Canary Island Song Read online

  “A week.”

  Carolyn knew her mother would frown in an exaggerated pout. That’s why she had avoided telling her at the birthday party. To her mother, anything less than a month should not even be considered a vacation.

  “If it helps soften the blow, I hope to come back and bring Tikki. Maybe in late summer or early fall. Hopefully we can stay longer then. Frieda wants to come too. And maybe we can get Marilyn to join us.”

  Their leisurely morning continued, accompanied by melodious birdsongs from Alma and calm breezes coming through the open windows along with an interesting mix of muted guitar music from an apartment nearby. Life here felt simple and unhurried. Carolyn could see now why her mother made the big decision to leave the Bay Area after Carolyn’s father passed away to move back here. This tempo fit her mother’s personality. This place composed a day-to-day music that Carolyn’s mother knew by heart. She fit here. This was her home.

  The guitar tunes from the neighboring apartment had picked up in their intensity. Carolyn recognized the style now as flamenco guitar. Brisk, passionate, and decisive. She went over to the window and looked down on the expansive plaza between the two long apartment buildings. It was as if she expected to see the guitarist seated on a stage in the plaza, playing the stirring notes to a gathered audience.

  Instead she saw two women visiting with each other while three small children rode their tricycles in circles around them on the pavement. Four people were swimming laps in the pool. The water in the pool glistened in the noontime sunshine and beckoned to Carolyn. She resisted at first, but the guitar music seemed to send out a wordless message, inviting her to come.

  Why not? I brought my swimsuit. I never get to go swimming at home. And I am on vacation, after all.

  When her mother concluded the story about her cousin, Carolyn asked if she would like to go swimming.

  “Swimming? No. Not today. I only like to go in the summer when it’s hot.”

  Carolyn guessed the weather was in the low eighties. To her that was hot enough for a swim.

  “Why don’t you go? I have a few things to do here.” Abuela Teresa gave a tug on her robe’s collar. “Getting dressed would be one of the things I should do today.”

  “If you’re sure you don’t mind, I think I will.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. As I told you, this is your vacation too.”

  It took Carolyn only ten minutes to get ready. She called out to her mother that she was leaving and then flip-flopped her way down the elevator and out into the warm sunshine. Seeing that she had the pick of dozens of lounge chairs, Carolyn spread out her borrowed beach towel. She knew that if she stretched out on the lounger to soak up the rays, she could easily talk herself out of dipping into the pool.

  That’s when she noticed the guitar music had ceased. She missed the stirring melody that had pressed her to make the decision to go swimming, but the notes had done their work. Here she was. With only two other people at the pool now, and neither of them appearing interested in watching her, Carolyn peeled down to her bathing suit and made her way to the builtin, notched steps in the pool’s deep end. She lowered into the temperate water one backward step at a time until she was up to her waist and there were no more steps.

  Then, letting go of the railing, she closed her eyes and leaned back so that she fell into the deep end, and the exhilarating rush of the water covered her. She felt eighteen all over again, remembering that she had spent time in the ocean nearly every day at Las Canteras. How long had it been since she had experienced this sensation of the cool water engulfing her?

  She started to swim—face in the water, face to the side for a breath, right arm over her head, hands cupped, scooping her way through the liquid wall. For almost twenty minutes she stretched all the way to her toes, extending her arms and digging through the water. With each stroke came another memory of the golden summer that had tested her heart and tried her will.

  The last time she swam under this expansive sky, she had just graduated from high school. While Marilyn had somehow kept a continuous string of boyfriends since her sophomore year, Carolyn had gone out only once to a winter banquet during her junior year. The only reason she had a date for that church event was because Marilyn’s date had a brother, and the two of them were being generous to include their siblings.

  Then the week before graduation Carolyn was babysitting for two boys who lived down the street. She agreed to take them to their Little League softball practice and drive them home afterward. Their coach, Jeff Duncan, was the most energetic, encouraging guy Carolyn thought she had ever seen. He reminded her of Richie Cunningham on Happy Days because of his All-American look with his short, reddish hair, upbeat personality, and perpetual grin. Jeff asked her after practice if she wanted to take the boys out for pizza. He said he was paying.

