by Jenna Bush
Ana once confided in Ramona how desperately she missed her mamá. She knew that Ramona understood because she also lived with her abuela. Ramona’s mamá was fourteen when Ramona was born, too young to take care of an infant. Ana thought that she could tell Ramona anything, but she never told her she had HIV. She was glad because now she knew for sure that this was something she should never tell anyone, ever.
9
Abuela didn’t want to talk about HIV/AIDS—and she didn’t know much about it—so when Ana was ten, Abuela took her to a children’s hospital so that the nurses could teach Ana what she needed to know.
Ana was nervous at first; she didn’t want to talk about HIV, even with a nurse.
“Ana, your abuela told you that you are HIV-positive, right?” asked Nurse López.
“I already know about it,” Ana said. “It is a secret I should never tell.”
“There’s a lot more to it than that,” the nurse said. She then spent the next hour explaining to Ana how the infection spreads and how to keep herself healthy. She told her the medicine would help the HIV from becoming full-blown AIDS. She also told Ana when she was older and ready to have sex that it was very important to always use condoms.
Ana’s education continued at school. A few weeks later, a group of volunteers came to her fifth-grade classroom to do a presentation on HIV/AIDS. Several students made jokes. Ana was numb. She heard her classmates whispering, and she thought they were talking about her. She wanted to run away, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. The teacher said that people with HIV/AIDS should not be treated any differently, but Ana felt different, as though there were a bright spotlight on her face, causing her to blush, illuminating her secret. What would her classmates do if they knew she had HIV? She hoped she would never find out.
10
By the time Ana was in the sixth grade, she had three secrets, and, as all secrets do, one protected another.
Ana didn’t talk about her sister’s death because she didn’t want to reveal that her sister had most likely died of AIDS.
She didn’t want to talk about her sister’s AIDS because she didn’t want to reveal that her mother had died of AIDS as well.
She didn’t want to talk about her mother’s AIDS because she didn’t want to reveal that she herself had been born with HIV.
Ana kept quiet because she was told to. She didn’t want to be alienated or treated differently.
11
Ana sat in the school cafeteria, chatting with her amigas about boys and the week’s fiestas.
“Ricardo is so guapo,” a friend whispered to Ana as a good-looking boy walked by.
“Not my type,” Ana said, pushing the chicken around on her plate.
“Oh, whatever,” another classmate said, changing the conversation. “Mira, look—at Angélica. She is so skinny. I bet she has AIDS. I just bet she does.”
Ana froze. By now she had witnessed discrimination against people living with AIDS; she knew the only reason she had not faced it herself was because no one knew.
“Yeah, she must have HIV; otherwise she wouldn’t be that skinny,” said one of the girls. “Look at her bony arms. She is disgusting.”
“Hey, chica, Angélica. Stay away from us with your AIDS. We don’t want your disease,” another girl said, throwing an empty milk carton at Angélica. Angélica stood up and left the room, her teary eyes staring blankly at the cement floor as she walked.
Ana wanted to scream, “Stop it! I’m the one; I have HIV! And so what? You won’t catch it from me.”
But instead of saying anything, Ana remained silent. She hated herself for it, but she was overcome with fear of being abandoned and alone if she told her friends the truth. Look how her friends treated Angélica. What would they say if they knew she was infected? No, she would say nothing. It was her secret.
12
In school, Ana covered her unease with exaggerated good spirits. When she felt down, she forced herself up, dancing through the school day, smiling and flirting with boys. She was popular and attracted attention, capturing the light in every room.
At home, Ana took her medicine every morning and night, and since she felt fine, she didn’t worry about getting sick. Yet she really could not relax there, either—but for an entirely different reason.
Ana’s abuela lived with her boyfriend, Ernesto. Ana thought he looked like Humpty Dumpty. After working all day as a security guard for a shipping company, Ernesto stripped down to his tight white tank under-shirt, which made the gut hanging over his belt buckle look like an enormous egg. Ernesto brushed his greasy black hair straight back from his forehead. He had lifeless gray-green eyes under heavy brows. Although Ana and Isabel had lived in the same house with him since they were small, they never considered Ernesto their grandfather. He wasn’t family; instead of feeling protected and safe, Ana and Isabel felt vulnerable and frightened when they were left alone in the room with him.
Many nights Ernesto and Ana’s abuela drank heavily and smoked cigarette after cigarette, until the house stank like a disco, saturated with the sour smell of beer and the thick fog of smoke. The more they drank, the more they argued, creating a noise as deafening and unpleasant as a fire alarm. These evenings usually ended with doors slamming, as Ana’s abuela and Ernesto retired to separate bedrooms.
On these nights, Ana played a game she called Orphan. She curled up in bed and closed her eyes, then imagined that she and Isabel lived by themselves next to a river in a house with just enough room for two small girls. An orchard surrounded the house, and rows and rows of blossoming trees offered her ripe red apples. Ana and Isabel spent the afternoons laughing and flying colorful kites into the puffy white clouds. It was peaceful and quiet.
