Bad to the Bone (15 page)

Esme stood by the front-gate intercom; she'd been pacing back and forth for the past thirty minutes waiting for the buzzer to sound. Still, when it did, indicating that Junior was down at the gate with her parents, she jumped anyway.

She pushed the Talk button. “Yeah.”

“'S me, Esme.” Junior's voice was direct. “I got your parents.”

“I'll buzz you in and meet you in front.”

Esme pushed the silver button that would open the front gate, and turned on the closed-circuit security camera that allowed her to see—in living color—as the huge metal gate opened and Junior drove through.

She remembered the first time she'd come to this property with Junior, to pick her parents up from work, never dreaming that she'd ever work there herself. The intercom had been broken, and the Bel Air police had shown up to question the
two brown young people in the piece-of-crap car outside the fancy gates.

She sighed, so weary. Last night had been one of the longest of her life. She'd spent it sprawled on her bed, staring up at the same exposed beams that stars like Clark Gable had seen when, according to legend, they'd stayed in this very guesthouse. Her parents were such a big part of her life. They were the reason that she was even here at the Goldhagens' place. She loved them with all her heart. Her mother had better judgment than anyone she'd ever met. The idea that today would be the last time she'd see them on American soil for who knew how long was almost impossible to contemplate. No more going “home” to the Echo to see them. No more finding her mother cooking tortillas in the cramped kitchen, her face lined with exhaustion after a long day working at the Goldhagens'. No more hugs. No more having her father stroke her hair and kiss her forehead, and show her how to fix a carburetor with nothing more than ingenuity and stuff lying around the house, or replaster a wall, or grow a perfect orchid.

No more. They were going back to Mexico.

Not that their getting in was a sure thing. In recent months, the border patrol had stepped up their enforcement efforts. There was no reason to be sure that crossing southbound in the desert would be any easier than crossing northbound. Plus, there were new sections of security fence designed to block human traffic from Mexico into the USA, but which were equally efficient against wrong-way passage. Junior had supposedly found a so-called coyote, a Mexican guy who specialized in illegal border crossings, to get her
parents across. Now he was bringing her folks here for this hard goodbye. Diane and Steven, along with the twins, were already at the gazebo by the tennis court, where the cook and one of the maids had set out a buffet breakfast.

On the closed-circuit, Esme saw the Charger pull into the driveway. She took a deep breath. She would not cry in front of her
madre
and
padre
, no matter what. Would not, would not, would not. It would make them feel terrible, as if they had to comfort her. No way was she putting them through that on top of everything else.

She went outside, where her parents were already getting out of Junior's car. One look into her mother's eyes was all she needed to see that her mom was scared. Very scared. As for her father, his face was frozen in a stoic mask.

“Go around the back, to the gazebo,” she told them in Spanish.

“Steven and Diane are there?” Her mother's voice was somber.

“And the twins. I want to talk to Junior. I'll be there in a minute.”

Esme went around to the driver's side, where Junior still sat. She tapped on the window; he rolled it down. He wore a short-sleeved black cotton shirt and black trousers.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said simply.

“You're welcome.” Junior's eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. Still, he faced the windshield rather than facing her. “A half hour, no more. Louie's waiting.”

“Louie?”

“He'll take them to Calexico. Then he'll hand them over to someone else who'll get them across.”

Esme couldn't help herself—she had to ask. “What's this going to cost?”

“I ever mention money to you?” Junior asked sharply.

“No,” Esme admitted.

Finally he turned to her, his eyes still hidden behind the glasses. “Just remember who you are and where you come from. You got that?”

She nodded.

“And remember who you turned to when the shit went down. That's all I ask.” Junior tapped his watch. “Half an hour. Clock's ticking.”

To emphasize his point, Junior put in a set of earbuds to his MP3 player, and leaned back against the black headrest. She was dismissed.

