“What the hell was that?” I whisper to Belén.
“You need to stop asking so many questions,” she says, and turns away from me.
TWENTY-TWO
Belén forces me to go to the soccer game, even though I tell her I have a hatred for sports that is located deep inside my entrails. She says it doesn’t matter, that’s not the point of going. Soccer games are where young people hang out and hook up. There’s not much else to do in Los Ojos. Stare at the mountains? Chase chickens? Shoot bottles?
We sit on the top bleachers with Belén’s friends, a group of mildly attractive girls who wear way too much makeup. Although they don’t say anything petty or snarky, I can tell right away that they’re jealous of my cousin. I don’t know why I always notice these types of things. There’s something about the way their eyes outline her body and settle on her face, a sort of longing. It’s not that they want her; it’s that they want to be her.
After Los Tigres score their first goal, a dark guy in a cowboy hat comes toward us with bottles of Coke and plastic bags of pork skins slathered in red salsa. He distributes the drinks and snacks to everyone in our group and squeezes between me and Belén. All the girls laugh as if it were the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. I can feel the beads of sweat form on my upper lip.
“How are you doing tonight, Señorita Reyes?”
At first, I wonder how he knows my last name or who I am, but then I remember everyone knows everyone’s business in Los Ojos. Tío Chucho says you can’t even fart without the whole town finding out.
“Medium,” I say, looking at the field, trying, for once in my life, to understand a sport.
He laughs. “Why won’t you look at me?”
I shrug. I’m mute all of a sudden.
“Don’t mind Esteban,” Belén says, smirking. “He can be a little pesado sometimes.”
I wouldn’t call him pesado, but he’s definitely assertive. I can’t keep myself from staring at his dark and veiny forearms. I imagine how they would feel against my fingertips. I cross my legs so they don’t brush against his.
After the game, Belén and her giggling friends flee before I can ask them to wait for me.
“I guess I should walk you home.” Esteban smiles. His teeth are bright and perfect.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, remembering what Belén said about walking alone at night. The sky is beginning to purple. I can see the sun and moon at the same time.
Esteban makes me feel as if something were filling my chest with warm syrup, as if all my bones were being slowly removed from my body. For a second, I wonder what Connor might be doing, if he still thinks about me, but I remind myself that things are over between us. I have no idea why, but even though I just met Esteban and know virtually nothing about him, he makes me feel all goopy inside.
A truck blasting a narcocorrido wakes me from my reverie.
When we get to the corner of Mamá Jacinta’s block, Esteban takes my hand. “I’ve liked you since you got here.”
“Well, I’d never seen you before, so that’s kind of weird.” I’m too nervous to look at him. Why do I have to be such an asshole, even when I don’t want to be?
“You don’t remember seeing me that time you and Belén came into the fruit store? That’s where I work.”
I knew I had felt someone looking at me that day, but I didn’t bother searching for the source. It’s funny how your body knows things before you do.
I shake my head. “No, I didn’t see you.”
Esteban’s dark skin glistens under the streetlight. It reminds me of coffee. I want so much to touch his face, but I don’t.
—
We sit in tía Fermina’s backyard gnawing on figs we picked from her tree. Tío Raul and tío Leonel are inside watching the news. The sky is full of stars, and I stare at it in awe for such a long time that everyone notices and laughs at me. How could I forget the nights were like this?
“Poor city girl,” tío Chucho says, smiling. “She probably never sees stars in Chicago.”
“Not really. Maybe three or four at a time, if I’m lucky,” I say, and pick a tiny leaf from my sweater. I look back up and think about how some stars don’t even really exist anymore, that seeing them is seeing the past. It’s hard for me to wrap my brain around that. What a mind fuck.
The ground feels good under my bare feet. Tía Estela sits behind me in a chair and braids my hair, her fingers cool against the back of my neck. Her hands in my hair are soothing. She’s gentle, doesn’t yank my hair like Amá used to when I was a kid.
