A Sister's Prayer

By Lauren Cox Escoto

Lauren Cox Escoto uses her own cross-cultural experiences in the United States and Mexico to bring this heartwarming debut novel to life. A moving tale of the search for love and family across two cultures, A Sisters Prayer explores the common bonds of human nature that unite all people.

When Dulce was a little girl in rural Mexico, her favorite brother, Manolo, ran away, never to be seen again. Now Dulce is old and frail, but she cant get Manolo out of her thoughts. Hoping against hope, her grandson Enrique takes up the quest to find his grandmothers missing brother in time. Along the way, Enrique finds the unexpecteda young woman who may become the love of his life!

Meanwhile, Dulce begins the final journey of her life, setting her hope on the One for whom nothing is impossible. Her grown children in Mexico grapple with faith, forgiveness, and the approaching loss of their beloved mother.

But one son struggles alone. Living in the United States, Marcos cut ties with his mother Dulce long ago. No one knows the secret pain he carries which divides them. Will Marcos find healing and make peace with his mother before its too late?

A Sisters Prayer will touch your heart and lift your soul through its insights into family relationships and its refreshing cultural richness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490885216

Lauren Cox Escoto

Lauren Cox Escoto grew up in the midwestern United States. She holds two bachelor’s degrees, one in Spanish and one in Nursing. She has lived in Mexico for fourteen years, serving with her husband, a Mexican pastor, in an urban church. A Sister’s Prayer is her first novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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D ulce trotted behind her older brother as fast as her little legs could carry her. Her mother had sent them to the neighborhood store with a few pesos to buy eggs. It was April, the height of the dry season in central Mexico, and the noon sun beat down on Dulce’s braided black hair and brown arms. Her legs were powdered with the dust from the road that her bare feet had kicked up.

Few people were out and about at that hour in the village. Most of the housewives had already bought their meat and vegetables earlier that morning for the afternoon meal. A bricklayer lounged on a bench in the town square, mostly having given up hope of being hired that day, but not willing to go home yet. Around his cement-crusted work boots was a carpet of delicate lavender flowers that had fluttered down from the gloriously laden jacaranda branches overhead.

Outside the store, a few skinny dogs with mottled tan and black coats were stretched out in what little shade the narrow awning offered. Inside, the store was dark, and the cool, clay tile floor felt good on Dulce’s hot feet. Her brother Manuel, or Manolo as most people called him, took the basket from her and asked for a dozen eggs. Jaime, the storekeeper, counted them out and laid them gently in the basket, along with the cilantro, onion, and tomatoes. Dulce gazed wistfully at the ripe mangoes resting on the counter. Manolo saw her look and asked Jaime to add one of them. Jaime observed Dulce’s faded green dress that was a few inches too short, and Manolo’s torn pants.

He looked down into Dulce’s deep brown eyes and smiled. Here, little girl, take two, on me. Her shy smile was his reward. Manolo didn’t smile, but methodically counted out what they owed. He had half a peso left. He stared at it a moment, and then he gave it to Jaime and took a milk caramel candy. He handed it to Dulce.

"A dulce—a sweet—for my Dulce, he said hoarsely. Dulce stared dumbly at her brother. This was unheard of, and would likely earn him a whipping. Take it!" he insisted.

Once outside, Dulce looked up adoringly at her brother. "Gracias, Manolo!" But Manolo was handing her the egg basket and the sack with the other groceries.

Take these home to Mamá, Dulce.

But where are you going?

I said, take them home. With that, her brother turned and ran down a side street. Dulce watched him go farther and farther away, heading toward the hills. Suddenly, she knew he was not going to come back.

Manolo! She screamed, running after him. Manolo! The sack dropped to the ground and the eggs began to jostle against one another. Dulce was running, sobbing, tripping, running again. Finally, exhausted, she fell to her knees, watching her brother disappear in the trees. She cried out one more time: Manolo! Please don’t leave me! Manolo!

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Dulce’s eyes opened. She saw not the sun-drenched hillside and the pine woods that had hidden her brother, but the white ceiling of her bedroom, and a poster that her grandson had tacked there, of a waterfall with a verse from the Bible. The pain in her abdomen reminded her that it was only a dream—those things had happened 70 years ago, when she was five years old. Manolo had been eleven. She had never seen him again. Now she was lying in her bedroom at home, in Mexico City, sick with terminal cancer.

