Anita Vasquez had been dreaming about Mexico. Though originally from Guatemala, her family had moved to Arizona when she was ten, and they often crossed the border to visit relatives in the Sonora Desert. Some of her most cherished memories were of that strange and barren land. Like Ocotillo Wells, the Sonora was endless and arid, isolated in its beauty, with dusty sand dunes the color of her daughter’s hair.
When she looked into her child’s eyes for the first time, she saw that lonely, desolate place, underneath a sky so immense she’d reached up to touch it, again and again, yearning toward something unattainable until her slender arms ached.
That was exactly how she felt about Sonny.
A thousand times, she’d reached out to her. And come up empty, every time. It was her own fault, she knew, drawing the blankets around her. She had never been good with women. Girls.
She’d had four older sisters growing up, all dark and heavy-featured, none pretty and delicate, like her. Their jealousy had made her turn away from other females, even her own mother, who was too worn and old from having seven children before the age of thirty to give her youngest daughter any attention.
Anita got all the attention she needed from men. A sway of her hips, and they were hers. Men were not always gentle, but they were easy. If they had quick fists, and so many of them did, they were also quick to apologize, to soothe, to kiss away the pain.
Men were easy. Daughters, complicated.
Giving up on sleep, Anita got out of bed and put on a pot of coffee. She stood in the kitchen, looking out the window, struck by the memory of her daughter at seven years old, pulling on her mother’s skirts. Sonny had been wearing a blue cotton dress, one of the few she owned, and it showed her scabby knees. A tortoiseshell clip was stuck in her light hair, hair so thick and unruly that Anita fought a battle with it on a daily basis, and lost.
“I don’t believe in God, Mama,” she said.
Anita whirled around, wiping her wet hands on her apron and stepping away from the sink. “Ave Maria Purísima,” she cried, making the sign of the cross and dragging her daughter to kneel before La Virgen. “Pray, mija. Pray for forgiveness, right now.”
Sonny crossed her arms over her chest defiantly. “No. Why should I pray to something I don’t believe in?”
Her jaw dropped. “You will go to hell if you don’t. You will be condemned to perdición, para siempre.”
Sonny shrugged. “I don’t believe in hell. Can I go play instead?”
Perhaps she should have slapped her daughter’s impertinent face. More often than not, Anita had shaken her head, sighed, and let Sonny do as she wished. For all her strangeness, the girl was intelligent, and she never got into trouble at school like her brother.
For Rigo, Anita had made allowances. But fighting was one thing, sacrilege another. She made Sonny kneel in front of the statue for three hours.
When Anita was convinced she’d taught her daughter a lesson, she went to her and helped her up. Sonny could no longer move her legs, having been still for so long in that cramped position. Tears had poured from her strange, ice-colored eyes, but she hadn’t made a sound as Anita rubbed the feeling back into her knees.
“Why, mija? Why didn’t you tell me you were in pain?”
“I was waiting, Mama.”
“For what?”
“I was praying, like you said. For God to take the pain away.”
Anita hugged her close. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry. God does not always answer our prayers.”
“I know, Mama.”
Anita was surprised. “Do you believe in Him again?” Hope surged within her. She’d never felt this close to a common understanding between them.
“Can you hate something you don’t believe in?” her daughter asked, after a moment of intense contemplation.
“No,” she replied cautiously.
Sonny’s pale eyes met hers. “Then I believe.”
Sonny was surprised to find her mother already awake. Not only awake, but weeping into a cup of coffee, her heavy bathrobe belted neatly at her slim waist.
She steeled herself against the sight. Her mother liked to drink, and she liked to cry. Sometimes she did both at the same time, and wiped down the already clean kitchen countertops while she did it.
If only she could wipe her conscience clean, Sonny thought ungraciously.
“Do you mind?” she asked, helping herself to a cup of coffee. The cream was out, in a stainless steel carafe, and a bowl of raw sugar sat atop the counter. She sipped experimentally then sighed with reluctant admiration. Anita Vasquez made a damned fine cup of coffee.
“I met a man,” she said.
Her mother’s brows lifted with surprise. “Really?” She patted the couch beside her. “Tell me about him.”
Sonny sat in a chair opposite the couch, instead. It was pokey and uncomfortable, but she stayed. “He lives in Torrey Pines. La Jolla, actually.”
Anita smiled, knowing that meant he was rich. “Is he handsome?”
“Yes,” she said. Too handsome for his own good. Or hers.
“What color eyes?”
Sonny looked down into her coffee cup, having seen the rich, dark color before she added cream. “Blue,” she said, changing the tone of the conversation. Standing, she took the picture from her pocket. “Here he is. Take a look.”
When her mother saw the photo of Arlen Matthews, she gasped.
Sonny sat back in her chair and drank more coffee. It was going to be a long day. “Why did you never tell me his name? Why would you keep that from me?”
Still reeling from shock, Anita remained silent.
“What did he do to you?” Sonny asked.
Anita looked out the window, across the flat expanse of land in the distance. In the eerie predawn light, the harsh surface of sand glowed gray-white, as ethereal as moondust. “Nothing that hasn’t been done before. Or since.”
“Was he the worst?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
“Why?”
Anita stood and washed her cup in the sink, drying it carefully before she set it aside. “You never understood. The men in my life have not been perfect, this I know. But they were not deliberately cruel.”
Rage licked through Sonny’s body, quick and hot, like a burst of flames. “Everett Moore wasn’t cruel?”
Anita regarded her with sad eyes. “No. He was sick.”
Sonny laughed, but the sound held no humor.
“Your father was cruel,” she said.
A hard, cold ball settled in the pit of her stomach. “Oh?”
“Some men have wicked tempers,” she continued. “Arlen did not. He would hit when he was in a good mood. He would just strike out, lightning fast, while he was watching a ball game, in midsentence. He would do terrible, unmentionable things, then light a cigarette and tell me to move out of his way, because I was blocking the TV.”
Sonny believed every word of it. And felt herself go dead inside.
Anita covered her mouth with one hand, remembering. “One day I came home from work early. I found Rigo curled up in the closet.” She choked back a sob. “Arlen had beaten and tortured him. He was only six years old.”
Sonny’s heart went out to her brother. He’d never told her. “What did you do?”
“I threatened to press charges if he didn’t leave.” Her expression was troubled, her mind far away. “After he was gone, I vowed to never mention him again.”
Sonny couldn’t help but stare. A new idea occurred to her, one more painful than her memories of Everett. “Is that why you hated me? Because of what my father did?”
Her mother’s face wilted with sorrow. “I never hated you, mija. I always loved you. I love you still.”
Sonny found those words impossible to refute. Yet how could she believe them when confronted with so much evidence to the contrary? Too many times, Anita had chosen a man over her own daughter. Too many times, she’d looked the other way.