by Jenna Bush
Let him sleep, Ana and Isabel thought to themselves. He must be tired. But the fatigue never passed, and Papá never regained his strength.
One day in mid-October, Ana, Isabel, and all of their aunts and uncles sat by Papá’s bedside. No one spoke. Papá’s breathing became heavy and labored.
Papá turned his head and said his final words to Ana: “Take care of your hermana.”
Take care of your sister. Ana’s chest felt so tight that she couldn’t breathe. She had not been able to protect Isabel from Ernesto. She had already failed to honor her father’s dying wish.
Papá died with his eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Ana’s uncle brushed his hand gently over his brother’s eyes, closing them forever.
26
Ana and Isabel hugged Papá’s sharp, bony frame. They kissed his sunken cheeks, but neither could speak.
“We need to take the body,” Abuela said to Ana’s uncle as she covered Papá in a white sheet.
“Where?” asked Ana. “Where are you taking him?”
“To be cremated.”
“No!” Ana cried.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Ana’s abuela said. That seemed cold to Ana and Isabel. Many years later, Ana understood that her abuela was not a heartless woman—she just needed to protect herself from her own despair as she said good-bye to her son. But in that moment, her grandmother’s words felt cruel and callous.
Ana and Isabel left the bedroom as their uncle put Papá’s body over his shoulder and carried him out of the house. Then Ernesto removed Papá’s bed and his belongings.
The room looked empty now; the house felt empty. Dust and lint covered the floor where the bed had been. Ana refused to move the furniture back into the center of the room or to sweep up the dusty shadow. She wanted to leave space in the room in case Papá came back.
27
After Papá died, Ana wanted to run away. She wanted to sprint through the dusty streets, through the hills covered in tiger lilies, far away from the reality of what had happened. Ana’s favorite aunt, Aída, saw the restlessness in her niece’s eyes and asked her to go to the store with her. As they walked, Ana dried her tears.
“I’m confused about something, but I’m afraid to ask Abuela,” Ana said to Aunt Aída. “Did Papá have AIDS?”
“He did,” Aída said, looking at the ground as they walked. “He got it from your mamá.”
“How did she get it?”
Aunt Aída sighed, unsure of how to answer. Then she told Ana the truth.
“Ana, this is difficult,” she began. “Both your mamá and her sister were raped by their stepfather when they were young girls. Their stepfather had AIDS and he made them both sick.”
“And they both died,” Ana said softly.
“They did.”
Aída put her arm around Ana’s shoulder, and they walked together in silence. Ana understood the disgust her mamá must have felt when her stepfather touched her. She also understood that she, too, had this ruthless disease. What would happen to her? It was way too much to think about, so she focused on walking, one step at a time.
28
Weeks before, Ana’s abuela had purchased a small crypt in the cemetery next to where her own mamá—Papá’s grandmother—was buried. Even in death, Papá was separated from Mamá and Lucía, who were buried on the other side of town.
At Papá’s funeral, Ana wore a long black skirt and a black shirt. She pulled her hair back into a tight bun. When they arrived at the cemetery, Ana and Isabel linked arms and walked together to a courtyard where the service was held.
Ana sat between Isabel and her abuela in the front row. When she turned around, she saw Ramona and her grandmother; she was pleased they had come to honor her father.
“‘I am the resurrection and the life,’” the priest began. “‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’”
Ana’s eyes filled with tears. Now that the service had started, her father’s death was permanent, irreversible. She didn’t want this moment to be real; she didn’t want to say her last good-bye.
“‘Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,’” said the priest. “‘Even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.’”
Ana found comfort imagining that Papá had finished his labors. She liked the idea of him resting peacefully in heaven, but Ana didn’t want Papá in heaven; she wanted him here with her.
One by one, family members took turns saying good-bye to her father. Overcome with tears, they told their favorite stories of his life and how much they were going to miss him.
Ana listened as her abuela told a story about her papá playing with his favorite red truck in the dusty streets in front of their house when he was a boy. Abuela finished by saying how much he had loved Ana and Isabel. She said they brought so much joy and pride into his life. This only made Ana sob harder as she squeezed Isabel’s cold hand.
Then her aunt, Aída, Papá’s younger sister, said, “He was the heart of every party. He danced through his life.”
When the priest asked if anyone else wanted to speak, Ana stood. Her hands trembled and she felt faint, but she wanted to speak. She thought that if she spoke right now, in Papá’s service, God would be more likely to listen.
She called out to God, crying: “Why did you take Papá?”
She sobbed for a moment and then continued. “He was all we had left. You have taken enough from us. Why Papá, too?”
Ana finished, her face flushed with anger, and walked away. She was angry at God; she was angry at Abuela; she was angry at everyone.
29
In the days after the funeral, Ana noticed that her abuela looked older. Her brown eyes were tired from months of restless nights taking care of her son; her face was full of tiny wrinkles that looked like the rivers on the maps Ana studied in geography class. Her abuela’s once-black hair was now almost completely silver. The edge of her mouth curved downward, making her face look weary and sad.
