by JB Salsbury
I shrug. “I dunno. You seem a little preoccupied.”
She simply shakes her head and walks faster, locked down. She’s not talking.
The trip home is a quick fifteen minutes, and Mercy keeps her face pressed to the side window the entire way. I find myself wanting to reach over and hold her hand, to pull it to my thigh and see her smile. Gripping the steering wheel more tightly, I force my eyes to the road.
When we get home, Laura is setting the table, but rather than going to help, which Mercy usually does, she goes straight to her room and closes the door. I drop my backpack at my place then go inside to see Laura putting the finishing touches on some kind of pasta dish.
“Laura, you got a minute?” I ask.
Miguel is placing silverware around the table, and Julian is sitting at his seat, eagerly waiting to be served.
“You guys go ahead and get started.” She sets the platter down in the middle of the table with a big metal spoon sticking out of it. Her eyes come to mine as I motion for her to go to the living room. “What is it?”
I lean against the back of the couch, check the hallway to make sure Mercy’s not there listening, then stare back at Laura. “She thinks she’s an angel. That she can heal people.”
Laura’s gaze follows the same path mine just took as she checks to make sure we’re alone. “Yes, but she knows it was all a lie. She understands that she’s just a normal girl with—”
“She healed Julian.”
I’ve seen my foster mom in every possible mood from surprise to disappointment, but I’ve never seen this. Her face goes pale, and her eyes flicker with panic. Was it a mistake to tell her? Will she really send Mercy away?
“It’s not a big deal. It’s not like it—”
“She’s regressing,” Laura says, almost to herself. Her eyes focus on the wall just over my left shoulder. “She’s not getting better.”
“No, she is getting better,” I ramble, racing to counteract the damage I just did. “She’s doing great at school. She’s more confident, ya know? She doesn’t seem to care when people stare or whisper about her.”
Her expression pinches in disappointment, and she sighs. “Because she’s back to being all-powerful.” A sad chuckle falls from her lips. “She’s confident because she’s back to believing she’s more than your average teenage girl. She thinks she’s an angel, Milo, an angel with the power to heal and read people’s emotions and desires. Of course she’s more confident.”
“How is it possible for her to believe it if it’s not real?”
She pushes up beside me and leans against the back of the couch next to me. “You’d be surprised what the human body is capable of, merely using faith and the power of suggestion.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s called faith healing, and surprisingly, science proves it’s a real thing.”
“So you’re saying what Julian experienced was real? That Mercy healed him because . . . because what? Because he believed she would?”
When she turns toward me, she has her therapist mask on—serious with a heavy shade of patience. “People see what they want to see. If you had a headache, and I told you I had a very special pill, one that hadn’t even been approved by the FDA because if it were it would put all other pain-reliever companies out of business . . . If I told you it promises to cure your headache in two minutes . . . If you believed me, you might take it and legitimately feel better even if that pill was nothing more than a Tic-Tac.”
My face must look ten shades of bullshit, because she smiles.
“The mind has more control over the body than you could ever imagine. When it believes something will heal it or make it feel better, it releases a hormone into the blood that causes euphoria and, in turn, makes the pain go away.”
“So you’re saying Mercy can heal?”
“Only those who truly believe she can—and my guess is after the euphoria wore off, they’d discover they’d been taken advantage of. She was brainwashed to believe it. She looks the part. Is it so hard to believe that people would pay big money for a chance to be cured?”
Even I can admit I felt different when she touched me, felt the zing of energy course through me, making me feel alert and oversensitized. Is that the euphoria?
“What you believe you are and what you actually are is two different things,” I say. “I can believe I’m a fucking fairy, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am not.”
“She’s a living Rorschach test. The inkblot. What people see when they look at her tells more about them than it does to define what she is.” Her gaze turns thoughtful. “What do you see when you look at her?”
“She’s just a normal girl. She’s not an angel.” My sentences aren’t meant to be questions but sound like them just the same.
“No, of course not.” She pushes up from the back of the couch. “But I’m having a hard time convincing her of that.” She chews on a thumbnail. “Thank you for telling me about Julian. If this continues, she may have to be hospitalized again.”
“Is that really necessary? She’s not crazy . . .” My words trail off because even I can sense the lie in my words.
“I’d hoped submerging her into the life of a regular teenage girl would help her to see herself as one. If I’m wrong, she could be a danger to herself, and my first priority is her safety.”
My insides feel as if they’re going to crawl out of my skin. Laura can’t lock Mercy back up just because she’s having a hard time assimilating to society after years of brainwashing. She never got a chance at a real life, and if they lock her up, she’ll never get a chance again. She’ll be stuck seeing the world through a single window in a padded room.
“Maybe she just needs more time. I could help, ya know, show her how to be a regular teenage girl. She trusts me—”
“Mercy!” Laura eyes me in a way that says she doesn’t know how long the girl has been lingering in the hallway but hopes like hell it wasn’t long enough to overhear us. “Are you hungry?”