She looked at the clock. It was 3:00 p.m. When had she dozed off? At 1:30 or so? Ay, the pain medication was wearing off faster now. She groaned slightly as she tried to shift to a more comfortable position.

Are you all right, Mamá? Her daughter Verónica poked her head around the door.

"Sí, Hija—my daughter," Dulce answered weakly.

I’ve got some good chicken soup with rice for you.

Mm hmm, Dulce murmured noncommittally. She could smell it from her bedroom. Verónica was famous for her chicken soup. Three months ago it would have made Dulce’s mouth water. But now she felt nauseated almost all the time—dizzy, she called it. The doctor said it was because of the medication.

Verónica came in and helped her mother into a half-sitting position. She couldn’t help noticing Dulce’s furrowed brow and sharp intake of breath when she was moved.

Ay, Mamá! she said. I don’t think the medicine is helping you at all! I’m going to ask Dr. González to come this afternoon. Maybe he can give you something different.

Dulce waved a weak hand at her. "No, Hija. I know I’m getting worse. Why don’t we pray?"

Verónica sighed and took her mother’s hand. Dear Father in Heaven…, she prayed. Silently, she cried, My mother is suffering! I’m so tired! How long do we have to go on this way? I’m scared she’ll die any day! She took a deep breath and continued out loud, "Thank you that your love is with us. Be with my mamá, Lord. Take the pain away. Help the doctor know what to do. And help her be able to eat. Amen."

Dulce lay with her eyes closed. Her brow was smoother now, and her breathing steady. "Gracias, Hija."

Verónica went to get the soup and called to her son Enrique to come down and eat. While she set up the tray for her mother, she said, Try to eat something, Mamá. You call me if you need anything.

As Verónica turned to go back to the kitchen, Dulce opened her eyes and said, "Hija, I want to see my brother. I haven’t seen him in such a long time."

Mamá, what brother? I think the medicine is confusing you again. You know your sister Ana will come the first of May from Monterrey. She already has her ticket.

No, Verónica. I want to see Manolo.

I don’t know who you mean, Mamá.

Dulce sighed with frustration. Talking was so draining, and then to not be understood—sometimes it got to be too much. Listen! I mean Manolo, my brother. The one I lost when I was five. I want to see him. I need to see him. There’s not much time left. Can’t you help me find him?

Verónica put her hand over her eyes to stifle the headache that was coming on. Now she remembered the uncle who had run away years ago. She hadn’t thought about him in a long time. Lately all her thoughts and energy had been taken up with caring for her mother. Mamá, I’m sorry, but I don’t see how we can find him. If they couldn’t find him back then, how can we ever find him now? Besides, he was older than you. He may have died already.

Dulce sighed. "Sí, Hija, I’m sorry. I know you’re working so hard. But I keep thinking and dreaming about him. I feel sure he’s alive. Well, if it’s God’s will, it will happen. I’m going to pray about it."

Verónica felt remorse immediately. Her mother was always so patient and uncomplaining. No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Mamá. I’ll talk to everyone on Saturday. Maybe we can figure something out, okay?

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Dulce had made a noble effort to eat a few bites before she pushed the tray aside. She was resting when her grandson Enrique poked his head through the door. "Abuela?"

Come in, dear.

Enrique entered the room with his relaxed, easy gait, hands deep in the pockets of his baggy jeans. The fashions of today’s young people amused Dulce. Imagine, buying sweatshirts and jeans that had rips in them on purpose! And she knew Verónica didn’t like the way Enrique’s wavy black hair partly covered his ears, but Dulce never minded. Her grandson’s gentle eyes and boyish smile were all she really noticed.

"Hey, Abuela," Enrique began, I heard you talking to Mamá about your brother. Do you really think he’s alive?

"Si. I do—at least I hope he’s still alive."

What was his full name?

Dulce brightened. Manuel Alberto Torres Valdés. But I always called him ‘Manolo’. He was the best brother. He took care of me when Mamá was working. When she didn’t leave us anything to eat, he’d make eggs for me, and he’d go out and milk the goat so I would have something to drink…

Enrique smiled. "Sí, Abuela." He had heard this account dozens of times. "But you shouldn’t talk so much. You’re going to wear yourself out. I wanted to know his name, because maybe I can look on the internet—you know, on the computer—and find something out about him. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"

Dulce sighed. "No, dear. The last person that saw him, besides me, was Jaime, from the store back home in San Pedro."