Esme made her way along the gravel path that led to the brown oak gazebo near the tennis court. Diane, Steven, the twins, and her parents sat around an oval table. The twins were chattering away, oblivious to the glum adults. When the girls saw Esme, they immediately tore away from the table and ran up the path so that they could each grab one of her hands and walk her to the outdoor breakfast. They were dressed identically, in pink shorts, long-sleeved pink tops, and white Reebok running shoes. Esme knew that their outfits, which looked simple enough, were in fact from the Pampered Princess boutique on Rodeo Drive, and the tops alone had run more than a hundred dollars.

“We don't have school this morning,” Weston singsonged.

“We're having a picnic instead,” Easton chimed in, clearly impressed by this change in the usual school-morning routine.

Esme was impressed with how great their English was getting. “That's pretty exciting.”

“Why don't we have school?” Weston asked.

“Well, it's a little party” Esme explained. “A special one.” This seemed to satisfy them for the moment. She slid into the empty chair next to her mother.

“Good morning, Esme,” Diane said.

“Morning.”

Steven gave her a sympathetic look over his glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Try to eat something,” he coaxed.

On any other day, the food would have been appetizing. Stacks of bagels fresh from the oven, plates filled with fresh-cut lox, three different kinds of cream cheese, homemade croissants and sweet rolls, sliced apples for the girls—one of the few healthy treats they loved—and pitchers of fresh-squeezed juice. Only the twins were eating, munching away on the apple slices. The adults just stared into their coffees.

Diane kindly filled a ceramic cup for Esme, adding sugar and milk, and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” Esme took a sip just to be polite.

“Should you tell the twins, or should Diane and I?” Steven asked.

“English or Spanish?” Diane added. Though she was impeccably turned out as always—fresh manicure, perfectly streaked blond hair tumbling around her shoulders—her eyes looked tense, with quote marks of concern between her brows.

If she knew about those marks, she'd already be at the spa getting them injected with Botox
, Esme thought, apropos of nothing at all except her reluctance to deal with the sad matter at
hand. Cleo, Diane's toy poodle, who today had a pink and white polka-dotted bow with matching pink and white polished nails, sat in the shade of the table, her head on Diane's sandaled foot. Diane reached down and fed Cleo some morsels.

Esme momentarily wished she was the dog. No worries for Cleo.

So, who should tell the twins that once again, people they cared about who spoke their native tongue were leaving their life? Esme felt guilty enough about her own part in this, having left the girls so easily, not really considering what the effect would be on them. That was one of the many reasons she wanted to be the one to tell the twins about her parents: to make up for that, to reassure the girls that she wouldn't leave again.

But it wasn't really her responsibility. In the long run, the more the girls bonded with Steven and Diane as their parents, the better off they'd be.

“You tell them. If they have questions in Spanish, I'll answer them.”

“Sounds good,” Steven acknowledged.

Diane's gaze flicked to her daughters just as Easton handed Estella an apple slice and smiled.

“Just get it over with,” Esme told him.

Steven did. He got the girls' attention, then slowly and patiently, with some help from Diane, told them that Señor and Señora Castaneda were going to be returning home to Mexico today, but that Esme would be staying. The twins asked if Señor and Señora would come back like Esme had. Steven
said he wasn't sure. Then they asked if the Castanedas had family in Mexico. Steven said they did.

In “Ciudad Juárez,” Estella told the girls in Spanish, stroking Easton's hair. “But we're going to Jalisco. To a beautiful city on the ocean called Puerto Vallarta.”

“Why are you leaving?” Weston asked, wide-eyed. “Did you get a better job?”

Steven seemed to hesitate, so Esme spoke up. “My parents are Mexican. So they're going home.”

Easton looked as if she was going to cry. She whispered in her twin's ear. “Sister says we're from Colombia,” Weston explained. “Does that mean we have to go back?”

Diane rose and hugged both little girls. “This is your home now and we're your family—Daddy and me and Jonathan—forever and ever.”

Weston scrunched up her face, trying to understand. “But Esme is their family forever.”

Steven looked helplessly at Diane. One of the most powerful men in Hollywood obviously didn't know what to say. He clearly didn't want to get into the legalities of immigration with his children, who had so many abandonment issues of their own. Yes, they were doing reasonably well in America, but that didn't mean their anxiety level couldn't go over the top.

