Chasing the Sun: A Novel

by Natalia Sylvester

  “Hijita,” she says, letting her panicked motions melt away into a casual stretch in the hopes that Cynthia doesn’t catch on. “What a beautiful sight to wake up to. Is that a new dress?” The question is unnecessary; Marabela knows every button and thread that belongs to her little girl. Seeing her dressed in this light green linen sundress that ties in bows at the top of Cynthia’s shoulders, Marabela is reminded how much life has been taken away from her.

  Straightening out her skirt, Cynthia nods and says, “Grandma gave it to me after I got better.”

  “Oh?” The thought of Lorena being here in her absence, easily gliding into her place, is becoming harder to suppress. “You were sick?” Marabela pulls Cynthia close to her so she can feel the warmth of her skin. The child eyes her with caution.

  “Mm-hmm. Were you sick, too? Is that why you had to go away?” She imitates her mother, placing her small hand on Marabela’s cheek. At last, Cynthia starts to cry.

  Marabela braces herself. “It’s okay. Let it out. Mama’s here,” she reassures, pushing back her own tears.

  She goes looking for Andres and finds him in the dining room, looking busy with papers scattered across the polished wood. Marabela sits on a leather chair in the corner of the room with a blanket hugging her shoulders. The chair sinks gently underneath her weight.

  “How did you sleep?” Andres asks. He stands up and sits next to her on the arm of the chair.

  She nods. “Good enough.”

  Slowly, he puts his arms around her and rests his head on top of hers. She can tell he is tense, taking care not to let his body push down on her, but her whole body is tender and everywhere he touches, no matter how gently, aches. Her shoulder throbs under the warmth of his palm. The more she tries to push it out of her mind, the more the feeling intensifies.

  “Andres . . .” She shifts away from him. “No puedo.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he says, backing off completely. He jumps off the chair and kneels next to her. His eyes look everywhere except her face. “God, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you must be going through, what you went through. What can I do? Just . . . just tell me what I have to do to make things better for you and I’ll do it.”

  Marabela begins to shake her head. She is unaccustomed to asking anything of him, but then she remembers. “I’m not comfortable with that man being in our home.”

  “Guillermo?”

  “Me da algo. I can’t explain it. But it makes me feel weird, having a complete stranger in here all day, watching everything we do.”

  “He’s here for your protection,” Andres says. He shifts his tone to a gentle whisper, as if he’s talking to Cynthia. “He’s been with us for almost three weeks now.”

  “I know how long it’s been. But he’s still a stranger to me.”

  Andres covers his nose and mouth with his hands, like he always does when he’s trying to find a way to win an argument. “Guillermo has experience with these kinds of things. It was because of him that we were able to get you out of there.” His words come slowly, cautiously. When Marabela still won’t look at him he continues. “I want him to stay with us for a while, to protect us in case things . . . change.”

  “Isn’t that your job?” Marabela says, and leaves.

  In the afternoon Andres insists on taking Marabela to the doctor but she refuses to leave the house. “Let them come here,” she says.

  “But we need X-rays, Mari. To see if you’ve suffered any internal damage.” She cringes at the softness of his voice. Every time he speaks it’s like he’s trying to massage the words into her skull. “And you need nutrients to get healthy again. Come on, we’ll be in and out.”

  She takes up the entire backseat of the car, stretched out and covered in a blanket with her eyes closed. They arrive sooner than she expected. When she gets out of the car she doesn’t recognize the building. They’ve gone underground to a parking lot full of scratched-up cement columns and tight spaces; there isn’t even an elevator to take them to the ground floor.

  “I don’t understand why we can’t go to Dr. Urriega,” Marabela says.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see him under the circumstances, and I didn’t want to take you to just anyone. We can trust this guy.”

  “Right,” she says, doubtful. She can’t argue about Dr. Urriega, though. He is perhaps too close within their circle, having studied with Andres’s uncle. He regularly attends Marabela’s charity functions, and she doesn’t like the idea of him carrying the thought of her kidnapping in the back of his mind.

