Tatjana Soli - The Forgetting Tree

“If I make it that long.”

“You will make it. I’ll take in enough life for both of us. We are like those plants — I can only survive if you survive.” Minna got up to clear the dishes. “Now I have to go tell lies.”

* * *

Claire, giddy at her temporary freedom, did not question what Minna told the doctors. When the phone rang, Minna shook her head and let it ring. Then she made her own calls. An hour later, Claire saw Don’s car pull into the driveway, and her throat caught, thinking Minna would leave with him, but this time he drove all the way up to the house and wrestled three straw beach hats out of the trunk. Mrs. Girbaldi was in the backseat ready to go.

“What’s going on?”

When Don saw Claire, his face broke into that smooth, movie smile that revealed nothing. “Let’s go have some fun, little sweetheart.”

Mrs. Girbaldi patted her hand. “We’re going to go get a miracle.”

* * *

After they crossed the border, traffic moved quickly through Tijuana, and soon they were on a desolate, winding road, burnt tan fields on either side, the land dropping away to the empty blue ocean. It was hard to remember a time when the land around the farm had been equally bare, the possibility of not having to look through a barricade of houses crowding out any glimpse of distance — mountains or water. But it was not as barren as on her previous visit all those years ago. Was it a coincidence that she always found herself in the desert at low points in her life? She wondered if that trip had turned out differently, if they had somehow come together again as a family, would the future have turned out better? Now Baja had aspirations — half-finished stucco developments everywhere, like a blight, trying to replicate the urban sprawl north of the border.

“Did you know I came to Cabo in the fifties?” Mrs. Girbaldi said. “It was just a little fishing village then. We all drank in a bar on the sand. Sinatra, Crosby, later on Bobby Mitchum.”

“You met Robert Mitchum?” Don asked, turning around so that the car swerved.

“Hey!” Minna said.

“I danced with Mitch on the beach many times. He said I was as pretty as Lana Turner, if you can believe that.” One could tell by the way she said it that this memory had nourished her through long decades.

Minna turned around and squinted at her. “He’s right. Most definitely.”

“Silly.” Mrs. Girbaldi laughed, delighted. “You don’t even know who she was. Anyway. He was a charmer. He died of lung cancer.” Realizing what she said, she looked guiltily at Claire.

“It’s okay,” Claire said. “I haven’t forgotten. People die.”

“Yes, they do. Problem is, sometimes they forget to live,” Minna said.

* * *

They passed two beer breweries and then a donkey pulling a wagon of mud bricks. When they stopped for gas, Claire got out and stood looking up and down the broken sidewalks. A three-legged dog nimbly picked his way down the road. A place one could lose oneself in. She fantasized that if she ran away, if she bargained not to return to her old life, the cancer would vanish in trade. This hardscrabble town was not a place that accommodated sickness. Death, yes. Decay was visible everywhere — the bleached signs, the unsold dusty cans and bottles in the cashier’s window, the trash-clogged gutters.

“Do you need to take a pee?” Minna asked.

Inside the filling station, the men stared hard through the glass at Minna until she glared back and their gazes crumbled away. Claire passed by invisible. One could not blame them. Playing with paper towels and squeegee, Minna helped Don wash the windshield. Her dark skin blazed in the harsh sun, the bright coral tank top she wore in astonishing contrast. Her teeth, as she laughed, like rare pieces of polished ivory. It occurred to Claire for the first time that Don was in love with her. How could he not be? How could any of them not be dazzled by her?

In the dank bathroom, there was only cold water and soap like gritty sand to wash her hands. Claire avoided the cracked mirror.

* * *

The road veered inland, and the ocean dropped from sight. The air grew hotter, sparse grass giving way to glittering-hard desert floor. Don sang cowboy songs from old Roy Rogers films, while Minna sat next to him, dissolved in laughter, trying to sing along.

For stretches of time, Claire forgot her illness altogether, lost in the thrill of movement, in the lust of Don and Minna for each other, in the cheerful prattling of Mrs. Girbaldi.

“Where are we going?” Claire asked.

“First we need to eat.”

Although the air appeared still, far off in a field Claire saw a whirling of wind as it funneled sand up into a cone. It danced shakily back and forth like a drunken top, a miniature tornado, then landed on a bush, which became possessed, electrified, branches stretching and shuddering. She did not wonder at the credulity of the ancients in explaining such a sight as an act of providence. Although she was amazed, she did not point out the sight to Don or Minna or Mrs. Girbaldi, hoarding the vision until she could decipher its significance. Even riding along in their modern, air-conditioned car, Claire would not have been surprised to see the bush burst into flame, to hear the voice of God. In her illness, she had fallen outside the constraints of time and logic.

She recalled Lucy’s disappearance all those years ago, and their panicked reaction. Claire should have walked out into the desert without turning back until she found her. So clear in hindsight that Lucy had just wanted to be found.

* * *

Don drove them through the gates of a resort along the ocean, and they entered another world, the fake movie version of Mexico Claire had long ago expected — palm trees, fountains, and red-tiled buildings. But the simplicity she also expected was nowhere in evidence: the parking lot was filled with expensive imported cars; the lobby stood marbled and sleek. Here Minna’s glamour was the norm rather than the exception. They were seated on a terrace overlooking the bay; oily, listless waves dragged forward and back, back and forward.

A lovely, plump waitress, with heavy, oiled hair that coiled like a snake down her back, greeted them. Her uniform was straight out of a B movie — white peasant blouse with an elastic neckline pulled down over her shoulders, ruffled skirt in red and green that accentuated her full hips. When she recognized Don, she giggled, asking for an autograph.

“Only if you bring us menus.”

She bowed, hurried away.

They ate large, moon-shaped pieces of Mexican papaya, the rose-colored flesh served at room temperature. The fruit tasted overripe, even the smell made Claire queasy, but she kept spooning pieces in her mouth, forcing herself to swallow because she didn’t want to appear sick, didn’t want to break the spell of reprieve and be forced to return home. Didn’t want the day to ever end. The waitress brought a tray full of margaritas from the manager. Claire picked up a glass and drank, although she wasn’t allowed alcohol. The girl stood by Don, telling him how she enjoyed his latest desert picture.

“Dear,” Mrs. Girbaldi said, “can you let the man dine in peace?”

Irritated, at first Minna ignored the girl. Then she began to ask her for things: salt, a napkin, another order of chips.

“Is there anything else?” the waitress said, sullen.

A fork, bottled water, another with bubbles. Till the girl caught on and stayed out of reach at the bar, mooning over Don from afar.

“Annoying,” Minna said.

“Source of paycheck,” Don said.

They ate ceviche and fresh grilled mahimahi and local lobster until Claire felt sick but would not dare refuse a bite.

Minna smiled. “Somebody must be feeling better.”