The Orchid Sister

by LeClaire, Anne D.

  By listening carefully and befriending the Mayan, Rosa, Graciela had come to learn a little more about this place. She learned that she was the only girl there now. Before her there had been two others. She knew, too, that Rosa was afraid of the doctor.

  Now she heard footsteps in the corridor and a metallic, familiar noise. She listened to the rhythm of the whirr of wheels. The rolling bed was being pushed down the hall. She stiffened in panic. This was what they had brought to take her to the bad room with the cold table and hard instruments. The room where the doctor with cruel hands touched her.

  Were they coming for her again? Icy dread crept up her spine. She held her breath and cupped her hands over her belly, as if that would protect her unborn child.

  Perhaps if she were quiet enough, they would forget her. She waited for the door to open and for the two attendants to come into the room. The first time they’d come, she had tried to fight when they had lifted her and set her on the metal table. Remembering how she had been held down, hands clamping down on her mouth so hard she feared she would not be able to breathe, straps quickly pinning her on the table, her strength no match for theirs, she knew that fighting was useless in this place. Her heart beat wildly as she waited for them to come and roll her to the room with the bright lights where the norteamericano with the devil face waited for her.

  She closed her eyes against the memory of what had happened in that room. The blood they had taken from her arm. The way they had placed her feet in cold metal, exposing her, revealing her shame. And then hands would press against her stomach, and fingers—quick and cruel as his eyes—poked into her private place. Only Ángel had ever touched her there, but his hands had not been like this. His caress had been gentle and teasing until she had been filled with heat and cried out for him with eagerness. But on the cold table she had cried out in terror.

  Her fear did not release until the footsteps had passed by her door. If they were not coming for her, where were they going? She tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear against the wood and heard the faint mewing sound of an animal in pain. She wondered who they were taking to the bad room now.

  She began to pray to the Virgin, asking that her padre come for her. Come to save her from this place of death. She pictured him as he sat next to her on the bench by the sea, his rough hand holding hers. Or behind the wheel of his rusting taxi as he drove a tourist to Cancún. If there was only one passenger, he sometimes allowed her to ride along. So strong was her desire to see him that she could almost feel him coming. The feeling was becoming a certainty. Her padre was coming. He was near. Very near.

  MADISON

  Maddie stared at the lettering on the white van. RETIRADA DE LA PLAYA. How could she have forgotten what now seemed so obvious? The same words that were stitched on the white robe she had seen in Kat’s bathroom. The robe, not Kat’s credit card statements, had been the first clue.

  She felt a quickening beneath her breastbone. She looked around. Evelyn was at the bar pouring a lurid pink drink into two squat glasses. “Eve,” she called, her voice urgent, rising above the music. “Eve.”

  The owner glanced over and held up a finger, signaling she would be over in a minute.

  Maddie waited impatiently, keeping an eye on the van, afraid it would drive off before Eve came to her table. She grabbed a pen from her tote and copied the words on the paper mat on the table, mentally urging Eve to hurry.

  “What is it, hon? Is something the matter?”

  Maddie pointed out the window, where the van had stopped to allow a small group to cross in front of it. As they watched, it started up and lurched forward. “That van,” she said. “Do you know anything about it?”

  Eve craned her neck to catch sight of the vehicle as it continued by the restaurant. “Oh, sure. The van comes through here several times a week driving guests to and from the airport in Cancún.”

  “So it belongs to a hotel or resort?”

  “No. It’s from the place outside of town. I don’t know what it is exactly. A spa or a clinic.”

  “What kind of spa?”

  “Or a clinic. Like I said, I’m not exactly sure. I’ve never been there. And doubt I ever will. It probably costs a fortune to get a massage or treatment there. Places like that are beyond my budget.”

  “That’s all you know?”

  “Just about. Occasionally I overhear customers say a few things. Sometimes some of them spend a night or two in the village before they head back home, and they come here to eat.” She glanced over at the bar, checked the other tables.

