I looked around to make sure no one watched me before I went in. Wouldn’t do for someone to go tattle to Abuela that I was at a business run by Laura’s mom, a woman she despised . . . for a reason I still didn’t know.
I stepped in and began to look around. The store was full of knickknacks, hanging on the walls, stacked on tables, piled on the floor. There was a large collection of pottery plates, hand-painted with Aztec-like symbols hanging on the wall next to an assortment of crosses ranging from large to small, wooden to metal. Some things were still wrapped in their plastic bags, while clothing and scarves were set on display cases, scrunched close together to allow more room for other knickknacks and baubles. There was a large section of candles of all different colors and sizes. Some had the Virgin Mary’s picture glued on the front and some had Santa Muerte’s picture, the Saint of Death, who helped keep the balance in the world. The shop did not lack in piñatas, kites, peasant skirts or huaraches, either. The store smelled of must and dust, and if there had been more lighting, I am sure I would have seen tiny dust particles floating among the mass of things.
After a moment, I noticed that I was the only person in the store.
“You’re here!” someone whispered.
I stepped to the right and saw Laura’s head peeking between a mass of jewelry stands on the checkout counter. She disappeared for a second as she ran around the counter to meet me.
“Come on,” she said grabbing my arm and pulling me to the counter.
“Laura, I don’t have a lot of time.”
“And you think I do? My mom would kill me if she knew you were here. She doesn’t want to piss your abuela off.”
Behind the counter she let go of my arm. I placed the bag Doña Lorena had given me next to some jewelry stands.
Laura bent down to one of the bottom shelves pushed up against the wall. They were full of binders and folders with papers sticking out of them. From between a blue spiral and a Lisa Frank unicorn folder, she pulled out a stack of postcards and one envelope.
“What’s all this?” I asked.
“This is what I wanted to show you.”
She handed me the first postcard.
“Made it to Dallas,” I read. “I’ll send you another one soon.” Beneath the words was some kind of drawing. A flower maybe? “What’s that? I don’t get it.”
“That little drawing on every postcard . . . it’s a signature. It took me awhile to figure it out. Look at this letter.”
I grabbed the letter and opened it. Inside was a picture, a Polaroid. I turned it over . . . a baby wrapped in a blanket. Eyes shut tight, hands curled in fists and bottom lip pouting.
“Is that you?” I asked.
Laura shook her head no.
I opened the letter.
She’s beautiful, isn’t she? That’s what everyone says. All I see is my own stupidity and another face that I will never know.
Living in Raleigh for a bit. Maybe we will move up the coast when I get back to work and make a little bit of money. How is she? You helped me so much . . . and then this happens.
Will you give Juanita the letter I included with this? She’s got a million hiding spaces at home. No worries about my mother finding it.
Miss you. Rosa.
It was a rose. The drawing was a rose.
It was quiet for a second, and then Laura spoke. “The last one was sent in 1973.”
My birth year. They were postcards from my mother, and that Polaroid was a picture of me. I turned it over. A tiny baby. I didn’t even recognize myself.
“I looked through all the postcards. They’re from your mom, right?” Laura said.
“Yeah . . . her handwriting’s changed a lot . . . ” I turned and looked at Laura. “So your mom and my mom were close?”
Laura nodded. “I figured they kind of were, being cousins and all . . . but these prove they were really close. Think they were the same age. She never talks about your mom, but I found these the other day between those folders. I don’t know why my mom would hide them.”
I held up one of the postcards. It was a postcard from Monroe, Louisiana, featuring a bayou. Did Laura’s mom and my mother’s friendship have something to do with why Abuela and Laura’s mom had a falling out?
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Laura asked.
“I think this is . . . weird. I really don’t know . . . ” Suddenly, someone from the back shouted Laura’s name.
“Damn it!” Laura whispered. She grabbed the postcard and the one letter and shoved them between the folders. “It’s my mom. Darn! She never comes out on Saturday.”
A door opened in the back. Laura pushed me from behind the counter and to the door, but as we were running, I remembered the bag that I had left on the counter. I turned around and ran back for it. As soon as my hand latched onto the bag, a woman came into view.
“Hello, welcome to . . . ” Her words trailed off.
We stood there, Laura’s mom and me, looking at each other. Her jaw moved as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know what. She had a mass of dark, tiny curls that circled her face and stopped at her shoulders, which was weird because Laura’s hair was so straight. The loose, black dress she wore hung on her thin frame, and her wrists were covered with large, wooden bangles that I had seen on one of the jewelry stands on the check-out counter. She looked older than my mother . . . maybe it was because she had on no make-up, not even lipstick.
Finally she spoke. “Laura, go make some coffee.”
I felt Laura walk up next to me. “Mom . . . I, she was just leaving. She needed . . . ”
“Laura.” Her mom crossed her arms slowly over her chest. “Go.”
Laura didn’t look at me as she walked past her mom and disappeared to the back. Laura’s mom walked toward me.
