The Girl in the Yellow Dress

Chapter One

If Dickens had been Mexican, his books would be illustrated with faces like hers. She said her name was Elena Maria Sanchez. She didn't look a day over fifteen.

It was April, about a week after I'd hung out my shingle and sent out the junk mail announcing my practice. The room that served as my waiting room and office still smelled a little of antiseptic and I was adding air freshener to my shopping list when my newly painted, bright blue door swung open.

I thought she must be the daughter of a patient. But when she sat down alone in a corner chair, knees together, shoulders hunched, eyes darting everywhere like a mouse forced from its hidey hole, I had to conclude that she wanted to know if she was pregnant.

That's what most of my new patients want to find out. The rest already know.

This one put me in mind of a leaf withered and stunted by some blight before it was half grown. The thin fingers that clutched the ballpoint pen as she filled out my standard form went white with the effort or tension or both.

Eyes much too big for her face seemed to avoid where I sat behind my desk trying to catch up on the never-ending paperwork. Round and dark as tar, the eyes flitted back and forth across the  row of freshly framed certificates on my wall. Finally her eyes landed on me. "You are . . . ?" She pointed at the wall.

I nodded.

She tilted her head, and frowned, her gaze puzzled.

I was used to that. People sometimes have trouble reconciling my name, Harper Rodriguez, with my obviously female person. For the Rodriguez part, my father was from Chihuahua. I got his eyes, his hair, his complexion. But he died young and his family had never approved of my parents' marriage, so I never saw much of them. And I knew less than nothing of his culture. My mother's Scottish genes weren't very dominant, but her practical determination was. She thought a name like Harper would help me in the world of business. Maybe she was right.

Feeling like an Amazon across from this dark miniature doll, I smiled, trying to be reassuring. I speak only a little Spanish. In spite of my looking like a native, I hadn't been in New Mexico long enough to learn more than a few words of Spanish. "Poco. Pequeño," I said carefully. Not sure either of those was right, I held up thumb and forefinger to connote little.

She nodded and tried to smile, but it didn't come off very convincingly. "Si, doc-tor."

"No," I shook my head quickly. "I'm not a doctor. I have just about every medical degree except doctor. I'm a .... " There are two Spanish words for midwife. I couldn't remember either one and was about to settle for "nurse" when she said,

"Comadrona?"

"Yes," I widened my smile till it almost hurt my face. "Si, comadrona, partrera, whatever. I bring babies. Niños."

She drew back looking stricken, as if I was trying to give her one she didn't want.

I glanced at the form she had filled in with writing so small I could hardly read it. It seemed to be a mixture of Spanish and English. The space beside Insurance was, as I expected, blank.

"Is your husband ... su ... esposo outside?" I thought I'd seen a  guy at the wheel of a blue pickup at the curb before the door had swung closed behind her. She wasn't wearing a ring, but I didn't know the word for boyfriend. Whatever he was, maybe he spoke English.

"No," she said hurriedly,  sounding shocked that I should even ask. Then, catching my worried look, she lowered her voice and said again, "No, Señora."

"Have you tested positive?" Most women do at least one test themselves.

Two little lines dented the space above her nose. Nothing else about her face changed.

I stood and crossed the room to take her hand. "Come. Let's find out if you are to have a niño."

She followed me to the examination room  and immediately began stripping off her drab little dress. I say drab because the fabric had faded so much I could only tell it had once been yellow from the line of dye that still lingered around the seams. A thrift shop would have turned it down as a donation.