Magdalena's Shadow, page 2
Coco kissed the baby’s head, rocking the infant until it was silent.
“You startled her.”
The Keeper glared, daring Coco to talk back again; her double chins wobbled while spit flecked her fat lips. Forcing her eyes from the repulsive woman, Coco reached inside the paisley diaper bag for the folded document, which she offered to the Keeper.
“Will you translate this for me? I want to know more about her, but the words are written in Spanish.”
“No. I won’t translate it. I’ll just tell you what her nanny told me. That kid is just like you; she’s another little nobody no one wants to deal with. And since Eva isn’t here you will raise it. End of fucking story.” The Keeper tossed the document back at Coco, who watched it flutter to the floor.
Just like me? Coco took a deep breath and tried to steady herself, her eyes fixed on the baby; from the corner of her eye she saw the document come to rest on the floor near her foot. The baby girl’s hands wriggled out of her blanket and shook in the air as if she clutched an invisible rattle, while her face took on an intensely thoughtful expression. Coco adjusted the child onto her hip and leaned over to retrieve the piece of paper, her long dark hair slipping over her shoulder to the floor. Coco hadn’t thought to translate the document herself; she didn’t usually read anything that didn’t pertain to fashion, and it had been years since she had read anything in Spanish. Now as she looked at the crinkled piece of paper she realized that it couldn’t satisfy her curiosity. It was illegible, not because it was poorly printed, but because the words had long ago lost their meaning. Coco could make out the word Argentina and a date some seven months before, but the rest was in a language she no longer understood. Folding the document in half, she carefully returned it to the diaper bag’s inside pocket.
The baby was a good baby. She seemed to prefer to watch the world than to scream at it. She rarely cried and slept most of the time. Inside the bag, Coco found a bottle with an eyedropper top. As long as Coco added the drops to the baby’s bottle she was quiet, easy to manage, and instantly sleepy.
The worst part of parenting, Coco decided, was diapering. Unfortunately, by the end of the third day the diapers ran out and the Keeper refused to buy more.
“You think you’re rich?” the Keeper yelled. “You’re not; your mother hardly gives me enough money to feed you on. Get some dishtowels and make up some diapers on your own. You’ll do it the way I had to in Mexico. You’ll see what it’s like to work, lazy vaca.”
Coco didn’t argue; she didn’t dare. Instead she learned to diaper the hard way.
As the baby formula began to run low Coco became frightened that the Keeper wouldn’t replace it either. How would she feed the child?
“Rosa?” The Keeper turned on Coco in surprise, her chins swaying with the motion. “Please buy more formula tomorrow morning.”
There was no kindness in the fat lips that twisted slowly into a grin. “In Mexico, we breastfeed our kids. I suggest you try it.”
“What?” Coco responded in confusion.
The Keeper laughed, shouldered her bags, and left for the night. The baby was Coco’s new soft spot, a weakness that the Keeper wouldn’t hesitate to exploit.
For some unknown reason the Keeper delighted in making Coco suffer. In the past, it was not unusual for Coco to come out of her bedroom and find every blind in the apartment raised and the TV and radio switched off. Coco would crawl on hands and knees to retrieve the remotes that drew the blinds, shielding her from the thousand-foot drop outside.
Vertigo crippled her. It made the floor ripple and the walls sway, causing a panic that took her hours to recover from. The terror intensified when coupled with the constantly roaring wind that tore around the Chicago high-rise. The wind had upset her for as long as she could remember.
The last time Coco had upset the Keeper, the fat cow had raised the blinds, turned off the TV, and hidden the remotes; Coco couldn’t draw the blinds again or switch on the TV without them.
Surrounded by naked glass and a howling wind, Coco had faced the terror that surrounded her without success. She had felt the floor sway beneath her, seen the glass tremble, and heard the wind roar in shrill gusts around the thirty-story tower. It had proven too much. After several attempts to find the remotes Coco had fainted. No, it was no good upsetting the Keeper, so Coco kept quiet and dreamed of the day when the Keeper would be gone and the apartment only a distant memory.
