A Different Blue

Chapter Twenty-Nine





If it hadn't been for a diesel truck blasting us with his horn and shaking the Suburu as it flew by, we might have been very, very late for our appointment with my grandmother. As it was, we found Stella Hidalgo's home on the outskirts of the Shivwits Indian Reservation after a little backtracking, and a consult with Wilson's trusty Garmin, which didn't seem to work especially well when it came to Indian reservations, or Utah for that matter. I had only been to the St. George area once before on a school trip, but I remembered the red rocks and the jutting plateaus outlined against blue sky and desert sand. It was as harsh and inhospitable as it was beautiful, and I wondered briefly how my ancestors had survived in the area for hundreds and hundreds of years before modern conveniences. Water was scarce, food must have been even scarcer, and growing anything would have been close to impossible.

We rolled up to Stella Hidalgo's home, noting the boxlike rambler with white siding and red shutters in need of a paint job. It was neat and clean but unadorned, and the yard was kept simple with desert rocks and Joshua trees. We stepped out of the car into a silence so heavy I could hear my heart beating like an ancient drum. Stella Hidalgo opened the door before we reached the front steps.

She was a slight woman of medium height. She was probably close to sixty, though she had an ageless beauty that made estimation difficult. Her skin was unlined, and her hair had streaks of silver amid the black. She wore it simply, parted on one side and bobbed at her shoulder. She wore a loose white dress shirt and white slacks, her skin a golden brown contrast against the pale outfit. She had white sandals on her feet and turquoise stones at her ears and around her wrists and throat. She had the look of a woman who knows how to present herself to the world and is confident with what she sees in the mirror. She invited us in, and the only indication that she was just as nervous as I was the tremor in her hand as she beckoned us forward.

“The police told me very little about your life.” Stella Hidalgo's voice was soft and cultured when she spoke. “In fact, when Detective Martinez called me last week and told me they had a DNA match, he was careful to explain that because you are a legal adult with a right to privacy they could encourage you but ultimately it would be your choice whether or not to make contact with me. He didn't even tell me your name. I don't know what to call you.”

“You can call me Blue.” I extended my hand and she clasped it in hers. I wouldn't ever be Savana Hidalgo or Savana Jacobsen . . . or anything else. I was Blue Echohawk, and that wouldn't change.

“It suits you.” She smiled tremulously. “Please call me Stella.” Her eyes shifted to Wilson, waiting for an introduction.

“Hullo. I'm Darcy Wilson, but everyone calls me Wilson. I'm in love with Blue.” Wilson also extended his hand, and Winona dimpled, completely taken in from the word “hullo.”

“How nice!” she giggled, and I loved Wilson more in that moment than I had ever loved a single soul. Thanks to Wilson's charm, Stella's hands seemed steadier as she showed us into her little home and invited us to sit on a couch covered with a multi-colored blanket across from a pair of deep brown chairs. Several framed awards were hung along the walls, along with a picture that I could have sworn was Jimmy Carter with a woman who was most likely my grandmother thirty years ago. I don't know what I expected when Sergeant Martinez told me Stella Hidalgo lived on a reservation, but this wasn't it. A few pictures were placed on the mantle, and a large Indian-style rug covered the wooden floor. I knew nothing about the Paiute Indians – their customs, their history, their lifestyle. It would be something I hoped this woman could teach me about myself. Someday.

Stella's eyes kept drifting to my face, like she couldn't believe I was there. I let her look her fill and drank her in as well. The moment was beyond surreal, and I have wondered since how we must have appeared, staring at each other in silence, the clock on the mantel marking time as we tried to absorb more than eighteen years into the present.

We made small talk for several minutes, discussing our trip to Reno and our drive to St. George, but soon the talk turned to my mother. I had the distinct feeling that my grandmother needed me to understand her daughter. Maybe because she was still struggling to understand her as well.

“Winnie was full of personality, and she loved being the center of attention, which she usually managed to be both here at home and at school. My parents doted on her, and she always had lots of friends. She loved cheerleading and was very popular, especially with the boys. I was always just the opposite. I was so shy around boys . . . never could figure out what to say.” Stella paused, and I wished she hadn't told me my mother was popular with the boys. It made me worry once again that we were alike, and I didn't want to be anything like her. My feelings of despair deepened as Stella touched on her daughter's unexpected pregnancy.