And no one ever heard from him? Dulce shook her head, but Enrique persisted. Maybe some relatives where he might have gone, here or in the States?

His grandmother frowned. "On my father’s side we never knew of anyone. We never even knew my father. My mamá had two sisters, but we only saw them once. Tía Lucinda lived in the state of Morelos. They were nopal cactus farmers. Tía Chela lived in Puebla. But Enrique, we won’t get anywhere looking them up. My mother tried…" Dulce squeezed her eyes shut at the pain that stabbed through her.

Enrique held her hand until it subsided. "Well, maybe I’ll look them up anyway. You never know, Abuela. There are all sorts of stories about people finding each other on the internet after years and years. It doesn’t hurt to try, right?"

Dulce smiled. "Sí. It doesn’t hurt to try. But if nothing comes of it, don’t worry. It makes me feel good just knowing you want to help this old woman. You’re always so good to me. Isn’t he, Verónica? she added to her daughter, who had just come in. Just look at that picture he put up for me. I look at it every day!" She motioned to the poster Enrique had tacked to the ceiling, so she could see it from her bed. The caption read, ‘With God, all things are possible.’

Verónica smiled slightly. "Sí, Mamá, I know. Her mother had exclaimed over it a hundred times. Hijo, you’re going to be late. Don’t forget, you have an exam today. You’re not on vacation yet."

Enrique stooped to give his grandmother a kiss. "See you later, Abuela."

With a worried look, Verónica followed her son out of the room. Enrique, she whispered, "you shouldn’t get her hopes up. I don’t want her to be disappointed. I don’t think you’ll ever find Tío Manolo."

She’s all right, Mamá. Anyway, it does say, ‘All things are possible with God,’ right?

Enrique, be serious.

Enrique kissed his mother as he went out the door. "I am, Mamá. Don’t worry, okay? See you tonight."

Verónica gave Dulce her pain pill and a cup of tea. She plumped up the pillows and opened the window halfway, as her mother requested. She emptied the wastebasket and straightened the bedcovers. She was about to go out, when Dulce said softly, "Hija, will you stay and read the Bible with me a while?"

Verónica felt the tightness in her shoulders grow. There was the kitchen to clean up, she had to go to the pharmacy, and she had to mop the floors. She hadn’t even had a shower yet. Then she had to get supper ready for when her husband José got home. She suppressed a sigh. "Sí, Mamá."

Verónica took the old, worn Bible off the shelf and turned to the Psalms. As she read, her mother closed her eyes and recited the verses she knew so well: ‘I will lift up my eyes to the mountains; from whence shall my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made Heaven and earth’; ‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble’; ‘The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear?’

Eventually Dulce closed her eyes. Verónica pulled the blanket up around her mother’s shoulders and carefully closed the door. As she trotted up the stairs to get ready to go to the pharmacy, she remembered back to when she used to put Enrique down for a nap as a little boy. The same feelings of tenderness, followed by relief, followed by hurriedness would come upon her then, as now. As she was brushing her hair, she paused and thought, I don’t have a daughter. I wonder who’s going to put me down for a nap when I get old and sick.

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After Verónica had gone, Dulce found she could not sleep. She lay against the pillows and listened to the neighborhood sounds. It was funny how much Dulce noticed by listening, now that she kept to her room all day long. She could hear someone running a power drill at the neighbors’ house, which was being remodeled. Then there were the robins chirruping outside, and a little yappy poodle two doors down. A few streets over, the tortilla boy was riding his bicycle cart and honking his horn. In her mind’s eye she saw the big jar of green salsa sloshing behind the seat on his bike.

Dulce often passed the time praying and watching the trees she could see from her window. It distracted her mind from the pain some. She had never been good at reading, and now even to read her Bible gave her a headache. And television offered little comfort. So many of the programs were immoral. But she was never bored watching the trees.

From her window, Dulce could see the bright green leaves of the huge ficus that her husband Antonio had planted when they first moved there. Now it was almost as tall as the house. Across the street there was a jacaranda with lavender flowers and a bougainvillea with brilliant fuchsia blossoms spilling over the top of a wall. Next to the ficus was a tall tree whose heart-shaped leaves were a rich dark green, twisting and dancing in the breeze. Dulce laughed to think that she could have lived in the company of the same tree for 50 years and not know what it was called.