Coco named the baby girl Bebe after the one word she recognized from the document. She pronounced it Bee-Bee, after the American fashion house. Bebe spent her time sleeping, eating, smiling, wriggling, and pooping; Coco had never been so busy in her life. Magazines were left unread, boxes of clothes arrived but were not opened, and she rarely changed out of her sweats as fashion was pushed from her mind. The best part of Bebe’s arrival was that for the first time in years, Coco had someone she could talk to and care for.
Bebe slept in her arms during the day and in the crook of her arm at night. Coco loved watching the child sleep, her tiny hands clenched into fists close to her face, her eyes closed to lash-framed slits as she breathed little breaths and dreamed little baby dreams. Coco fell asleep to the sight of Bebe’s chest as it rose and fell, memorizing each twitch of her fists, the kick of her foot, and the occasional smile.
The daydreams that once had lulled Coco to sleep no longer took her to exotic fashion shoots or the beaches of Argentina where Magdalena’s beach house lay nestled on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic. Her mind no longer turned to the remembered scent of her mother’s perfume or the gleaming sunshine of their life in South America. Instead her dreams were filled with Bebe, a curious kind of warm love and a sense of serenity she had long lived without.
The Keeper brought formula but not the kind that Bebe was used to. It was thin and watery. It tasted like sugar mixed with powdered milk. One week passed on the new formula and Bebe grew sickly.
“You’re making this yourself, aren’t you, Rosa?” Coco raised her eyes to the Keeper’s face, but the woman looked away.
“I’m not buying that expensive stuff.”
“But Bebe needs good formula, not this watered down stuff.”
“She’ll get what she gets. Now get out of my kitchen.”
After another week Bebe could no longer sit up without help. She grew weaker by the day.
“Please, Rosa, I need you to buy the good formula. If you’ll give me some money, I’ll ask Benny to buy it.”
The Keeper froze where she sat, her eyes fixed warily on Coco. Her expression changed as a new thought seemed to present itself. “You better give me something to sell, girl. If you do, I’ll get you the expensive stuff. But you need to remember you are poor. You’re also stupid and useless, and the doorman doesn’t need to be bothered by you any more than I do. I work here and keep this place running on nothing. Be grateful.”
Coco looked around the apartment; she had no idea what anything was worth. “What do you think you could sell?” Her voice rose with hope.
“Well, that painting for starters.” The Keeper pointed to a large Campbell’s Soup can painted in vivid reds and yellows. The painting had hung in Coco’s life for as long as she could remember. Her heart sank at the thought of losing it. How many hours had she spent tracing its lines with her eyes? The sight of it was as comforting to her as a photo of Magdalena; yet when Coco looked at Bebe she knew she would part with it.
“Okay. Just make sure you get the good formula.”
The Keeper smiled and nodded. From that moment on the Keeper became almost nice. She called Coco “Miss” and changed the sheets on her bed. But Coco didn’t care what the Keeper did as long as the good formula was back and Bebe was well.
It took over a week for the color to come back to Bebe’s cheeks. Another week passed and the baby was able to sit up again. Before Coco knew it, she was crawling.
On a Monday exactly three weeks after the painting had gone, the Keeper disappeared, too. Each call to her cellphone went straight to voicemail. Around five in the evening, Coco received a call from the agency the Keeper worked for. The administrator said that arrangements had been made and that a new housekeeper would arrive shortly. It was around that time that two men came to the apartment in security uniforms accompanied by Benny, the doorman. Coco retreated quietly to her room. She listened as the men returned her mother’s painting to its place on the wall.
Benny knocked on Coco’s bedroom door, opening it carefully when she didn’t answer. He looked uncomfortable when he saw her staring fixedly from the bed, her eyes peering at him from the unlit room.
“Miss Rodriguez, do you have a moment?” He spoke gently, careful to look away from where Coco sat. Bebe lay unseen and asleep in a laundry basket next to the bed.
“Mrs. Gonzalez tried to sell your mother’s painting at a gallery.” Coco remained silent. The doorman went on politely. “Were you aware that it was missing?” Coco remained still. “Mrs. Gonzalez also told the police that you gave her the painting. Is it true? Did you give it to her?”