Other times Ana dreamed she lived in a larger house with Isabel, Lucía, and their parents. Her family, alive and healthy, would share a meal and then dance around the living room. No quarreling, no fighting, just peace. In the fantasy, Mamá brushed Ana’s curls at night and then sang her to sleep.
13
Ernesto had two very different personalities. On good days, he was quiet, barely saying a word. He worked from six A.M. to six P.M., then came home and sat in front of the television, flicking through the channels, tuning in and out of soccer and baseball games, telenovelas, and game shows. Most importantly, he left Ana and Isabel alone.
But whenever he drank, Ernesto changed. He became loud and obnoxious, screaming at the television when his favorite soccer team missed a goal and yelling at Ana and Isabel to bring him another beer. The more Ernesto drank, the meaner he got. He was like an animal.
When Ana’s abuela was not home, Ana usually volunteered to fetch the beer for Ernesto in order to protect Isabel. On these nights, he often reached for the beer and then grabbed Ana by the wrist, pulling her close, rubbing his fat belly against her. Ana despised his touch. Sometimes his hand slipped across her chest or between her legs when she tried to free herself and get away from him. She felt dirty and embarrassed when it happened to her; she felt enraged and powerless when she watched it happen to Isabel.
14
Over several months, these sickening encounters with Ernesto became more frequent. Ana wanted it to stop, but she wasn’t sure what to do, or whom to tell. Ana was afraid if she told her abuela she would be blamed or, worse yet, not believed. Ana knew her abuela had lived with Ernesto for years, and she needed him to help pay the rent. But surely her grandmother would stand up to him and defend her granddaughters. Ana decided to try.
One morning, after Ernesto left for work, Ana’s abuela was cleaning up after breakfast. She had on the same faded light blue slip she wore every morning. Ana felt the time was right to tell her.
She gathered her courage and said all in one breath, “Abuela, sometimes when you’re not here, Ernesto touches me.” She paused, and then quickly added, “He does it to Isabel, too.”
Ana’s abuela stopped sweeping and turned to face her granddaughter.
“Ana, do
n’t lie.” She glared at her. “That isn’t true, so shut your mouth.”
Abuela shooed Ana away by spanking her, hard, on the back of her thighs with the broom handle, then turned abruptly back to her work.
15
Ana left the kitchen feeling angry and humiliated. How could her abuela not believe her? Why would Ana lie to her? How could she choose Ernesto over her granddaughters, her family?
Ana went into her bedroom and closed the door. Isabel was the only person in the house she could trust; she couldn’t even depend on her own grandmother.
The following day Ana and Isabel played at Ramona’s house until their abuela called them home. Ernesto was in the living room watching television. He sat on one end of the couch; several empty beer cans were on the side table.
With their abuela in the next room, the girls thought they would be safe, so Ana sat on the far end of the couch and Isabel sat between Ana and Ernesto. But when Isabel got up to go to the bathroom, Ernesto slid his hand under Isabel and felt her behind.
Isabel froze and glared at him, then ran out. Ana quickly got up and followed her sister.
The following day, when Ana saw her papá, she decided to tell him what happened. Maybe he could make Ernesto stop.
“Papá,” she said to him as they walked through the streets in the center of town, “sometimes Ernesto touches us. We know it is not right. He touched Isabel last night and upset her. I get a bad feeling when he is around.”
“Ana, if he ever, ever touches you or Isabel again,” said Papá, “I will kill him.”
The words made Ana feel better because her father believed her. But she didn’t want Papá to get hurt and she was afraid that if Papá got into a fight with Ernesto, things could be worse. Maybe Ernesto would hurt Papá; maybe Abuela would send Ana and Isabel away. Or worse, Papá would go to jail. Her precious papá was all they had left, and she couldn’t bear to lose him.
16
The next time Ernesto touched Ana, she pushed away and screamed, “Leave me alone. If you don’t, I will make you sorry!”
He smirked and grunted. “What are you going to do about it?”
Ana didn’t know. She just wanted it to stop.
17
“Come with me—let’s go to sleep,” Ana said to Isabel as she reached for and held on to her sister’s small hand. The girls went to their bedroom, leaving Ernesto sitting alone on the couch, staring at the television.
Both girls felt safer in their room, resting together in a double bed with pink sheets. Ana looked at the photocopy of her mother and sighed. She wished her mamá were here to help and protect her.
Early in the morning, before even the birds woke up, Ana was startled by the sound of a door slamming. She sat up and could see Isabel leaning against the door, sobbing. Her hair was tangled, her skin red and blotchy.
“What’s wrong?” Ana asked. She immediately feared the worst but hoped her suspicions were wrong.
Before Isabel could speak, Ernesto forced his way into the room.
“Tell your father and you’ll never see him again,” he threatened them, pointing his finger at Ana.
Ana was terrified. Where was her abuela? On most mornings, Ernesto woke before dawn and left before the girls and their abuela woke up.
“Abuela!” Ana cried out.
“She’s at work,” Ernesto answered. “She’s not going to believe you anyway, so just shut up.” Then he slammed the door and was gone.
