Sisterchicks in Sombreros (25 page)

Is that me? Am I too embarrassed and angry and stubborn to turn and see You the way Joanne sees You?

I held my breath and strained my ears. I wasn’t used to speaking so plainly with God in my thoughts. I was as trusting as a child that He would answer.

Come and talk with me
.

My heart pounded faster. This time in the stillness I didn’t question the invitation that resonated in my thoughts, but rather I whispered, “Lord, I am coming.”

Silence followed. Sweet, calming silence. No words were needed. I had turned and faced Christ instead of driving away from Him or ducking from His gaze. I didn’t know what would happen next, but I knew I was on a new road and a journey was beginning.

What did happen next was sleep. Deep, restorative, life-giving sleep. Sweet slumber followed by a washing of light.

I felt the warmth on my forehead before I opened my eyes. It was barely morning. Just first light. But that first light had slipped past the wrought iron bars, through the screen, and down the open slats of the window above my bed. The light touched me and my spirit responded with, “Lord, I am coming.”

Bathed in light, I was feeling so alive. More alive than I’d ever felt. How long had God been softly calling to me, but I’d been too stubborn or self-absorbed to stop, turn around, and listen?

With quiet movements, I slipped into my shorts and tennis shoes and prepared to tiptoe outside.

“Melanie, are you okay?” Joanne turned over and squinted at me.

“I’m going for a walk,” I whispered. “Everything is good. Very good.”

“Do you mind if I come with you?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

A few moments later we stepped out into the fresh, new day and stood with our faces to the rising sun, bathed in light—spectacular, translucent, tropical light.

The tide was out at least fifteen feet from where the waves had touched the shore the day before. In that wide expanse of moist sand stretched out a harvest of shells waiting for treasure seekers like my eager sister and me to come collect.

We strolled through the white sand close together, but each keeping company with her own thoughts. I found myself confessing. I told Christ I was bossy.

I imagined His response to be identical to Joanne’s: “Oh, really?”

I couldn’t tell Him anything He didn’t already know. So, since that truth didn’t scare Him away, I went on to tell my unseen companion that I wanted to be washed clean. Washed in His light. I told Him I wanted to be close like this every moment of every day, and somehow I knew that was all He had ever wanted from our relationship, too.

I remembered the prayer I’d whispered our night on the cruise ship. Instead of a confession or an honest dialogue with God, I had told him what I would do. I would improve. I would fix my anger problem. I would take control.

This morning I knew I didn’t possess the power within myself to initiate or complete lasting changes in my life. Only God could do that. I’d been too busy trying to do it myself. I hadn’t stopped and turned to Him.

Now that everything was out in the open, in full light, I saw clearly that in the past I might have had the honorable quality of obedience to God, but I hadn’t had the closeness Joanne experienced with Him.

I tried to explain all this to my sister as we strolled along the beach.

Joanne listened to every word before she said, “God came after you, didn’t He?”

I paused before I understood, and then I answered, “Yes. That’s exactly what happened. God pursued me, just like you said the other night. It was as if He called out, ‘Come,’ and I responded.”

“Told you,” Joanne said with a grin as mischievous as the one she wore on the way to my sixteenth birthday party. “I think this was what He had in mind all along when He created us, this closeness.”

I nodded, and we made our way back along the shore with our arms linked and our wet tennis shoes filling with sand. The rest of the way back was spent in the sweetest discussion of
things we had never talked about before. I loved feeling this close to my sister. Closeness is a good thing.

After a simple breakfast, Joanne and I drove to the bank where we hoped all the final papers would be ready and waiting for us.

I was the one who was to speak with Señor Campaña. I also was the one to squawk when we were told he was out and wouldn’t be back until Monday.

“Did he leave any papers for us?” Joanne asked.

“Uno momento.”
The receptionist walked back to his desk and shuffled around some of the stacks of papers.

“No, no papers for you,” she said, returning to her front desk. “Please come back on Monday.”

“We won’t be able to come back on Monday,” Joanne said patiently. “Would you write down our names and addresses and please have Señor Campaña mail the papers to us as soon as they arrive?”

