Rebellious Rachel

I took a puff of the cigar as I drove along the long dusty unpaved road, blowing smoke out the open window. I loved cigars, especially these; Cuban, Romeo y Julieta, very illegal. The powerful v8 growled quietly. Ford had done a fine job with these new F-150 King Ranch pickups, I thought - well balanced, comfortable luxury, and enough power to handle any weather or terrain. Ahead, the narrow, winding road sloped down through progressively smaller hills. Sparse stunted trees, scattered bushes, hardy yucca plants, and waving brown wild grasses couldn’t hide the ochre dirt-covered and rocky hills that undulated ahead. In the far hazy distance, the Santa Rita Foothills rose again across the valley to line the horizon. An intense early summer morning sun washed out colors and made me squint. The temperature was rising as I approached the Sonoita Mountain View Highway nestled in the valley. It would eventually take me north to the Tucson International Airport. I took another puff of the Cuban and let my mind drift back to the conversation with my daughter. Cara was never a calm, logical girl. How could she be? It was in her genes to be passionate, opinionated, and forceful - even when she was in the wrong. It was my fault for marrying an Italian girl, but her mother had been such a dark, gorgeous beauty I’d been blinded to her shortcomings. Michaela had been everything I wasn’t. My style was more laid back, easygoing, non-confrontational; a trait I’d inherited from my father. Michaela, at first enamored with my laid back character, grew to interpret my calmness as disinterest and eventually used it as an excuse to divorce me and flee back to Italy, leaving me with a two-year-old daughter. Luckily, the small food distribution business I’d started in Tucson had flourished, providing me with enough income to raise Cara in reasonable comfort. My daughter’s telephone calls followed no pattern. She called me if she remembered me, called me if overly excited, or called me when she wanted a non-judgmental ear - although that was a rare occurrence. Our relationship was an electronic one. Cara, at eighteen plus one week, had moved to Los Angeles with her boyfriend, both convinced they’d be movie stars. Stardom wasn’t in their future. A surprise pregnancy led to a hasty marriage. The need to eat drove my daughter to work for a talent agency, and the prospect of responsibility for a newborn daughter drove my son-in-law all the way home to the East Coast. Divorce followed in short order. Stubbornness, pride, and a rift between us stopped my daughter from moving back, despite my offer. Cara’s recent phone call had worried me. Puttering around in the rock garden, the cordless phone on the patio table had warbled. “Hello?” I’d answered, wiping perspiration from my forehead. “Dad! I’ve had it! I can’t take it anymore!” my agitated daughter exclaimed. “Hi, Cara. Can’t take what anymore?” I asked calmly. “Your granddaughter, Rachael! I almost smacked that girl yesterday! I’ve had it, Dad. I don’t know what to do, but I know one thing. We need space. We need to be away from each other or I’ll probably kill her!” “Calm down...” “I AM calm!” Cara yelled. “Yesterday I wasn’t.” I chuckled. “If you’re calm now, I’d hate to have seen you yesterday.” “It’s NOT funny, Dad! That girl ... She ... She...” Cara’s voice trailed off, replaced by heavy panting. Somewhat cautiously, I prompted, “That girl ... what?” “She pierced her eyebrow!! Can you believe it? Without asking permission! It’s the last straw, Dad! Between that and constantly skipping school, sneaking out at night, and dressing like an I-don’t-know-what, I’ve reached my limit!” It sounded like a teenage girl in full rebellion. “Want me to come and stay?” I offered, an offer I’d made many times before and been turned down. “No! What I want is an ocean between me and that girl so I don’t even think about her for a while!” Cara exclaimed. “And for her not to come back until she’s twenty-something and sane again!” I grinned. “So how can I help?” My daughter sighed. “Can you take her for the summer? Maybe being isolated in the middle of nowhere with you and away from bad influences is what she needs to come to her senses.” “Sure. No problem,” I assured her. Having my granddaughter visit might be nice. She’d never visited me before. Taking another puff of my cigar, I turned the Ford north on the Sonoita Mountain View Highway and thought about Rachael. I’d seen her three times: at four months old when she was a cute, chubby baby with dark, intense, staring eyes. Her African American father had given her beautiful café au lait skin - the color of coffee ice cream, wild loosely curled hair, a generous mouth and an interesting nose. Cara’s side had influenced her Caucasian features. At six years old she sprouted, her hair raven black, shoulder length and hilariously uncontrollable. She was full of make believe and wonder at little things. I