Tears filled Coco’s eyes. She needed to find her voice. She needed to answer. With one word, she could corroborate the Keeper’s story and set her free. With another word, she could lock her away. “Miss Rodriguez,” Benny pleaded, “these men represent the company who insures the painting. When the gallery ran the painting’s history they learned that the piece belonged to your mother. Mrs. Gonzalez is in custody and your mother has been notified.” Coco took a deep breath. She knew Benny. Benny was safe, but it had been years since she had visited the lobby. He looked older now but still, Benny was safe. “Your mother has been notified, Coco,” Benny repeated, hoping to elicit some spark of understanding. “Coco, please…these men need to know what happened.” When she didn’t respond, he started to close the door.
“Benny,” Coco whispered. “Tell them she took my mother’s things, and she beat me when I tried to stop her. Every time I tried to tell someone she would threaten me. Tell them that, okay, Benny?”
“I’ll tell them, Coco, and I’ll see if management can get a hold of your mother. She should know. I wish I had known. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay… Mama’s busy and I didn’t know how to tell you. Besides, the agency is sending a new keeper so hopefully things will be better.” Coco pulled her hood up over her head and faded back into the darkness, too worried and worn out to say more.
With the click of the front door she was alone. She had hated the Keeper. The Keeper had been a thief who had starved Bebe. She hurt children and Coco was glad she was in jail; she was glad she was gone and that Bebe was safe, but the glad stuck in Coco’s throat and ran in bitter rivers down her cheeks. But what if the new keeper was even worse than the last? Tears stung Coco’s eyes until she was nearly blinded. Closing them tightly, she let her fingers brush gently through Bebe’s hair where she slept in the laundry basket. The wind tore around the tower, answering her fears with roaring howls.
Chapter Two
“Breakfast,” a small voice called at eight o’clock the next morning. Coco blinked in the darkness of her bedroom, half awake and half asleep. Who was calling? Bebe didn’t stir when Coco slipped out of bed to creep quietly down the hallway toward the kitchen. Concealed in the shadows of the hall, she could view the new keeper without being seen.
What Coco saw was a tiny brown skinned woman with snow-white hair standing near the range. Eggs, bacon, and toast sat on a white plate on the table. The scent of the fresh food rose in enchanting waves to where Coco stood watching. She tried not to enjoy it. Food was a battle she had waged with all the help.
“They told me you were a picky eater,” the woman said, not looking at where Coco stood. Coco knew that “anorexic” was the word they had used. “So, I made you some good solid food. I would be happy if you would sit down and eat it.”
Coco walked from the shadow and slid into her place at the table, careful not to make eye contact.
The woman sat down across from her with an equally filled plate and a cup of coffee. “Now I imagine you’re shocked to see a new face in your house, but I’m with the agency. They said that you lost your last housekeeper so they sent me.”
Coco nodded silently, sipping her juice and eyeing the slice of bacon next to the yellow scrambled eggs. The toast was thankfully plain, but when she lifted it to her lips she noticed the little woman staring at her. Coco quickly set the toast down again and looked away. “Thank you.” The words felt strange when she said them. Coco looked at the side of her plate for a linen napkin before realizing she had wrapped the last one around Bebe’s bottom the night before.
“You’re welcome.” The woman smiled and watched Coco nervously nibble the toast. Once she finished the toast, Coco rose to leave. “You know that’s low-fat turkey bacon.” The tiny woman’s voice froze Coco mid-movement. “And I only put in half an egg yolk for color; nothing there will make you fat!”
Coco stared at her, realizing that this woman maneuvered in a way that none of the others had. The mothers from sitcoms like Leave it to Beaver and The Brady Bunch came to mind as Coco realized that this woman would try to make her eat what was put in front of her. She thought about going to her room and locking the door but didn’t. Eva, the nice nanny, had begged and pleaded, offering up hugs and promises in an attempt to make Coco eat. The Keeper, in her malevolence, had added globs of oil and butter to Coco’s food, because she knew grease repulsed her. The other maids and housekeepers hadn’t cared if she ever ate again. This woman was different. What she cooked, she expected it to be eaten. Coco watched the woman open a newspaper, rustling it noisily in the large kitchen.