  As they pass through the narrow hallways, Marabela glances through the open doors of other businesses. There’s a travel agency—empty except for a young woman making photocopies, gazing at a poster of Hawaii as the machine drones on—and an accountant who’s left his door and windows open to let a breeze in, his papers scattering everywhere as a result. Toward the end of the hall she passes a waiting room packed with men and women in business attire filling out forms. A fan points to the center of the room, flipping the pages of magazines spread over a large table.

  They enter a small room filled with white plastic folding chairs lined up against a yellow wall. Marabela stands in the center of the room as Andres announces them to the receptionist behind the glass. They’re called in right away. The young nurse mispronounces their last name, but she asks no questions and hands Marabela a paper gown. She’s told to undress and directed toward the X-ray room, which is cold and made colder still by the metal surface on which she has to lie down. The bed shakes as an X-ray technician stands over her and shoves giant squares of film into the slots underneath her.

  “Now don’t move. And hold your breath,” he says before disappearing.

  The machine sounds like an elevator taking off. They take several more X-rays, all in different areas—her head, her chest, her hips, her knees. Never once does the man look her in the eyes.

  Back in the examining room, Andres sits on a round leather chair with wheels on it, shifting side to side on its rotating axis.

  “That’s the doctor’s chair,” Marabela whispers.

  He gets up and sits on a wooden stool next to the bed. It’s so short that Andres’s knees jut out as he places them on the stool’s steps. He puts both hands on the seat between his legs and starts tapping against its surface with his fingers.

  “Are you nervous?” Marabela asks.

  “I’m sorry. I suppose I’m not helping the situation much.” He stops tapping his fingers and locks his hands together, resting them on his lap.

  “It’s okay. I’d just like to get this over with and go home.”

  “I’ve always known you were strong, Mari, but this . . . that you can be so calm—” His voice catches. “I hope you know you can talk to me. Whenever you’re ready.”

  What good would it do to tell him? Marabela thinks of how many times a day she prepared for death when their footsteps approached, of how the food, which she assumed was caked in the same dirt and filth that she was, made her gag as soon as it touched her throat. Her body would visibly shake anytime her captor came into the room, and he’d only laugh as he touched and taunted her, warning that tomorrow, his boss would be gone for the day. How could talking about these things possibly help?

  “I know, Andres. Thank you. But for now let’s just focus on what’s in front of us. One thing at a time.”

  “Right, of course. The doctor should be here any minute.”

  They listen for the heavy footsteps, the click of the doorknob, and when it finally comes they both sit up straight in anticipation. The doctor looks down at the blank chart before him and smiles. “A new patient,” he says, but when he looks up the enthusiasm fades, and Marabela smiles feebly, out of the habit of being courteous.

  Andres stands up to shake hands with the doctor, and the two begin talking about her case in voices so deep it’s hard to understand them. She is used to the men in her life doing this by now; instead of whispering, they take the bass in their voices so lo
w, it’s like listening to a radio with the speakers blown out. She catches few words. Secuestro. Three weeks. Be sure . . . that’s she’s okay.

  The doctor nods and scribbles notes on her chart. He examines her methodically, looking at her body, but not at her; at her eyes, but not into them; at her bruises, but not at the pain.

  There is no indication of anything in her X-rays, he tells her. “The damage seems to be mostly superficial. Are you in any pain at all? Any injuries you’re concerned about?”

  Instinctively, she crosses her arms and rubs her shoulder, careful not to push down too hard. “No, Doctor, nothing major.”

  Andres exhales and put his hands on his hips upon hearing this, but Marabela only nods. “So then we can go?” he asks.

  “I’d like to speak with my patient alone, if you don’t mind.” For the first time the doctor directs his words at Marabela. She nods at Andres, who looks hurt, or offended, or something that Marabela isn’t interested in deciphering. When he leaves the room, the doctor stays quiet. She already knows what’s coming.