Mercy’s eyes are on me, and even though she doesn’t say it, I can feel the accusation in her stare: You’re talking about me.
I’m sorry.
She blinks and nods to whatever Laura is asking before following her into the kitchen with her eyes on the floor.
Not until I’m left alone in the living room does a thought hit me.
What Mercy thinks she is doesn’t matter.
If she wants to remain free, she’ll have to pretend she’s just a regular teenage girl.
Milo
I’M UP TO my elbows in sudsy water as I wash the last two dishes from dinner. Laura and Chris are in the living room with my brothers and Andy, who came for a visit to check in on the boys.
That left Mercy and me on cleanup duty.
“Careful. This one’s heavy.” I hand Mercy the big glass platter, and she goes about wiping it down with the utmost concentration on even the tiniest details. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.” I smile to myself, thinking only a girl like Mercy would be a perfectionist doing something as mundane as dishwashing.
She ignores me and continues to work the thing with her dishtowel as if she’s hoping to produce a genie.
“Here.” I hand her the last one, and she goes to work on it the same way. I study her for a moment, her lips pursed in concentration, her skin flushed from exertion. “If you keep doing such a good job, you’re going to get Miguel fired and put on yard duty.”
We’ve spent enough time together that she seems to understand a little better when I’m joking versus when I’m being serious, and she smiles. “Better him than me. I’d look like a tomato after working on the yard.”
“Have you ever spent a lot of time outside? Like at the beach or—”
“I have.” She places the dried dishes on the table. “I didn’t like it.”
“How could you not like the beach?”
After folding the towel, she places it near the sink, then her eyes meet mine. “I didn’t
like being outside for a long time. It wasn’t at the beach. I’ve never seen the ocean.”
“You haven’t seen the ocean? Ever?” My jaw hangs open but quickly closes when I consider why she has never been to the beach.
Not a top priority for her jailors, I guess.
My skin prickles with anger, and my muscles coil, but I calm down when I realize this is a great opportunity to show her life outside of being an all-powerful, heaven-sent healer might not be so bad.
“We should go.”
“What? Now?”
“No, we need to go during the day. It’s much more fun that way. How’s Thursday? We have a half day, and I have the day off. We can go after school.”
She looks a little worried but agrees anyway, and a sense of pride slides through me at how well she’s facing her fears.
“Cool. Miguel and Julian will be stoked. Do you have a bathing suit?”
Her worried eyes flick up toward me. “No. Is that all right?”
“Sure. We won’t get in the water. But still, make sure to wear something you won’t get too hot in, something easy to wear on the beach, like a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops. Do you have flip-flops? Whatever. You can wear shoes and just take them off. Oh, and maybe a jacket, in case we stay late and it gets cold.”
“Anything else?” she says through a smile.
I study the pale skin of her face and neck. “No, I’ll bring the rest.”
“I’ll have to make sure it’s okay with Laura.”
“Yeah, we’ll talk to her about it after Andy leaves.”
We both linger around in the kitchen until we run out of things to do.
“You want to come over?”
Her gaze zeroes in on my lips.
I grin and shake my head, knowing she’s wondering if we’ll pick up where we left off from the kiss we shared just weeks ago. “Just to hang out. Until Andy’s done with the boys. I want to show you something.”
“Okay.” Her hands ball up into the front of her shirt, and when I turn toward the back door, she follows.
We walk side by side to my place, and I slip the key in to unlock it then push inside. The windows are closed, making the air stagnant and warm, which only intensifies the closeness in the small room. I punch on the AC and slide open the single window, hoping it’ll diffuse the sudden thickness in the air.
“You want anything?” I ask. “Water?”
She pulls all her long hair over her shoulder and twists it nervously. “No.”
“Have a seat.” I motion to my desk chair because seeing her sit on my couch will only further remind me of the kiss we shared there, and I’m really trying to be good.
She does but continues to work her hair into a corkscrew while I dig through the top drawer of my dresser. My fingers brush against the cool glass of a picture frame, and I pull it out.
“Here it is.” I wipe the dust- and-lint-covered glass with my shirt and hand it to Mercy.
Pale fingers curl around the five-by-seven frame, and she brings it close to her face. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, that’s me when I was sixteen.”
I don’t have to look at the photo to know what she’s seeing. I’ve memorized the image of myself from four years ago: a brown bandana wrapped around my head, my black Locs shades, my torso shirtless, ripped, and inked, with my pants sagging low on my hips. But that’s not the part of the photo that hurts to look at. It’s not the reason I keep the image facedown in my drawer.
It’s my hands.
They’re held up to my swollen chest with all the pride of a Latino Saint príncipe flashing the LS instead of holding onto the woman who was holding me.
“Who is she?”
I clear my throat and scratch my jaw as unease threatens to close my airway. “That’s Josephina Vega. My mom.”
Those sharp blue eyes peer up over the frame at me. “Your mom.” The word seems to confuse her as she goes back to studying the photo.
