Siete
ABOUT A WEEK after I had found Jorge Valdez, I returned home from school to find my grandmother waiting for me on the porch, her short, chunky arms crossed over a pale, pink sleeveless top and her lips pursed in anger.
I almost stopped when I saw her. What was she upset about now?
“Buenas tardes, Abuela.”
“You’ve been going behind my back? Keeping secrets in my house?”
I stopped. The sun beat down on my head and I fought the need to look down or anywhere from her squinting eyes.
Keep your cool. “What are you talking about?” I walked up the steps to escape into the shadow of the house.
She walked to me as I opened the screen door. I had to escape her, keep the guilt from showing on my face.
“Threats to my granddaughter? ¿Mi nieta? And you threatening back?”
Marcela. Thank God. I walked to the kitchen to grab some cold water from the pitcher in the fridge.
“Abuela, it was nothing really . . . ” She cut me off.
“¿Nada? ¡¿Nada?! That little girl causing trouble for my granddaughter! I won’t allow it.”
Hearing Abuela speak with so much passion and protection for me made me smile. My mother had never done that.
“Stop that smiling. Turn around.”
God, how did she do that? I turned around, trying to wipe the smile from my face with little success.
She got closer and pointed her finger up at me. “Nunca, never, never threaten someone with your gifts. Do you hear me? I won’t be having a brujita in my family. Curanderismo is good. Evil intentions, even evil thoughts, won’t be tolerated. And stay away from that girl. Don’t speak to her, and tell me if she bothers you again. ¿Me entiendes? Do you understand?”
I nodded. It was best not to say a word. She snatched away the pitcher of water and the cup I had in my hand and ushered me into her curandera room for two hours of reflexión.
I still had Carlita to rely on for answers about my mother, since Jorge had refused to help me. At least I hoped I did. The only problem was that I had a list of Carlitas, some with numbers and some without. I didn’t even want to think about the fact that she might be listed under a married name.
Each Sunday, I snuck into a family member’s room to use their telephone. Sometimes I got in two calls, sometimes only one, before I had to sneak back out into the family area so Abuela and Gloria wouldn’t discover that I was missing. It took six Sundays to make it all the way through the numbers without any luck. It appeared that my only chance of finding the Carlita I searched for would be to go to the addresses listed without numbers, which sucked. How was I actually going to go to the houses without my grandmother knowing? I got lucky that one time with Jorge. When would the next unexpected emergency appear and help me?
Despite the fact that it looked hopeless, I had to stay positive. And patient, which was worse than staying positive, because I had to know. I just had to. I had found out so much already, so much in fact that I felt as if I would die if I didn’t ever find out the whole truth.
I decided to map the houses, regardless of whether I would ever actually have a chance to go to them. There were three street addresses. I asked Laura if she recognized any of the street names. She recognized one, said it was a few blocks from the Pepto Bismol house, but the other two streets she didn’t recognize. I went to the school’s library and found a map of the city. One house was located three streets over, another was four blocks away, and one was located on the other side of the city. I prayed Carlita was in one of the three because without Carlita, I’d be stuck.
No Carlita equaled no mother, and no answers.
One Sunday we were at my primo Lolo’s house. The kitchen had a revolving door that had to be pushed in or out. Abuela, a few tías and a few cousins were in the kitchen cooking. I was thirsting for Kool-Aid, and I had barely pushed open the door, when I heard my name.
“You still teaching Martha that witch stuff, María?” Tía Julia said.
Before my grandmother responded, Gloria did. “Julia, how dare you! María heals your kids and has treated your husband all these years for that cochino disease, and you can still call her a bruja?”
“María isn’t supposed to tell you that!” Tía Julia said.
“Ah, bah! Everyone knows where your husband goes every night. From now on, tell him to go to one of those fake healers with their stores, and see how much they steal from you!”
My cousin Sonia tried to steer the conversation to less violent waters. “I heard Martha is learning a lot. To have a gift is such a blessing.”
