Arts, Faculty of
Information, School of
DSpace
UBCV
Leyton, Carolina
Master of Arts - MA
University of British Columbia
This excerpt from a young adult novel, Wish You Were Gone, deals with topics of grief and memory as they intertwine with immigrant experiences and movements towards the global north. The story follows eighteen-year-old, Colombian-American, Maria Molina Herrera, after the passing of her maternal grandmother, Abuelita Lucero. Not to worry, though, because María doesn’t have to grieve. She’ll see her Abuelita again. Not in an, “I’ll see you in my dreams” or supernatural signs kind of way. María’s family can tether the souls of the departed to the living world, essentially bonding her blood and family marriage for eternity. So, everything is great because Abuelita Lucero will return and life can go on as normal. Except not really. María’s connection to her grandmother has been severed by none other than Abuelita herself. For María to be able to talk to her grandmother’s soul, Abuelita had to leave an item in her will for María to use as a conduit. Out of petty resentment over an argument, Abuelita Lucero didn’t leave anything for María’s parents, little brother, or María herself. Confused and hurt by her grandmother’s decision, María decides to take matters into her own hands, not only wanting to fully understand Abuelita’s reasons for doing this, but ultimately fix the rift post-mortem. She enlists the help of both dead and living relatives to undertake the bureaucratic process of inserting her family into Abuelita’s will (yes, even the dead can’t escape legalities) and, in the process, discovers out family secrets that might have been better left alone and now threaten to irreversibly break her family.
WISH YOU WERE GONE by Carolina Leyton B.A., University of British Columbia, 2021 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES (Children’s Literature) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) July 2024 © Carolina Leyton, 2024 ii The following individuals certify that they have read, and recommend to the Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies for acceptance, the thesis entitled: Wish You Were Gone Submitted by Carolina Leyton in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts in Children’s Literature Examining Committee: Dr. Emily Pohl-Weary, Associate Professor, School of Creative Writing, UBC Supervisor Dr. Eric Meyers, Associate Professor, School of Information, UBC Supervisory Committee Member Dr. Kathryn Shoemaker, Adjunct Professor, School of Information, UBC Supervisory Committee Member Dr. Tess Prendergast, Lecturer, School of Information, UBC Supervisory Committee Member iii Abstract This excerpt from a young adult novel, Wish You Were Gone, deals with topics of grief and memory as they intertwine with immigrant experiences and movements towards the global north. The story follows eighteen-year-old, Colombian-American, Maria Molina Herrera, after the passing of her maternal grandmother, Abuelita Lucero. Not to worry, though, because María doesn’t have to grieve. She’ll see her Abuelita again. Not in an, “I’ll see you in my dreams” or supernatural signs kind of way. María’s family can tether the souls of the departed to the living world, essentially bonding her blood and family marriage for eternity. So, everything is great because Abuelita Lucero will return and life can go on as normal. Except not really. María’s connection to her grandmother has been severed by none other than Abuelita herself. For María to be able to talk to her grandmother’s soul, Abuelita had to leave an item in her will for María to use as a conduit. Out of petty resentment over an argument, Abuelita Lucero didn’t leave anything for María’s parents, little brother, or María herself. Confused and hurt by her grandmother’s decision, María decides to take matters into her own hands, not only wanting to fully understand Abuelita’s reasons for doing this, but ultimately fix the rift post-mortem. She enlists the help of both dead and living relatives to undertake the bureaucratic process of inserting her family into Abuelita’s will (yes, even the dead can’t escape legalities) and, in the process, discovers out family secrets that might have been better left alone and now threaten to irreversibly break her family. iv Lay Summary For fans of the complex mother-daughter dynamics in Elizabeth Acevedo’s, The Poet X, and the culturally grounded magic in Aiden Thomas’s, Cemetery Boys, Wish You Were Gone is a young adult novel that deals with topics of grief and memory as they intertwine with immigrant experiences and movements towards the global north. In this excerpt we follow eighteen-year-old, Colombian-American, María Herrera Molina, as she grapples with her grandmother’s passing and how the older woman, now a ghost, has decided to sever her connection to María’s parents, little brother, and María herself. About to leave for university, María needs to figure out how to mend broken bonds within her family and protect the generational magic that allows them to keep contact with the souls of the departed. v Preface This thesis is original, unpublished, independent work by the author, Carolina Leyton. vi Table of Contents Abstract ........................................................................................................................... iii Lay Summary .................................................................................................................. iv Preface ............................................................................................................................. v Table of Contents............................................................................................................ vi Chapter 1 ........................................................................................................................ 1 Chapter 2 ...................................................................................................................... 15 Chapter 3 ...................................................................................................................... 29 Chapter 4 ...................................................................................................................... 43 Chapter 5 ...................................................................................................................... 55 Chapter 6 ...................................................................................................................... 64 Chapter 7 ...................................................................................................................... 75 Chapter 8 ...................................................................................................................... 83 Chapter 9 ...................................................................................................................... 92 And Then: An Outline of María’s Story......................................................................... 98 1 Chapter 1 Friday is the day Jesus Christ was crucified. It’s also the day I get off from work, so I could be anywhere else right now—at home drawing, hanging out with Daela, indulging in one of those days when your bed is glued to your back and your mind is far away in Netflix-land. Instead, I’m slouching uncomfortably in a dented wooden pew at my grandmother’s funeral. My little brother, Nico, is beside me, and next to him are our parents, all reverently looking toward the front of the room at the old white man in an old white robe throwing platitudes our way. Every so often, I hang my head to look up at the back-lit cross carved into the white ceiling, hoping to stifle my ordained yawns. I’m not cruel or insensitive. I’m just part of a family whose members are eternally bound to one another. No, they don’t resurrect like Jesus Christ. My mother’s side of the family is gifted with the ability to call on the souls of our dead so they can visit the living realm as ghosts. Neat, huh? You’d think this would save us a lot of unnecessary pain, but not so much when the woman you’re here for decided to sever her connection to you and your family. For us to be able to call Abuelita back, she would’ve had to leave my parents, my little brother, Nico, and me something of hers that we could use to tether her to the material world. Simple. A few days ago, on the afternoon of her corporeal passing, children, grand-children, and children-in-law all attended Abuelita’s will ceremony at her house. We sat in her living room after her body was taken for examination and embalming, listening to Aunt Constanza as she read Abuelita’s will. As the document approached its end and all my other family members had received their calling device, I kept waiting for our turn. Our names never came. We weren’t on Abuelita’s Eternal Contract Will. 2 She left us nothing. No sooner was Aunt Constanza done with the reading and scrambling to see if there were any missing pages, when my mom bolted in rage out of Abuelita’s house without so much as a spare goodbye glance to anyone. Dad at least managed to bow his head with pursed lips and follow his wife into our car. This was Nico’s first ceremony. He had only just done his first communion last year. My little brother was just looking around, perplexed, and trying to figure out why Mom was so upset. Perhaps he attributed what had just happened to a mistake. Not me. I was suddenly aware that I had a heart intensely trying to do its job, the blood it pumped making my joints throb and tingle. I imagine this is how people feel when they’ve been nominated for an award and don’t win: frozen mid-breath, suddenly oxygen won’t expand your lungs. I shifted into autopilot. I barely remember standing up from the well-worn floral couch, smiling at my aunts and cousins, while surely guiding Nico out of the house and muttering about my parents waiting outside and “see you later”s. I know I didn’t have to say it out loud, but as Nico and I got into the SUV I was screaming in my mind, “take me home!” Not to worry though. Abuelita didn’t sever her connection to the living, just to the Herrera Molina—my—family. Like with all my ancestors, the family will come together on the third day after Abuelita’s cremation and call for her to return to us. Then, her ghost will grace us with her presence as if she never actually left. I don’t know when this all started. Mom has never been very specific or forthcoming about how or why our family is able to keep this connection to the dead. All 3 I know is that at the age of nine, after my first communion—we’re Catholic, by the way—my parents came to my room hauling the family’s ginormous Bible and flipped to the end pages, the ones that were meant to be blank. Instead, the pages were black and filled with script printed in cyan that seemed to glow like a vintage neon sign. The electric blue script outlined the rules of belonging to a family like mine. My dad had been the first one to sign the Herrera Molina bible and now it was my turn. I signed with all the decorum of a nine-year-old signing a birthday card for a classmate’s Chuck E. Cheese birthday party. Three years later, when I was twelve, I understood exactly what that signature actually meant. I came home from school one day and before I even stepped out of the foyer, before I even had a chance to take off my shoes, my mom greeted me with this news, “María, mi amor, Abuelito Martín is no longer in this world.” In a daze, I stumbled up to my room, sat down cross legged on my half pink, half polka dot comforter, still with my shoes on, and let my head hang quietly as tears rolled down my face. My mom allowed this burst of emotion for a whole ten minutes before she waltzed into the room to tell me not to be upset because I would never lose anyone I cared about. She meant blood and marriage family, of course. Friends and chosen family be damned. It was then she gave me something that my grandfather had apparently left me in his Eternal Contract Will. It was one of his myriad of ivy caps. I was left with the dark brown wool one. It smelled like menthol and spiced wooden cologne. This vintage, peaky-blinders cap was my way to call Abuelito. I’ve used this calling device once or twice in six years, and I’m sure one of those times was because my mom told me to call Abuelito for her. Still, it’s nice that the cap is 4 there whenever I need it. It also makes for a great fashion statement. Now, it smells of argan hair oil and fruity perfume. Abuelito Martín is at the funeral today. His hologram-like, translucent sapphire shape is sitting—as much as ghosts can sit—one pew away from my parents, Nico, and I, at the back of the cremation room. The way I see him, which might not be the way the rest of my family sees him, he’s pushing 90 years old, frail in demeanor and small in stature, wearing a patterned shirt and corduroy pants that match his ivy cap. At least, they used to match when he was alive and in color. Now he looks like something right out of a technological future where we’ve discovered how to preserve human essence playing with light and perception--a real but untouchable version of himself. I can see Abuelito cabeceando, like we say in Spanish. His head lolling towards his chest and then jerking back up when he realizes what’s happening. I guess even spirits need their sleep. I wish I could talk to him now. I want to ask him, if like me, he is here out of pure obligation. If, like me, he was forced by our family to pay fake respects to a person he must be angry at. As it happens, I can’t talk to him right now because I have to keep my family’s gift a secret, but mostly people would think I’m crazy and that simply will not do. Apart from my aunts, their husbands, and my cousins, there are people from the barrio my grandmother raised her family in. That part of El Prado is called Little Mexico and it is the southernmost neighborhood in the city. It’s where the notions of borders and nationality come to waver and flicker like the lights of a haunted house. The Molina family is seated on the pews to the right of the yapping priest. To the left, I recognize customers from my grandparents’ corner store who went from regulars 5 to friends, owners of other businesses around Little Mexico, and the ladies from Abuelita’s rosary praying group that would meet at hers every day at six in the evening to talk to God and then echar lengua, because gossip is as nutritious a part of our diet as the vegetables my grandparents sold in their store. These people surround me, dressed in black and in tears, and murmur, “I’m so sorry, mija,” their words more haunting than all the ghosts here today. All I can do is grimace and mutter back a “Thanks.” I look ahead at Aunt Constanza, Aunt Matilde, Aunt Gracia, and my cousins. Even though I can’t see their faces, I know for a fact none of my family members are the weak-kneed, shoulders shaking, wet-face kind of sad because they don’t need to be. What does it look like to the people that aren’t related to us? They probably will just chalk it up to grief, and, in the worst case, they’ll think us all insensitive, hardened monsters for not crying at our matriarch’s funeral and discuss later in hushed tones with their own families. Truth is, I’m the only one who should get the title of monster, as my anger renders me unable to sit still at this dignified occasion, has me sighing ever so often, and I’m not even trying to mask my bone-deep boredom. That’s right. Having this gift doesn’t make us particularly special. You might think it’d make us grateful, drill into us how lucky we are that we don’t know grief in its most visceral form, when it spells out forever. Instead, we’re the same old messy humans. We just have more time to be jerks to one other. When the priest is finally done talking and everyone walks over to the front of the room to look at the embalmed body of my grandmother, I pull out my two-generations-old red phone from the black velvet clutch I borrowed from cousin Rosa, the only thing that fits in this clutch. I couldn’t even squeeze some sanitizer in. I check the time. This 6 day has been going on for at least five hours, with no food in between. Funerary masses usually are double the time of a regular one, so three hours. Then there’s a procession that moves from the church in the cemetery to the crematorium room we’ve been assigned. Now I have to endure these goodbyes. I notice a text from my best friend, and soulmate, Dal: Soulmate: U sure Riri? we don’t need to. After waking up today and seeing the black, just-above-the-knee dress I wore for my graduation laid out on my bed, I texted Dal that I wanted to work on our weekly video tomorrow. Me: Yea need a distraction ☹ Today has not even ended and I already want to escape. If my parents were chiller, I would’ve asked Dal to meet today. I tap out of her chat and scroll through my notifications--the usual annoying “So & so has uploaded to their story” notices, including a 4Realz pic from Fiona, my cousin. I look up and search for her. I spot the fishnet stockings first, lingering around at the front of this stuffy gold room. While she waits to “say goodbye” to Abuelita, she’s flirting with some poor clueless acolyte, or liturgical assistant, who must be around fourteen. Definitely a couple years younger than her. The white boy’s eyes are huge as he stares at Fiona’s fluttering fake eyelashes. He must be reconsidering his closeness to God. 7 When and where was the 4Realz selfie taken? Not five minutes ago, she was sitting three rows over with Aunt Matilde and Mateo, her brother, almost directly in front of the priest. I decide to take a pic of my own so that I can see Fi’s. I lean over to my little brother Nico. “Hey, let’s take a selfie for 4Realz.” He doesn’t respond. It’s like he doesn’t even hear me. His gaze is fixated on the front of the room, where a line of mourners snakes outward from Abuelita’s coffin. Maybe he is looking at the slogan painted in dark green on the wall above Abuelita: “Love travels beyond what we can see.” Such bullshit. I wave my hand in front of his eyes. “Tierra a Nicolás.” Though he frowns, he doesn’t blink. Just looks at me for a fraction of a second before turning his attention back to the funeral’s main event. “What Ria?” “I said, let’s take a selfie.” He gazes up at me with his round, coffee-bean brown eyes, same as mine, like only ten-year-olds can. Immensely judging you but being cute at the same time. “Why are you being stupid right now Ria?” His voice is loud enough that people in adjacent pews interrupt their conversations to look our way. I smile awkwardly at them, hoping I can convey that everything is just fine and then I turn back to my brother. “Hey! Don’t talk to me like that.” It comes out just like when our mom threatens us in public if we’re being annoying. Silky smooth and more dangerous than a scream. Nico’s eyes fill with tears. “Abuelita’s in that box and you’re—” He takes one big gulp and his eyes become cascades. 