  “You said you’ve overheard them talking. What do they say?”

  “Not a lot. Kind of interesting, but twice I’ve heard women say exactly the identical phrase: ‘He works miracles.’ That’s what made me think it might be more than a high-end spa and was also a place where people got plastic surgery and lipo and all those procedures people chase to stay young.”

  “Plastic surgery?” Maddie remembered the time Kat had “had a little work done.”

  “Could be. That’s just a guess. Like I said, I don’t know exactly. The locals don’t know a lot about it. The owner hires help from elsewhere. You know how some places have a mystique about them, and rumors grow because they’re so secretive? Some people in Playa think it’s a clinic for cancer patients.”

  “Do you think so?” Cancer. Each time she had permitted the idea of Kat being really ill, her heart caught and skipped a beat.

  “It’s possible. Desperate people have always crossed the border for medicine that isn’t legal in the States. I remember reading somewhere that the actor Steve McQueen came to Mexico for injections of medicine extracted from apricot kernels. Can’t remember what it was called, but I do know whatever he was getting was illegal to get in the States.”

  “Laetrile,” Maddie said, although she didn’t know why she knew this.

  Eve returned to the subject at hand. “People who are desperate will try any measure, no matter how far out or dangerous it is.”

  Maddie remembered the syringe in Kat’s bathroom. Was Kat ill after all and receiving treatments not approved or sanctified by the government? “How can I get there?”

  “It’s outside of the town. A taxi can take you there, but at this hour, you probably won’t have any luck.”

  Now, for the first time since arriving, she had a solid lead. Grounded in real evidence. She cursed herself for overlooking so obvious a clue as the robe in Kat’s home. Especially after she’d learned that Kat had flown to Mexico and stayed in this village.

  Her first instinct was to return to the hotel and find Jack, tell him what she had learned. Almost immediately she changed her mind. She had a growing certainty that she would find Kat at this clinic or spa or whatever it was and, in fairness to her sister, she would wait until she had learned from Kat herself why she was there. She would keep her sister’s secret. If Kat was there for a cosmetic procedure, that was her own business, and she wouldn’t want Maddie telling everyone. If it turned out she was ill and had chosen to keep this secret while she pursued the possibility of a cure—wherever it led her—then Maddie would be there for her. As Kat had always been there for her. Urgency overtook her and she wanted to go straight to the clinic, but it was too late to start now. As hard as it was, she corralled her impatience. In the morning she would make her way to Retirada de la Playa.

  Her immediate problem was to think of what she would tell Jack, the excuse she could give him that would explain where she was while she went to the clinic without him. By the time she left the restaurant, the streets had become more crowded and now had a heightened sense of celebration. Everyone she passed seemed to be holding a bottle of beer or a drink in a plastic cup.

  As she approached the hotel, the sound of the mariachi band, its melding of strings and brass, rolled toward her. People in the streets were rocking to its rhythm. As she drew closer, she saw the men were dressed in ornate black outfits trimmed with gold braid and sequins—except for one of the two tr
umpet players. She saw with astonishment that it was Jack.

  He had not seen her and she hung back, half concealed in the crowd. How like him, she thought. A stranger in the country, in this village, and yet within forty-eight hours he’s become part of it. And that’s the way he’ll always be, she thought, open to adventure, open to life.

  It was what he had offered her. And what she had refused. And would continue to refuse.

  She could never be what he wanted. Could never be who he thought she was.

  TIA CLARA

  This was the first time Tia Clara had been inside the walls of the Hotel Molcas—she had never had cause to go. She remembered the time before the hotel had been built, remembered how, even with her gift, she had not foreseen the many changes that would come to Playa. She headed for the lobby, pushing her way through the throng of revelers that filled the terrace, weaving around the waiters who were trying to negotiate the crowds as they made their way to tables while holding trays of food and drink. Although the fiesta and the masquerade parade did not officially begin until the next day, already some of the revelers were wearing masks and behaving with the abandon that such masks so often allowed. Tomorrow, Tia Clara knew, it would be worse.

