tell him I’m an agent.”
“Not afraid. It’s just not a good time. He’s sensitive about politics.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not at all,” Cecilia answers in a reserved tone, confirming my sense that we have taken several steps back from the warmth of our initial contact. “Tell me about you. Are you married? Do you have children?”
“No children, married to the job.” Don’t push it. We have time . “How did you find out about me in the first place?”
“I first heard your name when I was a child. My father told us that we had a relative in America named Ana, and if we ever wanted to meet her, we must work hard in school so we could visit. I never knew if you were real or something he invented so we’d get good grades. Who in your family came from El Salvador?”
A delicate aroma of dough sizzling in olive oil arises from a large copper skillet.
“My father. His name was Miguel Sanchez.”
Cecilia freezes on the spot, still gripping a slotted spoon. “Your father was Miguel Sanchez? I didn’t realize he was your father. ”
“What did you think?”
She fumbles. “I thought maybe he was an uncle or a cousin and that you and I were distantly related. But, Ana, he is my father, too.”
I am not impressed. “Seriously, it’s a common name.”
“Yes, it is a common name,” she snaps impatiently. “But for him to speak of a girl named Ana in America? That is too much of a coincidence. Did you know he was from the town of Cojutepueque?”
“I thought it was called La Palma, but that could be wrong.”
Cecilia has put down the spoon and turned off the stove.
“It’s in the mountains, thirty-five minutes from the capital, San Salvador. My mother was Eulalia. Together they owned a fish market. It started out as a space in the mercado but eventually they bought three stalls. She ended up running it because Papa wasn’t always there. He was often in America.”
“Where in America?”
“Nobody knew. At times he would send money, so maybe that’s why she tolerated his absence. He would come and go. Then one day he never came back.”
“Do you have a photo of him?”
“Somewhere.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t remember what he looked like. He died when I was five, and my grandfather threw out all the pictures.”
Cecilia is shocked. “He died?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“How?”
I hesitate. “Are you sure you want to know?” She nods. “He was murdered.”
“Did they ever find the killer?”
“No. The case was never pursued. In fact, there never was a case.”
“ Capito . Because he was a Spanish man, in the country illegally.”
I don’t answer.
Cecilia brushes moist eyes. “We never knew what happened to him,” she murmurs. “I was a teenager when he left for good.”
“This is crazy.”
“My mother told me that he had a wife in America.”
I remember the day I found the marriage certificate in a bank vault in Santa Monica, California, after my own mother died, proving that she had been married to Miguel Sanchez. Her relationship with a brown-skinned immigrant was the cause of my California grandfather’s lifelong rage at both of us (she, the whore; me, the half-breed), and why my mother and I stuck together, afraid of his explosive fits. I suppose I’m still fighting the bad guys because I couldn’t fight Poppy. Now the sudden recollection of my mother—for some reason, that damn worn apron made of soiled, quilted squares that had seen a hundred meat loaves and pans of brownies, which she would never replace because it was good enough—makes me soften with longing for her comforting presence, taken away too soon.
“This woman in America,” I press. “Did you know her name?”
“It was a strange name. Like a princess in a fairy tale.”
“Was it Gwen?”
My mother’s name. The recognition is instantaneous. Miguel Sanchez’s other wife. We stare at each other.
Oh my God!
“We are half sisters!”
We embrace, embarrassed,
“Not afraid. It’s just not a good time. He’s sensitive about politics.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not at all,” Cecilia answers in a reserved tone, confirming my sense that we have taken several steps back from the warmth of our initial contact. “Tell me about you. Are you married? Do you have children?”
“No children, married to the job.” Don’t push it. We have time . “How did you find out about me in the first place?”
“I first heard your name when I was a child. My father told us that we had a relative in America named Ana, and if we ever wanted to meet her, we must work hard in school so we could visit. I never knew if you were real or something he invented so we’d get good grades. Who in your family came from El Salvador?”
A delicate aroma of dough sizzling in olive oil arises from a large copper skillet.
“My father. His name was Miguel Sanchez.”
Cecilia freezes on the spot, still gripping a slotted spoon. “Your father was Miguel Sanchez? I didn’t realize he was your father. ”
“What did you think?”
She fumbles. “I thought maybe he was an uncle or a cousin and that you and I were distantly related. But, Ana, he is my father, too.”
I am not impressed. “Seriously, it’s a common name.”
“Yes, it is a common name,” she snaps impatiently. “But for him to speak of a girl named Ana in America? That is too much of a coincidence. Did you know he was from the town of Cojutepueque?”
“I thought it was called La Palma, but that could be wrong.”
Cecilia has put down the spoon and turned off the stove.
“It’s in the mountains, thirty-five minutes from the capital, San Salvador. My mother was Eulalia. Together they owned a fish market. It started out as a space in the mercado but eventually they bought three stalls. She ended up running it because Papa wasn’t always there. He was often in America.”
“Where in America?”
“Nobody knew. At times he would send money, so maybe that’s why she tolerated his absence. He would come and go. Then one day he never came back.”
“Do you have a photo of him?”
“Somewhere.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t remember what he looked like. He died when I was five, and my grandfather threw out all the pictures.”
Cecilia is shocked. “He died?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“How?”
I hesitate. “Are you sure you want to know?” She nods. “He was murdered.”
“Did they ever find the killer?”
“No. The case was never pursued. In fact, there never was a case.”
“ Capito . Because he was a Spanish man, in the country illegally.”
I don’t answer.
Cecilia brushes moist eyes. “We never knew what happened to him,” she murmurs. “I was a teenager when he left for good.”
“This is crazy.”
“My mother told me that he had a wife in America.”
I remember the day I found the marriage certificate in a bank vault in Santa Monica, California, after my own mother died, proving that she had been married to Miguel Sanchez. Her relationship with a brown-skinned immigrant was the cause of my California grandfather’s lifelong rage at both of us (she, the whore; me, the half-breed), and why my mother and I stuck together, afraid of his explosive fits. I suppose I’m still fighting the bad guys because I couldn’t fight Poppy. Now the sudden recollection of my mother—for some reason, that damn worn apron made of soiled, quilted squares that had seen a hundred meat loaves and pans of brownies, which she would never replace because it was good enough—makes me soften with longing for her comforting presence, taken away too soon.
“This woman in America,” I press. “Did you know her name?”
“It was a strange name. Like a princess in a fairy tale.”
“Was it Gwen?”
My mother’s name. The recognition is instantaneous. Miguel Sanchez’s other wife. We stare at each other.
Oh my God!
“We are half sisters!”
We embrace, embarrassed,
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