“Being pregnant was hard for her, as it would be for any sixteen-year-old girl. When Ethan didn't want to have anything to do with her or the baby, she was despondant . . . wouldn't come out of her room, cried a lot. Her pregnancy was miserable, and after you were born, she was inconsolable. The doctor said it was postpartem depression As time passed, she was less depressed, but she became so angry, and I took care of you most of the time. You were a sweet baby, such a calm little thing. You hardly ever fussed. You made it easier for Winnie to ignore you, I think. For me, it was that much easier to love you. As long as you had your blanket, you were content.”

“Was it blue? With elephants on it?”

“Yes! It . . . it was!” Stella stuttered in surprise. “Do you remember?” My grandmother's lips trembled, and she pressed her knuckles to them to suppress the emotion that was evident in every line of her face.

I nodded, suddenly unable to speak.

“Winnie hated it.” Stella's voice wobbled, and she cleared her throat. “She said blue was for boys. But I chose it because you had such blue eyes. Your eyes were so striking. In every other way, you looked Native, except maybe not so dark. Your eyes were what finally convinced Ethan's family that you were his. His family gave Winona some money when you were almost two years old. She took the money they'd given her, stole all the money in my savings account as well as my car, and hit the road. Unfortunately, she didn't leave you behind. I have always regreted not contacting the police and having them throw her in jail. It might have saved her life, and I would never have lost you.

“But she needed to grow up, and I thought getting out of town would be good for her. So I didn't report it. I just . . . let her go. In fact, if she would have just asked me for the money and the car, I most likely would have given them to her. She ended up staying with a friend in Salt Lake City, and she found a job. The friend's mother ran a daycare, and you were being looked after by people I knew and trusted. I kept tabs on her through her friend and thought things were going fairly well. She was there for about six months until she wore out her welcome. She ended up stealing a fairly large amount of money from the friend's mother. And they did report her. After that, I heard from her every once in a while, enough that I knew she was okay.”

The conversation trailed off, and I studied my grandmother's face as she studied mine. It was Wilson who finally spoke up.

“The police report says they had a tip from someone in Oklahoma who swore that a girl matching your daughter's description was caught shoplifting several items from a convenience store. The shop owner ended up not pressing charges because he felt bad for the girl. She was stealing diapers and milk. He ended up giving her the milk, some groceries, and a case of diapers, along with some money. When the store owner saw her picture on the news, he remembered your daughter and her little girl and called the police.”

“Oklahoma?” Stella Aguilar seemed stunned, and she shook her head, muttering under her breath. “No . . . that isn't possible.”

“The police say nothing ever came of it. It only muddied the waters without giving them anything more to go on,” I interjected. “I just noticed it because my father – the man who raised me – had family on a reservation in Oklahoma. I wondered what in the world she would be doing there.”

“What was your father's name?” Stella Hidalgo's voice was faint and there was an odd stillness about her, as if she were waiting for an answer she already knew.

“James Echohawk . . . I called him Jimmy.”

Stella slumped back in her seat, shock and dismay written in bold across her face. She stood up abruptly and raced from the room, leaving us without a word.

“Something's wrong. Do you think she knows Jimmy?” I whispered.

“She sure acted like she recognized his name,” Wilson replied, his tone just as hushed. We were interrupted by crashing and muttering, and we rose to our feet, all at once anxious to leave.

“Maybe we should go,” Wilson said loudly. “Ms. Hidalgo? We didn't come here to upset you.”

Stella rushed back into the room holding a box.

“I'm sorry, but I need you to wait . . . please. Just wait . . . for a minute.” We sat back down reluctantly, watching Stella as she pulled the lid from the box and lifted out a photo album. Frantically, she flipped through the pages and then stopped short.

“Some of the pictures are missing. Someone has taken some of the pictures!” Stella tore through the pages, her eyes flying from one photo to the next. “Here. This isn't a very good shot . . . but it's him.” She tugged the picture from beneath the plastic covering. It had obviously been there a long time, and it had adherred to the plastic sheet. She tugged and the picture began to tear. She gave up and brought the book to me, walking across the small space on her knees as if she were six instead of sixty.