This photo is the last taken of her before she disappeared. Her arms are looped around my bicep, her head tilted as she looks up at me with the kind of pride only a mother is capable of. All her black hair falls down her back as she smiles up at me as though I was a real saint, the kind who would rescue and save rather than lie and steal.
I’ll never know what she saw in me. The photo captured my attitude back then perfectly. All I cared about was myself and what I could covet and possess. If I paid more attention, if I thought for one second about what my mom was going through and listened to her tearful prayers in the middle of the night rather than covering my head with a pillow, maybe I could’ve saved her.
“I wanted to show you who I used to be. I was taught to believe I was something . . . someone more powerful than I really am.” I hold my hands out then let them flop to my sides. “Turns out, I’m just like everyone else. Flesh, bone, beating heart. It took me a while to realize that we’re all created the same. It’s what we choose to do with our lives that takes us from ordinary to extraordinary.” I motion to the image. “I thought I was superhuman in that photo, convinced I could take on the world, and all the while, I was missing what really mattered, missing out on the good things a simple life could offer.”
She blinks up at me.
“Do you know what I mean?”
She tilts her head. “You look like her.”
A smile tugs at my lips before I’m even aware of it, and I don’t so much care that she ignored my question altogether. “Really?”
She goes back to inspecting the photo. “Yes. She’s very pretty.” When her eyes come back to mine, they say what her voice doesn’t. Like you.
I want to touch her. I have to. I need it more than my next heartbeat.
I reach out, and she misunderstands and passes me the photo. Rather than taking it from her, I grip her wrist and pull her to her feet. Her head tilts back, eyes wide, and I tug her so close our bodies touch from hip to chest.
“Do you know how hard it’s been for me to keep my hands off you? At school, in the house, I’ve imagined what it would be like if I could hold you whenever I wanted.” I slide my forearm along the dip in her waist and splay my hand on her lower back.
She gasps and allows me to press her closer still. Her palm slides up my chest to my neck, where her fingertips dance across my tattoo there, and her other hand goes to my lower back, where I can feel the bite of the picture frame at my spine.
“Does being with me like this make you uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to stop?” I’m already grinning, because if I’m reading her body’s reaction to our closeness clearly, I already know the answer.
“Never.”
“Good.” I slide my hand into her hair and bring her cheek to my chest. She sags into my hold, and I rest my chin on the top of her head, amazed at how perfectly we fit together, how comfortable and relaxed I am when we’re together like this.
“Milo?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“Thank you for sharing your story with me. I think . . . it’s possible that I too am what you say. Flesh. Bone. Beating heart. Nothing more.”
You aren’t just that, Güera. You’re so much more.
Two years ago
“FINISH UP, ANGEL.” Señora goes about preparing my dressing table, laying out my hairbrush and different scented oils. “Your Papa has something special planned for you tonight.”
I swallow the last few spoonfuls of broth from my dinner, but my stomach is nervous, and I have to close my eyes to keep it down. I sip water and wipe the corners of my mouth with a cloth napkin, hoping my stomach will settle.
Señora moves quickly around the room, preparing it for Papa’s arrival by tidying up.
“I am finished.”
Her head whips around, the dark hair streaked with gray that only gets whiter with time. “Good.” She crosses to me and flicks her wrists, indicating I should move to the dressing chair.
“Another ceremony so soon.” I don’t
phrase it as a question, or it might upset her—just a simple statement of fact. I have learned how to get around certain things.
She gathers my hair and begins the process of pulling, oiling, and brushing. I no longer wince at the pain, having become accustomed to it.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Your papa just said he needs you ready.”
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. What could he possibly want me for? An emergency healing, maybe? Something that can’t wait. I push out with my power and sense nothing but the urgency of Señora at my back. If her touch is any indication of her mood, I need to tread lightly.
My neck aches as I pull against her to stay upright. My scalp prickles with the force until it finally goes blissfully numb. I lull myself into a state of complacency when she twists and turns my waist-length hair to secure it at the base of my neck.
“Stand.”
I do as she commands, and she unbuttons my day gown until it falls to the floor. She moves to a box on the bed and removes a long swath of clothing, another gown similar to my ceremonial garment, except this one is black.
Black? I’ve never worn anything other than white.
Her eyes widen when she holds it up, and she says something in her language. Solo una niñita.
I don’t want to wear it, but I have no choice as she slips it over my head. It’s long, the front going down to hit my toes, and the sleeves go down to my knuckles. I would think, with all this coverage, I wouldn’t feel so exposed, but I do because although the fabric is soft, it’s thin—so thin I can see every curve of my body through it.
The back falls completely open, and Señora goes about fixing together tiny buttons that stop at the base of my spine where the rest is absent of fabric, I assume to accommodate my wings.
“Turn around,” she commands, but her voice sounds funny, firm and shaky at the same time.
I do as I’m told, and when I see her face, my stomach twists again with nerves. She studies me, her dark eyes moving up and down my body, but whatever she sees, she doesn’t like.
I bow slightly. “I am sorry I disappoint you, Señora.”
