“I didn’t want to mention the picture again,” Mrs. Cruz says. “I thought I might be acting too pushy. I think I did a pretty good job. Your mother was so beautiful. It’s easy to paint beautiful people. It’s the ugly ones that are difficult. I have to search and search for something good to focus on.”

The room is messy with paints and easels with halffinished pictures of fish. Three nude paintings hang on the wall and I feel the blood rush from my head as I try to brace myself for what I’m about to see.

Mrs. Cruz waddles to the north wall, then browses through several canvases leaning against one another like fallen dominos.

“Ah, here it is.” She turns the canvas around, holding it out in front of her so that I can get a good look.

To my relief, my mother isn’t nude, but wearing a full-length white nightgown. Her long black hair flows over her left shoulder and touches the ground. She’s not the mother I’ve seen in the pictures I’ve studied around our house. She’s not the laughing little girl eating a mango, the smiling fiesta queen, the shy bride, or even the peaceful mother holding Frank when he was a baby and I was at her knee. She’s sad. Sad and beautiful. The mother I remember.

Focal Point

Focal Point

I carry the picture home and find a place for it on the living-room wall over the TV, not bothering to ask Tata’s permission. He’s drinking a Miller Lite in his chair while he watches me pound a nail into the wall. When I’m finished, he stands and walks to the picture. His chest jumps and he makes what sounds like a hiccup. He runs a finger down my mother’s hair, then hides his face in his hands. “Erlinda,” he whispers.

I can’t tell if it’s the beer that causes his tears or the picture, but I don’t care. I hug my father and he does something he hasn’t done since my mother died. He hugs me back.

Sleep

Sleep

Olivia hasn’t had a nightmare in a couple of weeks. Every night has been a dry one for her, too, even without trips to the bathroom. Tonight, I close my eyes and before long I’m dreaming of the Fragrant Lady.

Like before, I catch a glimpse of her wearing a flowing white gown and like before, I follow her and the sweet scent to the ocean. But this time when she turns around and waves, I see her face. It’s my mother’s.

Expectations

Expectations