A Different Blue(159)

found Stella Hidalgo's home on the outskirts of the Shivwits Indian Reservation after a little

backtracking, and a consult with Wilson's trusty Garmin, which didn't seem to work especially

well when it came to Indian reservations, or Utah for that matter. I had only been to the St.

George area once before on a school trip, but I remembered the red rocks and the jutting

plateaus outlined against blue sky and desert sand. It was as harsh and inhospitable as it was

beautiful, and I wondered briefly how my ancestors had survived in the area for hundreds and

hundreds of years before modern conveniences. Water was scarce, food must have been even

scarcer, and growing anything would have been close to impossible.

We rolled up to Stella Hidalgo's home, noting the boxlike rambler with white siding and red

shutters in need of a paint job. It was neat and clean but unadorned, and the yard was kept

simple with desert rocks and Joshua trees. We stepped out of the car into a silence so heavy I

could hear my heart beating like an ancient drum. Stella Hidalgo opened the door before we

reached the front steps.

[page]She was a slight woman of medium height. She was probably close to sixty, though she had

an ageless beauty that made estimation difficult. Her skin was unlined, and her hair had streaks

of silver amid the black. She wore it simply, parted on one side and bobbed at her shoulder. She

wore a loose white dress shirt and white slacks, her skin a golden brown contrast against the

pale outfit. She had white sandals on her feet and turquoise stones at her ears and around her

wrists and throat. She had the look of a woman who knows how to present herself to the world and

is confident with what she sees in the mirror. She invited us in, and the only indication that

she was just as nervous as I was the tremor in her hand as she beckoned us forward.

“The police told me very little about your life.” Stella Hidalgo's voice was soft and cultured

when she spoke. “In fact, when Detective Martinez called me last week and told me they had a

DNA match, he was careful to explain that because you are a legal adult with a right to privacy

they could encourage you but ultimately it would be your choice whether or not to make contact

with me. He didn't even tell me your name. I don't know what to call you.”

“You can call me Blue.” I extended my hand and she clasped it in hers. I wouldn't ever be

Savana Hidalgo or Savana Jacobsen . . . or anything else. I was Blue Echohawk, and that wouldn't

change.

“It suits you.” She smiled tremulously. “Please call me Stella.” Her eyes shifted to Wilson,

waiting for an introduction.

“Hullo. I'm Darcy Wilson, but everyone calls me Wilson. I'm in love with Blue.” Wilson also

extended his hand, and Winona dimpled, completely taken in from the word “hullo.”

“How nice!” she giggled, and I loved Wilson more in that moment than I had ever loved a single

soul. Thanks to Wilson's charm, Stella's hands seemed steadier as she showed us into her little

home and invited us to sit on a couch covered with a multi-colored blanket across from a pair of

deep brown chairs. Several framed awards were hung along the walls, along with a picture that I

could have sworn was Jimmy Carter with a woman who was most likely my grandmother thirty years

ago. I don't know what I expected when Sergeant Martinez told me Stella Hidalgo lived on a