“Dios mío, mija,” tía Estela says as she holds the braid up for everyone to see. “You have so much hair. How do you walk around like this? Doesn’t your head feel heavy?”
“Sometimes, when it’s wet,” I say, and wonder what it would feel like to chop off all of my hair. What would I look like? I’ve had long hair my entire life. When I was born, my hair was a ridiculous shock of black. Amá said the doctors and nurses had never seen anything like it.
I feel Belén stare at me from across the yard. I think she’s used to being the beautiful one and doesn’t appreciate the attention I’m receiving. It’s both uncomfortable and satisfying at the same time.
“Beautiful hair runs in the family,” Mamá Jacinta says. “Though you wouldn’t know, looking at mine now.” She runs her hands through her short gray hair and smiles.
Tío Chucho grins and shakes his hair as if he were in a shampoo commercial. “It’s true. I look like a movie star.”
I’ve eaten so many figs that my stomach hurts, but I can’t stop. I love the taste of the sweet flesh, the crunch of tiny seeds between my teeth.
The night is always perfect here—never too cold, the air smelling of dirt and leaves. I think I almost get a whiff of the river, then remember it’s practically dried up. A phantom smell, I guess. I can’t think of anything more calming than the sound of crickets and the rustle of the fig tree. If tía had a hammock, I would ask to sleep here every single night.
The white and yellow roses planted in old buckets are thriving despite the drought, because tía Fermina cares for them as if they were children. Their persistence makes me feel hopeful.
Andrés gets up from his chair and approaches a cactus in the corner of the yard. I wonder what he’s doing, but I don’t ask. He presses his finger to the bud and whispers something. After a few seconds, he turns to all of us and says, “This one never bloomed, and the season’s almost over.” He frowns.
“What kind of flower is that?” I ask.
“Nocturnal cactus flower. Forgot the name, but this one is a flop, I think.”
“I’ve never heard of that. That’s…that’s…amazing.” I run out of words. A flower that blooms only at night sounds like something out of a fairy tale.
Tía Fermina comes out from the kitchen with a jug of agua de jamaica and pours each of us a glass. “This is good for digestion and high cholesterol. After eating those carnitas tonight, we all need it.” Tía Fermina is the oldest and always trying to take care of everybody. It’s almost hard to believe that she’s Belén’s mother, because Belén is kind of selfish, mostly concerned with how pretty she is. The first night I got here, tía Fermina gave me a small cloth bag full of paper worry dolls. She told me that before I go to sleep each night I should tell them all my worries and put them under my pillow. They’re supposed to disappear by morning. I never told her it didn’t work.
The agua de jamaica is tart, sweet, and refreshing. I pour myself another glass. If the night were made into a drink, it would taste like this.
—
Tía Fermina takes me to Delicias, three towns over, to buy some cheese. Supposedly, it’s the best in the whole state, and I think I might agree, because it’s sharp, creamy, and melts perfectly. It tastes amazing in enchiladas. A cheese worthy of a pilgrimage.
Tía complains about the drought the whole ride over. “It’s ruining all the crops,” she says. “The cows are emaciated. People don’t know what to do
anymore.” The land is definitely drier than I remember. The trees are yellow and brittle.
Everything in the desert hunkers toward the ground. The huizaches that dot the mountains are short, and the twigs are armed with spines. Everything protects itself with needles here. Once in a while, a pregnant cloud hovers and teases the land with a trickle of rain.
Tía Fermina is a few years older than Amá, and though they look so much alike—same black hair, light skin, and bright red lips—she’s just not as pretty. That doesn’t mean she’s not attractive, though; tía has a captivating face, like all the Montenegro women. It’s just that hardly anyone is as beautiful as Amá. I wonder what it was like for them growing up. Did tía always compare herself to her? Was she jealous? Did she ever wish she had crossed to the other side like her little sister?
We park the truck at the bottom of a hill because it won’t fit through the narrow streets. I suddenly have déjà vu; I know I came to this town with Mamá Jacinta once, long ago, but I don’t remember why exactly. Did it have something to do with a goat? Or am I making that up? Sometimes my memory feels like a smeared photograph.