Everything about this new keeper seemed grounded and purposeful, like a mountain that time couldn’t move. She had an antiquated quality, reflected in the blue checkered dress she wore complete with an apron. The look was very out of place in the modern steel and granite kitchen; she would have looked more at home near chrome and Formica.
A soft sigh escaped Coco’s lips. She reclaimed her seat and drove a fork into the yellow egg. It was delicious, and when coupled with the slice of turkey bacon the taste was decadent. When she had finished half the food on her plate, the newspaper rustled again bringing two eyes to smile quietly over the top.
“Good?”
“Yes.” Coco stood, ready to slip away again; the overwhelming guilt of having eaten felt terrible.
“My name is Lucia Brown.” The woman’s voice stopped Coco a second time. “But everyone – and I mean everyone – calls me Tia.”
Coco stared at her. Now she wanted to have a conversation? Coco nodded, her eyes large with the realization that this new keeper wouldn’t allow her to remain passively invisible. The long silence was broken by the noise of a commercial coming from the TV, which blared continually in the darkened living room. Coco nodded again and turned to go. She had almost succeeded in leaving the room when the woman’s voice froze her a third time.
“Coco Rodriguez, you and I are going to be friends.”
With that Coco knew that her days of quiet anonymity were over.
As if on cue Bebe awoke and wailed. At any moment when she didn’t see Coco, she wailed. Tia stood quickly, her chair skidding out behind her on the granite floor. Coco remained frozen. The Keeper may have been evil, but she hadn’t intruded into Coco’s relationship with Bebe; this keeper would ask where Bebe had come from. She would be nosy and want to help.
Coco could feel Tia’s eyes boring into the back of her head.
“Are you going to get the baby, or am I?” Tia’s asked, her voice commanding.
Coco moved quickly to her room where Bebe screamed from her basket, angry and frightened at being left alone. Coco swept the sobbing baby into her arms; tears cascaded down both their cheeks. Bebe’s shrieks lessened when she felt Coco around her, enfolding her in her warmth. Bebe’s dark eyes searched Coco’s face, taking in the tears and the anguished expression until Bebe began to cry again, not out of anger but confusion: Coco wasn’t supposed to cry.
A long time passed before Coco felt Tia’s presence. To her surprise, Tia tried to take Bebe from her, something the Keeper had never done. Coco resisted only slightly when the old woman lifted Bebe away, inspecting the child before walking to the bed. Bebe’s struggling breath filled the silence. She fought Tia when the housekeeper tried to lay her on a blanket. Tia removed Bebe’s clothes, her eyes scanning the baby’s lean body before turning on Coco with a thin-lipped look of concern.
“Your baby looks underfed.”
“I had trouble getting good formula.”
“She should be eating solid food by now. She looks to be around nine months old.”
“She’ll be eleven months old next Thursday.”
“Do you have a fresh diaper handy?”
“No.” Numb with the fear that she could lose Bebe, Coco went into her bathroom where she had hung a clean cloth under the heat lamp to dry. Tia accepted the designer napkin with its embroidered fleur-de-lis pattern without saying a word. Coco watched her wrap the napkin around the struggling baby.
“This baby will need a bath after she eats.” Tia lifted the infant up into Coco’s arms before leaving the room with the soiled napkin.
Coco didn’t hide from Tia that day. Instead she watched Tia call in a case of formula, a swing, a crib, a stroller, and five boxes of diapers all to be delivered to the apartment that day. Tia taught Coco how to properly wash Bebe in the sink instead of washing her in the shower the way she usually did. Then she taught Coco a better way of holding her when she fed.
In truth, Tia never stopped talking. Every word she said was directed at either Coco or Bebe. Nothing about either of them was ignored. Tia’s words flowed like water from a spring, pure and constant. Whereas the Keeper had said things like, “You stupid little hussy, what did you do that for?” Tia said, “Coco, I want you to hold her head like this, elevated above her chest so that she can feed without getting as many bubbles in her tummy. When she’s done with the bottle let’s see if she’ll eat a graham cracker.”
