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One day, Julia came to her and said: ‘I’m leaving. You’re sixteen now. You’ll live. I’ve renewed a friendship in the city and I’m going to stay there for a while.’
Calida’s mouth fell open. ‘What? But what about …?’
‘The farm?’ Julia swished a silk scarf over her shoulder. ‘Tell you what, Calida: it’s yours. You always did like this place better than I did.’
‘I can’t look after it on my own.’
‘You’ve got Daniel.’
‘Mama—you can’t. It’s not …’ Her throat closed, making it hard to speak. She felt like sand in an hourglass, time rushing through her fingers. ‘There isn’t—’
‘Come now, Calida. You’re an adult. Teresita’s started her new life. You can’t expect me to hang around here for the rest of my days playing the doting mama.’
And, just like that, the next morning, Julia left. Just like her daughter, she was able to turn away from her past and her responsibilities without a backward glance. She left behind no cash—but Calida wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. It was blood money, testament to the devil-sent pact the three of them had orchestrated, the abomination of that unholy exchange. Calida would have nothing to do with it.
Alone, she summoned Diego’s voice. Speak to me, Papa. Tell me what to do. And she heard his reply: Every path has an ending. Every problem has an answer.
It was the same guidance he’d bestowed on her when she took her pictures, telling her to be still and quiet and at peace, because only then was she truly able to see. Calida had become a lone pillar in a sandstorm, after the rest of the building had blown down. All her life she had been taught to be self-sufficient, to rely on no one but herself. Now, after the dismantling of her family, she understood for the first time how crucial this independence was. The way forward was to become the pillar; to lean on no other supports, neither props on either side nor a foundation beneath her feet.
Winter blew in. It was the harshest season Calida could recall, sleet lashing and winds crying, and some nights the gale threatened to tear the wooden farmhouse from the ground. The land froze and with it the ghosts of their crops. Food was scarce. The old roof leaked and dripped, and as fast as they repaired one fissure, another appeared. Calida lined up buckets on the kitchen floor, the slow seconds counted by the pit-pit of water as it spat into the tin. Each day she prayed for sun, a sliver of promise in the clouds, but the sky churned grey and limitless as a deep, livid sea.
Paco the horse became sick. It started with a waning in his eyes, a burning ember reduced to a flickering wick. He became listless and depressed, and lost his appetite. ‘Strangles,’ Daniel called the disease.
Calida couldn’t survive losing Paco as well. She floundered against his illness, unsure what steps to take. But Daniel knew. He said: ‘I know how much he means to you—it will be all right,’ and in the same grave, capable way as he tackled so much else on the farm, he did what was required to save Paco’s life. Calida questioned why Daniel was still here; the pay had long since dried up, but he never graced her with a response. Just once, he asked if she would refrain from enquiring again.
‘I’m part of this,’ he told her. ‘That isn’t going to change.’
But what had changed was the lost ease of their companionship, when Calida’s youth had excused her bumbling infatuation and Teresita had never said those wicked things. She can be so desperate. She should set her sights lower.
She cringed whenever she thought of it. Calida yearned to unpick it, correct it, tell Daniel there was no boy in town that she liked; Teresita had lied about everything. But if she did that she was confessing to having eavesdropped, and admitting to him her true feelings. Why couldn’t she admit it? What did she have left to lose?
Teresita would tell him, she tortured herself. Teresita would dare.
‘Do you miss her?’ asked Calida one afternoon, as she hung up Paco’s reins, stopping to rinse her hands beneath the outdoor tap. The water choked a splurge of brown before clearing. It was accompanied by the sharp stench of iron.
Daniel didn’t speak for several moments. She was wondering if he’d heard, when at last he said: ‘You know, Calida—I’m glad it’s not you who went away.’
Calida wasn’t glad. If she had gone away, she could have proven her sister wrong: she could have an adventure; she could take a chance … The trouble was, a chance never took her. It stung that he hadn’t answered her question.
‘She really wanted to go, didn’t she?’ said Calida.
Daniel faced her. ‘Sometimes, if you’re unhappy, you have no option but to leave. It’s self-preservation.’
The wind moaned in the rafters. Calida examined the nail on her thumb.
‘She hated it here that much?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Daniel. ‘She’s young. She doesn’t know what she wants.’
‘I do. And I’m the same age.’
‘But you’re …’ Daniel smiled a little, with compassion, humour, she didn’t know what. ‘You’re different, Calida. You’re not like other girls.’
‘You left your home,’ she said. ‘Do you think about your family?’
His blue eyes held hers. Calida could see him about to open up, the last bud in spring, but then his face fell into shadow, as it had on the day they’d met.
‘I’ll never go back,’ he said bluntly, turning from her. ‘That part of my life is over. There’s nothing left. I can never return.’
‘You never talk about it.’
‘There’s nothing to say.’ Daniel started stacking saddles on the barn ledge; the weight of sheepskin and the tangle of reins. ‘But the more distance there is between that place and me, the happier I am. I’ll die before I cross that ocean again.’
He stopped, then, and said, ‘It’s not the same for Teresita. I swear to you. I know that much. You’re too important to her. This place is too important. She doesn’t realise it yet, but she will … She thinks she wants more—that whatever’s out there is better, that it’ll solve her problems, answer her prayers. It won’t, because the problem she’s trying to figure out isn’t this place—it’s her. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t leave herself behind. One day soon, she’ll look around at her new world and consider what she swapped it for … and then she’ll see her mistake.’
Calida bit back tears.
‘I don’t want anything to happen to her,’ she said. ‘I can’t help it. What if it does, and I’m not there? I’ve never not been there.’
Daniel came to her, put his hands on her arms. A spark raced up Calida’s spine and set fire to her blood. ‘It’s nice that you care so much,’ he said.
She nodded. There was a long pause.
‘I broke up with my girlfriend,’ he said.
‘Oh.’
Daniel waited for her to speak, as if he had offered a handshake and she’d left him hanging, unsure when to pull away. He returned to ground they’d been on: ‘I know what it’s like to be parted from your family. It hurts … but you’ll find a way.’
She nodded. A flush of shame crept up her neck.
He feels sorry for me. I can be so desperate sometimes …
‘Thanks, Daniel,’ she muttered, and hurried back inside.
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