Her grandfather would have known. He had lived with her before he died, when Dulce was four years old. She remembered his wiry, strong arms and his tanned, wrinkled face. And his hands—so calloused from years of hard labor, but so gentle as he patted her back. He had liked to sit out on the back patio in the sun, with his rancher’s hat and old leather sandals on. She would sit on his knee and eat plums from their tree, while he told her stories about the ranch where he grew up—like how they would fight off cougars to protect the livestock. She didn’t remember much about him, but her mind would often wander back to that warm, safe memory.

She thought about her brother Manolo. She wondered if she had enough faith to believe God would really bring him to her before she died. What if God did answer her prayer? She’d have to make herself eat if she were going to keep up her strength to hang onto life until her brother came. Slowly she took a few more bites of her soup. She tried not to think about how long it was before she could have another pain pill.

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That evening one of Dulce’s friends from church stopped by with some pineapple tamales for her supper—her favorite, the yellow ones with the rich pineapple flavor through and through. Dulce tried a few bites but was unable to do more. For breakfast, she assured her friend. After her visitor had gone, Dulce tried to steel herself to face the night. The days seemed long, but the nights were an eternity. She woke up often. Sometimes the pain woke her up, sometimes strange dreams. She tried not to bother her daughter, but sometimes she just had to have help. Sometimes her son-in-law José or grandson Enrique would get up, but Dulce was always aware of how most of the burden fell to Verónica.

Before she dozed off, Enrique came in. He had his college classes in the afternoon and evening, and he would usually get home at bedtime. "Hey, Abuela. How did your day go?"

It was all right. I did as well as I could, Dulce answered with a sweet smile. Her smile turned to a grimace as the pain knifed through her.

Enrique moved to stand up. You want me to get Mamá? Dulce waved her hand for him to sit down as she tried to catch her breath.

Maybe if I turn over, she finally said weakly. Her grandson helped her onto her side and readjusted her blankets. She patted his hand with her own thin, veined one. "Gracias, Enrique. Now, dear, tell me about your afternoon. I think I heard you had a test today?"

Enrique nodded. "Sí. In my TV journalism class. It wasn’t too bad. You know, on one of my breaks I looked up Tío Manolo and your aunts on the computer, but I’m sorry to say I didn’t get anywhere. You said your mother didn’t have any cousins in those families?"

Dulce shook her head, and then regretted that she had; she had a headache and felt dizzy again. "No. I think Tía Lucinda had a son who went off to the States, but Tía Chela never married or had children."

"Did your mother ask those aunts about Tío Manolo or look for him anywhere else?" Enrique asked.

She got on a bus the next day and went to see the aunts herself. But he hadn’t gone there. She went again a few weeks later, but he wasn’t there. Oh, Mamá nearly went mad when Manolo went away. Before, I had always thought she didn’t care much about us. She was always running around to the cabarets, singing and drinking and bringing home men. But when Manolo left, I saw that she really loved us. She borrowed somebody’s horse and rode up into the hills, asking at all the ranches to see if he had been hired on somewhere. She even came here to Mexico City and wandered around on the streets, calling his name. I don’t know how she thought she was going to find him here, with all these people.

Enrique frowned. I wish we had another contact to look for. I don’t want to quit now. I know how much your brother meant to you.

Dulce smiled, remembering. Did I ever tell you about the time that our mother left us without any food? Enrique knew this story by heart, but he didn’t let on. Dulce continued, Well, that day, Manolo decided to figure out a way to get us some food. He left me home and told me to be good. I waited and waited. I was so hungry, and I started to get scared. Finally, when it was getting dark, he came back. I hugged him so tight! He was carrying a sack. It was half-full of dried corn. I started to cry, because the mill wouldn’t be open anymore. But Manolo grinned and pulled a little paper package out from under his shirt. It was bacon! He had worked all afternoon chopping wood for a neighbor to get the corn to grind tomorrow for tortillas. As he was leaving, the woman felt sorry for him and gave him the bacon to tide us over. Now, wasn’t he a good brother?

Enrique smiled. He certainly was. He leaned over to kiss her good night. "I’m not giving up yet. I’m working on a plan. You wait and see, Abuela."

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When Dulce awoke, her room was dark. The digital clock read 11:05. The pain was bothering her again, but she was determined to wait until midnight, when Verónica would bring her medication. Oddly, she could hear Verónica’s husband José’s voice, down the short hallway, in the kitchen. He should have been in bed, as he always left the house at 5:30 in the morning to open his tortilla shop. José was quiet and calm. He usually let Verónica do things her own way. But now they were arguing.