  Carolyn assumed Jeff was inviting the entire team. No. It was just Carolyn and the two boys in her charge. By the time the pizza arrived, they found out they would both be going to Cal State Hayward in the fall. That’s when Jeff asked for her phone number.

  With each stroke as she swam from one end of the pool to the other, the memories kept coming. She knew she never would forget the night before she left for her summer on the Canary Islands because Jeff took her on a date. Their first date. He wore a tie and took her to a steak house that had rounded booths with tufted leather seats and candles in red, pear-shaped holders at the end of the table beside the bottle of A-1 Steak Sauce.

  Carolyn blithely ordered a huge T-bone steak and a loaded baked potato but could barely eat. Jeff held her hand across the table, and in the glow of that patio-style candle, he told her that even though she was going to be gone all summer, he would wait for her because he had a feeling they were meant to be together.

  When Jeff walked her to the front door of her parents’ home that night, his smile diminished only long enough for his lips to form a kiss, Carolyn’s first. That night Jeff unknowingly awakened an eagerness in her that she had long underestimated in spite of her twin’s willingly shared descriptions of her exploits. With that ignited eagerness and curiosity, Carolyn arrived on the Canary Islands and first looked into Bryan Spencer’s blue-gray eyes.

  Out of breath and slightly trembling, Carolyn pulled herself from the pool. Worn and warmed, she surrendered to the sun-toasted towel waiting for her and listened to her pulse pound in her ears as all the glistening beads of water gave in to the force of gravity and skittered off her skin.

  The pale blue sky spread its covering over her as a beautiful dream floated in on a cloud and lulled her to sleep. She couldn’t tell when she woke up how long she had been gone. It could have been a ten-minute or a two-hour nap. But she knew she had dreamed of Jeff. They weren’t sailing this time nor were they swimming. They were giving themselves to each other for the first time on their wedding night. Jeff’s caresses had been slow, tender, and rhythmic. She was safe. She was happy.

  Carolyn knew the second time Jeff kissed her under a tree on their college campus that he would love her with all of his heart for the rest of their lives. And so, with the desire to never do or say anything that might jeopardize that safety and harmony, she didn’t tell Jeff what had happened beside the green fishing boat the night the Canary stars were watching.

  Shaking off the lingering memories from long ago, Carolyn gave her still-wet hair a shake too. None of those thoughts mattered anymore. Jeff was gone. For that matter, Bryan was gone. None of it mattered. She needed to move on.

  Tikki was right. I do need to get a life. I’m young enough to make a fresh start, aren’t I? Grief takes so long to work through. When will I be past this sadness I feel like a weight at the bottom of my stomach?

  For now, she decided that getting a life and moving on meant enjoying the time she had left with her mother and savoring her vacation instead of putting herself through some sort of adolescent-angst rehab.

  Returning to the apartment, Carolyn saw from the kitchen clock that she had b
een at the pool for a little more than an hour. She felt as if she had gone to another world and back, returning with the resolution to remain in the present for the rest of her vacation.

  On the table she noticed a handwritten list on the back of an envelope. Carolyn read the mix of English and Spanish words and called out to her mom, “Is this your grocery list? I can buy these things for you, if you like.”

  “You don’t have to. Rosa does my shopping for me. She can do this when she comes later this week.”

  “I don’t mind. I’d like to do this for you, Mom. The reason you need some of these things is because you have another mouth to feed this week that you weren’t expecting.”

  Her mother shuffled into the kitchen. She was dressed, and her short, silver-laced hair was in place. She even had on lipstick. Yet she still looked weary from the party, not quite ready to take on the day.

  “Let me do this, Mom. I don’t have to buy everything on the list, but at least I can purchase something fresh for dinner and replenish some of your basics.”