“Do you recognize the man in this picture?” she demanded, tapping the page.

I looked down at a picture that had a faintly yellow cast. The clothing and the cars in the background dated it sometime in the '70s. A man and a woman were in the shot, and for a moment my eyes were delayed by young Stella Hidalgo, slim and smiling in a deep red dress, her hair hanging over one shoulder. She looked so much like me that my head swam. Wilson stiffened beside me, clearly noting the resemblance as well. Then my gaze moved to the man standing next to her, and time ceased its steady ticking.

Jimmy looked up at me from a decade long past. His hair was a deep black and hung around his shoulders from a center part. He wore jeans and a brown patterned shirt with the large pointed collars that were popular in that day. He looked so young and handsome, and though his eyes were on the person taking the picture, his hand was wrapped around Stella's, and she clung to his arm with her free hand.

“Is that the Jimmy Echohawk who raised you?” Stella demanded again.

My eyes shot to hers, unable to comprehend the meaning of what I was seeing. I nodded dumbly.

“Blue?” Wilson questioned, completely confused.

“What are you trying to tell me? What is this?” I gasped, finding my voice and shoving the book toward Stella, who still knelt in front of me.

“Jimmy Echohawk was Winona's father!” Stella cried out, “He wasn't just a..a . . . random stranger!” Stella opened the book once more. Her shock was as clearly as pronounced as my own.

“Bloody 'ell!” Wilson swore next to me, his curse ringing out in the little sitting room that had turned into a house of mirrors.

“Ms. Hidalgo, you need to start talking,” Wilson insisted, his voice firm and his hand tight on mine. “I don't know what kind of game you think this is –”

“I'm not playing games, young man!” Stella cried. “I don't know what this means. All I know is that I met Jimmy Echohawk when I was twenty-one years old. It was 1975. I had just graduated from college, and I accompanied my father to several Indian reservations throughout Oklahoma.” Stella shook her head as she spoke, as if she couldn't believe what she was saying.

“My father was a member of a tribal council that was trying to get federal status restored to the Paiute people. The Paiute tribes had had their Federal status terminated in the 1950s. Which meant maintaining our lands and our water rights – what little we had – was almost impossible. The Southern Paiutes had dwindled to near extinction. We went to several different reservations in addition to the remaining bands of Paiutes trying to build support among other tribes for our cause.”

My head was swimming, and the plight of the Paiute people was, sadly, way down on my list of things-I-need-to-know-at-this-very-minute.

“Ms. Hidalgo, you're going to need to move this story along a little,” Wilson prompted.

Stella nodded, obviously at a loss as to where to start or what was even relevant.

“It was love at first sight. I was reserved, and so was he. Yet, we were instantly comfortable with each other. We weren't in Oklahoma long, and my father did not like Jimmy. He was worried that I would be distracted from the future I had planned.” She shrugged her shoulders. “He was right to be worried. I had dreamed of being the the next Sarah Winnemucca, and all at once the only thing I could think about was becoming Mrs. Jimmy Echohawk.”

Hearing Jimmy's name on Stella's lips in that context was another jolt. I didn't even ask who Sarah Winnemucca was. Another day, another story.

“We wrote letters back and forth for almost a year. By then I was working for Larry Shivwa, who later worked in the Carter Administration in Indian Relations,” Stella rushed on. “Jimmy wanted to be closer to me. He came out West . . . just to be near me. He was an extremely talented woodcarver. He had received some national recognition for his work, and had started selling his carvings. He had been saving to open a shop . . .” Her voice dwindled off, and she seemed reluctant to continue. But the time for silence was past, and I pushed her forward.

“Stella? I need you to tell me what happened,” I demanded, forcing her to look at me. Her eyes were filled with regret and her shoulders narrowed with defeat.