Unfortunately, Ana knew that he was right. Ana’s abuela would never believe her.
18
The dawn broke to a beautiful sunny day. Hundreds of tropical birds—yellow warblers and crimson tanagers—sang in the trees outside Ana and Isabel’s window. It was almost as if nothing had happened, just another morning.
But something had happened. “It’s not your fault,” Ana told Isabel, trying to comfort her. She helped Isabel shower, washing off the revolting feeling of filth that Ernesto had left. It was all she could do for her sister.
19
That night, when it was time for bed, Ana and Isabel walked past Ernesto and their abuela sitting on the couch.
“Kiss your grandfather before you go to bed,” their abuela said.
He is not our abuelo. He is a dirty beast, Ana thought to herself. She felt bitter and ashamed; she blamed herself for what had happened to Isabel. Ana was the older sister; she should have been there to protect Isabel.
Instead, she and Isabel minded their grandmother and did as they were told, even though they felt anxious and repulsed when they were anywhere near Ernesto.
That night the girls locked the door to the room, checking it twice before bed. They held each other as they fell asleep.
20
Several nights later, Isabel got up early in the morning to go to the bathroom. When she came back, she forgot to lock the door again. Ana’s abuela had already left for work, so Ana thought the house was empty.
Then the door to their room opened, and Ernesto came in. He stank of alcohol and cigarettes. His eyes were wild, like those of the pumas that lived in the jungles.
Ernesto’s grimy hand covered Ana’s mouth so she couldn’t scream. Isabel ran out of the room and locked herself in the bathroom. Then Ernesto started touching Ana all over.
She felt she was watching it happen to someone else.
When it was over, he gave Ana the same warning he had before: “Don’t say anything.”
Then he walked out and slammed the door. Once again the room was dark.
21
Now Ana had another secret.
Ernesto molested Ana and Isabel once, but they relived it daily, and Ana feared that she couldn’t stop him if he tried to do it again.
Ana wanted to talk to someone who would listen and believe her. More than ever, she wished Mamá were alive to help her. She desperately needed to protect Isabel.
22
In September of Ana’s sixth-grade year, Papá became sick and Ernesto moved another bed into Ana’s room for him. Papá was so weak that he could no longer drive the taxi. Like a young boy, he returned to his mother so that she could help take care of him.
September, a month of heavy rainfall, brought sheets of rain to sing Papá to a peaceful sleep. He was asleep when Ana and Isabel went to school; he was asleep when they came home. After school each day, Ana sat in her room and watched her father. She found comfort in listening to him breathe; his presence made her feel safer.
Papá was smaller now; his body had been reduced to sharp bones—angular elbows, knees, and fingers—and his eyes had sunk down into their sockets. He looked nothing like the papá who sometimes stopped by the house in the evenings to help Ana with her math homework. When the homework was complete, the papá she remembered used to turn on the radio and dance around the kitchen.
“Watch me, niñas,” Ana remembered him saying as he floated across the floor. The girls watched and followed, their feet moving to the beat of the bongo drums.
“Get well, Papá,” Ana whispered to him. “I want to dance with you again.”
23
Papá had good days—and bad. On bad days, he cried out in feverish rants. At first, Ana tried to understand the gibberish, wondering if he was speaking in tongues and trying to tell her something important. Over time, she realized that the words were nonsense; they had no meaning.
When she watched her father sleep, Ana sometimes closed her eyes and imagined that she was living in the past, when Papá was still healthy. She thought a lot about Navidad almost a year before.
She remembered that Papá had come to Abuela’s house early in the morning on December 24, his arms wrapped tightly around a mountain of colorful gifts.
As Papá watched with pleasure, she and Isabel tore open their presents: roller skates and matching plaid dresses. Ana remembered with longing how she had sat next to Papá at the table as the whole family held hands and shared a prayer and a feast of ham and bread, mangos, apples, sweets, and chocolate. Ana’s daydr
eam ended with her memory of Papá setting off fireworks that looked like millions of fireflies lighting the dark sky.
On good days, Papá was able to have conversations. One day he asked her: “Is everything okay? Are you and Isabel safe?”
Ana understood what he was asking, but she couldn’t bear to add to his suffering.
“We’re fine,” she said, her lips pulled into a tight smile.
Ana didn’t want to lie, especially to Papá. She just wanted to deny the truth.
24
Once Papá moved into the house, Ernesto left Ana and Isabel alone. It could have been shame, or Papá’s presence, or his illness, but Ernesto lost interest in the girls.
Ernesto looked the same—his legs still reminded Ana of hot dogs and his stomach still shook when he walked—but his eyes were different. Instead of being filled with animal rage and lust, they looked tired and defeated. Ernesto almost never looked at Ana or Isabel, and when he did it was with boredom and indifference. It was a blessing.
25
Until the end, Ana never realized that her father was dying. Of course, she saw that he wouldn’t eat and couldn’t get out of bed, that he lost control of his bowels and needed to be taken care of like a child, but she always thought that he would get better. And his constant sleepiness was not like their papá.