8 Shit. “Shh, shh. It’s okay, Bug. I’m sorry.” I scooch closer to him so I can put my arm around his shuddering shoulders. He turns his face towards my chest and sobs into the center of my black dress leaving a water and snot mark where my heart is. I move my hand through his hair. I scan the room looking for my parents and hope to God they haven’t seen us. Somehow my little brother crying will become utterly and completely my fault. I’ll never hear the end of it. Thankfully, they’re not even in the room anymore. They’re outside with their backs turned to us and the entire funeral wake. They’re chatting with my dad’s brother, Uncle Roberto, and some of Abuelita’s neighbors just outside the glass doors. The sniffling subsides and Nico wipes his nose with his arm, leaving a translucent white streak on the arm of his black suit jacket. At any other time, I’d have taken the chance to laugh at him and call him gross, but the fact that this is his first funeral, the first experience with Death that he can fully grasp, hits me like a casket to the head. “Here, give me the thing dad gave you this morning.” This morning, while I was fixing my mascara in the first-floor washroom, I overheard Dad giving Nico one of his neatly folded white handkerchiefs and telling my brother to keep the white square in his back pocket just in case. Then, nonchalantly, he moved on to adjust Nico’s black, skinny tie. My father has never been the emotional type. The handkerchief, something Dad was given by his own father, Abuelito Omar, was meant to stand in for “I love you.” Not sure that was enough, but both Nico and I got it. And now, in my own way, I am telling Nico that I love him by cleaning his snotty, tear-stricken face, then folding the handkerchief in such a way that no dirty part will 9 touch his clothes. That he even lets me act motherly is Nico’s way of showing me love; plus. I suppose the fact that none of his friends are around also makes it acceptable. “Ria, can you come with me to say goodbye?” he asks. Though his eyes are glazed over and looking towards the front of the room again, his twitching leg betrays his anxiety. It’s the first time he’s ever lost someone to the land of spirits and the certainty that he hasn’t fully lost Grandma was stolen away by the woman herself. Nico is scared and grieving like any normal person would. I’ve been so consumed with my own anger and my longing for indifference. “Yes, Bug, of course,” I whisper and hook my arm around his elbow. He’s tall for his age, only a couple inches away from catching up to my five foot one, eighteen-year-old ass. It would be weird to hold his hand as if he were a little kid, even though that’s exactly what he is. Everyone says I’m our father’s daughter and Nico’s our mother’s son, with a few exceptions here and there. Height, for example. Dad’s built like a lighthouse. Other than that, my skin, like his, is blanca como la leche, and I’m constantly reminded of how pale I am, both as a compliment and not. Nico’s skin is the same soft brown with olive undertones of my mom and grandma. His hair is brown like the colour pencil you used as a child to color in tree trunks. My hair is unworked jet, black and straight, but constantly messy. We line up and shuffle through the khaki speckled floor towards the front of this understated, fog-white room. The only source of natural light are the glass doors at the back. Other than that, the cool, medical bulbs that light up the ceiling cross are the only thing lighting our path. The space is so small that the sober murmurs and sorrowful 10 heaves crowd the space and make me want to plug my ears. We walk through the corridor in between the few rows of pews, most of the space in the room taken up by the casket with the cremation chamber is right behind it. From the last time my family gathered here, when Abuelito Martín died, I vaguely remember that once the unassuming silver door behind the casket opens, it’ll be like looking down a volcano’s main vent. Mateo and Fiona Gonzáles Molina, my favourite cousins, meet us midway to the casket. They’re returning from saying their “goodbyes.” The siblings and I make up the pathetic teenage lot of the family, so it only makes sense that I’m closer to them than any of my other cousins, who are much older and have real lives, jobs and even babies. They definitely look like siblings. Everything about them is round. From their amber, cat-like eyes to their full cheeks that frame button noses. They’re also both quite short, even for the Molina side of the family. The fact that I’m taller than Fiona, who’s sixteen, and the same height as Mateo, who’s my age, is one of my great sources of pride. Appearance is where their similarities end, though. Personality-wise, they’re as different as loafers and combat boots, which is exactly the footwear each of them prefers. Loafers for Mateo and Fi loves her combat boots, neither of which were changed for this occasion. Mateo, like all the other men, is in a black suit and black tie. Fi, surprisingly, agreed to put on a black dress. That is, on her own terms. She’s wearing a mid-thigh, lacy black slip paired with a Victorian velvet choker which has a giant, onyx gemstone in the middle. I’m shocked that Aunt Matilde agreed to the choker and the fishnets and, as usual, I’m in awe of Fi’s boldness. My mom and I would 11 probably get into screaming matches if I decided to dress like that. This thought makes my arm hairs prick up in alert. Now, Fiona and I mockingly glare at each other and nod our heads, as if we were fierce gangbangers. Mateo reaches out to ruffle Nico’s hair, an awkward gesture given their height difference will be non-existent by the end of the year. Then, without a word, they continue on and we move a few steps forward. When it’s just Nico and me in front of Grandma’s shell, the whole world disappears. It’s impossible to look anywhere but at the embalmed, chalky grey face. The golden hue of Abuelita Lucero’s soft brown skin is gone, despite the layers of makeup they put on her face to make it seem like she’s just sleeping. We shared a bed for a long time after her multiple knee and hip surgeries. Her short hair, which she used to dye the auburn of her youth, is now fully white, because in the past year she finally embraced her age. Someone must have told her she looked good with all-white hair. Like me, she’s wearing the outfit she wore to my high school graduation. I wonder if whoever chose it knows that. It had been so easy to spot Abuelita Lucero on the bleachers, because she was wearing a turquoise blue skirt suit with a black, silk camisole underneath. She looked stylish and bright, glowing with pride. She kept pointing at me and clapping with joy. My dad’s mom, Abuelita Concha, got annoyed at the show of emotions. I wonder if Abuelita Lucero knew that day that she was going to leave us out of her will or worse, had she already done it? When she wrote her will, was she racked with guilt or did she feel justified in not wanting to be connected with us—with me—ever 12 again? How could she pretend to be proud of me that day when all along she just wanted me out of her life? At graduation, I remember telling her she was embarrassing me with all the kisses and hugs and telling whoever would listen that I was the valedictorian. Maybe she decided I was disrespectful, a spoiled brat. Or maybe I didn’t talk to her enough, or maybe I didn’t defend her enough when my mom got angry, or maybe, maybe, maybe… Nico squeezes my arm and I realize my cheeks are wet. I dab at my eyes with my pinkie, careful not to smudge the mascara more than it already must be. I didn’t wear waterproof makeup today as an act of petty defiance. I figured this whole funeral was just a formality. Sweet Nico reaches into his back pocket and hands me Dad’s handkerchief. Even though it’s kind of gross, I lightly tap it to my face. “Why did she do it, Ria?” he asks. “Why didn’t she want us in her after-life?” “I don’t know, Bug.” He glances down at Abuelita’s body and his eyes fill up with tears again. I solemnly return his handkerchief and swallow the anger that flares up in my chest. I know there are no maybes with Nico. He didn’t deserve this. Period. I unclasp his elbow and grab one of his shoulders to make him face me. “I promise, it has nothing to do with you.” Silently, I promise Nico that I’ll get an answer and fix this, for both of us. * We were the last ones to say goodbye to her remains. Everyone is back in their seats, silent and waiting for the priest to close up this ashen chapter of our summers. 13 The acolyte struggles to bring the casket-head down and it closes with a thud that has the finality of a sharp song’s last note. No one says anything, it seems like no one even breathes when the heavy wood panel closes on the Abuelita Lucero we all once knew. The priest says a few last unimpressive words about how Abuelita is in a better place and how we will meet with her soon. He doesn’t know the half of it, I think, as he sprinkles holy water on the casket; Grandma’s protection as she moves into what he calls purgatory, but my family calls limbo—the three days and two nights she’ll travel to and await entrance into the land of spirits. Once more, the priest’s assistant struggles to open the metal door of the cremation chamber—this boy really needs to hit the gym—revealing the red-orange depths, and wheels Abuelita’s casket into the mouth of a fiery monster. A lot of Abuelita’s friends start leaving. I don’t blame them for not wanting to watch the disintegration of someone who probably called them on the phone a few days ago. My family and I wait, seated in our pew as the people who were at the front of the room trickle out. The casket is halfway into the chamber. When we finally stand up, I hiss at Nico to cover me, which he does for a whole two seconds before getting embarrassed and walking over to take my mom’s arm like the coward he is, and take a picture of the casket entering the oven. I don’t trust myself to remember how I feel right now, but I need to immortalize the image the way it deserves. The priest signals for his attendant to close the sliding door before the casket is even fully swallowed by the volcano. He’s sending a very clear message. Finish up, get in your car, and leave immediately. Super welcoming for families that have to come back to visit graves and the cinerarium. That’s not our case, though. My family always 14 keeps the ashes for a year, then disperses them in a place that’s important to the spirit, so that they can visit that place whenever they want to. I wonder what Abuelita will choose. Will I even be allowed to know? Will she let me go there? My family are pretty much the last ones to exit the crematorium. I hurry through the parking lot to catch up with my parents and Nico, and climb into the back seat of our silver SUV. Mom is already in the passenger seat, giant Paco Rabanne sunglasses still perched on her face. I know she can’t see shit without her actual glasses. As Dad maneuvers us onto the street, I take one last look backward. All the other cars are gone, but one man is standing near the door, looking lost. He’s bulky, but in a fragile way, like someone who used to play sports, not slumping because his grief is too heavy to carry. He has longer hair than any of the men in my family. It grows so long past his ears that the white hair curves upwards around his lobes. He wasn’t there during the service. For all I know, he could be someone waiting for the next service, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him—his hair—before. 15 Chapter 2 It’s too early to be awake on a Saturday. It’s also too sunny for the day after a funeral, just generally speaking. It feels like it should be dreary gray and rain should accompany the salt stains on our cheeks. I think the sun knows that my family is not really grieving, though there have been tears. The sun might also not give a rat’s ass. The tension around here is intoxicating. After we got home yesterday, Mom snapped at Nico for doing what he always does: leaving his shoes haphazardly in the foyer and directly jumping to turn on his game console. That’s how I know she’s in a bad headspace. Snapping at me? That’s common. I’m disorganized, I waste too much time, I don’t help enough around the house. It would be more noticeable if my mom went a full day without snapping at me or, at the very least, making a comment about the myriad ways in which I could improve. But taking out her hurt on my perfect little brother is a day to note. At least Saturdays are also the only day that Mom allows herself to sleep in, which presents me with a perfect opportunity to escape to Daela’s house instead of stewing in the fumes of guilt, pain, boredom, and anticipation that fog our house on the eve of Abuelita’s return from limbo. My best friend lives around the corner from our townhouse complex, close enough that my mom can’t really worry too much or, worse, forbid me to go for some unreasonable reason. There’s also the fact that I am eighteen years and five months old. I never thought I’d become the kind of teenager who would tell her parents that she’s an adult now and can do whatever she wants. Turns out I’m basic as hell. How can I not be when my playlists are filled with the global top 40 instead of cool indie 16 bands and classic rock songs? So, yes. Since I became an “adult,” I’ve made sure, on a few occasions, to let my parents know that I can make my own choices and, legally speaking, they can’t stop me. Legalities haven’t stopped them. I leap out of bed without even scrolling through social media, and open the blinds, welcoming in the sun like it’s an old friend. After I’ve brushed my teeth and taken a lightning fast shower, I throw on the first pair of joggers, black, and decent-smelling sweatshirt, black, I can find, being as quiet as possible, so I don’t wake anyone up. The idea that I might boil in these clothes doesn’t occur to me. I’ll be inside most of the day, in air-conditioned places. I’ll be fine in this twenty five plus weather. When I come out of my room, I look up the stairs that lead to my parents’ room. The master bedroom and ensuite washroom take up the entirety of the third floor of our house. Right in front of my parents’ sliding door is the exit that opens up to the terrace, where we keep a neglected barbecue, covered-up outdoor sitting, and a wooden chest for extra storage. My room apparently has the only source of natural light in the entire house at the moment, so even the blinds covering the terrace door must be closed. I close my door quietly for no reason at all because as soon as I step in the hallway that looks down on our dining room, I hear the murmur of the TV. Someone must have woken up while I was showering. I still try to mute my movements as best I can so that no one else wakes up. Down the hallway from my room and right next to the washroom we share, Nico’s door’s still closed. Of course it is. He’s a ten-year old boy on summer vacation who has just attended his first funeral. He’ll sleep until noon. As I’m tiptoeing down the laminated wood staircase, avoiding the creaks I’ve learned by heart, I pray to whoever will listen that it is Dad downstairs. 17 I lean over the railing, hands lightly wrapped around it and eyes closed. Please. Be. Dad. That doesn’t usually work, but I guess the spirits are on my side today. When I open my eyes, I see the back of his balding head. He’s sitting on our greige L-shaped faux-leather sofa, arm stretched towards the TV with the remote in his hand, harshly pressing the volume button. He’s watching DC’s The Flash. I rush down the remaining stairs, over to the couch, and plop next to him. “You’re watching without me?” I poke his belly as retribution for such betrayal. He grins and swats my hands away. “I’m just catching up to where you’re at.” “Well, I don’t mind re-watching with you.” “Why would you ever re-watch anything? It’s a waste of time.” That’s my father, the ever-practical man. I turn to the TV and see Iris and Barry in the middle of one of their melodramatic scenes. My dad’s right. Re-watching this would be a waste of precious time. I stand up and start putting on a pair of Dunks I left in the shoe rack that leans against the wall by the entrance. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my dad noticing me as if for the very first time. “You’re ready for the day.” He’s not only practical, but Captain Obvious. “Were you going somewhere?” It’s the “were” for me. He’s talking in past tense, as if he might change the course of action I’ve set for the day. “I’m going to Dal’s house,” I admit, then add, “We’re working on one of our videos.” 18 Dad pauses the episode and peers up at me. “Is that the best idea? Your grandma just passed and you’re leaving to hang out with your friend?” I can hear my mom all over this concern. At least my dad is direct about it, rather than passive-aggressive. “No, it’s not,” I answer, groaning internally. “In fact, it’s perfectly normal and healthy that I’m seeking out my friend’s support, isn’t it?” “Whatever you say.” He raises his hands in defeat and presses play on the episode again. “Just come back in time for church.” “Whyyy church?” I sound like an infant, but I don’t care. “We went yesterday.” “María, be back after lunch.” The discussion is over. Before leaving, I say, “Tell her where I am as soon as she wakes up. Don’t forget.” My dad just waves at me. I slip outside and run all the way to Dal’s house. Her calico cat, Boba, is sitting in the sun on their front porch. He wraps himself around my legs leaving enough fur to genetically produce another cat. I crouch down to scratch his black ears or he won’t let me pass. As soon as he starts getting comfortable and dropping to the floor, I stand up. Such a needy cat. Boba meows in protest and although I wish I could sit and cater to his every whim all day, that’s not a possibility. Dal and I have a purpose today. We’ll get this video done and maybe this will be the one to catapult us into influencer stardom. Doubt it, but one can always dream. 19 I wave goodbye to Boba and open the door. Dal and her mom leave it unlocked when I’m coming. A very Castle Heights thing to do. Leaving your door unlocked would definitely not fly in Little Mexico. After I close the door and immediately lock it behind me because it’s not in my blood to be as trusting as the Delgados, I sit down in the mocha-painted hallway to take off my shoes and slip on the pink, fluffy sandals Dal leaves out for me to use in her house. At this point Ms. Delgado—Gloria, as she insists I call her—steps out of the kitchen, and the delicious and warm smell of onions and eggs cooking, intermixed with the pungent aroma of freshly brewed coffee follows her out. My stomach grumbles. Gloria Delgado looks like she’s ready to run a marathon, with her black tank top, bright blue leggings, and dyed-blonde hair in a high, messy bun. Even though it’s a Saturday, she has her earbuds in, which means she’s working. As she comes over to greet me, she “hmms” and nods emphatically, as if the person on the other end of the call can witness her strong approval. Without saying a word to me, she smiles her perfect, straight-teeth smile and holds out her hand to help me stand up. She then throws her tanned, bare arms around my shoulders. With one arm around me, still on her call, Gloria guides me through the linoleum floor to the staircase by the kitchen’s swinging wooden door. I peek in at the country French-style kitchen with bronze pans hanging from the dashboard and steam rising from a kettle on the stove. Gloria notices and quickly ducks into the kitchen. She returns with a blue, porcelain plate with a tiny hill of cheese arepas. I take it and mouth “thank you.” 20 I know Dal’s house’s steps as well as my own. I know linoleum has sharper edges than laminated wooden flooring, and a scar on my knee to prove it. If I look at the mantel going up the stairs, I know I’ll see younger versions of us looking back at me. My best friend and I on our first day of first grade, when I moved here; her in a cheerleader outfit and Gloria and I sporting our best Northwest team spirit attire—a bit cringe, but whatever; the most recent one of Dal and I in our academic regalia. Front and centre though, is a picture of the three Delgados, one of those professional family portraits where a chubby, five-year old Dal in pigtails is squashed between the beaming faces of her doting, loving parents. Every time I look at that picture it strikes me how much of a carbon copy of Gloria’s Dal is. Her smile, though, that’s unmistakably, one hundred percent Alejandro Delgado. Toothy, debonair, and infectious. On the second-floor landing, to my right, I hear water running in the washroom, so I go ahead and enter Dal’s room. Her room’s wooden door, painted peach and sporting her name in bright purple letters, is slightly ajar. That’s the theme of this house: all the hallways are painted neutral colours, but each room’s door is a vastly bright colour different from all the others. You’d never expect it just by looking at the off-white with black trim of the exterior. To the right of the stairs, I hear water running in the washroom, so I go ahead and enter Dal’s room. It’s dark, other than her fairy lights, and the lavender sheets and plum comforter on her bed are strewn around haphazardly, as if a tornado swept through. This is why, when I stay over, Dal brings out a spare mattress. Nightmares have plagued her since her dad died when we were nine and have her constantly tossing and turning. 