Her mother began calling her Mary as soon as they had settled in New Mexico, as if Margaret herself chose the name for her new child. As a gift for Mother's Day, her first in a long time, Mary hand-colored the black-and-white photographs they had taken on their picnic in the woods. A little work to hang in Margaret's room. With soft pencils, she filled in the white and gray, changing her own blonde hair to brown, adding roses to her mother's cheeks. Aura of gold emanating around Maya. For Diane, tincture of green to brighten her eyes. Birds were added to the junipers and pi?ons, the clouds tinted with a blush of brown, and the endless sky made bluer than heaven. Each time she sat to work on her gift, she would recall their trip into the Carson National Forest and go back in time to the day of her full forgiveness.
The foursome had piled into Maya's jeep that weekend at the beginning of spring, a spontaneous jaunt north to show Diane another part of New Mexico before she would be heading home for good and to quench Margaret's restlessness at the upheaval in her life. Her aches and pains had gone into remission; the reappearance of her daughter made her feel whole and healthy again. They spent the night in Taos, shopping with the tourists, snapping shots of San Francisco de Asis, made famous by O'Keeffe, and wandering the pueblos north of town proper. Skiers had abandoned the Sangre de Cristos a week earlier, but the snow still clung to the mountain face, and after the sun set, the cold air put them all in mind of winter. They woke on Sunday invigorated and, at Maya's suggestion, bought provisions for lunch and drove into the Carson National Forest for a noonday hike.
Bundled in sweaters and jackets, they took a novice trail through the evergreen forest, the jagged firs pointing to the morning sun hiding behind a veil of high clouds. Maya led the way, wielding a hawthorn walking stick, and in single file followed Mary, her mother, and her aunt. Despite the cool temperatures, the brush and wildflowers, spurred by the lengthening days, had begun to bud and sprout. Songbirds announced their mating melodies, and once, a tawny jackrabbit flinched against the stony background, hopping away at the women's shouts of joy. They rested often in deference to Margaret's age and condition, though she protested, having not felt so good in years.
A black wave rolled over the mountain with alarming speed, and when a snit of hail and snow began to fall, the foursome dashed for cover. Maya and Mary hid under an outcropping of rock fifty yards ahead of Margaret and Diane, who sheltered beneath a juniper, laughing like schoolgirls.
“I wish you didn't have to go,” Margaret told her. “I'll miss you.”
For the first time in their lives together, Diane lifted her hand and stroked her sister's cheek. A gesture so brief that both sisters nearly misunderstood its meaning.
“Thank you,” Margaret said. “For bringing my daughter back to me. For being so strong and brave.”
“I would do anything for you.”
“After I was such a horrid big sister? Picking on you, blaming you for everything when I got in trouble.”
“You aren't so bad,” Diane shouted over the clack of hail. “You could have trusted me more. Let me inside.”
Margaret raised her hand to her sister's face, repeated the gesture she had been taught. Gathering her sister in her arms, she felt the sigh of ages escape. “You're right. No more secrets.”
“And I'm sorry about the little girl.” She bent her head to Margaret's shoulder.
“Norah? I know, I know,” and she patted her back as if soothing a small child.
As quickly as the storm gathered, the clouds blew on to the next mountain, and the air cleared, the sun reappeared. An hour's march later, they stopped, spread the blanket on a flat rock, and shared a cold picnic. By magic, a bottle of wine appeared, was opened and divided into four plastic cups.
“It's so beautiful here,” Diane said.
Mary said, “I wanted to show you why I love it here before you head home.”
Stretching out her legs, Margaret leaned back into the bright air. “I could stay here forever. Puts me in mind of Emerson. ‘In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life … which nature cannot repair.’”
“How is it you remember stuff like that, Mom?”
“I went to college once upon a time, young lady, filled my head with poetry and philosophy and art. Saw the hand of God in everything. Where do you think you got your natural talent?”
Whether from the wine or the fresh air that flushed her cheeks, Maya brightened, as if lit from within. “A transcendentalist,” she said. “And a theologian. What do you make of the angels sent your way? Mary told me all about your otherworldly visitor.”
“Oh, I've thought about her every day since we left, and worry about her too. I can't find a rational explanation for Norah. Or for the other one.”