  He scoots his chair toward her and puts the chart behind him.

  “I want you to know that I’ve seen countless patients who, like you, were kidnapped. I understand that each experience is different, but the women, unfortunately, almost always share one thing in common. Please know that you don’t have to hide anything from me.” He takes a breath, gives her time to anticipate the question. “Were you violated sexually?”

  She likes that he doesn’t sugarcoat it. There’s no euphemism, no hand placed gently on her knees.

  “No, Doctor. At least there was that.” The words leave a metallic taste in her mouth, a displaced sense of relief. Of all the days that never came, she is grateful only for that one.

  9

  HER FIRST FEW days back, Marabela sleeps well into the early afternoon. When she finally wakes in time for breakfast on Saturday, she is surprised by how much she misses the bustle in the kitchen. With Consuelo and Carla around, life moved at a faster pace, in tandem with her needs. Now Andres struggles to take over their duties, and Marabela simply waits.

  “Let me help you,” she offers when she hears a pot clank against the kitchen sink, a small hiss escaping Andres’s lips as he shakes his hand in pain.

  “I’m fine! Just relax,” he shouts.

  Marabela smiles and opens her eyes wide at Cynthia. “Imagínalo. Your father playing house.”

  “It doesn’t look as fun when he does it,” Cynthia says.

  “He’s just not used to it, that’s all. We have to give him time. Right, Ignacio?” She turns to her son, who sits scowling, low in his chair.

  “It’s not funny. At least he’s trying.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I’m going to help him.” He swings his arms with purpose as he walks away, and Marabela suppresses a laugh. Her son has grown so fast these past weeks that she’s the only one who seems to notice his lack of coordination. Perhaps his mind hasn’t caught up with his body yet. It’s endearing, actually. It reminds her of a younger Andres from their college years. He was never clumsy, just the opposite. His movements were full of intention, always so self-aware. She’d never had a man try so hard for her affection.

  The rumbling sounds of plates being pushed and the dull clanks of wooden spoons burst out from the kitchen. Marabela can smell fried pork being reheated in the microwave.

  Cynthia reaches for a bread knife in the center of the table, but Marabela pushes it away just as her fingers tap the handle.

  “Let me do that for you. You could hurt yourself.”

  Cynthia sits up taller, chin raised high, looking offended. “I know how to handle a knife, Mom. Guillermo says I’m more coordinated than his niece. And she’s twelve.”

  Marabela looks over her shoulder, wondering where Guillermo is hiding. Until now, she’d almost forgotten about him, and she’s surprised to be reminded of him by her daughter. “Wow. That is impressive. What else does he say?”

  “He says I pick the best spots to hide.”

  “You play hide-and-seek?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “What else does he say?”

  “He says that being scared is normal.”

  “It is.”

  “But being strong when you’re scared is brave.”

  “That’s also true. That’s very true.”

  For a moment the house is quiet and then Andres and Ignacio come through the door, their arms full with trays of plates and hot dishes.

  It’s been so long since she’s been excited about a meal. Marabela had gotten used to fearing everything they bought her, not because it was bad food—usually leftovers of whatever they’d just eaten, like pollo a la brasa, chifa, and insipid oatmeal in the mornings—but because anything they touched was tainted with threats. She has to remind herself that this meal with her family is nourishment that will help all of them heal.

  “Thank you, dear,” she says as she helps him set a tray of pork and a bowl of sliced red onions, drenched in oil, vinegar, salt, and aji so they’re nice and soggy, in the center of the table.

  She keeps her eyes on the plate, but she can feel the heavy pauses from both sides of her as Andres and Ignacio marvel at her use of the word dear. She knows it’s not like her, but on a whim she decided to try it.