21 I set the plate of arepas on top of a pile of notebooks on Dal’s study desk and make the bed. I’m of the group that believe there’s a right way to make a bed. You have to tuck everything in appropriately and tightly so that you can squeeze between your sheets like the fillings of a tamal wrapped in a plantain leaf. This also gives me an excuse to push away the desire to wallow in misshapen grief. There are people who actually lose their family members forever. I should be grateful that I get to live never having to know the pain of nursing an open wound every day of my life. It’s a sin to be angry at Abuelita for putting a boundary between me and her. That’s what I’m calling it. A boundary, the thing you set in place to protect yourself from harm, because I hurt Abuelita. Seems to me like it’s the other way around. “What did that duvet do to you?” demands Dal. She’s standing in the doorway, pajamas and towel in hand, moist brown curls leaving water marks on her pink, oversized shirt. Underneath it, she’s wearing a simple white tank top paired with fisherman jeans. Suddenly I wish I’d put more effort into my outfit. I release the corner I was trying to shove underneath the mattress and smile sheepishly. “Sucker’s too thick, just like its owner.” She throws her pajamas at me with fake indignation. “Bigger is always better.” I scrunch up my face. “Not always.” She laughs as she makes her way to hug me. My friend smells of mangoes, coconut, and vanilla. With her arms wrapped around me, her laughter turns into a sigh and dies out completely. “I’m so sorry, Ri.” I wish she hadn’t brought it up, but I can’t blame her. Just one more thing to feel guilty about. I’ll be lying to my best friend if I act grief-stricken, but I can’t explain the 22 situation. When she finally lets go, I don’t say anything, just sit down cross-legged on the freshly made bed. Daela raises the blackout shade that was keeping the summer sun at bay, letting warmth spill into the bedroom. That actually does more to comfort me than the Delgados’ hugs. She perches on her desk chair and spins around to look at her reflection in the mirror. The desk is part vanity and part study space. She begins to apply toner upon serum upon lotion on her freckled taupe, cool skin; the sun bounces blindingly off her cheeks, staved off by all the chemicals. “Ri, I wish I could’ve been there yesterday—” she mumbles. “You couldn’t have.” I reach for the plate of arepas she’s completely ignoring and pop one in my mouth. “I could’ve been there for you.” I swallow and then grab her free hand to squeeze it gently. “I would’ve never asked that of you. I know what funerals do to you and my whole family in the same place can be quite a lot.” Dal sighs and smiles lightly. “Can’t argue with that.” She returns to the mirror and applies a light layer of blush. “Btdubs, we’re about to film so you need to change.” “Whyyyy?” I look down at myself as I devour another arepa. “Black on black gives Paranormal Activity vibes, nah?” She stares at me for a whole two seconds before I get up and search through her closet to find something more social media-worthy. I don’t put much effort into it, because once she’s done with her makeup, she’ll come over and work her magic. 23 * Half an hour later, she’s done with me. My straight hair is up in a sleek, half ponytail that matches her low bun. I’m wearing a get-up similar to hers, only my basil-green shirt has bishop sleeves. I got to keep my black sweatpants since our legs are never visible in our videos. Today we’ll film in Dal and her mom’s office. This room is very forest core. Dark oak furniture and deep-green walls covered with golden pentagon-like shapes. Reminds me of the café where I work part-time. Our channel, AlmasGemelasReact, is exactly what it sounds like. Two best friends—soulmates—decided their reactions to pop culture artifacts were hilarious and their commentary worth sharing with the world. For today’s video, I suggested we finally initiate Dal into the art of horror movies. I have a twisted sense of humour, considering my family experiences, but I really find ghost and exorcism movies hysterical. A thousand and one times, Dal asked me if I truly wanted to watch this. A thousand and one times I insisted that I did. Part of the questioning was coming from her own aversion to horror films, but she also didn’t even want us working today. She told me our subscribers would understand if we missed one week. I insisted I wanted to film and not let anyone down. Dal is no stranger to the absurdities people engage in when they are grieving, so she didn’t question me about why I texted her on the eve of my grandma’s funeral. We set up the tripod with our Fuji Xs10 camera and turn on the recording light we got at a flea market. We plop down in front of Ms. Delgado’s giant, curved monitor, perfect to feel all the horror. Dal’s mom is a graphic designer whom I‘ve modeled my 24 developing career after. A nagging of guilt burrows in my chest when I remember Gloria in the kitchen with her earbuds in. “You’re sure your mom doesn’t mind us hijacking the office today?” “Don’t worry. She’s got her laptop.” Her hand swats my worries away like fruit flies. “She shouldn’t even be working today so as an act of revolution, she works in front of the TV downstairs.” Ms. Delgado’s anti-capitalist antique makes me crack a smile. Working today is my act of revolution; filming a video with my friend while we watch a stupidly eerie film about “spirits” is my way of fending off family drama. We haven’t even started the film and I already think it’ll be hilarious. At least I think it’s funny how scared people are of the remnants of their past, how we twist mere desire for recognition into something monstrous. After all, the “demons” and “spirits” in these films, that’s what they want, no? Recognition. After Dal has set up the film and tested the sound, we fix each other’s hair, check our teeth and our noses. We’re ready to go. “Hello lovelies! I’m Dal—” She tilts her head toward me. “—and I’m Ri!” This preppy, sing-songy version of myself emerges every single time I speak to the camera, but I don’t hate her. Wish she was around more often. Unfortunately, she’s not a spirit I can call on whenever I want. “Y’all. I finally caved,” says Dal. I look cheekily at the camera. “That’s right y’all. We did it! Daela Gonzáles is going to watch a horror film.” 25 “The people spoke and I must comply. Today, Ri and I will be reacting to and discussing the original Paranormal Activity, a found footage film from—” As Dal introduces the movie, my eyes move between her and the camera, compliantly nodding along. Usually, when we’re filming, my hyper fixated, perfectionist side comes out. Today, I’m far away, in the realm of spirits, wondering if whatever all-powerful being is judging Abuelita will ask her about her decision to punish Nico and I over a fight with her daughter, a fight that a telenovela writer couldn’t have scripted better themselves. Abuelita had a secret boyfriend. Well, secret from Mom anyway. I knew about him and I have an inkling so did most of the family. He wasn’t to be within a five-mile radius of the funeral, but that didn’t stop him. I’m pretty sure it was him who I saw lurking at the very end of the ceremony, when all that was left was the residual heat from the open cremation chamber and the warmth from the recently-sat-at pews. How hard was it for him to lose her? Did he know I’ve been feeling like I’m engulfed in flames ever since Abuelita left her body? I’m angry in a way that shoots out from my limbs and makes me dig my nails into my palms. A gentle nudge to my knee startles me back into the video. Shit, I missed Dal’s cue, but I’m back now. “As always, if you like this episode, give us a like and subscribe to our weekly shenanigans. Onto the film!” I relax a bit on my chair because now that the movie is playing, I can just be genuine about my reactions, or at least 99 percent genuine. When the suspenseful parts start, especially the night scenes with the thuds and the creaking doors and the shadows, Dal grabs my hand tightly and practically 26 squeezes the bejesus out of me. She’s doing her best not to look away but every so often, I catch her neck moving towards me. Me? I’m trying to figure out how to react. As Dal yelps and spews an endless parade of “Oh my god, oh my god” and “What the fuck?” We’ll have to bleep that out, but it’s kind of hilarious. Am I psychopathic? Probably not. Lots of people laugh during horror films, whether out of adrenaline or pure disbelief. I’m the latter, but the difference is that I laugh because I know the truth and I know that’s not how spirits act. They’re just who they were before death, only translucent blue. Once the movie ends, Dal remarks, “What the heck was that?” She stands up and grabs a bottle off her desk. “I need some water.” “I think we broke her,” I say to the camera. “How were you even laughing at that?” She finishes almost her entire bottle. “Nightmares. I’ll have nightmares.” “I was laughing at you,” I tease. “The real question is how could you not laugh? They barely showed anything” “But that’s not the point, right? This was real footage. In. A. Real. Home!” She emphasizes each word with a clap. “I don’t think that’s true,” I say, leaning back into my chair. “There were so many incongruences, like spirits don’t even have shadows and they can’t really touch anything so how would they make noise?” “Since when do you know so much about spirits and the supernatural?” Shit. Said too much. “I… I read, like one does, to prepare for this video podcast episode.” 27 “Okay, weirdo.” Her eyebrows are raised in surprise or perhaps amusement. “I mean so many posts about paranormal activity talk about shadows and weird noises, so this seemed pretty legit to me” “You know what? Let me Google it.” I say it to distract from my intimate knowledge on the workings of the supernatural, but also because I want to win. I pull out my phone. My parents will comment and throw hands at my eccentricities, but they’ll always get exactly what I want for Christmas. On the condition I actually write a letter to Baby Jesus, thanking him for our gift, as if I were still my brother’s age. “So this movie is not based on real footage. Ha! I win, the actors kept the same names for dramatic effect” “Damn.” Now it’s Dal’s turn to sit back. “Okay, well, that makes me feel better.” The episode continues for a good twenty more minutes in which Dal hypes up the movie and I shit on it. I have to work really hard to keep the conversation on track because Dal wants to talk about spirits and what I believe and don’t believe in. When the camera is off, we high five. I start pulling out the memory card from the camera while Dal puts the chair back at the table in the office that belongs to her. She lays her elbows on the back rest and turns to me. “So, you believe in all that spirit stuff?” I stop putting the tripod away. “I mean yeah, to an extent.” Great job, Maria. Rue my past self for letting my big-headedness get in the way. “Like what?” “I don’t know Dal -” stupid, stupid, stupid. “We’re both Catholic. I believe in a soul and a heaven.” No, I don’t. 28 “Do you think my dad’s up there?” I don’t know where the spirit world is in relation to where we are, but I know that’s not the point. I walk towards my friend and hug her. “Yes, I know he is.” This is true. “He’s watching over you and your mom.” Untrue. A sigh heavy with tears escapes her, but she doesn’t let a single tear do the same. “Your grandma too.” Yes, my grandma is out there somewhere, but she doesn’t care to watch over me and I want to know why. 29 Chapter 3 My parents and I are the last ones to arrive at my cousin Rosa’s. Fiona texted me an hour ago threatening that if I wasn’t there soon she’d pass out of boredom. Not sure how I’d be able to prevent that. Is not only Rosa’s baby, Guido’s, first birthday party; it’s also the third day after Abuelita was cremated and the day she’s supposed to return to the world of the living, to us. Talk about getting outshined. We’re usually pretty punctual, but Nico has soccer practice today, so we had to drop him off. Nothing ever comes in between Nico and his extracurriculars. This gathering is non-essential according to my mom. Go figure. The only reason I’m ever allowed to skip out on family time is if I have school work to complete. When it comes to me, the most important thing for my parents is that I’m number one in all things academic. God forbid I have passions outside of acing my tests. Now that it’s the summer and I’ve graduated, there’s no excuse to use anymore. Not even the bloodiest, most excruciating menstrual cramps would convince my parents to let me rest at home. “Take some Advil and let’s go,” they would say in unison because that’s how creepy they get when they won’t fall for my bullshit. After five flights of stairs and no elevator, I ring the doorbell. Tía Constanza opens the door of the small two-bed apartment. “Mi María bella!” She engulfs me in a hug and I can smell the Chanel No. 5. Thankfully, she didn’t try to kiss me because I’d have to wipe a cherry red lipstick stain from my cheek. As she says hello to my parents, I take her aquamarine set in. A flowy camisole and wide-legged pants that swish and lift every time she moves revealing golden flip flops. Her shoulders are wrapped in a thin, blue shawl that seems to sparkle in the light like water. Honestly, she could be going to 30 a beach wedding in this getup. Too bad the closest beach is an eight-hour car drive, towards the border with Mexico. Tía Constanza hands me a blue paper party hat and smiles at me expectantly. I put it on and the elastic string, tight around my face, makes my skin bunch up in places. My aunt lightly taps my under-chin. “So, just a small piece of cake today for little María!” My smile is tight. I’m trying to make sure the string holding the hat on my head doesn’t wiggle off and stifle the urge to text a scorching complaint about this fat-shaming comment to Dal. “Yeah, Maria doesn’t like birthday cake too much anyway. We’ll share one piece,” my mom commands as she enters the apartment that used to be ours. I actually do like birthday cake and I would like my own piece, but today is tense enough. I’m not about to disturb the delicate balance. Everyone is already here, even all the ghosts, so Abuelita’s absence glares at us like the hot Texan summer sun outside. This morning, Aunt Matilde called our house. She sounded nervous. It might have been the news she was delivering or whom she was delivering it to that made her voice stumble through the landline. As is tradition, the oldest member of the family, now Matilde, was to call Abuelita Lucero into the world of the living first thing in the morning on the third day after cremation. But Grandma didn’t answer my aunt’s call. Aunt Matilde then enlisted the help of the entire family, those who can call on Abuelita, anyways. No answer for anyone, no sparkly blue apparition. We were the only ones left to call, even though we could technically do even less than anyone Matilde had called beforehand. 31 I handed the phone to my mom and then continued to get ready, the bathroom door wide open like an ear on the wall. “Tilde, no se preocupe. Everything’s going to be okay.” My mom was using her loving, big sister voice, even though Matilde is two years her elder. “It’s not possible for Mamita—” that’s the first time in weeks Mom had used an endearing term to refer to Abuelita Lucero. “—to have failed judgment. It’s just not possible. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this and we’ll figure it out together at Rosita’s.” Once we were in the car and Nico had been dropped off, mom spent the entire car ride complaining about how ridiculous and irrational it was for Matilde to call, because what on earth were we even supposed to do. “Nothing, that’s what! There’s nothing we can do because that’s what your abuela wanted,” she protested, looking at me through the rear-view mirror. I scoffed and shook my head because, for once, I agreed with my mom. Way to rub it in, Aunt Matilde, and use Mom as an emotional support toy. Sometimes, that’s what family’s for. Rosa’s apartment is decked out in “little boy” party decorations. There’s blue everywhere. Right in front of the entrance, the blue and silver Happy Birthday banner sits on the wall behind the dining room. The cloth covering the dining table is sky blue, the balloons are all different shades of navy, cerulean, teal. Even the cake has a polka-dotted blue dog on it! What if baby Guido grows up to like pink, or yellow, or maroon? He’ll look back at the pictures of his first birthday ever and feel like he has to like blue or he’ll disappoint all of us. 32 As Aunt Constanza closes the door, I start my round of hellos. I have already spotted Fiona and Mateo sitting on the refurbished, tired brown couch in front of a TV that wasn’t here the last time. They’re watching a rerun of some sitcom. Abuelito Martín is nearby, dozing off on the matching armchair. Seriously, does he not get enough sleep in the Realm of Spirits? I could just make a beeline for them, but it would be sacrilegious to not hug and kiss every single person in this apartment. To the right, in the kitchen, I see this morning’s caller, Aunt Matilde. Checkered apron on, she’s perched over a boiling pot of something. Those better be her world-famous papas chorreadas. Colombians love potatoes in all their mushy and crunchy forms, but when you add some spiced tomato and onion sauce--delicious! After side-hugging her and taste-testing her sauce, I start my trek towards my cousins. Right next to the kitchen is the dining table, the top of which is bursting with images of whoever this blue dog is. Napkins, plates, and glasses, all adorned with its face, have been arranged symmetrically. I can’t judge the person who picked these out too hard, though, because I used to be in love with this show about a giant, red dog. Something about dogs that aren’t the colours they’re supposed to be must have mass appeal. Beneath the Happy Birthday banner, around the table are too many people. At the centre are the birthday boy’s proud parents, my cousin Rosa, and her fiancé, Juan Carlos, who’s holding baby Guido. Next to them are Rosa’s sisters, Marina and Julieta. They aren’t triplets, but they might as well be. They’ve all got the same soft-brown skin that their dad had, waist-length black hair, and they’re curvy like the famous Latinx women you see on screen. I can just hear my mom, “Deberías hacer más deporte. Your 33 cousin Rosa, a few weeks after having the baby, was already going out to run every morning at five. So disciplined.” Yay for Rosa. Of course I wish I looked like them. It’s not like I don’t try. I go swimming religiously, but my DNA lost the curvy Latinx memo, and coded me flat-chested and chubby cheeked. I blame my father. Marina is talking to her dad, Tío Emiliano. He looks exactly like he did when he was alive. Eyes little more than dark sockets, skin thin and glued to his bones by the K and meth that used to run through his veins. Even in this blue-ish, transparent soul-state, he still has the darker hued blueish spots where his arms were bruised by unforgiving needles. The major difference is he smiles and looks happy. Forgiveness can do that to a person. He is a tender soul who just fell into bad circumstances, though not everyone in the family thinks this way. While I go around the table giving fake cheek-kisses to everyone and one real head kiss to baby Guido, my mom exchanges pleasantries with Emiliano. “Emiliano ¿Cómo está?” She’s trying to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. Her neck is raised, as if she’s looking down her nose at him. The conjugation she’s using in Spanish, of usted instead of tu, is supposed to keep him at arm’s length, letting him know he doesn’t belong. Emiliano doesn’t care about the scorn. He just keeps smiling. “Consuelito, I’m blessed.” He holds his