unconscious. She could relate. She felt as though someone had kicked the wind right out of her. She was pregnant? How was that possible? She’d been on birth control—well, transitioning from pills to a patch. But that shouldn’t have mattered, considering the condition of her fallopian tubes. Endometriosis had so scarred them the doctor had told her she would need in vitro fertilization to get pregnant.
Someone tapped on the door. “We gotta roll, Mel.”
“Right, Dave. Coming.” She tossed the stick and the box in the trash. Her stomach surged, so she bolted back to the stall to lose what was left of lunch.
“You okay?” Dave asked when she emerged. He’d clearly heard her puke.
“The enchiladas were too spicy,” she mumbled, though Dave would never buy that—the two of them had regular contests over who could mouth-surf the hottest peppers in town.
Pushing back her panic, she hitched her camera bag higher on her shoulder and focused on the job ahead.
Their timing was ideal, as it turned out. Dave scored interviews with the smugglers’ neighbors and a family of immigrants who were held hostage in the drop house while the coyotes extorted more money from their people back home.
Mel got great shots, including one of a mournful immigrant couple sitting against the post of a for sale sign in the yard. It would make a perfect cover. So far, she’d scored three covers. Not bad for two months at a new job.
Her job was exactly as great as she’d dreamed it would be. Arizona News Day wasn’t afraid of the tough stories, allowed its journalists to take risks and gave tons of editorial space to photos.
She’d picked up shortcuts and tips from veteran photographers, honed her instincts and was proud that her candid images often seemed lit and composed as well as a studio shot.
Her editor loved her initiative and the managing editor, Randall Cox, called her “magic behind the lens,” though he seemed to dole out praise to distract them all from their less-than-fabulous salaries. Her highest compliment was that Dave, their top reporter, often asked for her to accompany him.
As the weeks passed, she’d loaded her print clips and photos into her portfolio so that it was always current and kept her eye on openings at bigger papers in other cities.
She would miss her mother, but when a spot opened up, she was ready to go. She longed to take the kind of world-changing photos she’d carried on about to Noah—whom, after a mere three emails, she hadn’t heard from in a month. Noah who, it turned out, had gotten her pregnant.
It was her fault. When they’d run out of condoms, they could have simply hit the gift shop, but, oh, no, she’d told Noah she had it handled.
Evidently not.
On the way home, she dropped into a Planned Parenthood clinic to learn how the impossible had happened. It turned out she’d missed the warning about elevated pregnancy risk while switching methods. As to her fallopian tubes, “The body is amazingly resilient, Mel,” the nurse practitioner told her sympathetically, then went through her options, giving her pamphlets for each. “Are there questions I can answer right now?”
“Yes. How could I have been so stupid?”
“No contraceptive is flawless. And we’re all human. We make mistakes. Think this through, talk about it with people you trust. Family. Clergy. A counselor. Are you in contact with the father?”
“No. He’s not in the country.” When Noah heard about this…
She cringed. She was already embarrassed by how often she replayed their time together—the sex and the conversation. She’d made too much of it, she knew. He’d warned her that he disappeared, so she had no right to feel hurt, yet she did. She’d thought they had a connection.
They did now, all right. A baby—the last thing either of them wanted.
“Do you feel faint?” the nurse asked, reaching toward her.
She shook herself back to the moment. “No. I’m just shocked. You’ve been very helpful.” She left the clinic, desperate to go home to think, but she’d promised she’d stop by Bright Blossoms, her mother’s day-care business, to take photos of the Fourth of July party.
Mel parked in front of the strip mall where her mother’s business nestled. An American flag proudly jutted from its eaves, waving in the light breeze. It was muggy, with monsoon clouds heavy on the horizon and the muted sunlight looked nearly golden. The magical smell of creosote filled the air from last night’s warm drizzle.
Bright Blossoms stood out among the bland shops in the mall. The bricks were painted canary-yellow and covered with tropical flowers and birds matching what Irena remembered of how her father had painted their small home not far from San Vicente in Salvador.
The place was so much like Mel’s mother—bright and colorful and cheerful. Though, behind Irena’s constant smile, Mel knew she missed her family terribly. Irena’s father had died a year after she left, and her mother, brother and two sisters never forgave her for leaving. Irena had visited three times, bringing Mel when she was five, but Irena found the trips almost more painful than missing her people from half a continent away.
Inside the building, Mel’s ears were hit with a Sousa march and a confusion of percussion. Through the glass wall, she saw the preschoolers marching around the refreshment table, wearing patriotic paper hats, beating toy drums, shaking maracas, banging cymbals or clacking castanets. A few parents sat in the tiny chairs, clapping along.
In the hallway, her mother crouched beside a sobbing toddler. Irena wiped his tears with a flag-decorated napkin. “Where does it hurt, mi’ jo?” she murmured, her voice rich as music.
“My finger,” he said, holding it out, clearly not in pain. He wanted the little ritual that came next. Her mother gently rubbed the boy’s finger while reciting the Spanish rhyme that translated as: “Get well, get well, little tadpole. If you don’t get well today, you’ll get well tomorrow.” All through Mel’s own childhood, Irena had soothed her with the incantation that magically took away all hurts, big and small.
Her mother had filled Mel’s life with poems and songs and sayings. Spanish was so beautiful, sensual and full of rhymes. Whenever Mel heard it, she remembered the comfort of childhood in the tiny apartment they’d lived in until Mel had graduated high school.
“Next time, keep your fingers away from drumsticks that are playing, eh, muchacho?” her mother said, giving the boy a hug. He nodded solemnly and ran into the parade room.
“Mamá,” Mel said.
“Melodía, you’re here.” Her mother smiled, but her eyes stayed serious.
“Is everything okay?”
“Of course. Come take the pictures.” She motioned Mel into the room. Her mother was in her element, surrounded by children. She’d never made a big deal of it, but she’d clearly wished for more babies after Mel, though it wasn’t possible. Bright Blossoms helped relieve that sorrow, Mel believed.
Mel nodded at Rachel and Marla, two of the caregivers who’d been here since they’d opened five years ago, then moved around the room taking shots of the kids marching and playing along with “God Bless America.”
As