She nodded, but I was less than confident that our message would ever reach the bank president. I made sure we had her full name as well as the bank phone number before we left. We might not be able to come in on Monday, but if nothing else, we could turn in all this information to Aunt Winnie’s lawyer so he could follow up for us.

We found a restaurant that looked like a popular spot for many Americans, judging by the number of vehicles with U.S. license plates parked out front.

A song from a British group popular in the eighties was
playing in English on the speakers overhead as we entered and found an open booth by the window. I ordered number three on the menu: a tamale and a shredded beef burrito. Joanne ordered the special of the day: fish tacos.

As we waited for our food, I told Joanne I didn’t think I could be as calm as she was about the bank situation.

“I wanted to have everything finalized,” I told her.

“I know.”

“We could have driven back to Ensenada a day earlier.”

“I know,” she said again. “But we stayed, and I’m glad we did. It’ll work out. You’ll see.”

“Joanne, I’m worried about something.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t think I’m very good at trusting God the way you do. You’re so confident.”

“Not all the time.”

“I think I was better at being an uptight, rigid sort of Christian. I’m much better at helping God out than sitting back and relying on Him to dream up the ending to our situation here.”

Joanne laughed. “I think He’s already dreamed up the ending. And you know what else? Relinquishment is—”

“I know, I know. Relinquishment is a beautiful thing.”

I brought that line up again later that afternoon when we took a final stroll on the beach. With shoes on our feet to protect us from any burrowing stingrays, Joanne and I waded into the warm water and gazed out at the spectacular turquoise horizon.

“What is your line about surrender?” I asked.

“You mean relinquishing?”

“Yes.” I bent to scoop a handful of salt water and fling it through the air. “We never exactly finished our water fight from the other day so I wondered if you were relinquishing or ready to watch me finish what I started a couple of days ago.”

Before she could answer, I scooped up two handfuls of water and tossed it at her. “Where’s that bank
presidente
now? I’ll show him where to place his bets.”

Joanne and I entered into an all-out water fight with our only spectators being a few ATV drivers spinning donuts in the sand and whatever evil stingrays popped their heads up to hear where all the laughter was coming from.

The water fight was a grand tie, we decided, and we were a grand, sopping mess. The playfulness, the freedom to act like girls again, and the release of energy all had seemed like such a great idea when we started the water war.

But after sunset, when we had organized our things for an early departure the next morning, Joanne and I complained about how our hair and skin had been crusted by the salty brine. We lovingly blamed the other for starting something we both wished we hadn’t finished.

The next morning we rose with the sun and packed the Jeep. Joanne kept shaking her head, and I finally said, “Are you okay?”

“It’s the salt water and the way it dried in my hair. It’s driving me crazy.”

“We have enough bottled water,” I said. “You can wash your hair, if you want.”

“You would like an excuse to douse me with another bucket of water, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s up to you, but I was thinking about asking you to pour a bottle or two over me. This crusted feeling is awful.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Joanne said. “You don’t have to ask me twice. Where’s the water?”

We took turns, sudsing up with a small bottle of shampoo Joanne pulled from her suitcase and pouring plastic bottles of water over each other’s head. Standing on the patio in our shorts and T-shirts, shaking our heads like dogs, we coaxed the early morning air to dry us.

“I don’t think I rinsed out all the shampoo,” I moaned.

“It doesn’t matter, really,” Joanne said. “As soon as we get in the Jeep, we’ll air dry. And if our hair is still really bad, we can hide under our sombreros.”

“I guess. Let’s finish loading up and get on the road.”

“We’re leaving the fish, right?” Joanne asked after we put our suitcases and other boxes of essentials for Aunt Winnie and Rosa Lupe into the Jeep.

“No, of course not. We need to take him,” I said.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Aunt Winnie was serious. She wants that fish.”

“Do you always give Aunt Winnie what she wants?”

“When it’s within my power, yes. Wait until you move to Vancouver. You’ll do the same.”

Joanne shook her head. “I doubt it. You are a much kinder woman than I am, sweet Melanie.”