hands in front of him in a prayer position. “I get to see my grandson grow, what more could I ask for?” Boom. Slap. Mic drop. Go, Tío Emiliano. “Yes, babies are always a blessing, a hope for a better future.” My mom moves on to said better future, and now I have to apologize for her. 34 As my parents head towards the living room, where I want to be, I hang back a bit to talk to Emiliano and Marina. That’s my apology, showing them that I care. “Soooo, any plans for your first college summer?” I ask. I really suck at small talk. “I was just telling Dad I’m going to take a couple classes during the summer terms,” Marina chirps. I sit down and rest my hand on her knee. “Why, Marina? Why?” I search her face for an explanation, mock disbelief on my face. “Why would you willingly do summer school?” She chuckles. “I’m doing a minor, so if I want to graduate within the same four years, I need to take summer classes.” “What minor?” It’s Emiliano who answers my question. “Addiction studies.” It’s like his tired skin is trying to plump up and he shines brighter with pride. “Wow. That’s really awesome, Marina.” I beam at them. “Maybe I’ll do a minor, too.” My parents can judge Emiliano all they want, but I know he loves his daughters above all, especially Marina, because she always saw his addiction as what it is. A sickness. His passing was sudden and he didn’t get to leave anything for his family to call on him, but that wasn’t his decision. My cousins use his ashes to tether him to our world. Those will run out eventually, though, and none of us know what will happen next. 35 I’m finally done greeting everyone and can get to Fi and Mateo, who are quite literally ten steps away from me, but Rosa decides to address the party. Amazing timing. “Now that we’re all here, maybe we can start with the pictures--” I interrupt her. “We’re still missing Abuelita.” It’s as if I’ve thrown a wet blanket over an air-conditioned party. Drafty, tensing, all around uncomfortable. I don’t think anyone expected me to be the one to bring it up, but how could we all not be thinking about Abuelita? There are limited reasons why she didn’t appear the moment Matilde called her this morning. The possibilities feel even more dire when she didn’t show up for any other family members. She could still be in limbo, though I don’t know what would be holding back the decision of letting her pass. For ghost-seer spirits there’s no heaven. I don’t know if one even exists. Instead, there’s the spirit world from which souls can be called upon by their living family. There’s also the possibility that she just didn’t want to answer the call. It’s like not picking up your phone when you don’t want to talk to the contact on your screen. I wouldn’t put it past Grandma to do that, but she’s also bound by tradition and why would she want to make her entire family suffer? The final option is the licks of fire lorded over by a well-known, horned fallen angel. There’s only one way to call someone out of there. I looked it up last night, just in case. For all we know, Abuelita is being consumed by eternal flames as we speak and no matter how much she hurt me, I don’t think she deserves that. Hers also doesn’t seem like the type of transgression that would land you in hell. Not on par with murder, if you ask me. 36 “María is right, Rosita. We should figure out what to do about Mamita before the pictures.” Aunt Matilde has emerged from the kitchen and is wiping her hands clean on her apron. Her tone is not reprehensive, but her grimace is. Rosa’s eyes bug out in embarrassment. “Absolutely, Matilde. You’re right.” She’s apologetic. I see Juan Carlos put his hand in the small of Rosa’s back to comfort her, as if she’s the one needing comfort. Whatever. Rosa can be pretty dense, but I don’t think she meant harm, and I’m mostly just envious of the gesture. Aunt Matilde addresses us all now. “It doesn’t matter who calls her, Mamita hasn’t come to any of us.” “No one saw her in the spirit world, either,” Marina adds, probably having discussed this with her dad. “Hehe. Maybe my ex-wife is finally with her lord, Satan himself.” I bite the insides of my cheeks trying not to smile. The connotation is not funny, but Abuelito Martín’s clear indifference to social norms, plus the fact that a few moments ago he was sleeping and woke up just to say that, you can’t miss the humour in that. “Ay Papá!” My mom waves her hands in front of him, as if airing out a bad smell. “So, what other options do we have? Who can we call? Is there anyone we can ask?” “We should do a calling circle,” I pipe up so quickly, I don’t think anyone heard me. “What’s that?” asks Fi from behind me. She heard. “Well, it’s in the contract. It’s, uh,” I stumble over my words and try to look anywhere but at all the different shades of brown eyes piercing me. “Basically, uhm, we all—” heat washes over my cheeks. “—well, everyone in the family with a calling device 37 gets in a literal circle, with all the calling devices in the center and, uhm, make the call at the same time.” I look down at the floor, avoiding the questions in my parents’ eyes. “I’ve heard about those,” says Mateo. When I turn to look at him, his face is hard. “Feels a bit intrusive, Ria. Wherever Abuelita is, she can’t resist that call. Might be painful, especially if she’s in, uh...” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. My chest rises and falls as my breath tries to catch up with my wild heartbeat. “I don’t know if there’s anything else we can—” “We’ll try it,” says Mom. The command in her voice leaves no room for hesitation, interpretation, or defiance. As everyone scampers to find their calling devices and moves towards the living room, the spirits, my parents, Juan Carlos, baby Guido, and I move out of the way. I’m glad Nico isn’t here to endure the humiliation of being cast aside with ghosts and non-gifted family members. A pile of what would otherwise be considered ordinary objects, even junk to the untrained eye, gets heaped on the two piece, oval-shaped coffee table. Fiona lays down distressed golden earrings; Julieta, a violet brooch adorned with small pearls; Marina, Abuelita’s lime green, knitted cardigan; Mateo, the black, leather bound address book that I picked out for Abuelita years ago. Did Grandma think of me as she was setting aside these pieces of her for our relatives? Or did she simply not care enough to even think what she could have given me? Once all the last pieces are on the table, I guide everyone through the call. Thankfully, the Eternal Contract was very detailed about what was to be done. Just to make sure, I go grab the Bible I know Rosa keeps in her kitchen cupboards and I read 38 out the instructions. “Everyone hold hands and close the circle. Whatever happens, don’t let go.” Yes, this is how cults start. “Now take a deep breath and as you exhale, close your eyes.” It feels like a group meditation to keep our grief at bay. In a way, that’s exactly what we’re doing. My mom’s arm reaches out to wrap around me. She’s literally giving me strength. Holding me steady and tall. She can be comforting sometimes. “Now, in your mind, say the name of the person you’re trying to contact three times.” Abuelita, Abuelita, Abuelita. “And finally, everyone repeat out loud, “We summon you here and now.” “We summon you here and now,” everyone intones. The effect is immediate. No windows are open and yet everyone’s hair is flying in all sorts of directions. The skin underneath my sweatshirt erupts into goosebumps. No lights are on, but something flickers intensely. It’s as if the sun himself is blinking. Then, the room is filled with an aroma I know all too well. The pungent, freshly floral scent of gardenias, mixed with coffee drunk and enjoyed. I observe my family amidst this chaos. They haven’t let go of each other, but most of them have opened their eyes. They look at each other, at me, at the devices. Where is she? Only Tía Matilde and Tía Constanza are still holding their eyes tight shut, afraid that they’ll open them to a world where loss is the taste of their morning coffee. Everything intensifies and then we all hear a loud CRACK. I jump and squeal. Rosa’s coffee table lays broken on the floor as if it couldn’t take the weight of all calling devices and of the blue, sparkling figure that lays there, crouched, arms over her head like you’re supposed to do during an earthquake. Abuelita has returned to us. 39 No one moves for a good five seconds. I’m reminded of that story in the Bible where a woman was about to be stoned before Jesus reminds everyone that we are all sinners and judgement isn’t within our duties or our rights. Mateo is the first to approach her. “Abuelita? You’re okay. It’s just us. You’re home.” I look at my mom. She doesn’t notice. She’s frozen in time. Her eyes locked on her mother’s form, trying to capture Abuelita in case a false movement makes the spirit dissipate to the Realm. Abuelita’s voice is brittle and her English broken. “Mi Mateito. What happened? I was—” She looks up in a daze. The first thing they teach you in CSI shows is how to tell if someone is about to feed you a lie or a memory. It has to do with the direction of their stare. I wish I paid more attention when Dal and I were reacting to those. Abuelita’s eyes are looking up and left. “I was in limbo for a long time.” When her eyes focus on the room once again, she scans it cautiously afraid of what she might encounter. Her eyes, once soft golden-brown, are now crystallized amber tinged by a blue filter. She looks even tinier without her corporeal body, if that’s possible. I became taller than her a few years ago, but it still feels weird. In death, she’s wearing a dress. Not the one from her funeral, but one she used to love. She isn’t in colour, but I remember this one is purple with tiny pink and white flowers all over it. On top she is wearing what I can only assume is the cream wool cardigan that she always paired with this dress. My grandmother’s eyes do the same flickering the sun was doing a few moments ago. When she lands on my face, her expression softens, a smile tugging up at the corners of her mouth, but when her gaze shifts to my mom, the crinkles around her eyes 40 deepen to form a chasm of anger. The flickering stops with the anger on. In Spanish, in her mother tongue, she asks, “Whose idea was the calling circle?” Abuelita tears her eyes off us and she searches for answers in the guilty faces of all her daughters and grandkids. “Fui yo, Abuelita.” I can’t hold my Spanish for too long, so I word vomit in my mother tongue. “Wedidn’tknow whereyouwere andwewere allreallyscared thatyouhadbeensentto aterribleplace andIknowyoudon’t wantanythingto do withmyfamily, but—” My dad puts his hand on my shoulder and his warmth reminds me that there is a rhythm to breathing. “Lo siento. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you weren’t answering.” My eyes well up with tears. It’s like looking underwater and I don’t know if it’s the tears or my grandmother has truly softened her expression. Mom adds, “There was no other option.” She’s unapologetic. “Where were you?” The ravines around my mom’s eyes are carved with the same knife as my grandmothers’. How can two people that look so alike be separated by such a petty chasm? Voice infused with guilt, Abuelita explains, “Most of this time, I was talking to the Realm authorities.” All her intense emotions and her pain seem to be leaving her body with each word. “I was hoping they could help me pass something on to you, Mijita, and all of you, mi María, Niquito, and Ricardo.” Though I’m aware that the entire family is looking at us and we’re in the middle of a baby’s birthday party and not a supernatural telenovela, I clear my throat to speak. 41 “How will that work? What will you leave us?” The part of me that’s wounded doesn’t care that this is a private conversation in a very public setting. I’m a fish in a pond and Abuelita just hooked my hope. “It’s all very confusing, Mijita. There’ll be house visits and interviews.” For whom? It’s like we’re criminals instead of a normal family that fights. Though even without our gift, I don’t know if I’d use the word normal to describe us. “For now, they said you can use my house as the calling device.” I look at my parents, hope curving up my lips. “That’s good, Abuelita. Nico will be very happy.” I can’t let her know yet that I want to fix our relationship as much for him as for myself. Annoyed and sceptical, my mom clicks her tongue. “What good will that do once we sell the house?” Pettiness and hurt hone the art of torturing a heart. You cut deep and you watch it bleed, but never allow it to die. My mom is a true artist. “You’re selling my house?” Abuelita’s voice falls into our ears like droplets of a bleeding, beating heart. There were two things in Abuelita’s late life that her daughters could never make her budge on, no matter the amount of guilt tripping or emotional blackmail (both of which are Latinx specialties). First, Abuelita divorced my grandfather a couple years after he became a spirit. Second, she never allowed anyone to mention selling her house because she would stay there until her last breath. I scowl at my mom and try to comfort Abuelita. “We’ll get everything sorted out before then, Abuelita.” 42 Her face is severe, like she regrets fighting to make things right. I know her worry is not the timeline. “A ver, bueno ya,” says Tia Matilde, signalling that she’s assumed a new role. She’s decided to be the one in charge of moving things along and reminding my mom, me, and my grandmother that we aren’t the centre of the universe and certainly not of this family. “Mamita, we haven’t decided anything yet. We’ll take a look at the finances, but that’s a later discussion.” Abuelita nods, hopeful and my eyes crinkle with sympathy. Mom stares out the window into the apartment’s small balcony, refusing to acknowledge the chaos she created. As my family starts moving again, claiming their calling devices and shoving the broken table out of the way, Tía Constanza speaks. “Sí, sí, another time. We’re just glad you’re back, Mamita.” Her voice then becomes high pitched as she shimmies her shoulders towards her grandson. “Now we should all take pictures with the handsome birthday man.” Juan Carlos passes baby Guido to Constanza. “You’re going to break so many girls’ hearts, picaflor, aren’t you?” And with that very heteronormative and sexist comment, the show goes on. 43 Chapter 4 It’s been a week since Abuelita completed her passage and returned to us. I haven’t seen her since Guido’s party. We don’t usually visit family during the week and I’m still trying to devise the best way to tell my mom that, unlike her, I do want to see Abuelita. My next chance arises today, the Friday that marks exactly a week since the funeral. I wake up to discover that sunlight is trying its hardest to slip unnoticed through the cracks of my blackout blind. I wish I had the sun’s will to dodge the obstacles of life this early in the morning. Without getting out of my perfectly cozy duvet, without even fully opening my eyes, I reach for my phone sitting face down on my nightstand. I scroll through my notifications and see a bunch of new texts in my thread with Fi and Mateo. Their sibling rivalry slowly coaxes me out of my slumber. Cousins4Eva Mate: Guess who has to take a lil excursion today? XD Fi: stfu. i h8 u Fi: I was f-ing sleeping Mate: just prepping u for the rough summer school vibes Mate: and unlike your lazy ass I have a job Fi: just a tip don’t come back from said job Excursion? My sleep-heavy brain can’t keep up. What’s Mateo talking about? Me: Where r u going? 44 Fi starts to respond. Three dots appear and disappear a couple times. A virtual, real-time representation of her hesitation. Does she not want to tell me where she’s headed? Eventually, she hits send. Fi: Cemetery. Abuelita’s ashes. What was a gentle tug out of sleep now becomes a hard yank. I bolt up into a sitting position, hands shaking a little as I type what I hope is a nonchalant response. Me: I’ll tag along The three dots appear, disappear, appear, disappear… and then I read, Fi: okie, c u in 1h Their lack of sarcastic commentary on my interest in spending a free day going to one of the most depressing places on earth makes me think that they’re pitying me. I do feel pathetic, trying to hold on to a person who has already let go of me. But Abuelita gave me hope a week ago. She reached out to me with a solution before my mom slapped her hand away. I’m trying to mend this relationship not only for me, but for my little brother too. Nico deserves a grandparent. Someone who can help him know the place he’s from but has never been to. Someone to teach him in the soft ways that my parents can’t. He and I deserve more than a petty grudge that has nothing to do with us. So fucking what 45 if Abuelita fell in love and had some dirty thoughts? God forbid people have sex for more than just procreation. Not that I’d know. It’s not like I’ve ever been looked at in the sort of way that would make me want to betray my family. * Two hours later, I’m sitting shotgun in the Gonzáles Herreras’s taxi. No, for real, like a top white, black sedan that makes you think of the 1920s … or penguins. Aunt Matilde works two different jobs. By day, she works at a beauty parlor where she does all sorts of magic with her hands, from massages to gluing on unbreakable gel nails. By night, she makes sure drunk people get home safely and welcomes dead-tired passengers to the desert-sandy beauty of El Prado. How else can she afford to send Mateo to Yale? It’s just me and Fi on this “excursion,” and my cousin won’t let me drive. Fi’s driving is the opposite of who she really is. It’s careful, almost fearful. My cousin can be as erratic as a metal song, but she would never mess with her mama’s car. We barely talk on the thirty-minute drive to the cemetery. Fi has her auburn hair in boxer braids, out of her face. I see her knuckles whitening from the effort of holding onto the steering wheel as if it were going to run away without her. I don’t want to stress her out more, especially on an interstate, so I just stare out the window while a Top 40 radio station plays in the background. As I look out into the dry, hot sand and the thirsty, rocky hills, I think about where I’ll be at the end of the summer. I chose a school located in a city that, in the dictionary, would be the antonym of El Prado. Vancouver, British Columbia is 1,837 miles away from the place and the people that brought me up. The photos online make Vancouver seem like the kind of place where everything blooms all year round. El Prado is the 46 place where things get covered in dust. Spend enough time here and so much dust settles in your lungs that you’ll choke. Choosing a place far away from here was a necessity. When I read the email telling me I was accepted into Emily Carr University, I was at my grandmother’s house. It had been a couple months since her last hip surgery and, begrudgingly, her daughters allowed her to go back to her house on the condition that for most of the day, there was someone with her. That day, it was my turn. Usually, I’d arrive early in the morning and she’d already be up preparing coffee and making us breakfast, even though my mom specifically told her not to lift a finger. “Ay Abuelita!,” I exclaimed, as I let myself into her place. “What are you up to? You know I can do that!” I hurried over to hug her and kiss the top of her head. “No, no, mijita. Yo tengo que atenderla a usted.” She always wanted to serve all her grandchildren. It was her way of showing us love. On birthdays and Christmases she would always apologize for not buying us presents, but she would make sure to cook our favourite meals. That day wasn’t special so she was making a simple breakfast of toast and soft-boiled egg. Even though I told her I could do that, I never got the consistency right. The perfect yolk always evaded me. If I’d done it, we would have ended up with a hard-boiled egg, with a crumbly, almost neon yellow yolk. I didn’t mind this breakfast, but Abuelita always made me put a sprinkle of rue on my first bite of egg. She said this would