The Orchid Sister

by LeClaire, Anne D.

  Ángel went back to watching life unfold around the square and on the pier. Occasionally he sold tickets. Sometimes he flirted with a pretty girl. He forgot about the thin woman with the scars and the girl he had mistaken for Graciela.

  MADISON

  She survived the flights. Four words. She. Survived. The. Flights. An encyclopedia of meaning.

  She endured the panic. The hyperventilating. The dizziness that made her stumble when she walked down the Jetway to the plane. The leg from Boston to Miami had been the hardest. Before they boarded, Jack had said, “Think of this as a desensitizing exercise. By the time we land in Cancún, you’ll feel like an experienced flier.”

  “I doubt it,” she had said. Did desensitizing even work? If so, would being next to Jack for hours on end work on numbing her feelings for him, the electric and persistent jolt she continued to feel at the sight of him, his touch, his smell? Could it quell those? She refused to allow herself to dwell on the what-ifs. If he were older. If she were younger. If she could be the woman he thought she was. If he were anything but a pilot. If she would ever be capable of trust. All the things that she’d known from the beginning would prevent a lasting relationship.

  He had talked nonstop from the moment of liftoff on the flight from Logan to Miami. He told her about the first fight he had ever been in—kindergarten—and all the male rites of passage. He told her about the house he had grown up in and his favorite hiding places.

  “Would you please be quiet,” she had said at one point.

  “Why? Does my talking bother you?”

  “Yes,” she’d said.

  “Why?”

  She’d thought for a minute. “It’s distracting.”

  “That’s kind of the point,” he’d said.

  In spite of herself, Maddie had to laugh. He joined her. The flight attendant smiled at them. “Let me guess,” she said. “Honeymoon, right?”

  There was an awkward pause and Jack spoke first. “Not yet,” he said.

  Maddie shifted in her seat, creating distance between them.

  Jack continued to chatter. Once, before landing, they hit a pocket of turbulence, and she gripped the armrest and white-knuckled it through.

  “Are you doing okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she managed.

  “Good girl,” he said.

  The flight from Miami to Cancún was easier. She had a stirring of anxiety as she went aboard, but she experienced no dizziness or sweats of panic. She didn’t know whether the drugs were kicking in or if it was Jack’s desensitizing theory at work.

  “Well, look at you,” Jack said, grinning. “You’re getting to be an old hand at this.”

  “Does that mean on this flight you won’t continue to walk and talk me through every day of your life?” she teased. But she felt a quiet, green sprout of pride. She was doing it! She was actually flying. She wouldn’t have believed it possible.

  As they drew closer to their destination, Jack asked her what her plan was once they arrived.

  “Get to the hotel,” she said. “I guess take it from there. And check in with the local police. I know they’ve been alerted about Kat.”

  The bus drive down the coast from Cancún was long, and two women occupying the seats behind them talked incessantly. “Well, will you look at that,” one was saying. “Look, May. Out the window.”

  Maddie turned to see what had captured their attention. Off to the left of the road, a half dozen militiamen encircled a car pulled off to the side. They carried weapons and even in the oppressive heat wore helmets.

  “Federal troops of some kind,” the woman continued. “They’re probably searching for drugs. These countries are infested with drugs.”

  “Cartels,” said the other. “I read about it in Time. Thank goodness we booked a safe resort.”

  Maddie’s thoughts returned to the syringe she had found in Kat’s bathroom. Not possible. Not drugs. There had to be some other explanation. But why had it been hidden between the two green washcloths? Why not just set it in the drawer? Kat lived alone; there was no need to conceal it from view. Was it to keep it out of her own sight? Just one more puzzle piece in the huge mystery. She sighed and watched the landscape unfold as the bus rolled along. They passed a decrepit ranch and a field where several swayback horses grazed. Ahead she saw a collection of hovels and one-room shacks covered with palm-thatched roofs. Chickens and tan-skinned children ran freely in the open space.

  “Imagine,” said the woman behind her. “In this day and age. Ringworm must be rampant.”