“How is your mother?” tía Fermina asks as we pant our way up. “Have you talked to her?”
“She called me yesterday. She sounds okay.”
“How was she before? You know, when she lost Olga.”
“She couldn’t get out of bed. Just when I thought she was doing better, she’d go right back to sleeping for days and days. She hardly ate or drank anything. It scared me. She hasn’t done that in a while, though.”
A man walks a blindfolded bull across the street. “Buenos días,” he says, and tips his hat. That’s the thing about Mexico—you have to say hello to people you don’t even know.
“My poor sister. And all of us here, useless, unable to help her. Ay, Diosito.” Tía Fermina sighs. “Every time I called her, she’d tell me she was fine, but I knew she wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t. How could she be fine without her daughter? That’s the worst thing that could ever happen to you. I can’t even fathom it. God forbid.” She crosses herself.
“She wasn’t fine, and neither was I.”
“Ay, mija, I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose your sister.” Tía turns to me and touches my face. “Pobre criatura. And what about you and your mother? I know you two have fought a lot over the years. She’s always said you were very terca.”
That’s how I’ve been described my whole life—terca, necia, cabezona—all the synonyms for “stubborn” and “difficult.” A gust of wind carries the smell of burning garbage toward us.
“Yeah, we don’t really understand each other.”
“You need to try harder, especially with your sister gone. You’re all she has, Julia. She loves you so much. Maybe you don’t see that, I don’t know. Just please, don’t make her life harder. I ask you as your aunt, as your mother’s sister, please be good to her.” Tía Fermina is out of breath now. She stops and wipes the sweat from her face with her forearm. I don’t think Amá told her I tried to kill myself.
“You don’t understand, tía. I try. I really do. We’re just so different. She thinks I’m wild and crazy, but what I want makes sense to me. I want to be independent. I want to be my own person, with my own life. I want to make my own choices and mistakes. And she wants to know what I’m doing every second of the day. It makes me feel like I’m drowning.”
“Ay, mija. There is so much you don’t understand.”
“Why does everyone say that to me? I know I’m young, but I’m not stupid.”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s that your mother has had such a hard life. You can’t even imagine.”
“I know. She reminds me of it all the time. She’s always telling me how hard she works and that I’m ungrateful.”
Tía Fermina doesn’t say anything for a long time.
“Tía? Are you okay?”
“I’m only telling you this so you can understand, so you can have more compassion.” She looks at the sky. “God, forgive me for doing this.”
My muscles tense. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with thirst. “What? What is it? Tell me, tell me now. I want to know now.”
Tía finally looks at me. “You know how your parents crossed the border?”
I’ve heard the story several times. Amá left with Apá against her mother’s will. They crossed with a coyote. When they got to Texas, a man stole all their money. They stayed in El Paso with Apá’s distant cousin and worked at a restaurant until they were able to save enough money to take the bus to Chicago. It was in the middle of winter, and they didn’t have jackets. Amá said she had never felt so cold in her life. She thought her eyes would freeze inside her head. That’s all I knew.
“Your mother, el coyote…” Tía looks like she’s trying to untangle what she needs to say. She begins to cry. “He took her…”
“He took her where?” I scream. I don’t mean to, but it just comes out that way. “Where did he take her? What did he do?” I squeeze her hand so hard, I think I might break her fingers.
Tía can’t get the words out. My brain is pounding. A tattered gray cat darts past us.
“I can’t say it. I shouldn’t have told you this. God, forgive me.” Tía Fermina covers her mouth with her hand. She doesn’t have to finish.
“And Apá? Where was he? What did he do?” I can’t stop screaming.
“They held him down with a gun. There was nothing he could do.” Tía Fermina shakes her head.