Others murmured their agreement. Abuela remained quiet.
Laura’s older cousin, Tierra, who happened to show up at this family gathering spoke next: “Laura tells me that Martha’s enjoying it—and doing well in school, too.”
A loud bang echoed after Laura’s name was spoken, followed by Gloria saying, “Can no one keep their mouth shut today?”
Which reminded me. I still hadn’t gone to Laura’s mother’s store to find out what Laura needed to tell me.
“As long as Martha stays away from the pachucos, she will have no problem,” some other cousin commented.
My tía Elsa spoke next. “Speaking of Martha, I saw that boy that Rosa dated in high school the other day. He remembered me. Works at an auto shop fixing cars and . . . ”
My heart pounded harder. I released my hands on the door a little, in case someone looked my way and noticed the open door. Did that cabrón tell Elsa that I had stopped by his shop? She couldn’t keep her big mouth shut to save her own children.
Elsa continued speaking. “He had some child with him. She was so disrespectful! What’s wrong with these parents in Laredo? Raising God-less kids. Thank goodness Rosa and he broke up, I mean if . . . ”
“Elsa!” Gloria shouted with an edge to her voice. “Cállate, already! Hurry and finish the frijoles. Chatting away like we don’t have a thousand Mexican mouths waiting to be fed!”
I wished that I had seen Abuela’s face. I wished Gloria hadn’t been there. I only had the outer pieces of the puzzle, and someone or something was always keeping me from obtaining the ones that would put it all together.
Even though my family was intent on keeping something from me, I didn’t act any differently with Abuela. Actually, we were closer than ever as I continued to learn all the healing arts and discover my gifts.
Señor Peña had come to Abuela for help with kidney stones. It had taken many visits to convince him to let me work on him. It wasn’t that he didn’t like me, it was just that many of Abuela’s patients didn’t trust me to heal them . . . yet. I was young in their eyes, and they only trusted my grandmother’s gifts.
“She heals you or you go to the doctor. Your choice,” Abuela told Señor Peña.
He chewed on his bottom lip, placed his bony hands on his hips and looked me up and down, which kind of pissed me off. I crossed my arms and stared back.
After a moment, he looked down and gave a sharp nod. He chose me over the doctor.
The doctor was three things in Laredo: expensive, white and sometimes the devil. Señor Peña was part of the older generation, and people like him were used to curanderas, natural healings. Doctors, pills and surgeries were not for people like him. Some from the older generation fell for the commercialized curanderas that had set up shops on Saunders Street and McPherson Street. Many lost their money and their hope, only to return to Abuela later with apologies for trying out something new.
I looked at Abuela, and she gave me a nod to go ahead. I had the floor.
“Would you please lie down, Señor Peña?” I motioned at the table.
He shrugged his bony shoulders toward his droopy ears. “If you say so.”
I got a whiff of bacon as he was laying down. He fidgeted on the table and watched me as I knelt down beside him.
Without waiting, I began a prayer: “Dios, please guide me in this healing. Through you I can do all things and through
your guidance I can rid your son of his pain. Amen.”
“Is that it?”
Through gritted teeth, I said, “Yes.”
His eyes were closed, but his brows rose as if he was surprised. “Amen, then.”
Oh, I was fighting the frustration. I looked up at Abuela, who was watching me closely. Just keep on moving, Martha, I told myself. After lighting some sage and sweeping away the mal, I began the healing.
Abuela had shown me how to massage the stones into the body so that Señor Peña wouldn’t have to pass them in pain. But it was difficult to do. I was still trying to find my don. According to Abuela, if I found it, I could use it to push healing power into the diseased area of the body. I tried focusing on breathing in and out evenly while I massaged in rhythm. I searched for the quiet place that I sometimes found during reflexión.
As I massaged, I didn’t notice that Abuela had been walking around Señor Peña until I caught a flash of light from the corner of my eye. Instantly, my concentration broke, and I stopped massaging. Señor Peña, who had been lying down with his eyes closed, lifted his head and looked at me. I ignored him and turned to Abuela.