  Jack squeezed her hand at this, and their eyes met in sympathy. If Kat had been there, she would have turned to the woman and said something. Maddie could almost hear her. People like you shouldn’t be allowed out of the house, Kat would have said. At the thought of her sister, all the unanswered questions flowed in. Why had Kat gone to Playa del Pedro? Would staff at the hotel remember her? Had she stayed there each time? Was she there now? With each mile, Maddie was closer to finding answers. The bus ride stretched on endlessly.

  The Hotel Molcas was a white two-story building overlooking the water. A dining pavilion occupied the front. The desk clerk, a Mexican of indeterminate age whose name tag read LUIS CASTILLO, smiled at them, revealing two front teeth rimmed with gold. His English was better than her Spanish, and between them registration was accomplished. Jack stood back and let her take charge. As she had with the airfares, Maddie insisted on paying. She suspected this was something they would argue about later, after they found Kat. While the clerk was running her credit card, she took a street map of the village from a stack on the counter.

  She signed the slip and Jack accepted their keys. Adjoining rooms. Numbers 25 and 27. The clerk signaled for the bellboy.

  “Un momento, por favor,” she said.

  “Qué pasa?”

  She reached into her tote and took out a picture of Kat. It had been taken two years ago at a party in DC. Kat wore a sapphire gown that showed off her coloring to good effect. Maddie handed the photo to the clerk. “I’m looking for this woman. Have you seen her?”

  He gazed at the photo. “Sí,” he said, smiling widely.

  “You’ve seen her?” Her voice broke. Could it be that simple? A single question and she would find Kat?

  “Sí. Muy linda,” he said.

  “Where? Here? Recently?” The words spilled out.

  His gilt-toothed smile was replaced by a frown. “Muy bonita,” he said with a frown and handed the photo back, as if he wanted no trouble.

  Jack listened to the exchange but did not interrupt. She was grateful that he continued to let her take the lead. She fumbled through her tote for her dictionary. “Mi hermana.”

  “Ah.” The smile returned in its full, golden glory.

  “Have you seen her?”

  “No, señorita. No.” His eyes were sorrowful to have disappointed her.

  Their rooms were on the second floor. She left Jack in the corridor, promising to meet him later. The bellboy swung her door open, revealing a bedroom decorated in bright blues and greens and facing out to the sea. Drapes in a coarse fabric framed the window. A ceiling fan turned lazily, its blades barely stirring the air. Alone, she sat on the edge of the broad, low bed. She was drained by the tropical heat and exhausted physically and emotionally from the long day of travel. The urge to fall back and sleep was nearly irresistible. And impossible. She was here not to sleep but to follow the trail that would lead her to Kat.

  She rose, crossed to the dresser, uncapped the liter of bottled water provided by the hotel, and drank deeply. She peeled off her shirt and slacks and headed for the shower, hoping it would revive her. After she toweled dry, she used more of the bottled water to brush her teeth. She pulled on a loose ankle-length shift, grabbed her room key and tote, and headed out. The first imperative was coffee. She passed Jack’s door but did not knock. She was determined to maintain some independence and not rely on him too much.

  Out on the dining veranda, the
maître d’ led her to a table dressed with spotless linen. “Welcome to Playa del Pedro,” he said as he seated her. Before he could turn away, she took out Kat’s photo. His eyes lit in appreciation.

  “She was here. In Playa. She stayed here at the hotel. Do you remember her?”

  “No.” Like the desk clerk, he seemed sad to disappoint her. As soon as he departed, a waiter approached with a silver pot. She nodded, watched him pour. As he turned to go, she gestured for him to wait. She placed Kat’s photo on the table. “Mi hermana,” she said. He did not remember Kat, either.

  She looked around the room for other staff members but saw only the maître d’ and her waiter. She felt foolish at how naive she had been to think finding Kat would be a smooth ride. Her impulse was to get up and start immediately rushing around, showing Kat’s picture to everyone she met, but she needed a better sense of the town, a chance to get her bearings before she started out, and perhaps to discover some hint of what had drawn Kat here not just once but several times. And, of course, she needed to check in with the local police.

