Adriana laughed. “If she’s anything like him, I don’t think I’m going to like her.”
But Adriana was pleasantly surprised. She had been expecting someone older, colder, but MaMaLu was sharp and vibrant and intelligent. She was bilingual and switched easily from Spanish to English. What Adriana liked best was that she came in with her son on her hip.
“This is Esteban,” she said, as if he was her proudest accomplishment.
Adriana asked questions, but more than that, she watched the two of them interact. By the end of the interview, she knew. If anyone was going to help raise her child, it was MaMaLu. She was a nurturer, but she wasn’t afraid to discipline. She knew when to yield and when to give. She was full of stories about everything, and real or made up, there was something enthralling and magical about them, about her.
“The baby isn’t due for another week, but I’d like you to get oriented. Can you start tomorrow?” Adriana asked.
And so began a deep and abiding friendship between two unlikely women.
Adriana died when Skye was three years old. She was in the city, visiting her father, when it happened. Everyone knew the bullet was meant for him, over a dispute he’d had with the cartel. After he buried his daughter, he gave up all his dealings with them, but he couldn’t get his son-in-law out. The cartel wanted someone with a U.S. passport, and they wanted him enough to threaten Skye. It took Warren six years to get out and in that time, MaMaLu made sure that Adriana’s daughter never felt the loss of her mother. She loved her like her own. When Skye woke up, MaMaLu was the first person she saw, and when Skye went to sleep, it was to the sound of MaMaLu’s voice.
Esteban resented the little girl who had stolen his mother. He wanted all of MaMaLu’s smiles and all of her lullabies. At night, he waited for her to come home, and when she didn’t, he climbed the tree to Skye’s window and sat there and sulked. Skye had outgrown the crib and MaMaLu sat beside her in bed, putting her to sleep. Sometimes MaMaLu called Esteban over, but he always shook his head. He was pretty sure the little girl wasn’t real. Her hair was the color of the halos he’d seen on paintings in church, and the light from the bedside lamp made it look like soft, golden feathers. Esteban wasn’t fooled. He knew that one day she was going to fly away, but until then, she was pretending to be real so MaMaLu would stay and look after her.
Esteban came to Skye’s room every day to catch bits and pieces of MaMaLu’s stories. Pretty soon, he was climbing inside and sitting on the floor so he could hear what she was saying. He inched forward, bit by bit, until he could lean against MaMaLu’s leg. One night, she sang him the lullaby she used to sing when he was little. Esteban knew it was for him because Skye was sleeping, but as soon as MaMaLu stopped singing, Skye rolled over.
“Again, MaMaLu,” she said.
“No!” Esteban got up and wrenched MaMaLu away from her. “That’s my lullaby!”
“Ban?” She rubbed her sleep drenched eyes and looked at him.
“It’s Esteban, not Ban!”
“Ban.” She got out of bed, dragging her comforter along, and deposited it at his feet.
“What does she want?” Esteban eyed her warily.
“She wants you to stay,” said MaMaLu.
The little girl curled her hand around his before he could climb out the window. Her chubby little fingers felt pretty real as she tugged him down. She stretched out on the comforter and put her head on his lap. Esteban was confounded. He looked at MaMaLu, but she just covered the little girl up with a blanket and resumed the lullaby. Esteban didn’t move a muscle until Skye fell asleep. When he was sure she wouldn’t wake up, he touched her angel hair. Huh. That felt pretty real too.
Every day after that, the little girl looked out for Esteban. She refused to fall asleep until he’d climbed through her window.
Ban turned to Eban.
And Eban turned to Teban.