He’s almost 21, Verónica, José was saying. He can take care of himself. Look, he rides the bus and the metro by himself home from school every night, and you don’t mind.

But that isn’t the same as traveling to another state, when he doesn’t even know the way! Verónica exclaimed.

It’s probably safer. Those interstate buses don’t get robbed the way the city ones do. Besides, he can go and come back from San Pedro in one day, the same with Puebla. He’ll find his way. He’s a man now.

Verónica wouldn’t back down. I just think the whole scheme is ridiculous! What does he think he’s going to do there, anyway? And another thing, where’s he going to get the money?

Don’t worry, Verónica. I have some I can give him. He worked all last summer in the tortilla shop without complaining, and I really didn’t give him much for it. A young man his age needs a little adventure.

Verónica was close to tears now. Don’t you think you could take a little time off and go with him? I could mind the shop for you.

José shook his head. You can’t leave your mother. And besides, it wouldn’t be any fun for him to have me tagging along, would it?

I don’t see how you can be so calm about it, José. Something could happen to him! An accident…he could be kidnapped!

José spoke more firmly, Nothing’s going to happen to him. You need to let him go. For once I’m going to insist on it.

Dulce could hear her daughter crying now. Fine! Have it your way. But don’t blame me later if something happens!

José’s tone had softened again. "Don’t cry, Amor—my love. We’ll pray for him. He’ll be all right." Verónica didn’t answer. She went to give Dulce her pill. Dulce took it without asking for the details.

CHAPTER TWO

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L ately, Dulce’s children and grandchildren—the ones who lived nearby—had started coming every Saturday to see her. No one said anything, but Dulce knew they thought she would die soon.

Dulce’s son Marcos lived in the U.S. now and didn’t communicate with them anymore, but her sons Lucas and Juan would come. Lucas, a pastor, had a wife, two teen-aged girls and two small boys. Juan lived alone and ran his carpentry shop out of his home. Her daughter Lydia lived in Cancún with her husband, who owned several hotels. Another daughter, Maranatha, was a missionary with the Tarahumara people in the state of Chihuahua. Being so far away, those daughters hadn’t been to visit in months. But Dulce’s daughter Norma lived nearby and often came with her two children.

Dulce always looked forward to Saturdays. Verónica felt it was too strenuous, with so much noise in the house. But the visits always brought joy to Dulce’s heart and reminded her of when her children were young.

Verónica was busy getting the house ready and making rice. Dulce had expected her to explain the previous night’s discussion. But not a word was said about it until Enrique got up at noon. He brought his plate of scrambled egg tacos into her room and sat down to talk.

"Guess what, Abuela? Papá says I can go to look for Tío Manolo."

His grandmother’s eyes opened wide. "Really, Hijo? When?"

Enrique took a swallow of milk and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well, you know next week is Holy Week, and we have off school. On Monday I’ll go to your hometown, San Pedro, and then on up to where your Tía Lucinda used to live. Then maybe on Wednesday I’ll go to Puebla to look for your Tía Chela’s relatives."

Dulce brought her handkerchief to her eyes. You are such a good boy to do that for me, but I know there isn’t much hope of finding my brother. You shouldn’t waste your vacation.

"I want to do it, Abuela. Besides, it’ll be fun."

You’ll come back in time for the Good Friday service?

"Sí, don’t worry."

They’re doing a ‘Seven Last Words of Christ’ service. I always loved Good Friday. There’s no way I can go this year, but I’ll sure miss it.

Enrique patted her hand. "I know you will, Abuela. But Pastor Héctor says he wants me to film it for him. So, you can watch the service on the TV! Pastor says if I do a good job, maybe I can run the new audio-visual ministry. Well, I gotta go. I want to download some music for my cousins before they get here. I promised them last time." He gave her a kiss and left her rejoicing at the news of his new involvement in church.

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Dulce wavered between sleep and wakefulness, turning over painfully from time to time. At one point she thought she heard children’s voices. But it was a dream. She and Manolo were playing hide-and-seek with their little sister, Ana. Dulce was ‘it’. There was her sister, peeping through the leaves of the plum tree. But where was Manolo? Dulce called his name. She begged her sister to help her, but Ana insisted she did not know him. Sí, that was true; she would not have been born yet. Dulce heard someone calling—it must be Manolo. But no, it wasn’t his voice.