keep colds and bugs away. Living in rural Colombia, my grandmother carried way too much knowledge about the medicinal properties of plants that tasted like butt. I rarely got sick though, I’ll give her that. 47 Before eating, she always made us thank God for all our blessings. That’s what we’d do most days when I visited her. We prayed the rosary—well she prayed and I mumbled the words pretending I knew them—watched TV mass, aka I was on scrolling through thirty-second videos on Briefly; went to church where I’d try my hardest not to fall asleep; or she’d call her praying circle over and I would put my barista skills to use, making the ladies try new variations of coffee beverages. Almost always, I got positive reviews. The day I got the acceptance, Abuelita was being Abuelita. Before we could eat, she closed her eyes and put the back of my hand on top of her palm. “Padre nuestro, te damos gracias por las bendiciones…” I always tried my hardest to feign devotion for her sake, but so many parts of Catholicism make my blood curdle and my muscles shrivel like flowers that haven’t been properly cared for. What do I do about those parts? I can’t ignore them. Just like I can’t ignore the buzz of my phone when I received email notifications. Especially in April, when I was waiting to hear from schools. While Abuelita finished her prayer, I watched my phone screen light up and buzz with an email from Emily Carr University. I didn’t even let Abuelita finish her gratitude to the lord before I unlocked my phone with my free hand and read. Dear Miss Molina, I am pleased to inform you that your application to Emily Carr University of Art + Design was successful and you have been conditionally admitted to Foundation Year 1, Communication Design track… 48 I shrieked, dropped my phone on the table, and covered my mouth with both my hands. “¡Ay mijita!” said Abuelita. “¿Qué fue? ¿Qué pasó?” Hands still over my mouth, I mumbled, “I got in.” “No le entendí, mi María, ¿qué?” “I got in, Abuelita, into the university I wanted in Canada. They accepted me!” I grinned unabashedly and pumped my fist in the air. Abuelita stood up as fast as she could and hugged me. “Mi amor, congratulations. Siempre has sido el orgullo de esta familia.” I’ve always been the pride of this family. I don’t feel that way often, or at all, but Abuelita used to say that to me over and over again. I wonder if she knows how much she was part of my application, how every single piece in my portfolio came back to the family she had raised in this country. I was most proud of my portrait of her, sitting in an empty church, praying the rosary. She mumbled adoring words to an unknown entity and I tried to capture that devotion, and make it mine. Most of all, I wonder what she thinks of me now. I shake myself out of my memories as Fi turns into the parking lot of the cemetery. It’s moderately empty today. “Oh my GOD, that was terrifying,” Fi says with her forehead on the steering wheel. “Okay, stop the drama, queen.” I put a palm up in front of her. “I should be the one thanking god for not allowing you to kill us.” “God had nothing to do with this.” Her arrogance is endearing. “You should thank me for being a great driver.” 49 As Fi makes to get out of the car, I stop her. “Wait. Can I ask you something?” My eyes dart down or out the window into the headstone lawn. Anywhere but my cousin. I feel her settle next to me waiting for me to spit it out. “I want to talk to Abuelita alone.” “Ri, how will you do—oh.” Recognition expands to all corners of her sixteen-year old face. At this moment, she looks like she did when we were kids and she’d follow me up monkey bars and down slides, no matter the cost. “Okay, cool. I’ll stay here then.” She doesn’t offer any other possibilities or ask questions. She just trusts me. Before I get down, Fi flips to the backseat, armpit visible and almost on my face thanks to her white tank top. She’s reaching for the necessary paperwork. I take it and hold my cousin’s gaze for more than necessary, searching for encouragement and the bravery that defines her. With no words, I get out of the car. Abuelita’s ashes are handed to me in an unassuming, bottle-like, wooden container. It’s not even stained, just a light, raw wood. The only thing separating it from a dollar store item is the fact that praying hands have been carved on the lid. Of course. That’s the logo for the cemetery, because everything is a business these days, even dying. I walk away from the main building and the parking lot, out through the pebbled path that snakes through the grassy field of the tombstones of countless buried strangers. The path continues over a small hill, down towards the boundary of the cemetery. Between this hill and the fence are the graveyards of those too young to understand the open, ever-bleeding wound they left in the people who loved them. I know these are children’s graves because of how they are decorated. It’s not just the 50 sober white roses or sunflower bouquets on every other tombstone I’ve passed. These are overwhelmed with pinwheels, toys, doll houses, vibrant flowers. Makes me a bit sick. I turn my attention back to the bottle filled with Abuelita’s remains and realize I’m hugging it tightly to my chest like a talisman, or a steadfast presence. Out here, I’m mostly out of sight of the main building and there’s no one visiting any of the children. Inhale until there’s no more space left in your lungs. Now let go. A technique I learnt from the counsellors at school. Pouring my grandma’s ashes in this place will immediately bring her to me, much like the calling circle did. We don’t use this method of calling because it is finite and it scatters the soul’s presence; little parts of them ever present where the ash particles travel to, almost poking holes in their being. The only reason my cousins do this with their father is because they don’t have a choice. I have a choice. I just hope I don’t regret it. My hands shake as I unscrew the container’s cap. How can this be all that’s left? Suddenly all the metaphors make sense. The colour of ash, a sad mound of ash, it’s painful to look at. This will forever be the stark opposite of hoping and being alive. In a way, ashes are also extremely fragile. If I’m not careful, a whisper of wind could rob me of my grandmother. I mutter a prayer into the ashes, the same protective one I say every night before falling asleep or I can’t go to bed. Slow and methodical, I take the container in my right hand and barely flick my wrist towards the ground as I think “Abuelita.” 51 “¿Mi María?¿Cómo?” Her voice comes from behind me. She doesn’t sound nearly as hurt or afraid as she did when she appeared to us after the calling circle. As I turn to look at her she’s taking in her surroundings. She never ventured this far into the cemetery but it’s not hard to understand where we are, all puzzle pieces falling into place as her gaze lands on the container pressed against my chest. “¡María! Con eso no se juega.” How quickly I went from being hers to just being a common name in her tongue. I know our gift and these ashes are not things to play with. I’m not five. The adults in this family seem to lack an understanding of how growing up works. Instead of antogonizing her, I plead with her. “Please don’t go, Abuelita. I just wanted to talk to you alone.” Her posture and voice soften. “Mijita, you could’ve gone to the house like I told you to.” No, I couldn’t have. “Or told one of your cousins to call me.” There was no way to know if those would even work. I know from eavesdropping on my mom’s conversations—unintentionally, of course—that sometimes Abuelita doesn’t show up when her daughters call her. Who knows what she’s doing. Never mind the humiliation of having to ask to use someone’s personal calling device. It’s like running out of battery in the middle of the street and having to ask a stranger for their phone, only way more personal. “I just needed to be sure,” I say. “So, can we talk?” “Yes, Mijita. Siempre.” Always. The lie pinpricks my heart like a papercut. A bitter and sharp pain that only lasts for a few seconds, thankfully. “I… I…” Come on, María, I chastise myself, just spit it out. “I just, I was wondering about what you said at Guido’s party.” 52 “What, Mija?” She can’t be this oblivious. “About adding us to your will now.” She sighs in comprehension and moves closer to me. “Nothing would make me happier.” The hope I thought was squashed under the uncaring boots of resentment starts to bloom again. “Me either, Abuelita.” I feel this urge to engulf her in a hug. If I tried, I’ll just go through her and tumble onto one of the graveyards. Since I can never hug her again, I do the next best thing. I ask questions and water the blooming flower. “What do we have to do? Have you continued investigating? Where do I have to go? Who do I have to talk to?” Abuelita chortles. “Siempre tan curiosa.” When the laughter recedes, she somberly explains, “there’ll be a person assigned to our case. They’ll be the one deciding if we qualify for a will amendment or not.” This sounds like a child protective services enquiry. A qualified, completely unrelated-to- us person gets to decide if our family is worth saving or if we’re better off being torn apart. Suddenly, the question of all these children’s spirits haunt me. They obviously didn’t think to write a will and they’re too young to have signed the Eternal Life contract. What would happen to them then? Do they become mere memories? I snap out of it. “How will they do that?” “There’s an application I need to fill out. I’ve been trying to look for some legal advice.” 53 The discomfort travels from my gut up to my neck, poisoning my heart with anger on the way. This whole process and all these hurdles are so unnecessary, should’ve stayed buried deep within our ignorance. “Papa Omar,” I manage to say. “¿Don Omar Herrera? ¿Su abuelito?” “Yes. He used to be a lawyer in Colombia. He’s very smart.” I defend Abuelito even though no one’s attacking him. I pit his intelligence against my mom’s and grandma’s stupidity. It feels good, even if she doesn’t get it. “I could ask him to help us. Make sure your application is solid and then he can walk us through the interviews.” “Mijita, eso sería perfecto.” I stop myself from rolling my eyes. Of course having me fix her mistakes is perfect. “¿Y su mamá?” she asks. My mom, not her daughter, is the wild card in this plan. “I think Nico can get her to collaborate.” She chuckles. I don’t let her off the hook, though. “You might also need to talk to her.” She nods. “Ya sé.” Is she admitting what she did was wrong? Huh. Still, it doesn’t change anything. “Comencemos con la aplicación,” she presses, asking me to help her fill out the application. Clearly, she wants to avoid confrontation for as long as possible. “¿Mijita, puede venir a la casa en una semana?” 54 “Yes, Abuelita. I’ll come over next Friday.” The poison in my heart is slightly cleansed by the comfort of familiarity. Maybe for a moment, it’ll be like when I used to spend the day with her. “I’ll bring Nico, too. He really misses you.” “Si, mi amor. Yo también quiero ver a mi chiquito.” This doesn’t feel like a lie. She misses him, too. We say our goodbyes and my grandmother’s spirit leaves me in the middle of this graveyard. 55 Chapter 5 “Oh well, that’s fucked up,” Fi slurs in between bites of her peanut-butter cup Blizzard. One the way home, we decide to stop at a drive thru advertising a two-dollar deal on soft serve. There’s no way we were passing that up when there are no judgy voices around to tell us how fries stick to our hips and sugar seeps into our pores to make us pimply and unflattering. Who will want to marry us that way? We’ll end up alone forever. The horror. After we get the desserts, Fi parks the car. Since the cab is a bit old and I cannot in good conscience say it has a functioning AC, Fi and I sit outside the fast food restaurant, baking and basking in the sun. I don’t tell my cousin much about the conversation with grandma, just that the whole appeal thing is true, but I focus my attention more on the goodbye. The familiarity of it, the total erasure and avoidance, and how I’ll probably never hear an apology from Abuelita or Mom. The words “I’m sorry” would probably make their tongues itch and swell, constricting their capacity to breathe. “I’m never having kids,” I say, peering down into the pink melted mess that used to be my strawberry cheesecake blizzard. “Me either.” It’s sad. Most young people, at some point during their teenage years, have vowed to never have children. Motivations are many and I’m willing to bet dysfunctional families are at the top of that list. Our family absolutely doesn’t lack flaws, but our relationship with Death should be enough to overlook all the things that don’t work. 56 Raising kids knowing that you’ll never have to say goodbye to them, so many people would kill for this opportunity. If you ask the regular Joe, they’d probably give anything to see again the people they have lost. Almost everyone wants one last trip to the zoo, one last dad joke, one last lazy Sunday morning, and almost everyone forgets how it was all punctuated by the fights, screaming matches, the burning sensation of your own blood tearing you apart. I get it. What’s the point of holding onto the bad stuff? It’s only you who suffer and the dead person, well, they’re dead with no way to know all the destruction they left in their wake. Our family knows. Our spirits come back to the disasters they made and continue to strewn rubble or they cover their mistakes with a blanket and we continue to live with the unhealed scars. Not even death can do us part. “You done?” Fi holds out her hand for my almost-empty cup. I come out of my daze and hand it to her so that she can throw it in the garbage. I walk up to the car and put my back against it, following Fi with my gaze. She enters the store to find the trash can, but then heads for the washroom. This is my chance. I open the passenger door and rummage through my bag until I find the travel-size shampoo bottle and mini-funnel I threw in this morning. If the women of this family have taught me anything, it’s to always be prepared. The container of ashes is lying sideways on the cab’s pristine fabric chair. The sun’s glare makes it hard to see through the window, but it seems like the coast is clear. I place myself strategically behind the car door so that even if Fi walks out of the washroom, she doesn’t have a clear view of what I’m doing. With the funnel on top of 57 the small bottle’s mouth, I unscrew the cap on the urn and pour some of the ashes into my transparent container. I make sure not to think of her or say her name in case a bit of the ashes falls on the ground and I call her accidentally. I don’t take a lot. I just need enough to make sure that if anything goes wrong or there’s an emergency, I can call Abuelita a couple more times. Tía Constanza won’t even realize that anything is missing. As the last participles of ash and bone slide down the funnel’s mouth, I notice Fi exiting from the ice cream shop. I hurriedly shake the funnel, throw it in my bag, and close the urn first and then the little bottle. I toss everything to the back seat By the Fi gets in the car, I’m nonchalantly scrolling through my phone. * Fi drops me at Plaza Américas, this bare-brick, structurally unsound, sorry excuse of a mall in Little Mexico. I’m meeting my godmother for a two-way therapy session. I hug my cousin before getting out and linger nearby for a beat longer than usual. I hope these seconds communicate my immeasurable sense of gratitude. The decrepit mall takes up an entire block of this otherwise residential and corner store neighborhood. Mom and Abuelita are united about one thing: they both hate the Plaza. One would remark on the absurdity that a lifeless concrete blob could bring any good into our lives. The other would lament the loss of good friends that had to move elsewhere to make space for this ravenous monster. How dare it? Who was stupid enough to think that this would help the barrio? It was nice when they agreed about something. 58 I think of this as I walk through the now dingy corridors. There are so many empty stores, with “RENT NOW/EN ARRIENDO” signs plastered to them. I start tallying them but quickly lose count and interest. Despite the holes in the walls, there’s still some shops open. There’s a big chain supermarket, because why would a recession ever affect them, but also the most random stores like one that sells New Age items and is filled with statues of the Buddha and Hindu Gods and Goddesses, crystals and dream catchers. Fi is into all that shit and took me into the store once. All the incense in the store didn’t burn out my disbelief, but it sure made me cough up a lung. There’s lots of people here today; mostly pre-teens from the barrio that have nowhere better to go. I follow a rambunctious group of them to my destination. From the main entrance, the food court is located at the south most part of the mall. It feels like the one constant in this place along with the constant displacement and replacement of other stores. I scan the food court with its two or four-people metallic tables. I see her sitting smack right in the middle of all the hustle, iced latte on one hand and phone on the other. The boys have moved on to the Burger King. Could they be more basic? They are surrounded by Son de Cuba, Don Juan’s Pancakeria, Los Mariachis, Silvestre’s Platter, and other Latin American cuisines, yet they choose one of the only three American restaurants. Even choosing Panda Express would’ve been better. With my eyes still trying to bore a hole of shame on the backs of those boys, I walk towards the woman in the disheveled ponytail and black-framed, wayfarer glasses. She’s put her coffee cup down to furiously type into her phone. 59 “Can you believe them?” Shamelessly, I point towards the boys. “Unsophisticated palettes, I swear.” My godmother, Gracia, lifts her gaze from her unfinished text and examines the scene like a therapist would. “They must eat this at home all the time.” She points towards the Latine restaurants. “It’s probably the one time they can eat burgers.” Why does she have to be so nice all the time? Forget shades of grey. In every situation, my godmother sees all the colours of the rainbow. I hug her and kiss her forehead. “We missed you at Guido’s birthday party.” A beat. She finishes her text. I hear the sent swoosh and I know I have her full attention now. “I missed y’all!” She puts her hand above my knee. “I heard there was a lot of commotion.” “Ha!” I’m louder than I anticipated so my eyes dart around to make sure no one is looking at us. “That’s an understatement.” “Want to talk about that?” Her russet eyes are unassuming. Just sympathetic and caring. I shrug as if that answers her question. “I want to know about you, tiita.” Though it’s an evasion tactic, I do mean it. I barely get to see Aunt Gracia on my own, so when she calls me to have onces, a pre-dinner snack, with her, I never say no. She rests her back on the chair’s support. “Ay muñequita, same as usual.” Gracia is the youngest of the Molina sisters, with a staggering twenty years apart from Aunt Constanza. But every time I see her, I notice deepened wrinkles or new wisps of 60 white hair. “I talk to constituents, get yelled at by constituents, write reports for congresswoman Ortiz, and hope she does something with them.” “You do really important work, though.” Feebly, I try to cheer her up. “I do.” Her voice, usually sparkly, is dimmed by disillusionment. “But things feel like they never change.” This might be selfish, but hearing Aunt Gracia say this makes me feel pretty good. It’s just nice to have an adult trust you enough to confide in you and not pretend to be perfect 24/7. “Don Juan’s arepas will make you feel better.” I stand up and hold my hand out. “It’ll be my treat. I need to do something with all that barista tip money.” She grins and we approach Don Juan’s Pancakeria. The owner booms at us from behind the counter. “¿Esa es María Herrera? Como está de grande.” The use of my last name coming out of this round, mustachioed man’s mouth makes me feel weirdly warm. I don’t come to Plaza often because my parents moved us to Castle Heights so that Nico and I could access private education. Some days I wish we still lived here, surrounded by people who know us and speak our language. My Spanish is atrocious, but I get by. Nico can’t even understand it and only speaks what Dora the explorer taught him. “¿Cómo está, Don Juan?” Politeness first, as my mom would demand. “Nos puede dar cuatro—“ I hold out four fingers. “—arepas y un chocolate con…uhm.” Cheese! What’s the word for cheese? “Con queso, ¿verdad?” He helps me, no judgement. 