“How about if we take the twins back to the house and talk to them,” Diane proposed.

Steven agreed, and Esme liked the idea of a few minutes alone with her mother and father. So with the request that the Castanedas stop and say goodbye before they left, Steven and
Diane took the girls back to the main mansion. Esme was alone with her parents. Finally.

They spoke in Spanish. It was so much easier, Esme thought as they talked, so much more nuanced and expressive. Spanish was an emotional language, and this was an emotional time.

“Don't worry,” she reassured them, even though she didn't really feel confident at all. “Junior will take care of you. Just do what his men say and you'll be fine.” She took an envelope out of her purse and handed it to her mother. In it was a thousand dollars. She promised to send more money to them regularly.

Her mother refused to take it.

“Junior said to take no money,” her father explained. “We'll probably get shaken down in the desert. We'll have just a little, Esme.” Her father rubbed his temples wearily. “Ah. How did it come to this?”

“I'll wire you this money,” Esme promised.

Her father shook his head. “Keep it for yourself. Mr. Goldhagen is helping us get jobs at the resort; we'll be fine.”

Esme didn't bother arguing. She was still going to send them money. “You'll stay with Uncle Agosto?”

Her father nodded. “He moved to Puerto Vallarta. We'll call you as soon as we cross the border.”

Esme blew some air between her lips. This was all so direct. So matter-of-fact. Not really of the heart.

“Steven told me about your jobs at the resort,” Esme began. “And he said he would pay for me to come visit you….”

“He is a very wonderful man,” her mother said.

In some ways, yes, Esme agreed. But in others? Making her
parents wear uniforms to work for no good reason at all? That was so demeaning. Not offering them health insurance, or benefits of any kind? That was not so wonderful. Esme doubted that it had ever even occurred to Steven and Diane.

Now her father spoke. “What we want for you, daughter, is to live honestly, with pride. Do nothing to make us ashamed.”

“We want you to finish school, Esme,” her mother said. “That's why you came to Bel Air and got out of the Echo, not to make money putting tattoos on people's skin. We don't care what makes the most money. We care what kind of person you will be. We want you to be an educated person.”

Her father nodded gravely. “Go back to high school. Then go to college. That is what we have always wanted for you. Why we do everything that we do. For you.”

Esme sighed. Even now, at this terrible moment, her hackles rose at being told what to do. What was
wrong
with her?

“I'll consider all that,” Esme promised. Then she felt tears in the back of her throat. She willed them away, gulping hard. “I'll … I'm going to miss you. So much.”

She flung herself into her mother's arms, and then stretched an arm out and beckoned for her father to join the hug. He did, and they clung to each other for nearly a minute, until Esme whispered that they'd better go, that Junior was waiting for them. She walked them as far as her guesthouse, then kissed them both, hugged them again, and watched them walk up the path. Going with them all the way to Junior's car would be too hard. She would wave goodbye from here.

Once they were out of sight, though, she couldn't help herself. The tears came. She dragged herself to the guesthouse
and sat in one of the white rocking chairs that the Goldhagens had recently put on the porch, burying her hands in her face.

“It's hard, huh?”

She looked up. There was Jonathan Goldhagen, wearing a tennis shirt and jeans, his face open and sympathetic.

“Someone looks like she needs a hug,” he said softly.

It was tempting. She could already picture herself rushing into his embrace. But there was no safety there, she reminded herself. And there never would be. She would never feel as though she really belonged in his world. She would always be a visitor, always feel less than, whether it was true or not; needy, insecure, a version of herself she didn't even like.

“Someone needs to be left alone,” she forced herself to say.

She eyed him, willing him to leave. Finally, he did. As his feet crunched in the gravel, she buried her face in her hands again, and cried until she didn't think she could muster another tear. She fooled herself when she discovered there were plenty more, saved up for so long, and for so many reasons.

When she finally stopped crying, she felt alone, abandoned. She got up and went into the guesthouse, the screen door banging behind her like a firing squad at her own execution.