  Marabela tries to recall the last time they had breakfast together, alone as four, and she’s shocked to realize she can’t pinpoint a time before several months ago. Now, they talk about silly things like the weather, make jokes at how pretty the men would look in aprons and mittens, fill Marabela in on the latest gossip about celebrity marriages and breakups in the news. When she asks what everyone has planned for the day, Ignacio and Andres look at her with blank expressions, as if they’re just now realizing they have permission to do something besides attend to her. But Cynthia doesn’t disappoint.

  “I want to rearrange my room.”

  “Yeah?” Marabela says. “¿Cómo?”

  “I was thinking if I move my bed against the wall and push the dresser into the corner, I’d have more room.”

  “Room for what?” Ignacio asks. He seems genuinely interested, but Cynthia’s not used to him taking her seriously.

  “Stuff. I don’t see why I have to tell you.”

  “I think it sounds like a good idea. I can help move the furniture if you want,” Marabela says. A few times since she’s come home, she’s caught Cynthia dancing in the hallways with her headphones on when she thought no one was looking. Judging by the way she kicks her legs in the air and jumps off the ground with her arms held in a V shape, ending with one knee on the ground and a very dramatic tossing back of the hair, it makes sense that Cynthia would want more space and a little privacy.

  “I’ll help, too,” Andres adds. “Maybe it’ll give me some ideas for ways to freshen up our own room.”

  “You’ll have enough room in there to train the Selección Peruana,” Ignacio says.

  Marabela takes a bite out of her fried sweet potato to suppress a giggle. She doesn’t like encouraging the kids to pick on each other, but the thought of Cynthia coaching the national soccer team in her bedroom is irresistible.

  Apparently Andres agrees. “It’s not a bad idea, so long as you don’t mind the smell of dirty socks.”

  Cynthia shakes her head and scrunches her nose. “Eww! Gross!”

  “You can certainly teach them a move or two,” Marabela says.

  Cynthia’s eyes light up; suddenly, she’s in on the joke. “And anytime they lose, I’ll make them clean my room!”

  By the time they’re done with breakfast, Marabela’s throat is hoarse from all the laughing—Ignacio and Andres seem to have an endless supply of jokes, and they take turns with their fake stories, each one taking longer than the last.

  The family lingers at the table. “Thank you for breakfast,” Marabela says. “It’s nice to be together like this. By the way, Andres, I’ve been meaning to ask—how l
ong did you tell the company you’d be gone?”

  Andres’s smile quickly fades. Ignacio starts picking up the dishes, as if her words were a signal to clear the table.

  “It’s not important,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  He runs his hand through his hair. He’s not looking at her when he answers. “I’m not going back. I sold the company.”

  “Well . . . wow. I never thought . . . What will we do now?”

  “It’s a fresh start, mi amor. We’ll work it out.”

  Left alone at the table, Marabela turns to Cynthia, but the child has snuck away amid all the cleanup and commotion. She calls out to her. “I didn’t say we were playing yet,” she teases.

  Cynthia crawls out of a cabinet in the living room, the same place they’d normally keep things like old photo albums and tablecloths. Marabela takes a mental measurement of the space and decides she would not fit there. There are only a few windows in the house she’s decided she could squeeze through if she were suddenly trapped and had to escape. It’s not something she calculates intentionally, just a habit she’s picked up. Everywhere she goes, she finds she needs an exit strategy.

  By the beginning of the second week, the novelty of having Andres at home starts to wear off, replaced by an odd sense of intrusion. He fusses over Marabela like a paranoid mother: Is she cold? Hungry? Tired? Andres is always ready to bring her a blanket or a snack, but his attention only reminds her of how much help she needs.

  When Andres mentions that he’ll have to start looking for work soon, Marabela is both relieved and apprehensive. Lately she’s been caught between craving her own space and not wanting to be left alone, and she doesn’t know which yearning will win out in the end.

  She hasn’t asked about the sale since the morning he mentioned it because what else is left for her to know? The company is gone and that’s that. Marabela always thought Andres should have sold the company long ago, when his family life depended on the sale in less literal but equally urgent ways. Now she’s too tired to resurrect the argument.