  Luis Castillo stood behind the lobby desk, flashed his gold-edged smile, and listened to her describe the gringa with the scarred face, no doubt wondering what the old fortune-teller could possibly want with her. He seemed to almost refuse her request, but in the end, as if afraid of her power, he picked up the desk phone and punched in the number of the guest’s room.

  Tia Clara had rehearsed what she would tell the gringa. She would tell her what she knew about where her sister had gone. She would not tell her what the sea had revealed, only where the woman was. She already regretted coming and, although it had not occurred to her that the woman of masks would not be at the hotel, when the calls to her room went unanswered, she was relieved. She had tried. That had absolved her of her duty. What happened now was no business of hers.

  She could not save everybody.

  GRACIELA

  She woke to the shrill sound of the barking dog. She had again been dreaming of the Mayan girl painted in blue and wreathed in sweet smoke of the copal as she was prepared for the sacrifice to come. But this morning the memory of the dream did not keep her in the grip of its talons. This day she was freed from fear because she remembered that her padre was coming for her. As it had been the night before, this knowledge was so powerful and sure she could almost hear the familiar coughing of the taxi’s old engine, the rattle of its rusty body. She closed her eyes and felt the closeness of her father.

  When she returned home, she would face her madre’s anger and disappointment. She would work to earn their forgiveness. She would not lie again with Ángel until they had been wed. Above all, she would never speak to them of this place and the evil that filled the air.

  MADISON

  Maddie woke early. She was edgy with excitement and anticipation—much as she had felt as a child when she woke on her birthday or the first day of school.

  She had expected only stragglers on the streets after the late night—she had woken at two to hear the sounds of pre-fiesta revelry showing no signs of abating—but even now the streets were already coming alive. Men with fishing gear headed toward the pier, and she remembered that the diver Víctor had told them there was a fishing tournament today. Vendors were setting up tables with their wares. Music blared from the loudspeakers above the chapel in the square. Jack was nowhere in sight. She unfolded the note she had found slipped beneath her door when she had returned to her room the night before.

  “Tried to find you earlier. I’m going out to get something to eat. I have my cell with me. Call when you get in.” She hadn’t called him, and once, just as she was falling asleep, the phone in her room had rung, but she hadn’t answered. It was easier to withhold the truth when he couldn’t hear her voice or see her face. She knew he would insist on going with her and would not understand why she needed to go alone. She slipped down the hall, and when she crossed the lobby she was relieved not to see him. She left a message for him at the desk, telling him she was going to continue to canvass the shops and restaurants she had missed the day before. With luck she would find Kat and would return to Playa by evening.

  Evelyn had said the clinic was on the outskirts of the village but hadn’t given her an idea of the distance. Eager to get going before Jack appeared, she left the hotel. She stopped a woman sweeping the street in front of the hotel and showed her the paper with the name she had written the night before. “Is this nearby?” she asked.

  The woman read the name and looked up at her with an expression she was unable to read.

  Maddie pulled out the dictionary and checked the section on useful phrases. “Qué distancia hay? Can I walk there, do you think?” She scissored two fingers in the air, mimicking walking.

  The woman shook her head.

  She checked her dictionary again. “El camión? A bus?” She remembered the white van with blue lettering.

  “No,” the street sweeper said. “A taxi.” She pointed out the location of the taxi stand. It was only two blocks from the hotel, by the bakery where Jack had purchased a sweet roll. Near where the fortune-teller sat.

  “Gracias,” she said.

  Two women wearing purple turbans passed her. A young girl in a traditional wedding dress and mantilla hurried by, whether in costume or rushing to a ceremony Maddie could not tell. A man with a basket of cheap masks approached and tried to sell her one. She brushed by him. As if a silent signal had been sounded, more and more people appeared, many fully costumed. A tall man crossed the calle, his head and shoulders entirely covered by a papier-mâché horse head. Unbidden, an Oscar Wilde quote came to mind: Give a man a mask and he will tell you the truth.