“No. No. That can’t be true. No. I can’t…” I sit down on the ground, near a mound of red ants, but I don’t care. My body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. I picture my mother’s face streaked with tears and dirt, my father bowing his head in defeat. “And Olga? What about Olga? She was…She was…” I can’t get the words out.
Tía Fermina clasps her hands to her chest and nods. “See, mija, that’s why I want you to know. So when you and your mother fight, you can see where she’s come from and understand what’s happened to her. She doesn’t mean to hurt you.”
—
That night, I don’t fall asleep until morning. I just lie there thinking about my parents and how little I know them. I wake up at noon, my body aching.
Because I don’t have anywhere to go, no real obligations, the days blend together; I can’t even tell them apart most of the time. I wake up, eat breakfast, help Mamá Jacinta cook and clean, and then lie around reading and writing. After Belén gets home from school, she and I wander through the town aimlessly, eating all the junk food that will fit inside our bodies. Well, at least when my appetite hasn’t disappeared. Sometimes we meet Esteban after he gets out of work. We either sit on a bench or walk around the square until we have to go home. Belén always leaves us alone for a while. She pretends she needs to run an errand, but I know exactly what she’s doing.
Esteban has never tried to kiss me, and it’s all I can think about. I imagine his thick lips on mine. I picture his hands running through my hair and down my back, his body pressed against me. I never do anything about it, though. I feel as scared and vulnerable as a plucked bird. I know he said he liked me, but what if he didn’t really mean it? What if he thinks I’m weird? What if I’m not pretty enough? Besides, how could I, with the whole town watching? I just sit there like a fool, making small talk and boring observations about stray animals, hoping I don’t embarrass myself with my limited Spanish vocabulary.
Today Esteban is wearing jeans, a faded Beatles T-shirt, and a straw cowboy hat. I like the combination.
“Where did you get that shirt?”
“My cousin left it at my house, and I kept it,” he says, smiling.
“Do you even like the Beatles?”
“Not really.”
“You’re weird.” A mangy stray dog creeps toward us and begins sniffing me.
Esteban seems very amused by this. “Weird, huh?”
“Yeah, everyone likes the Beatles.”
“Apparently, that dog likes you.”
He points his chin toward it.
“He’s not my type.”
Esteban laughs. “You’re silly, you know that? What exactly is your type, then?”
“I prefer them to be better groomed. Not so many fleas.”
Esteban smiles and pats my hand. I almost gasp and feel my eyes bug out with surprise. I’m so nervous I can’t even move. We sit like that for a few seconds until Belén comes out of the store with the sack of meat we have to take to Mamá Jacinta for dinner. I jump up and leave without looking at Esteban, my heart inside my mouth.
At dusk, Belén, my tías, Mamá Jacinta, and I watch telenovelas. That’s what all the women in Los Ojos do at that hour. They’re all glued to their televisions. I could probably run around with my hair on fire, and they wouldn’t even notice. During the opening credits of La Casa de Traición, a horrible show about a rich family with a shameful past, we hear shouting outside.
“¡Hijo de tu pinche madre!” a man yells. “You’re going to pay!”
Belén mutes the TV, and we all stare at each other, confused.
I can’t understand the rest of the yelling. The only words I can make out are puto and piedras. Someone honks a car horn. Tires screech. A dog barks.
The commotion stops after a few seconds, and just when we think it’s over, the gunshots begin. Everyone drops to the floor, even poor Mamá Jacinta. “Again? I thought this had ended,” she says. “Why, God, why?” Tía Fermina rubs her back and tries to calm her down, but Mamá Jacinta whimpers and cries. She is distraught beyond consolation. Tía Estela crosses herself over and over.
Everyone crawls toward the back of the house. I’m the last one. I peek out the cracked door before I go. Two dead bodies are lying in the middle of the street.
—
Tía Fermina says she needs to give me a limpia to get rid of my susto. She says they can’t send me home like this after what happened. What would my mother say? My family members claim that “a scare” can kill you. I call that a “heart attack,” but whatever. I’ll go along with this if it makes everyone feel better.
I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter Page 20
