American Bruja: The Los Angeles Cauldron

Chapter 27. Dr. Betty Morton

Tuesday, August 9, 2011, 3:00 a.m. Los Angeles

I wake to the sound of Rob's soft snoring. Moonlight streams through the bedroom window to cast him in ghostly grey. Turning to spoon his thin body, I stroke his skeletal cheek. My heart aches over my beloved wasting away from heart disease and me, helpless to stop the inevitable slide into death.

A flood of grief hits me with the force of a rogue wave. Tears fill my eyes as I rise to sit on the edge of the bed.

The sweet scent of jasmine wafts through the open window, bringing the memory of Mom on her knees in the dirt. She planted the white-flowering bushes in the 1960s, and by some miracle, the jasmine lives, breathes, and blooms. A heavy sigh escapes my throat as I picture her, frozen in time at the age of 38.

My eyes flick around the homey bedroom to take in the familiar sights. In one corner sits the rocking chair Dad made Mom when she was pregnant with me. A double-doored oak wardrobe and a heavy chest of drawers stand against the wall opposite me. The king-sized bed is the only new addition to this room.

Outside the window is the waxing gibbous moon, a distant witness to my heartache. I briefly consider kneeling and reviewing my life lessons in the introspection demanded by my spiritual practice during this moon phase. If I gain enough insight, maybe Creator will heal my beloved.

Moments pass as I stare out the window and wait for a sign. Something, anything, to reassure me I'm not abandoned and alone.

Rob's breath catches in his throat in a garbled, choking sound. I turn away from the window to cup my love's face in my hands. As my fingers caress his cheeks, Rob's breathing returns to a slow, steady rhythm. He's been in my life longer than he hasn't, yet we've had so little time together.

Burning sensations erupt in my gut and spread to my heart. Rising to stand, I shake a fist at the universe.

This is so unfair! I've dedicated most of my life to You, followed every command without question. What more do you want from me?

My shoulders slump as I turn from the window. Every passing moment is a painful reminder that I've always been on my own. I begin to pace, from one end of the bedroom to the other. As I shuffle across the rustic wood floor, memories of this grim anniversary fill my head.

Friday, August 9, 1968, 5:00 p.m. Los Angeles

The bus taking us home from Cheer Camp swells with girlish laughter. I haven't stopped smiling since making the junior varsity squad. Seated at the back of the bus, I turn to my best friend Mary and bop her on the shoulder with my purple and gold pom-pom. Her brown eyes sparkle as she grins and presses her pom-poms against mine. In unison, we raise them and break into our high school rally song. As the bus moves along Devonshire Boulevard toward the train crossing, the rest of the girls join in. Our singing grows louder and more raucous with every verse.

By the time we reach the last verse, we're shouting. Between the bus's metallic rumbling and the cacophony, it takes me a minute to realize the girls at the front of the bus have stopped singing.

Suddenly, the driver slams on the brakes and I'm thrown into the back of the nearest seat.

For a split-second, the bus falls silent before groans reach my ears. I grab the sticky green vinyl seat back, stand, and move to Mary, who's crumpled on the floor. Extending my hand, I pull her upright.

The balding driver stands and turns to face us. "Anyone hurt?"

A chorus of "no" peppered with choice words about his driving abilities comes in answer.