saw her again at ten years old. She was surprisingly taller, still as skinny as a drought-plagued bean pod, her face still childish, eyes very big, and her hair misbehaving and full of character. She was full of restless energy, unable to sit still, always busy, curious, and doing something. She developed a smile that was so radiant it brought light to darkness, her eyes sparkling and dancing with irrepressible personality. Just under a month ago, for her fourteenth birthday, I’d sent her a book on amazing trivia from around the world hoping it would fascinate her curious mind, and I’d received a terse thank you email in response. What had happened to her in the last few years? I knew from experience that raising a child as a single parent could test you. Cara had rebelled at fourteen, too, for no reason I could comprehend. I wasn’t a controlling parent, or demanding. At seventeen she’d met that i***t she married two years later, then divorced within six months. Cara’s rebellious period had lasted until she hit twenty and became a mother. Reality hit her. Stubborn as a mule, she’d refused my help, determined to make it on her own. For that I felt pride, although I quietly wished she’d needed me; a fatherly desire, I think. Motoring towards Tucson, I smoked my cigar and enjoyed the memories of Cara, pre-rebellion, that had kept me company for so long. Rachael sounded like she was passionate, opinionated, and forceful; just like her mother. No wonder there was conflict between them. An hour later, I strolled into the airport and found a spot in the arrivals hall. The electronic arrivals board informed me American Airlines flight 3013 was scheduled to land on time, 12:05 PM, about three minutes from now. I leaned against a concrete pillar and waited. I almost missed her. The girl that emerged from the arrivals gate looked like a malnourished vampire biker; black jeans, black jack boots with steel toes, black jean jacket, black T-shirt, what looked like dark lipstick, and a frown that matched her outfit. Only her mocha skin color ruined her Goth image. She stomped along pulling a small roller suitcase behind her, her eyes not even looking around. Without moving, I watched her for a short while. She’d grown quite tall - five feet and some inches - yet had the slender, almost boyish physique I remembered from when she was ten. Her face, despite the frown, was still that of a young girl, hinting at the mature lady she’d soon become: beautiful exotic oval eyes, sculpted high cheeks and delicate jaw line, lips lush. Her eyes still dominated. I couldn’t tell if adolescence had changed her, her clothes hiding any hints of development. Most noticeably, her generous mouth missed that magnetic smile of hers. Her steps lacked the energy I remembered. Worry crept in. What had happened to change her so drastically? I finally moved, weaving through the groupings of reunited families and smartly-dressed business people. As I approached, I relaxed somewhat. Rachael’s fingernails were spotlessly clean and cared for. It revealed a lot; self-destruction or low self-esteem wasn’t the problem. She noticed my approach without changing expression. “Hi, Rachael,” I greeted her, moving in to hug her. She remained aloof in my arms, not stiff but close to it. “How was your flight?” “Fine.” Hmm. Talkative. “Want me to take your suitcase?” “No.” I shrugged, no longer worried. Teenage rebellion. Been there, done that. I was a master at ignoring it. “This way.” Leading her, we made our way to the pickup. I let her wrestle her suitcase into the rear. When she buckled her seatbelt, I said, “Welcome to Arizona. The state motto is Ditat Deus.” As I started the truck I informed her, “It means God enriches.” With no response, I told her, “Our state bird is the Cactus Wren, a lovely speckled bird and the largest wren in North America. Interestingly, it was adopted by the state back in 1931, but only officially recognized in 1971, proving how fast governments operate.” Rachael remained silent, staring out the side window with her arms crossed as we made our way onto the highway. After a beat, I continued, “Unlike Texas, which has the Blue Lacy, Arizona has no state dog. I’m not sure why that is, but based on the time it took the legislature to recognize the Cactus Wren, I’m not holding my breath for them to act soon, although my vote is for the Belgian Malinois. “I have no clue what a Blue Lacy looks like,” I added after a pause. “A blue dog must be quite a sight.” A few miles later I informed her, “The state flower is the beautiful saguaro cactus blossom, usually found in the arid parts of the state ... where cacti grow.” More miles passed before I broke the silence. “And here’s a fact you might find interesting. The Arizona trout is found only in Arizona. Actually, thinking about it, it makes sense, doesn’t it? If the Arizona trout was found anywhere else, why call it the Arizona trout?” We left Tucson behind