“Jimmy took his savings and bought a pickup truck and a camp trailer. And he came here. He knew my father wouldn't support a marriage at that point. My career was really taking off. And I had a responsibility to my community. I was the first in my family to graduate from college, and one of the first Paiute girls ever. I had been groomed for bigger things. So . . . we saw each other behind my parents' backs. I was angry with them. I was an adult, and Jimmy was a good Native man. I didn't understand why I couldn't have both. But I proved them right in the end. And, truthfully, I blamed them because it was easier than blaming myself. I used my parents as an excuse. The truth was, I was ambitious, and I feared losing my ambition. I feared becoming like my mother, stuck on a reservation, poor, unnoticed, unremarkable.”

“What happened?” Wilson urged her on.

“Jimmy Carter was elected President in 1976, and I was invited to go back and work in Washington, DC in the office of Indian affairs as an assistant to Secretary Shivwa. My father was sure I would be instrumental in getting the Paiute Tribal status reinstated. So I went. Jimmy never told me not to go. He told me he loved me . . . but he never begged me to stay.

“I found out about six weeks later that I was pregnant. I stayed in Washington DC until my boss, who was good friends with my parents, called them and ratted me out. By that time, I was seven months pregnant, and I wasn't able to hide my figure in high-waisted dresses and shawls. I was too far along to fly home, so I stayed on, even though I was embarrassed and my parents were ashamed. When Winnie was born, I left Washington DC and came home. But Jimmy was long gone. And I was too proud to find him.”

“Jimmy never knew?” I whispered, devastated for the man who raised me.

“I never told him.”

“But then . . . how did . . . how did he find me?” I had no other conclusion to draw. Somehow Jimmy had found me . . . and he had taken me from my mother.

“I don't know,” Stella whispered. “It doesn't make any sense.”

“Winona never knew her father?” Wilson asked gently. He was the only one who seemed capable of stringing two thoughts together.

“We allowed her to think my parents were her parents. I called them Mom and Dad and that's what she called them, and we all lived together when I wasn't traveling. My mother raised her while I continued to work as a liason for Indian Affairs. And in 1980 President Carter signed legislation that restored federal recognition to the Paiute tribes and called for a Paiute Reservation. I like to think I had something to do with it. It made the mess I'd made of my personal life a little easier to bear.”

“But what about Jimmy?” I whispered, stunned that he might have never even known he had a child. The Jimmy I knew had lived so simply and had had so little. I felt anger rise in my chest at this woman who had never even told him about his daughter.

“I didn't know how to find him, Blue. I should have tried harder, I know. But it was a different time. In the 1970s, you didn't just make a quick phone call to an Indian reservation. In fact, you can hardly do that now! I managed some contact with Jimmy's mother, but she died a few years after Winona was born. Jimmy's brother said he didn't know where he was. I was pretty conflicted. I loved Jimmy, but I had traded him for my dreams . . . and I lost him. I thought someday we would find each other again, and maybe I would be able to explain.”

“Maybe Winona did find him,” Wilson pondered out loud. “She was seen in Oklahoma. Why else would she have gone to Oklahoma?”

“But . . . I don't think Jimmy ever went back. She wouldn't have found him there,” Stella protested, clearly befuddled by it all.

“But she wouldn't have known that, would she? Is there any way she might have discovered who her father was?”

“My dad passed away when Winnie was fifteen, and my mother died the very next year. Their deaths were very hard on Winnie. I decided it was time to tell her that I was her mother. I thought it would make her feel less alone, not moreso. I don't seem to have very good instincts with such things because she didn't deal with it well. She wanted to know everything about her father . . . about why he didn't stick around. I had to explain that it was my fault. But I could tell she didn't believe me. I showed her some pictures of him. I wonder if she was the one who took these.” Stella fingered the empty squares as she continued with her story.

“She started acting out in school. She had some run-ins with the police over drugs. It wasn't long after that she got pregnant. All talk of her father ceased. And I thought she had let it go, that she'd moved on to other concerns. We never spoke of her father again.”

Stella Hidalgo began putting the photo album back in the box when she hesitated and felt around the box, pulling various items from inside.

“The letters are gone,” she announced and looked up at me. “The letters are gone! I kept all of Jimmy's letters. They were here. I haven't opened this box since I showed Winona those pictures more than twenty years ago.”

