Bridget shook her head. “I figured any relatives we did have in Ireland would only be distantly related and wouldn’t care about us.”
Zita was silent. Her Irish family had always fascinated her, but she’d never been brave enough to search. She was worried she might upset her mother, make her think that she wasn’t good enough, but it wasn’t that. It was the tenuous idea that she might have people who looked like her, and who could tell her more stories about her father. But there was no guarantee they would welcome her into the family, and that was the main reason she’d never gone further. Still, looking at these photos made her want to know more. Surely he would have an aunt or an uncle who remembered him?
“I’d kind of like to,” she admitted. “Find out if they have anything of Papa’s. Do you think Mama would mind?”
Carly shook her head. “No. Do you want a hand?”
“No. I’ll do a search when I have a little bit of time.”
“All right,” Carly said, getting to her feet. “There’s one more thing. I found it when I was going through the box of things Mama kept from El Salvador, and got it digitized.” She switched on her laptop that was sitting on the coffee table. She smiled at them both. “Neither of you have seen it.” She clicked on a file and a movie came up.
A home movie.
Zita gasped.
“How have we never seen this?” Bridget asked, as shocked as Zita was.
“I asked Mama and she said she didn’t have anything to play it on and had forgotten about it.”
The movie was of their parents’ wedding, her mother looking beautiful in a white dress with matching bolero and her father in a blue suit. They were in a little church that was packed with people.
“That’s the church in our village,” Carly said.
It was strange to watch a walking, talking version of her father. All of a sudden, he was alive again. Zita listened as they said their vows, her father in halting Spanish with the most horrendous accent. She giggled. “Papa sounds awful.”
Carly laughed. “He must have learned quickly. I remember him speaking it fluently, though still with an accent.”
The video changed to show the family farm and the house where they had lived with their grandparents, and then went through each one of the girls’ christenings. Carly must have edited them together. Zita’s heart swelled as her father held her and kissed her forehead so tenderly. It was obvious he loved her. Tears pricked her eyes.
“This is my favorite bit,” Carly said as the setting changed again to the beach.
It had to be the day at the beach that Carly had spoken about at the last Day of the Dead celebration. The three of them were building sandcastles, their father next to them, patiently helping and giving them encouragement. Carmen called from behind the camera, “Time to wash up.”
Her father jumped to his feet. “Last one in is a rotten egg,” he said and raced for the water. Carly was on her feet in a flash, racing after him and after a moment’s stumble, Bridget was after her. Zita, however, was the slowest. She got to her feet and ran as fast as her little legs could carry her. Carly and Bridget were already in the water, shrieking and splashing, but her father was encouraging her, jogging slowly so she could catch him.
“Beat you, Papa,” Zita called as she got to the water and then she tripped and fell into the waves. Her father scooped her out, wet and bedraggled and gave her a huge hug and a kiss. “You sure did,a leanbh.”
Tears streamed down Zita’s face. Her father had loved her. He had held her, and kissed her, and waited for her. She took the tissue Bridget handed her and the three of them wiped their eyes.
“Has Mama seen this?” Bridget asked.
“Not yet,” Carly said.
“We’ll need to buy a carton of tissues before she does,” Zita said, sniffing. She hugged Carly. “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome,niñita. Now you can see how much Papa loved us all.”
She could. She really could.
