Dahlma Llanos-Figueroa
The Visitation (Chapter 2 from “Of Mothers & Daughters”)
Carolina, Puerto Rico, May 1875
Casa Negra, that’s what los blancos call it. Milagros knows her people call it La Negra Caridad or just Caridad. She smells the place as soon as her horse turns off the main road and on to the property. The gardenias that grow in the garden cover the whole front of the house and overwhelm her as she approaches. The creamy flowers hang heavily on their stems. Their size and number fill the air with a sweetness that intoxicates. Milagros closes her eyes and lets herself be taken by it; proof that she’s on the right track.
But then something else breaks through her awareness. There, just there, below the comforting and seductive fragrance, lays something else; the lingering but distinct odor of toil, sweat, and effort. And then, even below that, there is yet a third layer, the faint, but arrestingly acrid stench of fear, danger, and desperation. The blend of them all assaults the young woman as she sits in front of the old plantation house.
The life of a place never dissipates. It may be camouflaged, but never expunged. For a moment, she freezes, sorting out the conflicting odors. For there is the smell of pain here, but also the essence of love and the bouquet of kindness and, yes, the trailing scent of hope. Milagros opens her eyes, shakes her head clear and refocuses her thoughts.
She is temporarily distracted but will not be deterred. She proceeds with caution, steeling herself for the meeting to come. Clicking her tongue, she takes a final deep breath, and pulls at the reins. The carriage lurches forward, going around the plantation house, down the slope and stopping at the old slave quarters. The young woman lets the smell of hope lead her way.
Pola is in her cabin, putting away the breakfast dishes when she stops mid-step. Something has been nagging her all morning, something just beyond her clear knowing, something almost imperceptible, like dissipating smoke or a shift in temperature. She leans on the table, her mind seeking out the source of the lingering impression. A breeze flutters the curtains and it begins to rain. The sound of the rain drumming on her zinc roof pulls Pola away from her musings and back into the now. She runs to secure the shutters and by the time she’s finished, the nagging feeling has passed. The knock comes just as she is passing the door.
Dressed in white from top to bottom, there she stands, a total stranger. She wears a straw hat and lace gloves and holds up a useless parasol. She wears tiny white shoes that will be ruined in the mud that will soon accumulate around Pola’s doorway. A horse and carriage stand just behind the young woman. The young woman is tall and her skin reminds Pola of a coating of dark, dark cocoa. When she smiles, she bares a full set of even teeth, like coconut chips against her skin. Pola has never seen a black woman such as this. Townfolk.
They stare at each other for a long moment. Milagros’ eyes examine Pola in equal measure. She studies her in minute detail, with unguarded intensity. Finally, she gets the words out. “Are you the one they call MaPola?”
“A sus órdenes,” Pola nods. The young woman has come to her door and is standing in the rain. Of course, Pola invites her in, giving the young woman the better of her two chairs. She hands her a cloth to wipe away the raindrops that dot her young face. She sits down opposite her visitor, wondering what this soft, soft, young woman would want with her. She must have come a long way, must be thirsty.
“¿Café? ¿Limonada?”
“No, gracias.” Milagros hands back the cloth and sits on the edge of her chair, nervously removing her gloves.
“How can I help you?”
The young woman sits blinking repeatedly and fidgeting with her gloves, as she continues examining the older woman and is overwhelmed by the overpowering scent of gardenias. She looks around the room for the source and realizes that the woman herself emanates the familiar scent. In addition, a small corner table holds a pitcher of the white flowers behind a bowl of water, a small blue candle sits on either side of the arrangement. It all reminds her of MamaDigna’s altar. How much more have these two women in common? Milagros takes it all in. She wipes the beads of sweat that have sprouted on her forehead before looking up and into Pola’s eyes. There is no more doubt in the young woman. Suddenly, what was a possibility when she entered this place, becomes absolute certainty.
“¿Sí, dígame?” Pola asked again.
The girl licks her lips one last time and, “Well, I’ve come to see you because… because… because I’m told that…” She squares her shoulders and finally gets the words out. “My name is Milagros. And…and I…I am your daughter.”
For a moment, there is no reaction on the part of the older woman. Pola simply stares. But she recovers quickly, smiling sympathetically. “Ay, Señorita, you are mistaken, misinformed. I have no children.”
“No, Doña, there is no mistake. Are you not the Pola who lived on the Paraíso Plantation?”
Pola’s smile vanishes. “That was many, many years ago and I prefer not to think of that time.”
“I can understand that.” As she speaks, the girl pulls an old sheet of paper from her purse and hands it over. “But I have this …”
Pola instinctively recoils. Even if she could read, she would not have touched those pages.
Still, she looks up at her visitor. She looks so sure. But, of course, she must be mistaken. Why? Why would this señorita want to claim her as her mother? It makes no sense.
“No, señorita. someone has been playing a trick on you.”
The undisguised intensity and certainty in the young woman’s face softens Pola’s heart. She feels sorry for her but what she is saying is just impossible.