“What was that?” I asked.
She stood near Señor Peña’s feet. “What was what?”
“That light.”
Abuela’s head cocked to the side and her eyes narrowed. “Nothing. Get back to healing.”
I wanted to argue but instead let go a sigh of frustration. If my grandmother didn’t want to tell me something, she wasn’t going to tell me it, no matter how much I asked.
“Yes, finish please. I need to pick up papas for my wife for dinner,” Señor Peña said.
“I am. I am.”
I was about to close my eyes, because it helped me concentrate, when I suddenly noticed something near my hands. It was dark. I stopped and moved my hands away. Yes, it was right there, on Señor Peña’s skin. Or, no, it wasn’t on his skin. I reached out hesitantly and tried to brush away the dark spot, but it wouldn’t go away.
I pulled my hand back. Señor Peña asked, “Is everything okay?”
I looked down and then back at him. Never make the patient uncomfortable. I tried my best to smile. “Yes, everything’s fine.” I began to massage again. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
But the spot didn’t go away. I turned to search for Abuela but she had her back to me. She was doing something near the shelves that held the ingredients.
Moving my head closer, I tried to study the darkness further. It was beneath his skin, surrounding something. Oh, my God, this was crazy. I shook my head and closed my eyes. I was not seeing things. Nothing was there. I was dehydrated or tired or something. I worked on returning my breathing to an even state as I massaged. Breathe in for five counts and out five counts. I had just reached the point that it felt natural when . . . I felt it.
I’ve only had a panic attack once, and it sort of felt like that. My chest contracted and then as it spread open, it continued spreading and didn’t stop. Of course, this is only how it felt. My chest didn’t actually split open, but it felt like something was fighting to expand past my muscles and my chest cavity and my skin.
I didn’t know if I was breathing and, in some ways, I couldn’t even feel my body. I didn’t know if I was still massaging Señor Peña or not. I couldn’t stop it. I think I tried to fight it, but I’m not even sure if I can say that. Alarms were going off in my mind, and somehow I knew I could not fight it, that I had to give up.
And I did.
For anyone who has ever been on a river that was managed by a dam system, they know that the river barely runs when the gates to the dam are closed. One can relax on an inner tube in the same spot for hours . . . until the gate is opened. The water rises quickly over the next twenty minutes, spreading out into shallow channels with dirt embankments, until the water rises well beyond the peaks of the red muddy mounds, until they are no longer visible. The river runs swiftly, outward, filling each tendril of the small rivers and creeks that spread laterally from the main river.
That is what happened inside of me, or that is the best way I can describe it. Power flowed from my center and through my body, so that every cell in my being vibrated with power. I was the river when the gates of the dam were open, charged with new energy that intensified with every second.
I opened my eyes and saw that I was still massaging Señor Peña, but now there was something coming from my hands and it was going into the dark spot. It was light, but then it also wasn’t light. That’s about as well as I can describe it. I watched as the power consumed the darkness bit by bit until the darkness disappeared, all within a few minutes.
As soon as it was gone, I felt the light or power recede from my hands and from the other parts of my body, back toward the center of my chest. Although I couldn’t see it, I felt it condense into a small pinpoint and move into some secret area inside of me, and immediately the gates closed.
I looked up and found Abuela standing at the end of the table, near Señor Peña’s feet. “You felt it,” she said.
I let go of a large breath and put my hands behind my head suddenly feeling dizzy. I didn’t know how else to answer.
When Señor Peña left, with only a tiny bit more respect for me, I turned to Abuela, who had begun to wipe off the table that Señor Peña had been lying on with a rag and water.
“Good job, m’ija.”
I sat down on the table, not caring that Abuela was still trying to wipe it down.
“Good job at what?” I said.
“You saw your don.”