"Abuela! I’m here!" Dulce awoke to see a little girl, a real one, with tightly-pulled pigtail braids and the almond-shaped eyes and protruding lip of Down’s syndrome: Sylvia, Norma’s daughter and Dulce’s youngest granddaughter. It was Sunday now, and Norma had come to care for her while the others went to church.

Hello, precious, she answered weakly. Sylvia smiled at this and buried her head in her grandmother’s chest as she hugged her.

A tall, large-boned woman with a broad smile entered the room. "Hija! You’re squashing your Abuela. Let her breathe! Hi, Mamá. How are you feeling today?" Norma pried her daughter’s arms from around her mother and invited her to sit on her lap.

Dulce answered, "Oh, I’m about the same. How are you, Hija? How is Hugo doing with finding a job?"

"Not too good, Mamá. Not many places are hiring."

"Don’t worry, Hija. Put it all in God’s hands. He’ll take care of it."

"I will, Mamá. Don’t you worry about us, either. We’re going to set up a hamburger stand in the driveway in the meantime."

Dulce wondered where her daughter would get the energy to stay up late at night and serve hamburgers to people coming home from work, too tired to cook their own suppers. That’s good, dear. She paused a few moments to catch her breath. Sometimes she was short of breath, and sometimes not. It seemed to have no rhyme or reason. Dulce stretched out her hand to her granddaughter. Sylvia, open my little nightstand drawer.

The child hopped up, happy to do something helpful. Dulce continued, Good. Now, get out that little flowered coin purse. Sylvia did so. "Pull out that piece of paper and give it to your Mamá."

Sylvia’s eyes grew wide. "It’s money, Abuela?"

"Sí. Give it to her, child."

Norma protested. Mamá, I said we’re fine.

Dulce shook her head. Something…to get you started.

Sylvia was shaking the bill in front of her mother’s face. "Here, Mamá. Here. It’s money. From Abuela. Norma reluctantly took the money. Sylvia turned back to her grandmother and put her face down next to hers, grinning broadly. Look, Abuela, look!" she insisted.

What is it, dear?

My tooth! Look!

She finally lost her other front tooth, Norma explained.

"Oh, sí, dear. I see now. Did the Tooth Mouse come?"

Sylvia smiled and crinkled up her eyes. "Sí! Fifty pesos! I’m rich!"

Norma laughed. "You mean five, Sylvia. Precious, why don’t you go outside and play with the dog on the patio?" Sylvia, a great friend of Verónica’s brown poodle, Cinnamon, was happy to comply. She gave her Abuela a kiss and ran down the hallway to the kitchen and out to the patio. Norma watched her lovingly, smiling at Sylvia’s wholehearted way of doing almost everything. Then she turned to her mother again. Did you see everybody yesterday, Mamá? Did you have a good time?

"Oh, sí. Very nice." She had had chats with each of her children and grandchildren. Verónica had printed an email from Dulce’s daughter Maranatha, who wrote a glowing letter telling about a Bible conference they had attended in the mountains among the Tarahumara people. She hoped to make a bus trip home in a few weeks. Dulce enjoyed listening to the women talking and laughing as they cooked, and the kids playing ball in the street. After dinner they had all crowded into her room to sing.

Dulce smiled, reliving those moments. They sang the old hymns, Norma. It was just lovely.

Norma patted her mother’s hand. I know it was, Mamá.

Dulce squeezed her daughter’s hand back. She closed her eyes and thought back to when Norma was a little child. She had always been affectionate—that is, when Dulce could get her to sit still for two minutes together. From an early age, Norma had been good at sports. This, along with her huge brown eyes, funny sayings, and chubby, round cheeks, had endeared her especially to her older brother Marcos. When Norma was about three, Marcos was at the height of his passion for soccer, and he never tired of laughing at Norma dribbling the ball down the hallway and shouting, Goal! at the top of her lungs.

Norma, at age seven, had been devastated by her brother Marcos leaving to go work in the U.S., but she had doggedly kept in touch with him through the years, at least until lately. Dulce figured that if anyone had any news about Marcos, it would be Norma. Have you heard anything from your brother, dear? she asked tentatively.