61 I exhale and feel the embarrassment ebbing away. “Si, queso. Muchas gracias.” I try my hardest not to sound the least bit American, then pay an exuberantly low amount of money, and we head back to our table carrying our bounty of warm snacks. The rare occasions when Gracia and I have these evenings together, we talk about anything and everything. I think of my parents and their knack for knowing, sometimes, exactly what I need. They must have realized that I’d need someone in my life that is the perfect mixture of adult guiding hand and friend in disguise, so they chose Gracia to be my godmother. When it’s difficult to talk to my parents, I can always talk to Gracia because she expects nothing and trusts that I’m headed in the direction I need to go. Between bites of arepas and sips of chocolate for me and coffee for Gracia, we talk a bit more about her work and what Pradoans are asking for these days. She asks about the end of the summer and if I’m ready to move to the Great White North. I say with all my breath that I am. The only thing tugging at my heart strings is leaving Nico. I tell her as much. It’s part of why I need everything with Abuelita to go back to normal; Nico needs stability. I don’t say this last part, but Gracia appears to have read my thoughts. “Have you talked to Abuelita since the party?” There's something about the way these Molina sisters ask questions that makes me feel like they already know the answer. “No, I haven’t.” Lying to Gracia tastes ashen on my tongue and I picture the little shampoo bottle in my purse bursting into sudden flames. “Have you?” 62 “Yes, mi amor.” All of my godmother’s sentences are punctuated with love. “I try to call her every day. I think she feels bad about what happened between her and your mom.” I take a sip of the hot chocolate to try not to scoff and end up almost choking on a piece of cheese. When my coughing fit is almost over, I opt for silence. Gracia presses. “She brings it up almost every day and tells me she’s doing everything she can to fix it.” “Yeah?” What else am I supposed to say? When I see my aunt trying so hard, though, I don’t want to be mean. I bring back the conversation to the person it should be about. “It’s been really hard on Mom, too. They really need to talk.” “You should also go see your Abuelita. She mentioned you’d be able to use her house as the calling device.” If only she knew the half of it. “Yeah, I think I’ll take Nico next Friday. I just don’t know what I’ll tell my mom. I don’t think she’ll like the idea very much.” Gracia thinks for a moment. “Be honest with her, princesa. Otherwise—” “It’ll all explode in big, gulping flames.” Sometimes what you’re thinking is exactly what needs to be said. My aunt chuckles. “Otherwise, she might be hurt and sad.” Of course I don’t want that. She might be annoying sometimes, but I don’t want to make Mom sad. What am I supposed to do, though, when I’ve been put in the middle of a conflict that’s not mine but that I have to fix anyway? Why do I have to be careful with other people’s feelings when no one seems to care about mine? What about me 63 screamed, “Hey, instead of leaving me anything of sentimental value in your will just leave a mess. I’ll clean it up!”? I look down at my now-empty cup of hot chocolate. My lips tilt upward into the semblance of a smile, and pretend to take a sip despite the fact that there’s nothing left in my cup. 64 Chapter 6 Iced this, iced that. Can you steep the tea for longer? Can you not steep the tea for so long? I said thirty per cent ice, not fifty. This is too strong. Can you make another one? Jesus Christ. Work is the only place I allow myself to invoke the lord and saviour of Christianity because these downtown Texans need to be exorcised. It’s been so busy today that I haven’t had a chance to call Abuelito Omar to ask him for help with the will amendment case. “María, el lavaplatos, por favor,” says my boss. “Sí, Don Montessori.” That’s what I call him when I want to be smart. Emiliano Montessori, a 30-year-old Argentinian of Italian heritage living off of his Daddy’s business. At least he works and isn’t completely useless. Delusional? Maybe. I’ve been telling him he needs to hire at least one more person, but his stingy ass won’t listen to me. I finish the iced oat latte I’m working on for Khloe with a K—don’t ask me why some people are allowed to have children—then hurry to empty the dishwasher while Emiliano deals with the till and incoming orders. The dishwasher is right behind the gelato freezer because of course the Montessoris needed to show America what authentic Italian looks like, and they couldn’t stop at the coffee. I place our crystal-ridged glasses and the white ones that look like cut-outs of the Michelin man’s legs on the dark mahogany floating cabinets that line the forest green back wall. Say what you will but this is truly one of the most beautiful cafés in El Prado, which is why I applied in the first place. 65 Someone clears their throat behind me. “Excuse me, Miss, I’ve been waiting forever for some gelato. Can I speak to your manager?” Laughing, I spin around to see my dazzling best friend, who looks like she came out of a Lacoste ad with her low-cut, ribbed, baby purple tank top and her white-as-floodlights tennis skirt. Her curly hair is braided in half space-buns. This woman never plays. “Sorry, we don’t serve wannabe trust fund babes.” Dal glances down at her outfit, suddenly self-conscious. “Too much?” I shake my head. “No, never. You look gorgeous.” When I turn toward the till, there’s still a line, but it doesn’t reach the entrance anymore. Even if it did, I don’t care. After four hours, I need a break. “Emiliano, I’m taking my thirty.” Seems like I’ll have to talk to Abuelito after work, I think, already undoing my apron and running to the back to get my stuff. Emiliano, in the throes of making a matcha latte, exasperatedly says, “Really? Now?” That’s as much as he’ll complain because he knows I can pull the dead grandma card at any moment. Already on the other side of the counter, my arm hooked with Dal’s, I say, “We’ll be sitting right outside. I’ll run back if it gets, like, really bad.” Without waiting for an answer, I pull Dal through the tables that resemble tree stumps and make our way out of Idillio Café. We cross the street and sit at the plaza looking towards my workplace. “Thought we were meeting after work.” I feel around my tote bag. My abuelito’s old radio is on top of my lunch. I take out the cereal bar and munch. “Did you miss me that much?” 66 She grins goofily and I don’t think this smile is meant for me. “I always miss you.” “But?” “But…” She can’t even look at me, so I know what’s coming. “Josh said he wanted to take me out to celebrate our three months—” “Wasn’t that a few weeks ago?” I suck at keeping the judgement out of my voice. “Yeah, it was.” Her voice becomes a whisper. “But, you know, he had midterms and stuff.” “Right.” I sigh as I think of all the moments I’ve been on the receiving end of conditional love, like my parents being made of sugar if I abide by their exact wishes and expectations. At any sign of dissidence, at the most minimal difference, they can become my worst enemies. I don’t want Dal to feel that from me. I want her to know that I love and support her no matter what. Even when she blows me off for the smallest man who ever lived. “Sorry. It’s great that he wants to do something. I was just excited to work on our next video.” “Me too! That’s also why I’m here.” She pulls out her idea notebook from her puffer purse and holds it to her chest like a little kid. Tentatively, she asks, “I thought we could brainstorm our next idea right now?” “I’d like that,” I say. “I veto anything that has to do with ghosts or spirits or paranormal activity. That attracted a weird crowd.” I’m only half joking. The online reaction to Paranormal Activity was the best any of our videos has ever gotten, mostly because everyone found our contrasting reactions hilarious, but the 67 comments also went off with spirit theories and paranormal stories. Thankfully, people on the internet just view my performance as the paramount expert on spirit matters as an invitation to insert their own narratives. Only one comment really made me doubt myself: “I know what you are b**ch.” Dal reported the comment immediately, but witchhunterX777’s words are etched in my mind. His use of the most tired misogynist slur is of no consequence to me, but their username is no joke. There are no witches in my family. We don’t perform spells, rituals, or powers that would qualify us as such. In fact, the matriarchs of my family would be quite offended by the insult. We’re no strangers to counterfeits who actually believe they have a connection with the spirit world, but really just burn enough incense to purify a whole city. To each their own. Who am I to judge someone who fervently practices their spirituality when I carry a gift given to me by a god whose existence I mistrust? After fifteen minutes of back and forth, Dal and I decide that the farthest away from horror has to be a musical romance inspired by a Shakespeare play, so we opt for screening Westside Story, the original 1961 version. I go back to work and Dal sits at the coffee bar waiting for Josh. The universe has decided to play a karmic joke on Emiliano and as soon as he leaves for lunch, the crowd starts dying down, which means more down time with my best friend. I distract her from how disrespectfully late Josh is, and I distract myself from the conversation with my grandpa that awaits me at the end of this shift. I stare at the clock on the wall. Emiliano came back from his lunch ages ago and my shift ends in an hour. 68 “What time did he say he’d be here?” I ask Dal. “Uhm…” Dal turns her phone around to check the time. I know she put it face down to avoid checking every thirty seconds for new notifications. “He didn’t. He said he’d be here soon.” “He knows you’re waiting, though, right?” “Yes. I texted him.” Her voice is akin to a puppy’s whimper asking for love, but just as I’m about to tell her that Josh is a useless sack of orangutans, the bell above the door tinkles, announcing the arrival of said primate. Dal becomes a child on Christmas day, running towards her resplendent tree, who just stands there in his dark wash baggy jeans and name-brand hoodie. Rather than noticing how his girlfriend sparkles, or even looking apologetic, Josh’s gaze is level with my scowl. Maybe he can feel my eyes on his slouched figure like a rush of frigid air. He isn’t thick. He knows exactly what he’s doing dating a fresh-out-of-high-school girl who adores his dangerous act. When Dal reaches out and grabs his face for a kiss, his eyes remain open for the first few seconds of their hello as he smirks at me knowing full well that it doesn’t matter how I feel about him because I’d never hurt Dal by spelling out how odious this wanna-be hipster is. When they’re done full-on making out in the middle of my workplace, they walk over to the bar to retrieve Dal’s things. “Yo, what’s good Ria?” he drawls. “It’s Maria,” I mutter. Dal’s eyebrows raise and her lips become a thin line. Swallow me whole, Earth. I hope Josh didn’t catch that if only for Dal’s sake. 69 “Yeah, just chilling.” “A little too much, in my opinion,” pipes in Emiliano from where he’s filling the dishwasher. “Okay, that’s our cue.” Dal slings her bag over her shoulder. “Love you. See you Thursday!” “Have fun!” I say. As soon as they’re out of sight, I let my head hang and exhale. Whatever. Josh may be, like the British say, an arse, but he isn’t evil. Not to my knowledge, anyway. And I have bigger empanadas to fry at the moment. My shift ends two hours before closing, which leaves Emiliano clinging on for dear life as hordes of heat-struck customers come in for air conditioning, iced drinks, and gelato. I almost feel bad for him as I slink away with a free Nutella treat. I told him I had a family thing. We all know that is Latinx for, “I have to do it whether we like it or not”. Technically, I do have a family thing. Arguably, the most important family thing of all: trying to sew our fly away threads the fabric of our existence rather than sweeping things under a monumental, bursting-at-the-seams rug. The café’s back door opens to an alleyway with the dumpsters for all the businesses, from fancy pizza restaurants to travel agencies, in this main downtown street. Not exactly a premium location, but I walk down towards the corporate residential areas. The people living in those buildings have their noses too high up in the sky to notice I’m down here. I open my tote bag and dig through the contents: receipts, pencils and open pens marking their territory, a floral canvas pouch I decorated using fabric markers, a key 70 chain with all sorts of pendants but just one key, my wallet, phone, water bottle, and a book sleeve which usually carries my sketch pad or iPad. Not today though. Inside the sleeve is a portable analog radio. I know. Ancient. It has all but three buttons: AM/FM, tune, and volume; plus, a small, silver antenna to pick up frequencies. At least I think that’s how that works. Even after my uncle brought home a giant flatscreen TV, Abuelito never stopped using his radio. “Why do I need a bigger box when this little one tells me all I need to know?” he’d grumble. Whether he was listening to the news matinee or a football game—he was a big fan of the Mexican league—Abuelito’s ear was constantly glued to the radio’s porous speaker. It was his old friend who never failed. To call Abuelito, I tune in to his favourite station and think about him. It’s a condition he left in his will to make sure that I at least knew how to operate it and the radio didn’t become an empty box. Maybe that’s why I don’t call him often, even though I love him to death. When I switch to AM, I’m met with the buzzing sound of static, like a business of flies dancing in unison next to my ear. My heart beats to the rhythm of anticipation. Why do some people find white noise relaxing? I adjust his station with the tune knob—Recuerdo 750 AM. The last step is moving the antenna up and down, elongating and shortening it, until I catch one of those invisible waves that my Abuelito will ride back to me. I try all sorts of angles and lengths, walk a bit up and down the street trying to situate myself in between buildings that feel as if they were erected to interrupt connections. A whole five minutes pass with me waving a black box around in this 71 concrete jungle until I finally hear it; Toño Peña’s voice walking listeners through the latest regional disputes in Latin America. I don’t just call Abuelito. I go back. I remember what it was like sitting on his lap at the crack of dawn, when he and I would be the only ones awake in a slumbering house. I remember the staleness of his coffee breath as he tried to explain in broken English what the radio was muttering to him in Spanish. A breeze that feels like relief in the dry heat of summer. “¿Esa es mi María?” he asks. “¿Esa mujer tan alta y tan bella?” In his eyes there are two things I’ll always be: tall and beautiful. I’m neither, but the warmth of admiration spreads through me, making me feel like I am. I look down at the floor and brush his comments aside. “Abuelito, ¿cómo estás?” “Fine, mijita. Even better now that you called.” A chilly pang of guilt replaces the warmth in my veins. He didn’t say anything to make me feel this way. He’s just happy to see me, but I know I don’t call him enough. “Where exactly are we, mijita?” he asks, glancing around the alley. “Oh. Down the road from Idillio. Just got off work.” “And how are the Montessoris?” he inquires, I tell him all that he wants to know. To the extent of my knowledge, that is. I complain a bit about how Emiliano won’t hire anyone and how his parents, gems that they are, come out to help as often as they can, but haven’t been around for a while. Answers lead to more questions and I realize I haven’t properly filled in Abuelito about my life since graduation, which happened a month ago, and even then, we barely had a chance to speak since there were non-seers at my celebration. He asks about my 72 uncle and my grandma. I just tell him they’re good, going to church and the doctor and everything’s like it ever was. It’s not a lot of news, but it’s the best news because it means Abuelito hasn’t missed much. Occasionally, my dad calls his dad when we go to Abuelita and Tío Roberto’s house so that Abuelito Omar can see them, even when they can’t. It makes him happy to sit at his end of the table and keep an eye on us from the dining room like he used to do, while we sit in the living room watching television. On these days, I sneak glances at him in his chinos and short-sleeve, plaid shirts. He feels so serene. How does he feel back in the Spirit Realm? Is his mind constantly with us? I change topics somewhat awkwardly by asking about his father, my great-grand father, “How’s Abuelito Eduardo?” Abuelito Eduardo had tanned skin, like my uncle’s, and a severely rectangular, clean-shaven face. He adored knit cardigans, and his favourite was a moss green one that smelled of tobacco. He had a profound love for me and treated me like a china doll. It’s totally unfair that my mind can conjure him up, but according to catholic ghost seerdom law, I don’t get to see him because I hadn’t had my first communion when he passed. “He’s okay, Mijita. He’ll be happy that I spoke with you. What should I tell him?” This feels like a good segway. “That your grand-daughter needed your help desperately and you agreed because you adore her?” He laughs. It feels wonderful to make him happy. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s going to be a yes.” “I’m glad you feel that way,” I say, then launch into an explanation of my situation, every fact punctuated with the feelings of resentment and bitterness that have 73 lodged themselves inside of me, like rocks I stumble on trying to get to my point. I tell him about my mom and grandma’s big blowout fight, about Abuelita not leaving any of the Herrera Molinas items in her will. Finally, I end by telling him about Abuelita’s regret and the conversation we had at the cemetery. “So, we need a lawyer to help Abuelita with that application and to represent us somewhere. I don’t know how it works. She said to meet her this Friday to talk about it.” After I’m done, I gulp all the air I can because my words came out in a slur with no pauses to breathe in between. The words wouldn’t have come out any other way. One breath was all I had in me to recount a story not fully mine and yet fully on my shoulders. Once the grey of solid ground, looking into Abuelito’s eyes now feels more like looking into the water of the bluest, most transparent water in a white-sand beach, the ones the Caribbean is famous for. Something about him has always made me serene. He doesn’t rush into a solution or even any indication that he will help me. He’s not quite looking at me, either, just organizing his thoughts. I’d seen him do this multiple times when I was younger and would come to him for schoolwork help. Debates? Had them in the bag. Essays? College-level argumentation. All thanks to my lawyer-turned-custodian grandfather. After a hefty silence, he says, “I’ll go to the library in the realm and search for a full copy of the Catholic Eternal Life contract.” The realm has a library? Can books be non-corporeal? Despite my eyebrows touching each other in confusion, Abuelito Omar continues. “If they can’t or won’t read me one, you’ll call me and let me read it from your Bible.” 