Since Joanne was always the sweet and kind one growing up, I didn’t mind being accused of exhibiting those qualities.

“Come on,” I said. “Mr. Marlin is the last thing we have to load. Let’s stick him in the backseat.”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Joanne helped me maneuver the silent, one-eyed former watchdog out of the closet and through the front door. We positioned him horizontally across the backseat, but his long, sharp nose protruded too far out the side.

“He’ll have to sit up,” Joanne said. “We could tie a little flag to his nose. It would look like one of those long antennas on top of the Baja bugs.”

We repositioned him, and I made a face. “I don’t like the way he looks.”

“Oh, really?” Joanne said with a scoffing choke in her throat. “So now do you want to leave him?”

“No, I mean I don’t like the way he looks sitting up. He’s too stiff. Maybe we should put his tail on the floor and lean him against the backseat instead of having the tail on the seat.”

Joanne’s mouth twitched, and I knew she was growing impatient as I adjusted Mr. Marlin without her assistance.

“That’s better.” I buckled the seat belt around his middle. “Let’s wrap him in a blanket so he won’t look so stiff.”

“You wrap your fish,” Joanne said. “I’m taking down the hammock and locking up everything.”

I used both of our Mexican blankets to cover Mr. Marlin and realized, when I stepped back, that it looked like he was wearing a serape. All that could be seen was that menacing eye and his protruding snout.

“What do you think?” I asked Joanne. “All we need is an extra sombrero to cover up his face.”

“Here, he can use yours.” Joanne picked up my shabby sombrero from the front seat and tossed it over his pointy beak.

“You don’t mind if his nose pokes a hole through the top, do you?” Joanne added as an afterthought. The hat already was harpooned.

“I guess not.”

We stood back and looked at him, turning our heads right and then left.

“He looks like a short passenger taking a long siesta,” Joanne said.

“It’s kind of creepy.”

“You said it. Now we can both go in the bakery. We have Mr. Marlin to guard our luggage.”

“Let’s take a picture,” I said.

“A picture of what?”

“Of us. With Mr. Marlin. I want a picture, even if you don’t.”

I dug in my purse for the camera, and Joanne finally loosened up when she took a shot of me in the backseat with my arm around Mr. Marlin.

Not to be outdone, Joanne handed me the camera and
clambered into the Jeep. She positioned herself so it looked as if she were sitting on Santa Marlin’s lap and posed as if she were telling him what she wanted for Christmas. We made up crazy poses with our under-serape fish and finally got on the road when the sun was well up and busy illuminating the new day.

With our untalkative hitchhiker seat-belted in the backseat, we made our one-hour-and-twenty-minute bumpy ride to Rosa Lupe’s. She came outside as soon as she heard our vehicle and greeted us with more loving excitement than I think our mother ever had.

Language wasn’t a barrier. It didn’t matter that we didn’t have an interpreter this time, nor did it matter that we looked like a couple of sea urchins with stiff hair and dirty clothes. She hugged us with teary eyes.

Then she looked at Mr. Marlin and at the two of us as if waiting for an introduction.

“That’s Uncle Harlan’s fish.” Joanne pulled up the sombrero so Rosa Lupe could glimpse the singular eye that followed you no matter where you stood.

She appeared confused and slightly frightened at first, but then she smiled and nodded and said something that I suspected was along the lines of, “You two burrito-brains are completely loco.”

“Don’t worry,” Joanne said. “We’re not leaving him here with you. My sister wouldn’t hear of it. But we brought you a few other goodies.”

Our presentation of the frying pan, can opener, and plastic mixing bowl met with expressions of appreciation. The real treat that she laughed and clapped her hands over was the cake. Joanne and I had made a final stop at the grocery store by the resort and bought a few treats for Rosa Lupe.

With eager hand motions Rosa Lupe invited us to come inside to eat.

“No, we need to get going,” Joanne said. “We just wanted to leave these few things for you and to say hello.”

“We have to get to Ensenada before our ship sails at five o’clock,” I added.

“¿Ensenada?” Rosa Lupe repeated.