the hallway long after the elevator doors closed, long after Tia had reached the paved sidewalk thirty stories below. She sat on the little used atrium sofa where Bebe had once been unceremoniously dumped and studied the transitory place that had been the stage for some of the biggest moments in her life. Here she had first seen Rob when she had been a baby on Magdalena’s hip. Here she had retreated when the Keeper had mistreated her, in the days and #2 had felt like a prison. Here she had found the boxes from far off destinations like New York, Rome, and Paris all filled with clothes, and here, she thought with a pang, she had seen Rob again, standing in the storage room doorway and… and again on the night she had shoved a cracked picture frame into his chest while she pushed him out of her life.
This last memory was a wound that didn’t heal; yet it was also the moment that had redefined her, the first and only time in her life when she had fought back. Sadly, it should have been Magdalena I slapped, not him.
“Poor Rob,” Coco whispered to no one. She rose from the sofa to return to her apartment. “Poor Rob and poor me.”
Instead of walking directly home she passed by #1, tracing the doorknob with her fingers before pressing her forehead to the dark hardwood door, in the same way she had once walked to Rob and pressed her forehead to his chest. She missed the way he had wrapped her in his strong arms, and they had stood like that, lost in each other for a moment. “Good night,” Coco whispered to the grainy wood door before she kissed it and turned to leave.
The dim atrium light cast shadows off the furniture, turning the room into a pattern of light and dark. Saddened by her many regrets, Coco almost missed seeing a package half hidden in shadow behind the partially open storage room door. After Magdalena’s death, the boxes had stopped coming. Now to Coco’s surprise, she found a small red envelope addressed to N.V. (Coco) Rodriguez stashed just inside. Coco pushed open the door, watching the little package flop over as the door knocked it sideways. Who had sent it? Who but Rob knew she was here? The thought tied her stomach in knots.
Carrying the package into #2, Coco studied it carefully, looking for Rob’s name on the label. There was no return name or address. Coco’s heart leaped in her chest when she saw the New York City postmark. Carefully she opened the red packaging with a pair of Bebe’s baby scissors, which were about as effective as a teaspoon. After two minutes and one curse the package opened. It contained a letter and around a dozen photos.
Hi, Coco.
I wasn’t sure if you go by Nicole now or if you still go by the nickname, but then you’ll always be Coco to me. It’s funny how things stick. I used to tease Mag about how dark you were, like a bar of chocolate. Anyway, I thought you’d like these photos. I was so upset to hear about your mother’s death that I thought I would give these to you. If I can help you in any way, please don’t hesitate to call.
Yours sincerely,
Ryan Blackwell
Coco read and reread the letter, shocked by the thought that the name Coco was her nickname. If Ryan Blackwell was to be believed, then her name was Nicole. Coco slid thoughtfully down onto the sofa. For eighteen years, she had not known her own name. Tears rose in her eyes. Even her son’s birth certificate listed her as Coco. She had never seen her own birth certificate. She had wondered once if, like Bebe’s, it simply read Baby Rodriguez. The pictures sat in her lap, their weight reminding her that there had been more in the package than the enlightening letter.
The first photo was of Magdalena, taken when she must have been no more than sixteen. Her face wasn’t airbrushed, her hair was imperfect. She looked real, like a real girl captured in a snapshot on a real day. Coco had only known the dream, the airbrushed perfected image, so beautiful it bordered on angelic. The back of the photo read: Magdalena’s first shoot as a Blackwell girl, age 14. In the next photo, Coco saw Magdalena in a little yellow two-piece, her head tilted back as a hot sun rained down on her. This photo was far more professional than the first.
Each photo was a progression of Magdalena’s teen years. In the third-to-last picture Magdalena sat with a group of friends, her features as young and lovely as in the first photo, yet Coco couldn’t help noticing that she looked pregnant. Coco flipped over the photo: Magdalena, Me, Jim, and Alex, Chicago, three months before you were born. In all those years of sadness, of loss, and of anger Coco had never once seen Magdalena as anything other than a beautiful, missed, and sometimes hated woman. As Coco stared at the photo she saw the girl who had given birth to her, a teen mother younger than she had been when James was born. For the first time in Coco’s life she felt a sad empathy for Magdalena, the exploited child in the yellow bikini.
Coco flipped to the next photo, taken in a hospital, of Magdalena and a newborn baby. In the next photo, Coco was a toddler in sunglasses on her mother’s lap. And then the pictures stopped.
Coco knew how the story ended. The teen mom left her child with competent employees while she became one of the most successful fashion models in history. And the child grew up alone only to become a teen mom herself. Funny, Coco thought, her fingers flipping through the photos a second time, funny how I unknowingly repeated my mother’s mistake. Yet somehow in this new light, all of Magdalena’s transgressions seemed less terrible. Coco knew how hard it was to be a mom, let alone a young mom, and she had never had to work because her mother had. Now when she looked at the grandeur of #2, at the art and the fine furniture, she felt a spark of gratitude for the life she had been given. Still, she thought, Magdalena could have visited, could have answered her letters. Other than the handful of trips to the beach house, they were total and complete strangers.
Coco went to put the photos into a box in her closet when she remembered that the lawyer on the phone had said her social security number belonged to a Nicole Valentina, not a Coco Rodriguez. Coco laughed. She was Magdalena’s daughter. She had a name, a photographed history, and a real hope of winning her mother’s estate in court. When Coco went to bed that night she made a mental note to call her lawyer in the morning.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Ryan Blackwell of Blackwell Modeling.” Tia read a business card to Coco the next morning. “Is this yours?” Tia handed Coco the card that must have dropped unnoticed from the package the night before. Coco looked it over. The card was pressed on quality paper with the silhouette of a woman who looked remarkably like her mother. Over breakfast Coco told Tia all about the package, the photos, and the name.
“I’m dark like chocolate,” Tia teased, “you’re hardly even cinnamon colored.”
Coco flipped through the pictures until she reached the one where she sat in her mother’s lap.
“Look how dark I was compared to her, though.” Coco studied the photo before handing it to Tia. There was no mistaking Magdalena in the photo; and Coco was Coco, even with the sunglasses on.
Tia smiled at the photo. “So, your name is Nicole.”
“It feels so strange to find out I have a different name after all these years.”
“I don’t doubt it. This Ryan knew your mother. Have you thought about calling him? He may be able to tell you who your father is.”
Around lunchtime Coco disappeared into her room with Ryan Blackwell’s card and didn’t return for over an hour. When she did emerge, her feet hardly touched the ground.
“I have a job!” Coco said, throwing her arms around Tia’s neck, taking the old woman by surprise. “He wants me to model for him. We’ve been talking for the past hour; he knew my mom and he wants to send me some work, he wants to help us –”
“Coco,” Tia said soberly. “We don’t know the first thing about this man. He may not be a good person. Please calm down and think. He has never even seen you, but he’s sure you’ll make a model? If something sounds too good to be true, then it is!”
Coco looked hurt. “He knew my mom and he knew me when I was little,” Coco replied. “He offered me work when we need money so badly. I’ll do some shoots and then I’ll come home.”