74 My mind is reeling and the only appropriate response to his sentencing seems to be nodding. Abuelito’s eyes are on me again, filled with the tenderness that was always especially reserved for me. “Mi María, we will find a solution to all of this.” It’s a promise not only that I’m not alone, but that I belong to someone. I want to hug him and the realization that I can’t recoils my heart. “Thank you, Abuelito. This means so much.” As he makes to leave, I reach out. “Wait!” The forcefulness of the plea surprises us both. “Can we keep this between us, Abuelito? I need some more time to get mom on board.” No questions asked, he nods, and vanishes back to the realm. 75 Chapter 7 I can’t avoid talking to my mom any longer. I’m supposed to meet Abuelita tomorrow. Once I walk through my front door, I have to come clean about my plans. My hand levitates in front of the keypad lock for several minutes. For the past few nights, I’ve been calling Abuelito Omar once everyone is asleep. Then I scurry to the first floor to retrieve our family bible, which rests underneath the glass topper of the coffee table. Yes, instead of a traveling or architecture table-book like normal people, mine displays a giant leather-bound bible that weighs about a thousand pounds. We chalk it up to being very religious Latines, and honestly it works. It’s so thick that every time I remove it, I have to first silently lift the glass topper a little, and then push the bible out like a Jenga piece. It’s a whole process. Abuelito has been reading through the Eternal Life contract under the brightness of my reading light. Beats candle light or the glow emanating from his spirit, I suppose. As he reads, he recites notes for me to write down. I’ve gone through the contract myself several times while waiting for Abuelita’s ashes, but there was nothing about will amendments. I would’ve caught it. The more Abuelito reads and gives me notes, though, the more I understand a contract for what it is: a paper filled with rights and responsibilities. Abuelito will defend our rights. I’m not calling him tonight, though. Abuelito is searching for cases similar to ours in the Spirit Realm’s library—where apparently there are no books, just people to talk to—and fitting together the remaining puzzle pieces to make the perfect application. I have to go into my house and tell my mom, if not about the whole amendment, at least that Nico and I are going to visit grandma’s house tomorrow. 76 Deep breath. Just punch in the code, I tell myself. I hear the lock growling and keeping the wooden door shut tight. It’s like they’re both mocking me for getting the code to my own house wrong. I try again. 120714, Nico’s birthday. The door unlocks and as I walk in, a waft of plantain cooking hits me like the tantalizing sweetness that always comes before the descent into chaos. I close the door and accept my fate. “Didn’t you hear me trying to enter?” Nico sits cross-legged on the ottoman, only inches away from the TV, as if his closeness to the screen had a direct correlation with him winning his game. All I get from my brother is a grunt in response. He has dad’s video conference headphones on. “Pass the ball dude. Don’t be such a di—” I smack him before he can complete his sentence. “Ow! Sorry.” And then he’s lost to us again. I drop my bag on the floor and sit on the couch behind Nico to take off my shoes, willingly ignoring my mom’s presence in the kitchen. Thankfully, she’s on the phone with one of my aunts. Please don’t let them be fanning the flames of mom’s already raging heart. “Okay, Constanzita. Chao, chao.” Everything will be just fine. “Buenas noches, hija.” I know this tone. How can I be lounging on the couch while she cooks dinner for all of us? I should be helping. I stand up and reluctantly head to the kitchen. “Hola, mamita,” I say, sweetening my voice to smooth her already sharp edges. Despite the limited space in the open kitchen, I hover beside her at the induction stove and kiss her cheek. She’s cooking spinach and plantain torta, because the sweetness can’t exist on its own without some bitter to balance it out. 77 “Quite late to be arriving from work, isn’t it?” She asks, knowing perfectly well I was at Dal’s house, because I asked her permission. Or, wait, did I forget? Excellent. Now I’m doubting whether I remembered to ask permission before going to my best friend’s house right around the corner. I could protest that Idillio Café actually closes every day at eight and, more often than not, I work evening shifts. Instead, I opt to stay sweet, knowing that my honeyed attitude will make it easier for Mom to accept what I have to tell her. “I was at Dal’s, mamita,” I say, keeping my voice light. “We were recording.” “Ah, ya.” She moves past me towards the fridge and takes out thawed steak for tonight’s dinner. Breathe, Maria. You know she doesn’t understand social media and that’s fine. “Is that what you wore for work today?” Mom asks, sizing me up as she slaps the meat on the countertop, wooden cutting board. I’m wearing an off-the-shoulder, long sleeve, tangerine top. So many levels of disrespect in one piece of clothing: skin showing, tight, and fruity colours that only belong on fruit. Thank god I wore jeans to hide my unshaven legs. Westside Story was so long and our disbelief that only one member of the cast was actually Latinx so deep that I didn’t have time to change back to my boring baby-pink polo. “It’s Dal’s shirt. I didn’t want to wear a boring one to film.” “Make sure you return it tomorrow.” I nod as she filets steak to fry. “Um, about tomorrow—” “Start setting the table, mi amor,” she interrupts. “Dinner is almost ready.” 78 Sighing, I brush past her and head for the cabinet above the sink to take out our plates and lay them by the stove, ready to be filled with food. I can hear Nico still playing video games with his friends. Rather than focusing on the injustice of me always having to help with housework, I use the time carrying cutlery and glasses from the kitchen to the dining table to gather up courage and tell Mom my plans. “Dad is working from home tomorrow, yeah?” I ask. A question feels like a safe place to start. Mom just hums in response. “Great!” Too eager, María. “Just need the car.” Mom is tossing the steaks in hot oil and butter. “What for?” “To hang out with Nico, take him to that nice park in Little Mexico—” “There are plenty of great parks around here.” The oil sputters and splashes angrily. “Right.” I’ve set the last spot on the table. Mine. I turn toward Mom. “Also, I thought we could swing by Abuelita’s house. I know he misses her.” Mom flips the steaks. As if celebrating a new side to roast, the oil jumps out of the pan and lands on my mom’s bare hands. She doesn’t flinch. “Take him somewhere around here.” The finality of the sentiment shatters my soul. Mom changes the subject faster than a heart stops beating. “Sweetie, call your dad? Dinner’s ready.” That’s it. The word “sweetie” detonates my self-implosion. Hands in fists, I stomp over to the railing and holler up the stairs, “Yo, Daaaaad! Dinner’s ready!!” 79 I hear Nico say bye to his friend and out of the corner of my eye, see he’s put down his controller. His eyes dart from Mom to me. I hope he understands that I need him on my side for what’s about to go down. “María!” Mom shouts. “¿Qué es esa falta de respeto? We don’t yell in this house.” That from the woman who just raised her voice a couple decibels. “I’m taking Nico to Little Mexico tomorrow.” I point towards my brother. “I know he wants to go. What’s so bad about that?” A quick flick of the tongue over her teeth. The sound Latinx moms make when they’ve had enough of your b.s. She tosses the pieces of steak onto our plates and then turns to me. “Ya, María! Stop being so impertinent. I said no.” “We want to see Grandma.” “Ay no, pues! Suddenly so loving towards your Abuela.” Suddenly? What does she mean? I’ve always cared deeply for Abuelita, even now when I don’t know if our relationship can be called reciprocal. “You always preferred Daela over spending time with your grandmother,” she adds, as if she can read my thoughts. “That’s not true!” I need to calm down. I need to keep a level head. She’s baiting me. I know I was a good granddaughter and did the best I could. “What does that have to do with anything? We just want to see her. You should want to see her too—” Mom’s face is scrunched up like she just walked by a stinky septic tank. Her anger is so palpable it pulsates from every vein and deepens every wrinkle on her face. If she weren’t the same olive tan as my grandmother, her face would be the deep scarlet of blood. 80 She approaches me, the kitchen counter no longer safely separating us. My parents have never laid a hand on either of us, but I’m not yet in college. It’s not too late. “Don’t speak of things that you don’t understand.” Her voice is a hiss, its danger only diffused by my father’s approaching footsteps down the stairs. “¿Qué está pasando aquí?” Dad’s voice is gruff. Let me tell you what’s going down, dear father, I think. Your wife is a total nutjob, that’s what’s happening. “Young people are disrespectful, think they know everything,” snaps Mom. She’s no longer looking at me, but addressing an invisible public sitting in our dining room, all come for her TED talk on how to win an argument with your rabid teenage daughter. “Why are you like this?” I demand, composure out the window. I’m yelling because if I don’t, I will cry; though that might happen either way. I whip out my own arsenal of unrelated arguments. “I’m eighteen! An adult, remember? I can do whatever I want and I’m going to see Abuelita tomorrow.” “That’s enough, miss!” “I don’t even have a name anymore?” I yell. “You still live under this roof, do you not? You will do as we say and that’s the end of this discussion.” “Bueno ya, ya,” says Dad, soothingly. I don’t see him, but I see his arms rounded up, trying to herd me and my mom like cattle. “Let’s eat.” My eyes prickle and fill up. Before my rage and pain can spill over, I fly past my dad and up the stairs to my room. Inside, I slam the door and let my bed swallow my grief. 81 * Later, in a text-ranting session with Fiona and Mateo, my all caps, several swear words, and indecent emojis, captured my anger quite well. My cousins, however, couldn’t fix my problem. I lay on my bed, lights turned off in my room, as the last rays of sunshine painted the Texas sky an angry, almost insulting shade of orange-red. I must have exhausted myself into an early sleep. My room is dark, save for the moonlight spilling in. I grab my phone from where it lays next to my drool-marked pillow to check the time. It’s only nine thirty. Only one hour since one of my milder, believe it or not, screaming matches with my mother. As I open BrieFly for no particular reason other than that’s what I usually do, there’s a shy, small knock at my door. My brother. “Ria, I brought you dinner,” he calls out. “I’m not hungry, Bug,” I respond, without peeling my eyes from the screen or myself from the bed. Nico insists, which is very unlike him. “Can I come in?” I lock my phone and sit up. I don’t even have to get off the bed to open the door. Nico is standing in the dimly lit hallway. The only light comes from his room. The first floor of the house seems to be closed for the night, no lights or life sending whispers up to my room. The third floor, my parents’ bedroom, is also dark except for the muttering sounds of their TV. Nico holds a plate covered with another plate. We don’t have a microwave because our parents don’t believe in one. This is how we keep our food warm if we don’t eat within the hour of it being cooked. Otherwise, we have to use the stove to 82 reheat. I take the plates from him and open them up on the bed. A delicious aroma permeates the air and I realize that I’m starving. Nico steps around the edge of my bed into the room, turns on the light, and sits opposite me. I squint as my eyes adjust to the light and motion for him to close the door. He takes cutlery from his pocket and hands it to me, then sits down. “Thanks, Bug.” I barely chew my food, just inhale and gulp it down. I haven’t eaten anything since noon, when I had the sandwich mom packed me for lunch during my short break. When almost everything is gone, even the spinach torta, I finally pause to look at Nico. “I’m sorry about earlier. I know it isn’t fun when Mom and I fight.” “It’s okay.” He’s examining his hands as if they were incredibly interesting. I shift to get in his line of vision and try pulling words out of him. “Are you still going to see Abuelita tomorrow?” “I want to.” “Me too.” It’s a whisper tossed out in the hopes that he’ll catch it. He usually wouldn’t let me do this anymore, but it’s just the two of us here, and I want to show him I’ll always be on his side. I put down the cutlery and reach for him, placing my hand on top of his and squeezing gently. “We’ll go tomorrow. Promise. Details to be resolved later but I’ll pick you up from soccer camp.” He sighs. “Mom and Dad usually do that.” I frown, but don’t want Nico to see me hesitate. “I’ll figure something out.” I let go of his hand and we continue to sit together in silence until I finish my meal. 83 Chapter 8 Images painted in sepia haul me in and out of deep sleep. They appear like memories, trying to convince me of their stark truth. In one, I’m riding a bike down to Abuelita’s house, through the park in Little Mexico that separated our building from her house. I look back trying to find my parents and almost fall. In another, I’m running scared from a silent black and white face that’s trying to hunt me; I run towards my grandmother but I never reach her. In all of them, I’m around four or five, the last years we lived near our family before moving up to Castle Heights. The sun’s fingers stretch through my window and touch my closed eyelids, tapping brightly to let me know that it’s no use trying to sleep any longer. I left my curtains up last night for this reason. There’s no better alarm than the summertime sunrise. Sleep was elusive anyway. More of a dreamscape really, so what, pray, is the point in trying to doze off when my own mind hates me and plays loud, unwanted movies? No one else should be up yet. It’s not even seven and Nico’s camp doesn’t start until nine. I rub the remnants of sleep from my eyes, still a little swollen from all the tears last night, and climb out of bed. I do it so fast that I feel a bit dizzy and my vision sparks with white dots. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I’m okay. If I don’t get up quickly, I might succumb once more to the grasp of my pillow no matter how bright the light of the sky may be. Plus, I want to avoid all familial interaction. Down in the kitchen, I prepare the tinto, coffee, the perpetual companion of Colombians’ mornings. My family has two different machines, one on either side of the sink. My parents prefer the acidic taste of a regular coffee maker, while I’m partial to the 84 depth of flavour an espresso machine will provide. Pretentious, I know, but you learn a lot about making coffee when you work at a café. Unfortunately, the sound of the grinder will wake up even my hibernating bear of a father, so as much as it hurts, I have to use my parents’ machine. Filter in, coffee measured, water tank filled, now all I have to do is wait for six cups of coffee to brew. Considering the delinquent actions I’m about to partake in today, I might as well try to get on my parents’ good side by brewing enough for them, too. The same thought makes me unload the dishwasher and set everything back in its spot, just like Mom likes it to be done. Not that I don’t do this on a regular basis, but no one had to ask me this time. I’m careful enough that the clink-clank of plates and pots is kept to a minimum, but they still fill my ears enough that I don’t hear her coming down until it’s too late. “Buenos días, María,” she says. Slowly, I put the plate I’m holding back in its cupboard and turn to where my Mom waits, arms crossed, at the foot of the stairs. “Buenos días, Mami.” No matter how angry we went to bed last night, I know how unacceptable it would be to not kiss her cheek good morning, so I do. “You’re up early.” She walks over to the dishwasher and finishes the job I started. “Yep. You, too.” Mom looks exhausted but doesn’t comment. The impulse to leave it at that is overwhelming. It traps me like quick sand and all I want to do is dart out of the kitchen. Instead, I slowly move over to the freshly made coffee and bring down a mug and a 85 teacup from the cupboard. Before any sweetener, I sprinkle a dash of salt in each of our coffees. Salt cuts acidity. Finally, Splenda for the teacup and regular sugar in the mug. I slide the teacup over the counter. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have been rude.” Mom takes her cup and saucer over to the dining table and sits at the head of it. “Everything I do is out of love.” “I know.” I slide into the seat beside her and sip my own coffee. Maybe it’s the caffeine acting up fast, but a rush of confidence surges through me. A confidence—or a delusion—that tells me that perhaps my mom and I can have a heart to heart because it’s just the two of us and we woke up with the sun and maybe she feels as tormented as I feel. “She’s still our grandma.” No response, just a poker face. “We miss her,” I continue. “Don’t you?” Seems like a stupid question, but there’s safety in it, too. The answer is so obvious. Of course she misses Abuelita. We’re talking about the person who birthed and raised her, the person that brought her to this country in the first place. I miss Mom when we fight, so I can only imagine how I’d feel if she didn’t leave me anything of hers when she passes. “I do,” she says pensively, staring not at me but at the only art work that decorates the otherwise blank walls of our house; it came with the house, this photo-realistic painting of a close-up leaf bathed in morning dew. 86 I push on. “Then, why not see her?” “Mi Mamá—” Mom takes another sip. I wait, in shock that she finally referred to Abuelita as her mother instead of just as my grandmother. That’s progress. “Her priorities were not right.” “What do you mean?” The question escapes my lips unchecked. She pauses a beat and I think I’ve ruined everything. She’s mad again. But then, miracle of miracles, she just shrugs and says, “Not her family, but her own selfish needs.” Her resentment must taste as bitter as her coffee, because she makes a sour face. For the first time, I feel sorry for my mom. “Maybe in the future, mi amor. But for now, you understand, si?” Do I have a choice? I nod. We finish the rest of our coffee before Dad and Nico are up. After they drop Nico off at camp, this is how the day usually goes: Mom and Dad go to their room. My mom takes a nap until it’s time to pick my brother up and my dad does his work. Rarely do they venture into the living room. Even lunch today is take-out that they pick up with my brother on their way home. Fridays are wild in the Herrera Molina household. I get ready while they drop off Nico and leave a conspicuous note that reads, at Dal’s be back in the evening! I could actually go to Dal’s place and come back home as soon as I need to, but I’m already lying to my parents—which doesn’t get easier with practice—and lying to my best friend about where I’m headed feels like even more of a burden. So, instead, I’m camping out at a park I know my parents won’t cross when 87 coming back from soccer camp. Park is generous. More like battered, musty swing set with tufts of grass and suburban homes standing guard around it. This should be someone’s backyard, not public property. At least it’s quiet and the perfect place to let out all my frustrations into my sketchbook. Sitting on one of the swings and praying that it doesn’t give into my weight, I’ve been trying to work on a piece based on the picture I took the day of Grandma’s funeral. Sometimes art works in the most predictable ways. The image of the coffin being hauled into the cremation chamber has turned in my mind and in my paper into the representation of a life engulfed in flames. I’ve sketched out the coffin halfway through the chamber and what started as a lick of flames on the wood paneling has become a raging, impatient fire that will not wait to swallow my grandmother whole. Oil pastels seemed like the best tool because in their texture they capture how alive the fire is and how unalive the coffin appears to be. I keep pulling my phone out of my pocket to check the time and see if I’ve missed any calls. One of the camp volunteers should be calling me soon to say that Nico needs to be picked up because he isn’t feeling well. No, I’m not a psychic. I’m just relying heavily on my brother’s acting skills which might actually make me the opposite of a psychic; more like a myopic teenager with no sense of self-preservation. It’s ten-thirty on the dot. