The Spanish Daughter(50)

He let go.

“She said she was leaving forever.”

“Do you know where she was staying?”

“No.” I collected the doll before he would take it. “Who is she? Why did she want me to show you the doll?”

“Because I gave it to her. When she was small.”

“Why?”

He was about to say something but seemed to change his mind.

“Tell me!”

“I will, but only if you tell me the truth. Is it true that the Virgin came to your room?”

I squeezed the doll’s cushioned skirt. We were in his study, where I rarely came—we kids were not allowed in here. My father was sitting behind his desk where he’d been writing in a leather-bound notebook.

He rubbed my arm. “Come on, ma petite poupée, it will be our secret.”

“If I tell you, will you make it stop?”

“Make what stop?”

“The pilgrimages, the praying.”

“I promise. Now tell me. Did you see her?”

I bit my lower lip, then shook my head. There was a strange flicker in my father’s eyes. For a moment, I thought he was going to strike me, but instead, he started laughing. It was a hoarse laugh; one I hadn’t heard in years.

“But why would you make up such a thing?” he said, tears in the corner of his eyes from laughing so hard.

“It wasn’t intentional, Papá, I never wanted this to happen. Elisa came to my room once and Mamita heard us. It was the only thing I could think of so she wouldn’t find her there. She doesn’t like her.”

My father leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“Yes, I know.”

“Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“To tell me why you gave that doll to Elisa.”

He cleared his throat. “Not a word to your brother or your sister. Understood?”

I nodded.

“Elisa is your sister.”

“What? Why doesn’t she live with us? Why does Mamita hate her?”

“Because she has a different mother than you. She lives with her.”

“Like Purificación, your daughter in Spain?”

“Something like that.” He lowered his voice. “When she was little, she lived here on the plantation, but when your mom found out who she really was, she sent her and her mother away. I don’t know why they returned and didn’t come to see me.”

I remembered something Elisa had once said, weeks ago.

“Elisa said her grandmother was sick. Maybe that’s why they came.”

“Yes. Maybe.” He patted my back. “Now go play, will you? I need to get some work done.”

“But Papá, you’re going to help me with Mamita, to make all of this stop?”

“I’ll try.”

I walked away, both relieved and disturbed by my conversation with my father. I couldn’t believe Elisa was my sister! In a strange way, I was delighted with the news. I had another sister, one that I liked very much, and one who played with me. She even helped me up there, on that hill, where all those people surrounded me expecting to see the Virgin. But what good was it to have another sister when she was gone and might never come back? On the other hand, it felt good to tell someone the truth about the Virgin situation, but somehow that didn’t stop the fear that crept through me ever since this big lie had begun.





CHAPTER 25

Puri

April 1920



I shut my father’s journal, stunned by what I’d just read. It was after midnight, and I’d snuck out of my room and into the study after everyone had gone to bed. What a relief it had been to find that the door was unlocked.

I put away the notebook where my father had confessed that he’d had another child out of wedlock, a daughter named Elisa, whom he’d only met as a young child. She was the daughter of one of the housemaids, a campesina who had seduced him—that was the word he used: “seduced.” Séduit in French.

When his wife, Gloria, had found out he was the father of the maid’s child, she’d demanded that the woman leave. “It’s me or her,” she’d told him. At first, he’d denied everything, saying people loved to gossip around here and she shouldn’t listen to that nonsense. He’d laughed the whole thing off. But Gloria didn’t speak to him in four weeks, and that drove him crazy, he wrote, so he’d acquiesced to her demands.

My father gave the maid a big sum of money and she left. Once in a while, he would receive letters, reports if you will, about Elisa’s well-being. What she was like, what was she doing. But these letters were sporadic, he said, because the maid didn’t know how to read and write and had to rely on others to write the letters for her. And then one day, the letters stopped coming.

Oh, Papá, what a mess you created!

Another sister. As if I didn’t have enough with three siblings. My mother must be turning over in her grave. I tried to recall the details of my father’s will. Nowhere in there had my father mentioned this Elisa. Neither did Aquilino. Did that mean that he’d forgotten her? Had she died? But if she was still alive, where was she?

The photograph of the little girl in Angélica’s room came to mind. Could she be Elisa?