  The coffee was strong and revived her somewhat. At the airport in Miami, Jack had picked up a guidebook to the Yucatán that she had tucked into her tote, and she pulled it out and began to skim through the pages until she located the section on Playa del Pedro. A tropical climate, she read, with cooling trade winds.

  She turned the pages impatiently. The land was composed of limestone and coral, one living rock, like a stone sponge. Innumerable rivers ran beneath the earth, streams and subterranean lakes. Maddie could almost picture them, a secret network flowing underground. A paragraph instructed the reader about how to contact companies that conducted excursions into these rivers. Just the thought of being enclosed in a stream underground made her feel claustrophobic. She could no more imagine signing up for such a tour than scaling a rock face. But would Kat? Perhaps. Kat was always open to adventures. But she liked new ones, not reruns. It seemed unlikely that she would return several times solely for the experience of the underground rivers.

  She flipped to the next page. Playa del Pedro, she read, was a small fishing village that had once been populated by workers from the chicle and hemp and coconut plantations. Hundreds of years before that, it had been the mainland departure point for Mayan pilgrims visiting the temples on Cozumel. Its more recent history was predictable. In the late 1960s, divers had discovered the offshore reefs that had some of the best diving on the coast. Maddie’s attention was caught. She could definitely see Kat diving, exploring the reefs. She made a mental note to pursue this avenue.

  She set the book aside. She stared out at the street and the square beyond. Directly adjacent to the hotel was a palapa restaurant with tourists seated at the bar. Automatically, Maddie scanned the faces but did not see her sister. On the pedestrian walkway, several vendors hawked ice cream and fresh fruit while smooth-skinned boys with broad faces kicked a ball between the carts with admirable nimbleness. Although it was well past four, bathers still swam in the ocean. Close to shore, near-naked children took turns throwing stones at something in the water. She watched as two dusky-skinned girls with shy smiles emerged dripping from the sea. They were young and lovely, and Maddie imagined that if one pierced their skin, a liquid as sweet as the juice of a papaya would run.

  The heat penetrated her bones, loosening something in the marrow. She felt something tremble and shift like a tectonic plate. It would be so easy, if things were different, to surrender to the magic of the land. The heat, the colors, the people. For just one extraordinary moment she could almost forget everything. Had that been the appeal for Kat? Not great adventures, not new experiences. Something as simple as that? Something so un-Kat-like?

  But why had her sister never mentioned it? Why the secrecy? Had she needed to carve out a little distance between them?

  She left the hotel terrace and headed for the waterfront. As she walked along the pedestrian walkway, she continued to search faces, looking for Kat. The breeze brushed her skin. She reviewed the plan of action she had formulated during the flight from Miami. She would go to the local police station. And then she would canvass the shops and little cafés. She would show everyone she met the photo of Kat. Her sister—tall and blonde and lovely—would surely stand out, even among the tourists who came to the village.

  Somewhere, someone would recognize her.

  TIA CLARA

  A song was coming to Tia Clara. The thin whirling drone of cicadas swirled around her. She knew this melody. This was how death sang. She moved restlessly in her chair, her chest tight with knowledge that such a melody presaged a vision. If she could, she would free herself of such apparitions. She was getting too old. A vein in her foot throbbed in agreement. The swelling in her knees and feet grew worse every day.

  “Buenos días, Tia Clara.” Ángel Morales passed by her table on his way home from the ticket booth.

  “Buenos días.” What a demon the boy was. A fisgón. A busybody who ran everywhere and saw everything. A troublemaker with the mind of an accountant. Well, soon the village would be rid of him. Although he had spoken of his dreams to no one, except perhaps that son-of-a-dog Víctor the diver, Tia Clara knew that Ángel would work at the ticket booth for only a few months more. Then he would depart for the border, and from there he would continue north to California, running away from responsibilities. The fortune-teller closed her eyes, suddenly weary. It was no business of hers. The song of the cicadas, dim for a moment, again grew loud in her ears. The green canary hopped nervously in its cage, scattering seed. The air around the table grew heavy. In the square, tourists wandered from shop to shop, vendor stall to vendor stall. Some sat at sidewalk cafés and sipped salt-rimmed margaritas. A stray dog slunk by. Then, not a block away, from the direction of the silver shop owned by a young couple from Mérida came the sounds of commotion. Tia Clara craned her head forward. Other heads peered from shop fronts. The cause of the disturbance was a pig.