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket, jolting my heart into overdrive. Calm down, María. You’re a responsible, well-adjusted adult, capable of standing in for your parents when they are unavailable. 88 On the third ring, I answer. “Hello?... Yes, this is she… Hi, Coach Carter, nice to hear from you… Oh no! You did the right thing by calling me…” Got too cocky there, but the assistant coach doesn’t dwell too much on it. “I’ll pick him up right away… Thank you so much!” Phase 1 complete. Nico faked a stomach bug. I’m glad he did that instead of a play injury. It would be hard to explain how he miraculously recovers enough to take part in camp tomorrow. Time for phase 2. I jog home, but before running into the house like I normally would, I verify from behind the Lutheran Church in our neighborhood, which is diagonal to our complex, that my parents’ blinds are down. If they aren’t, they’ll see me coming. They’re down, which means Mom’s still napping. When I reach the door, instead of using the keypad, I use the trusty ole key. Non-automated ways of existing are so much quieter. I’m impressed by how noiseless I manage to be, like one of our spirit family members coming to visit. I close the door with the same stealth. Usually, the car keys are hanging off the hooks by the main door, but the Herrera coat-of-arms keychain is nowhere to be found. I didn’t think through what to do if my dad had taken the keys up to the room with him. Easy, I’d probably just have to spend exorbitant amounts of my hard-earned money on Uber. Before I count myself $40 poorer, I rush across the living room on my tiptoes to check the hooks by the kitchen door. Crap. The heavy-set feeling of humid summer air seeps through the open back door. My parents must have gone out to check the mail. If they just left, I might have a few seconds to still make my escape. Cold sweat sticks the 89 sims of my t-shirt to my underarms. My blood runs back and forth in my veins, unsure where it’s needed most, making me highly aware of every pulse site in my body. I spot the car keys on the entryway hooks and make a dash to grab them. A quick glance over my shoulder through the kitchen window tells me Dad’s coming. His gaze is down and distracted by the various pieces of mail he’s collected. I might still make it out of this situation. “Hey, I thought you were with your friend,” says Dad. I stop in my tracks and spin around, keys fisted behind my back. “I was, yeah. Just needed to grab something from my room.” Dad sets the mail down on the kitchen counter and hangs the mail room keys. “You know not to wear shoes in the house,” he says, looking down at my runners. “Too much work to take them off for one minute.” I wave him off. “And they’re clean. See?” I lift my foot to show my dad my shoe’s sole. Talk about stealth. “Right.” He seems freaked out, but starts to head up the stairs as I back away slowly towards the main door. I feel like a balloon being filled with helium about to make my escape unscathed. My dad coming back down a few steps pokes a hole in my elation. “What did you need? Is it that thing behind your back?” My blood is no longer confused. It all rushes to my cheeks and my temple. I come up with the most basic lie. “Just girl stuff. Got my period,” I say, clutching at my stomach with my free hand. Perfect. As a man, my father will be so uncomfortable by the idea of a period, that he will just leave it be. “Again? You just got it a couple weeks back.” He pays attention to that stuff? “Invasive much?” 90 “Hardly, when you were announcing to the world how in pain you were.” Touché. He comes back down the stairs and stands on the landing staring at me. My dad is tall. Yes, for me most people are tall, but he is over six feet. His severe rectangular face is accentuated by his receding hairline and his no-frame, rectangular glasses and he has a resting mad dad face. I can’t help but cower at his curious eyes. That’s all they are, though; curious. I attempt to backtrack. “Did I say I started my period? I meant Dal started her period and she likes the pads I use so I was bringing her some since her mom is off working and I have extra and they are pure cotton, you know? Like not full of chemicals which could cause terrible allergies and just gross rashes—" “María!” His voice is not harsh but it accomplishes its goal and freezes me. “Though I’m impressed by your—” he searches for the right word “—fluency, that still doesn’t explain why you’re holding the car keys behind your back.” My face drains of colour. I open my mouth to sputter an excuse, but nothing comes out. I let out a breath and let my head hang in defeat. He’s got me. I walk to him, hand outstretched, ready to give him the keys. “How long am I grounded?” I don’t look at my dad, I just will him to take the keys. He doesn’t. “We’ll discuss it when you and your brother come back from Little Mexico.” “Huh?” I peer up at him. “I don’t understand.” “I know you don’t since you were about to commit theft and kidnapping.” My arm drops. I avert my gaze again and bite at the inside of my cheeks. “We can talk about 91 your irresponsible actions later. For now, go before your mom comes down. I’ll talk to her.” There are no words in English or Spanish that can describe the tenderness I feel for my father right now. I throw my arms around his belly and squeeze as hard as I can. He hugs me back and our language is spoken. I run out of the house. 92 Chapter 9 Still in a haze about what happened with Dad, I don’t register Nico getting in shotgun until I’m about to back out from the parking spot. “Uh-uh.” I wrench the car to a halt. “To the back seat. We’re already in tons of trouble as it is. Let’s not get the police involved.” Like the good little brat he is, he rolls his eyes, but gets down from the front seat and moves to the back right after grunting to show his disdain. When he’s all buckled up, I turn to him. “I’ll let you pick the music.” I hand him my phone and he all but snatches it from me with a grin on his face. Thank you? No? Gotta teach this kid some better manners. I wait for him to turn on—excuse me, blast—his music, which includes a mix of all the high-profile rappers, and take my phone right back to set the navigation. The base thumps in the car and reverberates from our bodies, so much so that I think my internal organs might be vibrating as well. Regret flushes over me with a sprinkle of disbelief and amusement that my little brother is rapping along to all the obscenities. I merge onto the interstate and cruise along. The landscape doesn’t change much throughout the drive. There are pockets of industrialization, urban centres, and some green here and there. Mostly, el Prado is a set of strip malls and isolated communities in the middle of a desert. Entering Little Mexico, though, hits you like the smell of a thousand street-food vendors and a water treatment plant. After all, that’s exactly what awaits you in this part of El Prado. Here, the garages of what were meant to be suburban family homes have been turned into fronts for stores of all sorts. You need stationery for school? Go to Miss 93 Mariana. You need dry cleaning done? Go to la señora Concha. You need fresh produce and other additional extras? You go to the Molinas. The big corner store that everyone sees when entering the barrio through the main road? That used to be ours. My family didn’t actually live here, though. Abuelito Martín rented it from this generous Puerto Rican family. The first floor was the store and upstairs was storage. Crates of fresh fruit and vegetables lined the street. Inside, there were freezers with meat, dairy, egg, beer; shelves with bread, spices, snacks; what more could you ask for? When I was little and impressionable, as I climbed the stairs to the private second floor, it felt like I was being transported to a world of adventure, a never-ending maze of colourful boxes and containers filled with the sustenance of the barrio and delicious Colombian treats I would sneak in every once in a while. We weren’t the only market in Little Mexico, but our prices and hours were competitive. Abuelita Lucero would wake up four-thirty every morning without fail to open the store and serve one-dollar coffee. There was nothing better. Abuelito would mark down the Colombian exports so much that he’d barely break even, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way. When we pass the storefront, I spy Nico in the rearview mirror looking at the building. The old banner proclaiming, La Esquina de los Molina, which wraps around the coiling roll down gates, is now tarnished, and the once-vibrant yellow, blue, and red letters, are now faded memories covered in desert dust. The store has been closed since my grandfather passed. 94 As the store disappears in the rear-view mirror, the sleeping policemen force me to slow down the car. That’s what Colombians call speed bumps—sleeping policemen. Six streets away, I turn left onto a residential street. If you were to look at this street from above, it would be like a child’s sock, the curve of the toes marking the edge of the biggest park in Little Mexico, the one from my dreams. And if you were to look at the entire neighborhood from above, it would look like the main road is a mantel and the different streets would be different sized stockings lined with presents. I count the houses to my right. One, two, three, four, five. My grandma’s is the sixth house. Not that I could ever miss it. All houses are so different, and this one is filled with my childhood and my ghosts. I park right in front of the charcoal metal door. A few houses ahead, by the heel of this stocking, sits a metal stall with a roof that resembles clay-colored tiles, but is really just a slab of metal painted in tones of red-brown to protect the bored man in uniform who sits inside. Don Elmer and his son, Johany, act as security guards for this street. An initiative from the district to create some more jobs and keep the neighborhood safer. Everyone in the street is charged for this service, like a security tax. The secret, however, is that if you really want Don Elmer and Johany to pay close attention to your house and belongings, you have to give them a little extra incentive. I turn off the engine and finally Kanye’s thump-thump-thumping dies down. “I’ll go talk to the guard,” I tell my brother. “Stay here.” “Where else would I go?” 95 I open my mouth to retort to my attitude-y baby brother, but opt to shut up instead and not give him any ideas of how he could actually transfer to the front seats and get out of the car, bypassing the childproof locks on the back seats of the SUV. Please be Don Elmer, please be Don Elmer. The old man is more likely to believe me and not as audacious when he asks for tips as his progeny. His son, Johany, on the other hand, I would have to flatter not only with money, but with my feminine attentions. The problem is that I can’t flirt to save my life. As I approach the stall, I see Johany’s cool beige face transform into a leer. Ugh. He steps out of the stall to greet me. “Little virgin María gracing us poor souls of the barrio with her presence.” Ew, ew, ew. I wish Fi was with me. She’d give him the attention he wants and then in the same breath put him in his rightful place. “Hey! It’s been a while, Johany.” Looking me over, he whistles. “Aging suits you.” My insides recoil in on themselves like a threatened desert snake poised for the attack. Outside, I just giggle and puff up my non-existent boobs. “I could say the same for you. Been hitting the gym?” I may not know flirting, but I know what men like Johany respond to. Always mention the gym. Johany winks and flexes his arms. “You know it.” “Say, Johany, you don’t happen to have the spare keys to my grandma’s house? I’m supposed to help sort some things out today and dumb me—” Act helpless so he can rescue you. “—I forgot the keys at home. Could you help me out?” I give his arm a light touch. 96 “Can’t you just ring the bell? Don Filmino must be there. Unless he left when I was making the rounds down the street.” My arm flops back to my side. I beg my eyebrows not to give me away and pray that the glue I used this morning to prop them up is as good as the advertisements say. “Right!” Enthusiasm is usually how I deal with lies. “Duh, I completely forgot. I don’t want to bother him though if he’s upstairs… so…” I take out a 20 from my back pocket as seductively as one can possibly offer a bribe, and hand Johany the bill as if I was offering a cigarette. When he starts to walk away, I add as an afterthought so that he won’t charge more money, “And keep a look out for the car.” As Johany rummages through whatever drawer hides in his tiny metal box, my mind races with all the different possibilities, but as I look at the bare-brick house, nothing makes sense and the cement that binds the walls of my grandma’s home starts to trickle out through the crevices in the shape of a thousand little question marks. What is Don Filmino doing inside Abuelita’s house? Who gave him the keys? Does my family know he’s in the house? Is he with someone? How dare he be where my mom and my aunts grew up? A monsoon of facts I know about this man starts flooding my brain. He was Abuelito Martín’s best friend. He emigrated on his own from Colombia with the help of my grandfather. He left one ex-wife and two children behind. He rents a room in Little Mexico. He was never able to buy a home, nor did he seem interested to. Him and Abuelita had an affair recently. He’s the reason why Mom and Abuelita can’t be in the same room. The patter of these details sounds like Mom’s voice. My voice says, this is 97 the man that stayed back at the cemetery after Abuelita’s funeral. I barely know this man, but I hate him. Johany comes back and dangles the keys next to my ears. “Here you go princess.” He smells of Doritos and Axe, a smell I thought I’d left behind when I graduated high school. I whip around and jump several inches back from him with a little yelp and the pretext that he caught me off guard. I make a grab for the keys. “Thank you so much. You’re an an—” He swings the keys out of my reach and taps his cheek with his index finger. “Maybe a little extra thank you is in order.” “If we come back out and no parts are missing from my car, I’ll consider that,” I toss over my shoulder as I grab for the keys before he can pull them away again. “Thanks!” I jog to the car without looking back. 98 And Then: An Outline of María’s Story • María enters Abuelita Lucero’s house and confronts Don Filmino. He tries to make up a story. • María calls Abuelita while Nico speaks to Don Filmino. It’s clear from her grandmother’s reaction that Abuelita was expecting it to be someone else. o Ghosts can tell what device calls them and since the house is open to anyone, Abuelita thought it was Don Filmino. • Abuelita comes clean and María discovers that her grandmother got married to Don Filmino before passing so that they could be together after she died—spouses don’t need to be in the eternal contract will because their calling is their wedding band. What’s more, by law, all earthly possessions pass down to the next of kin. In Abuelita’s case that’s now Don Filmino. The house is his. • The only other person in the family that knows is María’s godmother, Gracia, who has been covering up and stunting her sisters’ efforts to organize Abuelita’s earthly affairs. • María is upset, but mostly happy for her grandmother. They must now keep one more secret from María’s mom, at least until the will amendment process is complete. María calls Abuelito Omar and they all get to work on the application, which is really just preparing Abuelita for an interview. • María gets home and only her mom is waiting for them. Consuelo sends Nico upstairs immediately and then starts reprimanding María and saying how hurt she’s been all day. María tries to explain what happened, leaving Don Filmino out, but her mom starts crying. 99 • María comforts her and tries to understand her, but also convinces her mom that fixing their relationship with Abuelita is the right thing to do for Nico. • The amendment application will take a couple weeks to be approved. María is basically grounded until she’s thirty and isn’t allowed to go anywhere except work. • Fiona and Mateo come to whisk her away and convince María’s parents that coming to a family-friendly, ghost-seer youth meetup is perfectly fine. They allow her to go. • María spills the tea on what happened with her grandmother and makes Fi and Mateo promise not to tell their mom. We also learn that Mateo has a crush on Daela through interactions he has with María. María meets a handsome boy; she will secretly start seeing him. o This chapter will also do a lot of heavy world-building. We’ll be introduced to other tweens from all sorts of different backgrounds who can also stay in contact with the dead, but their calling works different to María’s. • The amendment application goes through and María, Nico, her parents, Abuelita, and Abuelito Omar, meet at Abuelita’s house to discuss next steps. Though the environment is tense and Abuelita and Consuelo don’t speak much, they all come to an agreement as to what their story is. • María is at work and is visited by a woman who can only be described as otherworldly. Her name is Inkeri Connor and she’s one of the inquirers assigned to the Molina case and, specifically, to interview and get to know María—other members of her family are having similar interactions with other inquirers. 100 o There’ll be five weeks of solo interviews. The sixth week the family will be questioned together with the entire panel of inquirers present. • All inquirers are ghosts. For them to appear as humans for the initial meeting, a necromancy ritual is performed. After that first meeting, María and her family all have access to special calling devices that will allow them to call on ghosts that aren’t part of their family. It only works on souls they’ve met personally. o Subplot: Bearing this in mind, María immediately thinks about Daela and how happy her father would be to see her and perhaps how he could help protect Daela from the terrible relationships she gets in. So, María calls Mauricio to the realm of the living, which causes problems because he doesn’t want to go back. • María and Inkeri start their one-on-one interviews. They become close and we learn Inkeri passed away suddenly and tragically before she finished her graduate studies to become a social worker. Inkeri got involved in cases like this to help families in similar situations as her, where post-mortem amendments are necessary due to a sudden death or other causes. • As time approaches for the final interview, everything is perfect. María’s mom and grandma seem to be amicably getting over their differences. • Everything is ruined when María and her mom get into a fight. Consuelo sees María with her secret boyfriend, Amir. In the heat of the moment, María exposes her Abuelita’s secret. In the sixth interview, Consuelo ruins the case and petitions to the inquirers to take away the Herrera Molinas’ ability to communicate with ghosts and María’s world is sent reeling once again.
Thesis/Dissertation
eng
Children's Literature
Vancouver : University of British Columbia Library
Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International
Graduate
Pohl-Weary, Emily
Wish you were gone
Text