  A Pontiac, one whose finest days were a faint and distant memory, was parked along the curb by the bakery. TAXI was hand-lettered on the sides. A man slept in the driver’s seat, his snores floating through the window, so robust that they reached her when she was still several yards away. As she approached the driver’s door, she could discern, as well, the sour smell of stale alcohol. She looked around, but there was no other taxi in sight. She spied the fortune-teller at her table across the street. Their eyes met for an instant. The old woman was the first to look away.

  Maddie crossed to her. “Is there another taxi?”

  “No,” the fortune-teller said. She offered no more. Her eyes glittered, and Maddie saw in them something close to grief. Or madness. The two, Maddie knew, were closer than people liked to acknowledge. She retrieved the paper with the name of the clinic and placed it on the table in front of the old woman. “You know of this place?” she asked.

  The woman looked at the paper and made a furtive gesture, a quick little flick of her hand. Her lips formed a tight line, as if afraid of what might escape.

  Maddie waited.

  At last, the fortune-teller nodded. “Sí,” she said.

  Maddie stepped closer. “You do? You know it?”

  The hard black eyes stared into hers. “Su hermana,” she said.

  “My sister?” Her breath caught in her throat, and she pressed her palm against her heart, as if to slow the rapid beating. “My sister is there?”

  The old woman nodded and then turned away, her body stiff.

  “Wait,” Maddie said. “You’re saying she’s there? My sister is there?” She searched the old woman’s face, resisting the urge to grab her arm and shake more information from her. She fumbled through her tote and pulled out a fistful of pesos, but before she could offer them, the old woman pulled back, her face closed and rigid, and Maddie knew she would say no more.

  She crossed back to the taxi, reached inside, and jabbed the shoulder of the sleeping man. He woke with a curse and stared at her with bloodshot eyes.

  She showed him the paper on which she had written the name of the clinic.

  He stared at it and made the sign of t
he cross.

  She ignored the superstitious gesture and pressed him. “Will you take me there?”

  He shook his head. Three men carrying instruments—a violin and guitar and something that looked somewhat like a ukulele—walked toward the bakery from the square. She stepped aside to let them pass. As she did so, she glanced toward the hotel and saw Jack. He was walking in her direction but had not yet seen her. She froze in a moment of indecision. She looked over at the fortune-teller, who only stared back with the steely black eyes. She glimpsed the mask vendor, and giving no more time to thought, ducked toward him. She pointed to a full-face mask of a cheetah. “How much?”

  “Mucho dinero,” he said.

  She held out a fistful of pesos. He betrayed a quick moment of surprise that she didn’t try to barter and took several of the bills. She had no idea if she was being cheated. She put on the mask. It was made of cheap cardboard and was rough against her skin. She chanced a glance back toward where she had last seen Jack. He was closer now, his eyes scanning the people. When they landed on her she held her breath, but they quickly passed on.

  She returned to the taxi stand and held the rest of the pesos toward the driver.

  He eyed the money, an avaricious gleam in his red-rimmed eyes. A moment passed when he seemed to be waging an argument with himself; then he nodded and motioned for her to get into the car.

  The vehicle was uninviting. The seat was worn and uncomfortable, its upholstery sun-faded and stained, the origins of which Maddie didn’t want to consider. The smell of alcohol and mildew pervaded the interior. The inevitable shrine occupied the dashboard and obstructed part of the view. It was composed of dried palm fronds woven into a cross and a tin fan, shaped like a scallop and with holes punched in it in a lacy design, that cradled a figure of the Madonna. The rear passenger window was operated by a crank that no longer worked. Only the idea of Kat waiting for her kept Maddie from getting out of the car.