Norma shook her head. Not really, Mamá. Norma had pulled back from Marcos when he had failed to call Dulce while she was in the hospital being diagnosed with cancer. When she had surgery for a tumor in her colon, the doctors were dismayed to find that the cancer had spread throughout her abdomen and to other organs. They had removed the largest of the tumors but had recommended palliative care and keeping her comfortable, rather than aggressive treatment, giving the family no hope for recovery. When Norma gave her brother Marcos the devastating news, he had been unwilling to speak with their mother. Even now that Dulce had been confined mostly to her bed for over a month, Marcos did not reach out to her. Norma was hurt and disgusted with him, but she tried to hide her feelings from her mother, who seemed determined to overlook Marcos’s obvious offenses.

Dulce motioned to some computer-printed photographs of Marcos’s daughter, Giselle, the granddaughter she had never seen in person. Enrique gave me those a while back, she commented.

"Sí, Norma said. Giselle is fifteen now. Those photos must be of her quinceaños party."

Dulce sighed. She looks so sweet. But the photo is not in color. What color was her dress?

Norma answered, Dark purple.

Really? Dulce exclaimed. "In my day, the girls used to wear only pastel colors for their quinceaños. Of course, I never had a quinceaños party, but your dress was pink, wasn’t it?"

Norma nodded. That’s right. I had pink gloves and a parasol, too. I dreamed about that dress for so long beforehand! Marcos sent money for it. We didn’t have much, did we? I guess someone from the church bought a cake and someone else made sandwiches.

Her mother sighed. "Sí. We didn’t have much, for any of you girls when you turned fifteen. If we hadn’t had the church ladies to help us and to plan the parties, there wouldn’t have been any quinceaños at all. I hope…I hope it wasn’t too disappointing."

Norma made an incredulous face. No, Mamá! We were grateful. Then she began to laugh. "But I did wish we could have had a dance. Remember that neighbor boy, Paco Montoya? He was a year older than me, and so cute. I always wished I had danced with him in that dress!"

"I’m sorry you were disappointed, dear. But you can hardly have a dance without wine, and what would we have done if your father started drinking at your quinceaños? He never could stop once he got started."

I know, Mamá. I understand it now. And hey—if I would have danced with Paco, I might have ended up with him and never met my husband Hugo. I heard Paco turned out to be a womanizer, anyway.

"Sí, it was all for the best," Dulce said.

Norma said she’d better go out to see what kind of cleanup she could do for Verónica. Dulce continued to wonder about Marcos—whether he liked his job, if his marriage was going well, if he was being faithful to God. She wondered if she would hear from him before she died.

Marcos had withdrawn from the family because of his father’s drinking, but this prolonged estrangement seemed so needless. Dulce’s husband had stopped drinking years before he died. But Marcos hadn’t been there to see how his father had changed for the better. Their relationship died the day Marcos picked up his backpack and headed north. Antonio’s dying without his son’s forgiveness was a great burden to Dulce. Antonio had called Marcos once, when he was so ill with liver failure. When he had begged Marcos for forgiveness with tears, Marcos hung up.

Now Marcos only sent money. Dulce often thought back to his toddler days, when he would follow her around all day like a rambunctious puppy, frequently stopping in his play to run up and throw his little arms around her. But Marcos didn’t seem to want her love anymore.

Dulce’s musings were interrupted by Sylvia bounding in to show her Abuela how she had dressed her doll. Sylvia skipped in and out of her grandmother’s room the rest of that Sunday, first bringing a picture she had colored, then part of her juice box to share, and later some flowers from the window box. In the early evening she climbed up on the bed.

"Read, Abuela," Sylvia said, holding up a picture book.

"Oh, precious, Abuela can’t read so well."

Sylvia frowned and pointed emphatically to her book. "Read, Abuela. This book."

Dulce held out her hand to take Sylvia’s. "You know what? I’m going to tell you a very special story, about when Abuela was little, like you. Would you like that?"

Her granddaughter clapped her hands. "Sí! When Abuela little!"

Dulce began, grateful that Sylvia had accepted the idea. Well, when I was a little girl, I had a very special big brother.

Sylvia’s face brightened. Big like my brother Luis?

Not quite that big. Your brother is twenty. Mine was just eleven.

Sylvia cocked her head to one side. Where my brother Luis go? He with ’Rique?

"Sí, dear. He’s with Enrique. They went to church."

The little girl gave a satisfied nod. "What his name, Abuela’s brother?"