In the early evening, Ana’s abuela returned from a twelve-hour shift at the restaurant where she served food. She collapsed into a worn green chair in the living room and closed her eyes. With one hand, she reached across and rubbed her shoulder as if she was in pain. She looked tired.
Ana and Isabel sat on the floor watching a loud game show on television. Contestants in leather miniskirts completed silly dares to win a trip to Mexico; Ana and Isabel cheered loudly for their favorites.
The room was a disaster. Isabel’s doll sat in the middle of the floor, and Ana’s clothes were piled on the couch. On the edge of the dirty rug, one of the girls had spilled a glass of water and not bothered to clean it up.
After resting for a few minutes, Abuela opened her eyes and noticed the chaos in the room.
“Ana, what is this?” she asked. She looked around the room and sighed. “I have been working all day for you. This house is a mess. Pick it up now.”
“Just a minute,” Ana answered, ignoring her abuela and not taking her eyes off the television.
“No,” her abuela said, harshly. “Now.”
“I’m watching TV!” Ana turned toward her abuela, then rolled her eyes.
Suddenly Abuela’s irritation and sadness came to a head, raising her anger from a simmer to a full boil.
Ana’s grandmother snapped. She reached down and grabbed a metal clothes hanger. She came at Ana in a rage, swatting her hard on the back of her legs and her behind. Ana tried to block the blows, but she didn’t cry out or beg her to stop as her grandmother hit her again and again and again.
Abuela had spanked her before—both with her open hand and with the back of brushes and brooms—but she had never hit her so hard or with so much viciousness.
When Abuela was finished, she went to her room, leaving Ana lying on the ground, her legs on fire as if a hive of bees had attacked. Isabel was huddled in a corner, watching in disbelief.
Ana cried silently. In that moment, she hated her abuela with an
intensity she had never experienced before. She hated her for hitting her. She hated her for not protecting her and Isabel from Ernesto, for thinking she was a liar.
Ana looked down, examining the welts that looked like red serpents crawling up the back of her legs. This time her abuela had left a mark.
30
That night, Ana went to bed without speaking to Abuela. In the morning, she did not look her in the eye during breakfast or say good-bye before leaving for school.
After school, Ana did not want to go home. She was still angry and didn’t want to confront her abuela, so she went straight to Ramona’s house. After dinner, she returned home. She opened the door and breezed into the room unapologetically.
“Where have you been?” Abuela asked sternly.
“Out.”
“Where?”
“Just out.”
One beating became many. Ana and her abuela became two opposing forces in the house—both of them angry, hurt, and confused, both pushing and provoking the other. Ana rebelled; her abuela struck back. Neither was able to find the words to express her true feelings. Ana was trapped in a life that grew more and more painful, but her abuela was the only family member who could afford to support Ana and Isabel. Ana didn’t know what else she could do.
31
During the time of Papá’s illness and after his death, Ana attended a first Communion class at her church. Every Sunday, a priest and a nun met with a dozen sixth graders to prepare them to accept their first Communion. The class was offered to children over age nine, but most of the children in Ana’s class were twelve or thirteen.
Ana enjoyed sitting next to her friends in the pews, singing hymns of gratitude and praise. She loved hearing the stories of struggle and redemption; she held on to the promise that her pain and poverty would someday be over and she would be welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven.
Most of all, she found comfort there. Ever since Papá’s funeral, when Ana had cried out her grief and pain to God, she had made her peace with Him. She no longer blamed God for taking her mother, father, and sister, and for not protecting her from Ernesto. She no longer felt that God had forgotten her or lost her somewhere along the way.
She had spoken openly and truthfully and God had listened. He hadn’t struck back at her or punished her. God forgave her. The world hadn’t ended. The birds still flew from tree to tree, the palm trees still blew in the wind, and the warm breeze still tickled the loose hair on her neck. Ana’s anger had not destroyed her.
In that moment, Ana accepted God. Even though Ana did not expect her situation to change at her abuela’s house, she had faith that God would protect her during her life and connect her to her parents after death. She went to her religion classes with a happy and hopeful heart.
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During the final Communion class, Ana stared at the chalice filled with the bitter red wine and the tray of wafers. She looked at the colorful mosaic of the Virgin Mary to the side of the altar, and she thought about her mamá. She felt close to her here.
The week before her first Communion, Ana sat in the dark confession booth and spoke to the priest about the mistakes she had made. She confessed that she had hurt her abuela by cutting her with words as sharp as glass; she confessed that sometimes she did not complete all of her schoolwork on time; she confessed that she had been angry at God, but they had reached an understanding. Ana did not tell the priest about the HIV or Ernesto; these secrets belonged to her. She didn’t feel guilty about keeping them. She was not responsible for being born with HIV or for what Ernesto had done to her in the dark. Even if she wanted to tell, she couldn’t forget her abuela’s words: Don’t tell anyone, ever.