  It probably belongs to Pedro Mendes, Tia Clara thought. Not too long ago such a sight would not have caused a second glance in Playa. There was a time when pigs and chickens had wandered freely throughout the village, but much had changed in recent years. In spite of the warning song of cicadas that spiraled in her head, the significance of the animal had not yet occurred to her. The pig squealed. More heads appeared in doorways; a crowd began to gather. Not just the gringos, but the people of Playa. “Look,” they called to one another. “Un cochino. Un cochino.”

  Tia Clara recognized Gomez the butcher in the middle of the throng. Several of the gringos aimed their little cameras at the animal, who was now frozen in the center of the calle, tiny, shrewd eyes darting about, looking for escape. There was more laughter, but it fell hollow on the fortune-teller’s ears. Now, she understood. Un cochino. The one who roots in the underearth. The cloven-hoofed seeker of truth. Her hands made a feeble shooing motion. Beneath her blouse, her heart beat quickly. Un cochino. The finder of that which was hidden. The past and the sins it held could not remain forever hidden. The air began to vibrate, trembling like a living thing. Again, the sound of cicadas whirled in the air. As if summoned by Pedro Mendes’s pig, a waking vision began to appear. Tia Clara relaxed and prepared herself to be revisited by memory.

  The ghost woman was thin, her bones robbed of the sweetness of flesh, exactly as Tia Clara remembered. She was dressed in white, and Tia Clara narrowed her eyes against so much brightness in the midday sun. The phantom had decorated herself in gold. A thin bracelet circled her wrist, and from her throat hung a chain with an amulet in the shape of a K. The bright jewelry and the white clothing could not conceal the sickly second shell of this woman that was of both body and spirit. Dark brown holes throbbed in the shell. The serpent power in the base of her belly was shriveled to the size of a dried kernel of corn.

  The wind stirred, and as quickly as it had appeared, the vision disappeared. Then the air stilled; the vibrations quieted. The shriek of cicadas faded away. The sounds of the
village enfolded her. In front of the silver shop, the crowd still surrounded the pig. She watched with little interest as the animal saw a window of escape, darted through an opening in the circle of legs, and disappeared into an alley. The tourists drifted away. Gomez the butcher returned to his shop, his shoulders drooping with disappointment, his left hand absently wiping the red-stained apron that girded his belly.

  Tia Clara sank back in her chair, wishing to brush away the memory of the apparition of the gringa, but it was stubborn and did not fade as willingly as that. This has nothing to do with me, she told herself. But even so, she thought of the cochino, rooting in the earth, uncovering what lay buried. She reached from beneath the table and took out her old deck from the box, unfolded the woven scarf that protected it. Eyes closed, she shuffled the cards. Still without looking, she pulled out a card and held it in her lap. Finally, she looked. La Torre. Destruction.

  The wind began to whisper. In a voice as faint as an infant’s sigh, it spoke to her of the coming of the woman of many scars. The woman of the masks. She shut her ears to the words of the wind. This was not her business. But her hands trembled as she wrapped the cards and returned them to their box. This had nothing to do with her. Nothing to do with her past and ghosts long banished. The sea that knew all—her past, her sins, the ghosts that haunted—laughed. The unexpected opportunity they held for her to atone. Pah. She spat on the ground. She took a pinch of chia from the little sack and flung it out to the air, appeasing hungry souls that might wait.

  Old fool, she told herself.

  MADISON

  Maddie looked back toward the Molcas and wondered what Jack was doing. The thought brought with it a little ache, an ache that never really disappeared but was triggered by small things, in the same way that her leg was triggered. It would be fine, strong, and then a storm would hit or she would overexercise, and her hip and thigh would throb with a deep ache. Her feelings for Jack were like that. She decided to continue on her own for a while.