us. Silence. “Unless it mates here. Like salmon, always returning home to spawn. Then we could still call it the Arizona trout no matter where it traveled.” The silence was loud. I waited a couple of miles. “On the this-is-weird front, the bolo tie is the official state neckwear. Obviously the government doesn’t have enough to do.” Still no response. “The Arizona tree frog is the state official amphibian. It’s ironic, don’t you think? Arid Arizona ... official amphibian?” I lowered the window completely, elbow comfortably on the door sill, and steered one-handed. I briefly considered lighting another cigar. “The colors blue and gold are the official state colors ... which is why the Arizona Cardinals are red and the cardinal isn’t a state bird. My bet is the Arizona ‘Wrens’ wouldn’t have struck fear into the competition the way Cardinals scare people. I know I live in fear of seeing a cardinal. No. Wait. That’s the clergy type, not the avian type.” I caught a slight curl of Rachael’s lip before it vanished. Perhaps there was hope for her yet. The long drive home passed slowly. Every so often I offered up an interesting tidbit about Arizona. Meanwhile, my eyes kept being drawn to the small silver ring piercing her left eyebrow. Why there? Did she look in the mirror and say, “Yeah, that looks attractive?” It didn’t. Quite the opposite. “Stop staring at me.” I grinned. “She talks! Let’s celebrate!” “What’s with you? How come you’re staring at me all the time?” “I’ve never seen an alien before. Why didn’t you get a matching ring in the other eyebrow?” Rachael shrugged her shoulders with attitude. “If you like, we can stop and get your other eyebrow pierced on the way home. It would balance your face out. That’s important. Scientists have proven balanced and symmetrical faces are more attractive to the opposite s*x. You are interested in the opposite s*x, aren’t you? Not that I’d care if you had an attraction to the same s*x. It’s quite the fashion statement these days. Can’t say I’ve any desire to be fashionable in that way, but who knows? Maybe I’ll meet an Italian Adonis wandering through the Santa Rita Foothills.” I noticed her lips twitch. “I imagine he’ll be wandering topless in chaps, with cut muscles, a six pack, and a great chin. I wonder what I’d say to him? Hey cutie, lost?“ Rachael snorted with laughter and turned her face away from me. Job done, I shut up. Twenty minutes later we arrived home. I showed her the guest bedroom and left her to unpack. By dinner time Rachael hadn’t emerged from the bedroom. I knocked and informed her it was time for dinner. She answered, muffled by the door, “I’m not hungry.” Undeterred - I could be stubborn, and as devious as Machiavelli - I went to the kitchen and hunted for aromatics. Garlic and bacon fit the bill nicely. Armed, I started sautéing garlic, occasionally wafting the aroma towards the hall. Strengthening my assault on her reticence, I began frying bacon. With a dish towel, I wafted the aroma of bacon into the hall to blend with garlic, and sent both her way. Satisfied with my olfactory attack, I dropped fettuccine into salted boiling water and tossed a crusty fresh loaf of bread into the preheated oven. Fifteen minutes later, I finished the bacon Alfredo with cream and butter and freshly grated parmesan cheese, tossed it with the pasta, waved the dish towel rather vigorously towards the hall, and served myself. With a plate on the table, I uncorked a bottle of Valpolicella Ripasso and poured a glass. Simple, classic, and delicious food. The devious plan worked. Rachael edged into the kitchen as I took my first bite. I added a dramatic, “Mmmm,” and ignored her. When she sat at the table, I stood and made her a plate of food, placing it in front of her without a word. She took a hesitant bite. I sipped wine. She reached for a chunk of crusty, warm bread. “Can I have some wine?” “The glasses are in the cupboard on the left.” “Really? You’ll let me drink alcohol?” I nodded and ate slowly. Rachael, after pouring herself a glass of wine, ate small bites, her eyes wandering around the kitchen, looking out through the window, and generally avoiding looking at me. Her dark hair was loose, shoulder length and full of curls. Every so often, her finger would push her hair behind an ear. It had too much character to stay in place. After refilling both our wine glasses, I asked, “How do you feel about matching tattoos? I’ve been admiring neck barbed wire designs. What are your thoughts? It could be fun.” A slight tug at the corner of her mouth made me continue. “Can you imagine how pleased your mother will be? I bet she’ll want one, too. But, if you don’t like barbed wire, we could get a saying tattooed. Apparently they’re in fashion. Maybe something like, Live long and prosper, or Mom.” Rachael snorted with laughter. “Stop! I could choke on the food!” I smiled, sipped wine, then asked, “What would you like to do over the summer?”