  “Okay, if you like.”

  Carolyn changed while her mom finished the list. She handed it to Carolyn with stars next to the essential items. “Do not buy more than you can carry.”

  Carolyn’s immediate thought was that she would buy everything on the list to save Rosa the trip later. Then she realized why her mother had said what she did. Abuela Teresa didn’t have a car. Carolyn would have to walk to the market and back carrying the groceries, unless she wanted to take a taxi.

  “Okay, I’ll only buy what we need right away. And maybe a little sweet for the two of us for an afternoon treat.”

  Her mother smiled. She was such a lovely woman. Her dark eyebrows seemed to float unworried over her clear brown eyes. She had a long, thin nose and upturned lips. “Do you know where the supermercado is located?”

  “No, is it far?”

  “Only four blocks. Uphill. That makes the trip home easier.”

  Supplied with sturdy shopping bags, her purse, the grocery list, and her mother’s set of keys, Carolyn set off in her practical, black, slip-on walking shoes, a pair of jeans, and a T-shirt, ready to casually explore the neighborhood on her way to the market. Her mother had settled in with her stack of thank-you notes and was planning to use the time to express gratitude to her generous family for their gifts. She encouraged Carolyn to take her time and to stop along the way at some of the small shops that lined the street just before she reached the market.

  The sidewalks were surprisingly busy with people of all ages. Young mothers pushed strollers and carried weighted items in bags slung over their shoulders. An older man in a full suit and wearing a hat slowly made his way uphill with the aid of his cane. Two girls carrying schoolbooks chattered and laughed with the same lively animation found in thirteen-year-olds of any culture. A woman wearing a white lab coat and glasses hurried past Carolyn and entered a store that sold eyewear.

  On the road that ran alongside the sidewalk, an endless stream of cars, trucks, and buses made their way downhill toward the beach. The afternoon heat had warmed the asphalt and added an intensified smell of diesel to the air. It seemed hard to believe that only half an hour ago, after a pristine swim, Carolyn had luxuriated in the sun by a pool that was located only a few hundred yards from all this noise and smelly heat. The immense, block-long, twelve-story apartment building seemed to serve as a rectangular barricade from the outside commotion, allowing space for a garden to grow and for guitar melodies to echo.

  Carolyn stopped to look in the window of a small shop that sold jewelry. The assortment of beaded necklaces alongside beautifully boxed rings made of diamonds and other polished gems was surprising to her. The handcrafted items were displayed as proudly as the high-end jewelry.

  She stopped again, a few shops later, in front of a salon. The front door was open, and Carolyn could see that the two employees had no customers that afternoon. She tried to translate the services listed on the card posted in the window. Manicura y pedicura were easily deduced. What she couldn’t remember was the last time she had indulged in either service.

  Why not?

  Entering with a confident grin, Carolyn was greeted with an interested but unrushed glance from the two women standing by the counter that held a noncomputerized-style cash register. One of the women asked her something in Spanish.

  Too timid to try her Spanish to ask for the service she wanted, Carolyn said, “Do either of you speak English?”

  Both women shook their heads and looked shyly at her. Carolyn wondered if they both knew some English but, just like her, were timid to try it out.

  Carolyn pointed to her feet and then wiggled her fingers. “I’d like a manicura y pedicura, por favor.”

  The taller woman motioned for Carolyn to take a seat in the chair in front of the wash basin. If she leaned back, her neck would be cradled in the curve of the sink, and she could have her hair washed, just as she would at any salon back home. Apparently this was the manicure-pedicure station. It was nothing like the salon Marilyn frequented that had padded leather reclining chairs with built-in footbaths and massage rollers that could be adjusted with the push of a button.

  Carolyn took off her shoes and made herself as comfortable as possible while the two women went to work with remarkable efficiency. A steady stream of conversation flowed between the two of them as a plastic basin was placed in front of Carolyn, and she plunged her feet into the warm water. She recognized one of their comments in Spanish: “ … que grandes son los pies.” “What big feet.”