“Lo siento but you have made a mis…” Pola’s words fail when a tiny bud of a memory begins to unfurl in the very back of her mind. Memories she has buried for a lifetime begin to stir. A dark passage begins to open before her eyes. NO! She shakes her head willing away the image that threatens her peace. She will not go down this path again. Her children are all gone, dead. It had taken years. She had mourned each and every one of them and had laid them to rest.
Still, somewhere deep within, the dark passage still sits in her mind’s eye. Suddenly Pola’s inner world tilts on an axis that leaves her dizzy and weak. Her hands, seeking something real, something tangible, cling to her seat. For a moment she can’t hear or see or focus on anything other than the growing darkness within. She closes her eyes and takes deep breaths.
“¡Imposible!” The word explodes out of her.
“Please, I want…I need to…”
Pola tries to get up and show the woman out, but her legs won’t move. “You are mistaken, Señorita. I’m sorry you have come this long way but…”
Milagros cuts her off. Her words tumble out fast, faster than she intends. “When I was just a newborn, I was taken from you. A kind man, Don Moncho Caballer bought me at auction and took me home. He gave me to his maid, Mama Digna, who raised me as her own. I didn’t know until …I was one of the lucky ones. I have had a good life, Doña, but now MamaDigna is gone and I…I…” she reaches down to rub her belly and Pola sees for the first time. “Now I need to find my real mother. Life is a chain that shouldn’t be broken. Will you deny…?”
Pola puts her hand up to stop the barrage of words. It is too much, too fast. “Please…”
Milagros stops and looks at the woman who seems to have aged since the conversation began. “I know this is unexpected.”
Pola is rooted to her chair still shaking her head no. This cannot possibly be.
Milagros is desperate. She will not leave until Pola recognizes her. “Doña, I will do anything to prove that what I say is true. I don’t want to take anything from you…”
Now it’s Pola’s turn to interrupt. “On the contrary, you want to take away everything from me, everything that I have worked so many years to build.”
The darkness grows in Pola’s mind and she is forced to catalogue the years of viciousness, the savagery, the countless perversions, the innumerable degradations, the helplessness, the terrors, the horrors of her life. It had taken years, years, to put those behind her enough so she could breathe, so she could begin to live again, to believe again. And now, this young woman brings it all back with one word. No, Pola will not let that idea take root. It would cost too much.
Milagros sees the determination in Pola’s face and is put off for a moment. Clearly, the woman is shocked. Perhaps it was too much to expect, this sudden revelation. After all, it took months and months for Milagros herself to be able to internalize what this meant.
But her certainty and her overwhelming need drives her. In her mind, she gropes for anything that will get her past the woman’s defenses. She knows the woman has had a difficult life. She knows this sudden revelation has caught her unprepared and unaware. But she can’t leave without getting through to her, without getting passed her defenses.
Milagros suddenly gets an idea. It is a gamble but all she has and she has nothing to lose and so much to gain. “I hear you have gifted hands. Use them.”
Milagros sits back, smoothing her gown, making her belly more pronounced. “Go ahead. Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to be sure before you turn me away?”
The girl is right. Her hands have never failed her. They have always guided her to truth and healing. But what if…No, not possible. But what if there was the slightest chance that…
Pola’s fingers begin to throb. She examines the young woman again, probing the physical and intuiting the emotional aspects as the visitor patiently sits under her scrutiny. She finds no malice in her. The young mother is driven by her obvious need, her desire for her baby and its future. This need is totally understandable to Pola who remembers the maternal yearnings of her own youth.
On one hand, Pola fears the presence of this young woman, this Milagros, sitting before her, threatening to upend the hard-won stability of her life. On the other hand, she offers a whole new world of unimagined possibilities in Pola’s life.
The girl is wrong. There is too much to lose. But, if Milagros is right, Pola could have much to gain. In that sense, using her hands would banish all uncertainty from her own heart. How can she live with the regret of never knowing, or worse, of failing her daughter away once again.
The rain continues falling around the cabin, sealing them in this time and this place. The world is reduced to herself and this young woman who wants has already disrupted the life that Pola had created with so many sacrifices. Milagros sits, no sign of nervousness or doubt, arms open in a gesture of invitation, surrender even. And always, the nagging question, what if what she says is true?
The two women eye each other in silence. Each studies the other, in breathless anticipation, wondering what the next moment will bring. The downpour continues, filling their ears, eventually lulling the tension in the room.
Then slowly, very slowly, Pola reaches out and places her trembling fingers on Milagros’ belly.
Dahlma Llanos-Figueroa
Dahlma Llanos-Figueroa, a product of the Puerto Rican communities on the island and in the South Bronx, was sent to live with her grandparents where she was introduced to the culture of rural Puerto Rico, including the storytelling that came naturally to the women, especially the older women, in her family. Much of her work is based on her experiences during this time Ms. Llanos-Figueroa’s first novel, Daughters of the Stone, was shortlisted for the 2010 PEN Bingham Award. Her second novel, A Woman of Endurance, (Spanish edition: Indómita), Amistad, HarperCollins 2022 was selected to represent Puerto Rico in the Library of Congress Great Reads, Great Places initiative at the 2024 National Book Festival in Washington, DC. The English-language edition won the 2024 International Latino Award Bronze medal for historical fiction and the ILA Gold Medal for best Spanish-language translation.