“We can fix that,” Claire said, more desperation than plan.
Minna wiped her nose with the back of her hand like a child. “How?”
She looked around for some answer that would stop the tears. Years ago she bribed the girls when they were young with coins, trinkets, ice cream, anything to stop the crying. “I could take you to the beach? Or you could do up your room? Make it more like home? It can’t feel normal being stuck in a teenager’s room.” Was Minna’s power over her that she had turned Claire back into a mother?
At first Minna seemed unimpressed, but she sat in thought for a few minutes. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“I’m asking you to do it. Make it yours.”
“But when I leave…”
“That’s a long way off.”
Claire neglected to mention that Lucy’s lavender room had formerly been Josh’s. She hated going in there, despite the changes, always looking for what she knew she would not find. A good excuse to put yet another imprint on the room, dull its previous incarnations. The next day Minna, with new energy, dropped Claire off at the nurses’ station a full fifteen minutes early for her chemo appointment. Minna couldn’t hurry her through the door fast enough, and then she took off shopping. When she picked Claire up after the treatment, the backseat was filled with bags.
All afternoon, while Claire lay on the couch sucking on ice chips for nausea, Minna carried pails, brushes, and extension poles up the stairs to her room. Claire almost felt sorry for herself at the neglect, but at least Minna seemed to have forgotten her dirges and tears, her homesickness. The paint fumes grew so strong Claire moved to her bedroom and closed the door, but soon it wasn’t even breathable there, and by necessity she escaped to the orchard.
* * *
Octavio watched her walk listlessly up and down the rows like a child orphaned in the forest. Finally he came and suggested she rest in his stand.
For years he had remained unfazed by Claire’s mood swings, loyal to her wish to remain aloof to the outside world. Ten years before he had bought a house on Rosarito beach in Mexico with plans of an early retirement, but then Forster and Claire divorced, and the girls moved away. He felt responsible for Claire, never able to forget the sight of her in that dark grave of orchard. Years passed, Sofia had already quit her job and moved there, but he stayed on at the ranch.
“How is Sofia?”
“She has the grandchildren this week. Driving her crazy.”
“How many now?”
“Five.”
“Five! And me with two. We are getting old, my friend.”
Octavio laughed. “Not until our grandchildren’s weddings are we old.”
Although they never talked of it, Claire knew he was waiting till he could safely shepherd her into the future, but she stubbornly kept falling to pieces on him. He would have to be brutal and finally just abandon her to her fate if he was ever to be free.
He led her to the shelter he had constructed from castoffs so that there was nothing that could be ruined or stolen. The place, an unlikely refuge, served its purpose and could be abandoned in a moment, like a child’s makeshift playhouse. Claire found its transience a kind of perfection: patched outdoor umbrellas pushed together under the green gloom of a towering avocado tree; underneath, a roughly nailed table and collection of broken-down lawn chairs; a hammock stretched between two pepper trees; a dented cooler filled with ice water and sodas; a scratched-up boom box. It was the place workers could find Octavio for problems, where messages could be scrawled on scraps of paper and weighted under a rock on the table.
In her preoccupation with her illness, it surprised Claire that the farm functioned just fine without her. The workers had their own version of the farm, one as separate, yet real, as Claire’s own.
“You would like some iced tea?” Octavio asked as he fished for a bottle in the cooler.
“Gracias.” Claire sat and sipped while he did paperwork.
“De nada.”
“Es dificil…”
Octavio nodded — his face a cross-hatching of deep creases from the constant sun — polite but wary, wanting to be of service but not to be too deeply involved. A carefully calibrated distance they had maintained over the years since the attack. Octavio made sure his sense of obligation stayed limited to the running of the farm.
“Problema del cáncer.”
Relieved, Octavio stood up. “You want for me to get the girl?”
Claire shook her head.
“You like this girl?” he asked, clearly indicating he did not.
“She’s very smart.” Claire knew firsthand the animosity between Minna and Paz. “She’s a city girl. Just not used to us country people.”
Octavio shook his head and wiped at his mouth. “The workers see her in the orchard late at night. With Señor Richards.”
Claire paused, but not so long as to appear that the news was entirely unexpected. “She’s young, spirited.”
“When you do not watch, she walks the farm like she is the owner. Orders workers to stop what they do to get her water. Orders one to hold an umbrella over her against the sun for hours. She calls them names.”
Claire was shocked but did not want to appear so. In all her years with him, she knew Octavio always to be honest, and so she could not doubt the truth of what he said now. Her dilemma lay in what to do about it.
A diplomat, Octavio changed the topic to spraying schedules for the orange crop.
“Why was the last crop so small?” she asked. They staggered plantings and harvesting so that they had crops of oranges, lemons, grapefruit, avocados, or strawberries going out all year long.
“Minna, she said you ordered not to spray. She told me to wait another two weeks to pick. Many of the naranja, they go bad.”
“It was an experiment,” Claire said, furious and trying to hide it.
“I talk to Mr. Forster,” he said, shrewdly guessing the truth of the situation.
“You will not.”
“If you make me listen to this girl, I farm badly.”
“Let me take care of things,” Claire said.
* * *
Hours passed. She liked being out in the open air and had no desire to confront Minna just yet. Despite her anger, the drugs made Claire woozy, and she fell asleep. The workers stopped by on their way home, Octavio acting as adviser and informal bank, giving small cash loans as needed out of his pocket, writing everything down in a small spiral notebook he kept in his shirt pocket.
“You used to not write anything down,” Claire said, when they were alone.
“Many years have passed.” He winked and tapped his head. “Viejo.”
“I’m sorry about my words earlier. I’m not myself lately. Things are going wrong, but I will fix them, I promise you.”
“Maybe it is time for us all to retire? Both of us go live with our familias.”
“I’ve been selfish. Do you want to leave?”
Before he could answer, they both saw Minna slam the front door of the house and walk toward them, calling out Claire’s name. She wanted to intercept her, but felt too weak to move from the chair.
“She is here, Señorita Minna,” Octavio called out. His face was stony.
A group of workers whispered as they watched Minna approach. Claire heard, “La negrita.”
Minna looked at Claire with irritation. “You should tell me where you’ve gone.”
“She visited with me,” Octavio said, but Minna didn’t look at him, or even register that she’d heard his words.
“Help me take her back to the house.” Minna directed her words to the group in general, to the air, instead of to Octavio.