His name was Manuel. We called him Manolo. I loved him very much. We played games, and told secrets, and went everywhere together. We slept in the same room, and at night we would make up stories together. Manolo had started the story game to make Dulce forget they were home alone and scared. "We were very happy together, but we were sad, because we had no papá, and our mamá had to go out and work a lot."

"I have papá. Everybody have papá!" Sylvia interrupted.

You have a very nice papá. But we didn’t.

Sylvia’s eyes grew wide. Not even Papá God?

"Oh, sí, little one, we always had Papá God. He was always taking care of us. He loves us all so much, you know, but we didn’t know that yet. Anyway, one day Manolo got so sad that he went away."

Far away? Sylvia asked.

"Sí, far away. I didn’t get to see him anymore, ever again."

Sylvia looked at Dulce intently. He didn’t come back? Dulce shook her head. The child jutted out her chin and pondered this. Finally she spoke. Luis not go away?

No, no, child! Your brother Luis will never go away like that. Sylvia thought about this for a while. Dulce thought, Oh, why did I start this story? Suddenly Sylvia grinned and rocked back and forth, hugging her knees. "I know, Abuela! I know it! Luis never go away. Luis not sad. Luis happy! Sylvia makes him happy!"

Dulce smiled and sighed with relief. That’s right, precious. You do make him happy. You make all of us happy! Now, here is the secret. I’m praying that God will bring my brother Manolo back to me very soon. And Enrique is going to try to find him for me.

Sylvia clapped her hands and bounced for joy. Enrique was almost as much a hero in her eyes as her own brother Luis, and this raised him to new heights in her esteem. ’Rique bring Manolo! ’Rique bring Manolo!

The bouncing wasn’t comfortable for Dulce, who winced. Sylvia quickly turned repentant and began to pet her grandmother’s hair quietly. "Sylvia sorry. Poor Abuela. It hurt? Be happy, Abuela. Manolo come."

You’re a good girl, dear. Remember, we must pray. We need God to do a miracle, because we don’t know how to find Manolo.

Sylvia nodded vigorously. "God find him. Pray, Abuela." The girl put her hands together and closed her eyes expectantly.

Dulce smiled and prayed, Dear Lord, please help Enrique to find Manolo, and please let me see him before I go to your kingdom. Amen.

At that moment Enrique’s voice was heard in the living room, as the family returned from church. Sylvia ran to him and held out her hands, dancing around. ’Rique find Manolo, ’Rique find Manolo! After a few minutes, Norma told Sylvia it was time to go. At this, Sylvia ran into Dulce’s room and threw herself onto her grandmother’s bed.

Norma hurried in, purse in hand. Come along, Sylvia. We’ll come another day. Today I have to get the groceries.

"Mamá, Sylvia and Abuela wait. Sylvia and Abuela pray. Manolo come," Sylvia protested.

Norma held out her hand. Come, Sylvia. I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ll come another day. Her daughter began to cry.

The little girl buried her head face down in a pillow. "No! Mamá, no! Sylvia stay."

Verónica said in a low voice, Let her stay a few days, Norma. She has off school next week for Holy Week, right?

Verónica! I can’t give in every time she wants to have a fit. You know that. I have to go. We’re starting the hamburger stand this week.

Verónica whispered, If she says sorry, will you let her stay?

Norma reluctantly agreed. Sylvia sprang up and wrapped her arms around her mother. "Sylvia sorry, Mamá. Sylvia be good with Abuela."

Mamá forgives you. But won’t you cry and miss me?

Sylvia shook her head firmly. "No crying. Sylvia help Abuela."

Norma glanced at her mother worriedly. "I’m afraid she’ll wear you out, Mamá." While this talk was going on, Dulce had been wondering about that very point, but suddenly she said with a certainty she couldn’t have explained, No, I don’t think she will. It will be a blessing to me.

Norma began to think about all the preparations she had to do to get the hamburger stand up and running, and how nice it would be to have someone care for Sylvia for just a little while. All right, she can stay.

After they had left, Sylvia insisted on sleeping in Dulce’s room. Just when Verónica was losing her patience and her husband José was wondering what had happened to his bedtime snack, Enrique poked his head in to say good-night. Sizing up the situation quickly, he offered to show Sylvia his special chair-bed—a soft mattress that folded up into a chair. While he was setting it up in Dulce’s room, Verónica quickly rummaged through her linens and found a blanket and some old Snoopy sheets that had been Enrique’s. Sylvia was delighted with her special little bed and snuggled down for bedtime prayers.

She