I stayed quiet for a few seconds. Abuela waited for me to respond. “I don’t know if I did,” I finally said.
She sat down next to me and put the rag in her lap. “You did. I saw it inside of you, saw you heal Señor Peña.”
I heard what she said, but some part of me wasn’t convinced. I had felt something, but it was stranger than anything I could imagine.
Abuela watched me. “I remember the first time I felt my don.”
I turned and looked at her.
“My mother was helping a neighbor next door, and a young boy from the neighborhood came to the house, said his throat hurt. So I think, ‘I can help him. I know some things.’ But I was foolish. I didn’t respect the gift I had.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“I placed my hands around his throat,” she puts her hands out to demonstrate, “to see if his lymph nodes were swollen . . . and it happened. It only took a few minutes, but it was so much at once, that as soon as it was over, I screamed and ran to my room.”
I started laughing. “You didn’t!”
She smiled, “Don’t tell anyone that story. Only Gloria knows of it because she found me huddled in the corner of my closet.”
I laughed a bit more. “And the boy?”
“His throat was healed, but until this day, he is still scared of me.” She smiled slyly.
Abuela placed her hand on mine. “It’s a scary thing, m’ija. But it is also something amazing. You have the gift to help others, to truly make their lives better. Remember to respect it. Do not take it for granted, and do not use it unwisely.”
I nodded and looked down. Abuela’s hands were like my mother’s: small, thin fingers with perfect, ovalshaped nails.
“So this means I’m a curandera now, huh?”
She stood up, “It isn’t that easy, Martha.” She threw the rag in a basket with other things that needed to be washed.
“What does that mean?”
“You asked about a light, before you felt your don. Do you know what that was?”
I thought about it. It wasn’t from me. The light had come from near Abuela.
“Wait, were you healing Señor Peña? I thought I was healing his kidney stones?”
She said, “You were. While you were healing his kidney stones, I was keeping his arthritis from flaring.”
“How were you healing him without touching him? And why didn’t you just say you w
ere healing when I asked?”
I stood up and walked over to her. She was starting to make a salve on the counter. She grabbed jars left and right, taking bits and pieces from each one.
“Those with our kind of gift do not need to touch someone to heal.”
“Really?”
“Sí. You made a lot of progress today. You saw your don for the first time, and you healed your patient. But you can do a lot more with your gift.”
More to learn? I had already memorized and made over two hundred different salves, potions, and mixtures. I had helped bring three babies into the world, massaged out arthritis and kidney stones and even set a few bones. Hell, I had even tried to cure mal de ojo, with Abuela’s guidance, and according to the patients, it had worked. Now she tells me I can heal from a distance? Always more to learn.
“So why didn’t you just say what you were doing in front of Señor Peña?”
She started to grind the ingredients in a mortar with a pestle. “Porque, I didn’t want him to know I was keeping his arthritis from flaring.”
“But why? Shouldn’t he know?”
She stopped grinding, put the pestle down and turned to me. “We are curanderas. If they knew we healed without touching them, what would they say? ¡Brujas! We aren’t witches . . . we just have gifts they cannot understand.”
“And the cures we give them? The massages? Do they even matter if we can heal them without touching them?”
“Of course. Material cures are from the earth, as are we. Our spiritual gifts are extras in healing. Why use our spiritual gifts if we can just make them a tea? Better on them, better for us.”
I asked what she meant by that, “better for us.”
She told me that using too much of one’s don could wear out a curandera, even make her pass out. And in extreme cases, perhaps die.
It was a Saturday when Abuela sent me to the market area downtown. Doña Lorena was going to fit me for my Christmas dress, which I feared would be a red and green, velvety disaster. The fitting didn’t take long, and before I left, Doña Lorena gave me a bag with a new nightgown for Abuela. I left and decided to find Sofía’s Cosas, the boutique Laura’s mother ran. I almost walked past it, since the sign was only about eight by eight inches and hung on a nail next to the door.
Secrets of the Casa Rosada Page 12