“The letters would have given her some valuable information, including a return address,” Wilson proposed. Stella nodded, and she was silent while she digested the possibility that Winona had gone looking for her father.

“The last time I talked to Winnie, she kept ranting about men who never take responsibility . . . about the injustices of life.” Stella's voice was thoughtful, and her expression suggested she was examining the memory. “I just thought she was talking about Ethan. She said she was going to confront him and make him answer for what he'd done. I thought she was talking about Ethan,” Stella insisted again, almost pleading. “I was afraid. She was so angry, talking about getting even. I even called Ethan and warned him. I didn't like Ethan Jacobsen, or his parents, for that matter, but I didn't want him hurt, for Winnie's sake as much as for his own.”

“She didn't find Jimmy in Oklahoma, but maybe Jimmy's brother told her about Cheryl,” I said, chewing on possibilities. Stella frowned at me, clearly puzzled.

“Cheryl? Cheryl was quite a bit younger than Jimmy. She was only about twelve when Jimmy and I met, and she didn't live on the reservation. Her mother was a white girl who had an affair with Jimmy's father. I only knew about her because Jimmy had a lot of hard feelings toward his father, and the affair was a big part of it.”

It was hard for me to imagine Cheryl at twelve. She was in her late forties now and didn't wear her age well.

“Cheryl lives in Nevada. She raised me when Jimmy died,” I supplied, hoping Jimmy's death wouldn't come as a shock, but my grandmother nodded as if she knew.

“Jimmy's brother sent me a letter when they found Jimmy's remains. He never mentioned anything about you,” Stella said tearfully.

“Why would he? I never met any of them. They knew nothing about me,” I explained.

We sat in silence, each of us mentally unwinding the tangle of secrets and supposition that had led us to this point in the story.

“Jimmy said he found me in a restaurant booth. I'd been asleep. He waited with me until my mother returned. He told Cheryl that that my mother acted strange, but he thought it was because he was a stranger, sitting with her child. Maybe it was because she recognized him, and he had taken her by surprise.”

“We know Jimmy didn't hurt your mother, Blue. The police found the man who did,” Wilson offered emphatically, as if he knew where my thoughts had wandered.

“Jimmy would never have hurt a soul,” Stella agreed. “But I don't understand how you ended up with him.”

“He said I was asleep on the front seat of his truck the next morning.”

“Then that's what happened,” Stella said firmly. “Jimmy Echohawk wasn't a liar. Winona must have followed him and left you with him. Maybe she planned to come back. Maybe she wanted to force him to acknowledge her. Maybe she was high on drugs, or desperate . . .” Stella offered up excuse after excuse before her voice faded off. Whatever her reasons, Winona had done what she'd done, and no one would ever really know why.

“Jimmy was my grandfather,” I marveled, suddenly arriving at the conclusion that had been obvious since my grandmother had shown me his picture. “My name really is Echohawk.” And all at once, I didn't feel like crying anymore. I felt like laughing. I felt like throwing my hands up and dancing, praising and praying. I wished I could talk to Jimmy. To tell him that I loved him. To tell him how sorry I was for sometimes doubting him. Wilson and Stella were watching me, and Wilson's jaw was tight and his eyes were bright with emotion. I leaned in and kissed his lips, right in front of my grandmother. She would have to get used to it. Then I looked at her and spoke directly to her.

“When Cheryl told me Jimmy wasn't my father, it was the worst day of my life. I had lost him, not only physically, but in every other way. I had no idea who I was. I convinced myself I didn't know who he was either.” I paused to corral the emotion that wanted to spill over. “But he was mine all along. And I was his.”

Stella had begun to cry. When I finished talking she covered her face with her hands, and a moan of such torment broke free that I knelt in front of her and did something I would never have been able to do before Wilson. He had mourned with me, held me, propped me up, pushed me forward, and asked for nothing in return. And because he had done that for me, I was able to put my arms around her. I hugged her tightly, and I didn't let go. I felt her sag against me, and then she was clinging to me desperately, sobbing, grieving for a man she had mistreated, for a daughter she had failed, and for a granddaughter she had lost. So many secrets, so many poor choices, so much pain.