  It wasn’t the first time she had been aware of her size since arriving in the Canaries. Most of the women, including her mother and aunts, came in at a little over five feet tall. Carolyn was five foot seven, which never seemed tall at home. Here she was noticeably taller than her women relatives. She and Marilyn, as well as their tall daughters, had her father’s proud Dutch and Norwegian heritage to thank for the extra inches.

  One of the attendants sat on a stool beside Carolyn and went to work on her hands, using a small folding tray as the operating pad. The shorter attendant took a servant position on her knees and went to work scrubbing Carolyn’s feet. She balanced one foot at a time on a towel across her lap and trimmed Carolyn’s overgrown toenails with tender precision. Then she lathered her hands with lotion and expertly massaged Carolyn’s feet.

  The experience felt so different from the times she had gone with Marilyn to the stylized, machine-assisted nail salons at home. Here, even though the equipment was rudimentary, the touch felt personal and pampering. Not at all like she was receiving an automated service carried out in assembly-line fashion.

  Carolyn’s fingers were soothed with oil, one by one, with deliberate attention to each cuticle. The intense consideration was beyond anything she had experienced before with a manicure, and she felt like a princess. It took her a little while to settle into the pampering experience, but once she did, she loved every minute of it.

  The nail polish she selected was soft pink. No bold statements in cherry red were in store for her big feet and neatly trimmed fingernails. The end results were exactly what she had hoped for: fresh and clean.

  Feeling relaxed, Carolyn leaned back, resting her head on a folded-up towel one of the attendants had placed in the curve of the shampoo bowl. She closed her eyes and felt the breeze through the open door, as it did its part in the pampering process and dried her nails.

  When she stood to leave a few minutes later, Carolyn saw that another woman had entered and was seated in one of two chairs in front of a mirror, ready to have her hair cut. Carolyn paid, and when her change was handed back, she tried to do a quick calculation. If she had her exchange rate figured out, she had just paid the equivalent of about seven U.S. dollars for the entire treatment.

  She didn’t know if it was customary to tip, so she tried to hand the attendant some money, but the woman looked confused as to what Carolyn was doing. Apparently a tip wasn’t expected.

 
Carolyn smiled. “Gracias.”

  “De nada.” The attendant then hurried from behind the counter and stood beside the open door. The other attendant left her haircut customer and joined her coworker. They seemed to be taking their positions, waiting for Carolyn to exit. It reminded Carolyn of the way flight attendants stood by the plane’s door to say, “Buh-bye.”

  As Carolyn nodded to them and made her way toward the door, both women leaned over and kissed her on both cheeks and then said something in unison with a wide smile. Carolyn was so caught off-guard by their gesture that she couldn’t leave.

  “What does that mean?” She looked at each of them, startled. “I wish I spoke more Spanish so you could tell me what you just said.”

  One of the attendants said, “Cuando una mujer …”

  Carolyn understood those words and repeated them aloud in English. “When a woman …” But after that she was lost. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  The woman waiting for her haircut invited herself into the moment and explained to Carolyn what was going on. “It is the way the Women of the Canaries give praise to their sisters.”

  Carolyn looked to the other customer for more explanation.

  “Have you never had this before?” the woman asked. “This kiss and congratulations?”

  “No, what does it mean?”

  “When a Woman of the Canaries shows herself a kindness, all her sisters must congratulate her. That is why they gave you a kiss. They are congratulating you for showing yourself a kindness.”

  Carolyn felt sweetly touched all over again. “That’s beautiful.”

  “Now, when your sisters show themselves a kindness, you must congratulate them for taking such care. This is what we do for each other. It’s a nice expression, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s a very nice expression.” Carolyn departed with another round of “gracias” and “adiós” and stepped into the sunlight, headed the rest of the journey uphill to the grocery store. What she had just experienced had so tipped her inward balance that she couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear. She entered the grocery store with her head held high.