We intended to enroll Fernando at the local public school, which had an English as a second language program, but early that summer I received a phone call from the principal at OLM asking to meet with Mickie and me. She also asked that we bring Fernando.
Patricia Branick sat in the same office in which my mother and I had first encountered Sister Beatrice, though the pictures on the wall were now of Pope John Paul II and a priest I presumed to be OLM’s pastor, but whom I had not yet met. The room was softer, a yellow color. Plants and vines grew in pots in the corners.
“I did not receive an enrollment application for Fernando,” Mrs. Branick said.
Mickie and I explained our decision to enroll Fernando at the public school.
Patricia Branick listened politely; then she said, “Don’t be silly. You’ll enroll him here and we’ll work through this together.”
I smiled. “It’s not just the language, Mrs. Branick. I’m concerned about a young boy with red eyes attending a Catholic school.”
Her brow furrowed. “Of course you are. That’s why I’ve asked you here, to alleviate those concerns. I assure you, Fernando’s presence will be a blessing,” she said. “What better way to teach these children Christian ideals?” Then she smiled. “You can argue with me all you want, Mr. Hill, but I will tell you now that no grandchild of Madeline Hill is going to attend a public school. She saw to that.”
“I’m sorry,” I asked, confused, and glanced at Mickie, thinking perhaps this was another of her and my mother’s plans, but Mickie shook her head and shrugged.
“Your mother came to visit me before she went into the hospital. She told me that you would be adopting a boy from South America with ocular albinism and that you would be reluctant to send him to OLM because of your past experiences. I knew your mother from attending six o’clock Mass.”
“And she told you she wanted me to enroll Fernando at OLM?”
“She did more than that, Mr. Hill. She paid Fernando’s tuition. All eight years at today’s prices. Your mother was no dummy.”
I laughed. Never one to sit quietly in the boat, my mother had spent her life taking care of me, and now she was taking care of her grandson.
“No, she certainly wasn’t, Mrs. Branick,” I said. “My mother was extraordinary.”
“Then it is settled.” Mrs. Branick pushed back her chair and offered her hand across the desk. “I will greet you atop the red-tile steps off Cortez Avenue on the first day of school. Do you know the steps I’m talking about?”
“All too well,” I said. “All too well.”
The weekend before his first day of school, Mickie and I took Fernando on a drive in the Falcon, a rare treat. I did not drive it often. The Falcon was leaking oil and the transmission slipped, but like my mother’s rosary beads, I would never get rid of it. I’d already decided to have it completely restored. After all, Fernando would need a car when he turned sixteen.
Mickie and I sensed Fernando was nervous about attending school and decided to take him to OLM for a trial run that we hoped would help ease his nerves. We parked on Cortez Avenue at the foot of the red-tile steps leading to the wrought iron–gated entrance. I contemplated the countless times my mother had walked me up those steps and the countless times I had run down them to find her waiting for me.
“I’ll be right here,” she’d say. And she always had been. It was her promise to me, her reassurance that I had nothing to fear, that I was never far from her love. Some afternoons I could not move my feet quickly enough to shuffle down those steps, lunch box clattering, hurrying to reach her. And when I slid across the seat, I would willingly allow her to embrace me, to feel her unconditional love. It was that same embrace, that same warmth I had felt comforting me the morning I prayed her rosary beads and asked for her to bring Mickie home to me.