On the day of her first Communion, Ana dressed in the traditional white lace dress with a veil covering her eyes. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and prayed to God and her parents, asking, “Papá, ayú-dame, help me. Mamá, protégeme, protect me.”
The class met about an hour before the ceremony began for their final preparation. The priest asked each of the students if they had any questions. He then told them to write a letter stating their hopes for a future with God in their lives.
Ana didn’t know where to begin. When she was in church, she felt closer to her parents; she could close her eyes and feel Mamá and Papá watching over her, reminding her that everything would be okay. As soon as she opened her eyes, however, she was reminded of the void their deaths had left in her life.
Thinking of her parents and her life with her grandmother, Ana picked up the pen and began to write. She didn’t think about what might happen as a result. She honestly opened her heart and wrote:
I want to be in a house without abuse.
I don’t want to fight anymore. I am tired of the bruises that cover my body and the darkness in my heart. I wish my parents were here to protect me and my sister.
Protect me, Dios. Protect us.
When she was finished, Ana folded the page in half, handed it to the priest, and took her place in front of the congregation.
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After the ceremony, Ana and her entire family—aunts, uncles, and cousins—returned to the house for a celebration. Ana’s abuela fixed a feast of arroz con pollo, pig’s feet, fried yucca, sweets, fried plantains, and fried tortillas with cheese and chorizo. Ana loved food, and she and her family rarely had this much to eat, except on holidays. Ana beamed with joy, proud of her accomplishment and excited that this banquet was for her.
“You look beautiful,” said Aunt Aída, giving her a hug. “I am so proud of you.” These were words Ana rarely heard. This day was very special for her, and she felt that perhaps things would be different now.
34
The following Saturday morning, a policeman knocked on the door. Abuela answered, surprised to see a uniformed officer on her porch.
“May I come in?” he asked, showing her his badge. Ana and Isabel were in their bedroom, listening.
“Of course,” she said. “Is everything all right? Is Ernesto okay?”
The policeman stepped just inside the doorway.
“I understand that there has been trouble with your granddaughter Ana,” he said.
“Ana?” her abuela said. “No, Ana is fine.”
He then told her that he had been contacted by the priest from the church. He told her what the priest had said in his report.
As Ana listened from her bedroom, she panicked, knowing the policeman was in her house in response to the letter she wrote and fearing the beating she would receive as soon as he left.
“What are you talking about? Did Ana say this? Who said this?” her abuela asked, her voice growing louder and more impatient with every word.
“It doesn’t matter who,” said the policeman.
“I’m a good mother, a good grandmother,” she said. “I took these children in when their mother died. I’ve taken care of them for ten years.”
“I’m sorry. Please calm down and let’s talk about this.”
But like a sudden rainstorm, Abuela’s mood changed. It was as though she suddenly gave up. She sighed deeply and said, “If she wants to leave, take her. Take them both.”
She then turned her back and left the room. Ana was shocked. What would happen to her and Isabel now? Where would they go? She should have kept quiet, just like Abuela had said.
35
With all of their clothes and toys stuffed into one plastic garbage bag, Ana and Isabel went to their great-aunt Sonia’s house a few miles away. Sonia wasn’t overly eager to have them. She struggled to feed, educate, and provide the bare necessities for her own children and grandchildren, but she was the only relative willing and financially capable of taking them in at the time.
Sonia’s house was much smaller than Abuela’s house. The girls shared two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a small dining room with eleven other relatives. Ana and Isabel bunked with their twenty-year-old cousin, Susana, her husband, and their three children, all under the age of four, in one bedroom.
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Ana and Isabel didn’t have any space to play or talk privately, but they were relieved to be away from Ernesto and the beatings. That evening Ana lay in her bed, listening to the chorus of breathing and snoring that surrounded her in the small room. Rather than feeling crowded, she felt comforted, like a puppy curling up with her littermates before drifting off to sleep.
36
A few weeks after Ana arrived at Sonia’s house, she graduated from the sixth grade. She knew that no one in her family had ever been to university. She wanted to be the first in her family to complete secondary school and go to college; she felt she was well on her way.
Ana’s graduation was a combination of joy and sadness. It was a significant accomplishment, and Ana was pleased to earn her diploma; but she was sad because Mamá and Papá weren’t there with the other parents carrying balloons and cheering loudly for their children.
After the ceremony, her school hosted a party for the graduates and their families at the neighborhood pool. Ana swam with her friends, and later that night, when the sun dropped behind the lush green hills, she ate fried plantains and fried potatoes.
As Ana finished eating, she looked up to see that her aunt Aída had joined the celebration. She smiled and waved at her. As twilight turned to starlight and stars filled the sky like candles lit for loved ones in church, Ana and Aída kicked off their shoes and started to dance. Ana knew that Aída couldn’t take her and Isabel in because she had two small children at home and a baby on the way. Aída couldn’t afford to feed two more mouths, but she knew that her aunt loved her, and that was enough for now.