“You must be Martha.”
“Um, yes, I . . . ”
“I’m Sofía.” She held out her hand to me.
Hesitantly, I shook it. She gave me a small smile, then walked around the counter and stood behind it.
“So did you come by my store to shop?”
“Yeah, um, Laura told me about it. Thought I’d look for a birthday gift . . . for a friend. But I think I should go now.”
“What friend? What do they like?” She leaned forward onto her elbows.
“I should go, if Abuela knew I was here . . . ”
Sofía pushed off the counter and threw her hands above her in a mocking manner. “The heavens would pour down with María’s wrath.”
Her face was serious for a moment, but then she smiled. I couldn’t help it and smiled too. She was funny. Why didn’t Abuela like Sofía?
“Don’t worry, Martha, I won’t let this get back to her. Just because she’s mad at me doesn’t mean she should take it out on you. Or my daughter.”
I walked forward a little. “What is she mad at exactly? No one will say.”
Sofía picked up some necklaces that had fallen off their stand and hung them back up. “Martha, you will find out that this family keeps secrets about everything. They think if we keep it quiet, it never happened. It will all go away.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said.
Sofía paused in her movements, then hung the last necklace. “Look, I know your grandmother wouldn’t want this known, but the reason she and I . . . don’t speak . . . is because I helped your mother out a long time ago.”
“That’s it? Abuela’s mad because you helped my mother?”
Sofía crossed her arms beneath her chest. “I helped her out with something pretty big, and your grandmother didn’t like that . . . at all.”
“Helped her out with what?”
Sofía smiled. “It’s not the ‘what’ that really matters. And it’s not really important anymore. The main thing is that your grandmother can hold a grudge.”
“Thought you said secrets were bad.”
“No, I said this family keeps secrets to pretend like things never happened.”
“So you’re
going to keep this a secret from me?”
“I’m sure you’ll find out one day. But for now, you need to get home without your grandmother finding out you’ve been here.”
“But . . . ”
“Martha,” her voice took on the authoritative tone she had used with Laura earlier. She was almost as scary as Abuela in that moment.
Sofía let me go out the back door so that no one would see me leave. When I got home I found a wooden bracelet, just like the one Sofía was wearing, in the bag Doña Lorena had given me. Did Sofía sneak it in? I snatched it out before Abuela could see it and kept it hidden in my backpack until I had the chance to leave it in my locker at school.
Laura and I didn’t talk about that Saturday at lunch on Monday. Guess we figured if we kept quiet, it never actually happened.
After reading my mother’s letter and finding out she’d sent Tía Juanita one as well, I couldn’t stop wondering if Juanita had hidden it and if it was still in the house. The next day, I was looking for the letter when Abuela asked me to change the sheets on my bed. In my unorganized attempt to take off everything at once, so I could hurry back to searching, I kicked a pillowcase beneath the bed. I dropped to my belly to grab it, and as soon as I pulled it out, I noticed something hidden between the wooden slats of the bed frame.
I don’t know how it caught my eye. It would have been easy to miss because only a small, purple corner was visible in the center of the bed frame. I pushed myself forward with my elbows until I was able to reach up and slide it through the slats. When I finally pulled it free, I saw it was a purple, leather journal.
I scooted out from beneath the bed and sat up with my back against the frame. It wasn’t a letter, but maybe it was something better? What if this was my mother’s? I had searched this room last night, even searched the bathroom and living room, but I hadn’t found a single thing. I did, however, find a few places that I thought had been old hiding spots because they were pretty crafty but they were all empty. One was a hollow leg that screwed off a stool in the closet! Either Juanita had emptied them or I had just missed good hiding spots, spots that would never be found.
But I had never thought to look in the slats of the bed frame. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? Maybe I wouldn’t even have to find Carlita or the letter.
I opened the journal and found nothing on the first page. Disappointed, I turned a few more pages until I found handwriting. To my disappointment, it wasn’t my mother’s handwriting. I flipped to the front cover to see if there was a name, but it wasn’t until I flipped to the back cover that I found blue cursive handwriting: Juanita Gonzalez.
I closed the book. What should I do? Give it to Juanita or read it? It might have some clues to why my mother disappeared or the secrets everyone kept from me. Or maybe it could at least tell me about the letter? I opened the journal again: no dates. I needed the journal to be around 1971, 1972 or 1973, my mother’s last two years in high school and the year I was born. Without dates, this journal might start and end way before or way after my mother had left. I grunted in annoyance.
I didn’t have time to think, though, because Abuela yelled for me from the kitchen, where she was handwashing her sheets, ready for mine. I stuffed the journal beneath the mattress, quickly got up and grabbed the sheets.
On Monday I took the journal to school because I didn’t want Abuela to know I had it. I would never have time to read it at her house, anyway. I read the journal before class began, in study hall and every free moment I had. I kept it in my backpack and, before I left school, locked it in my locker.
Juanita’s handwriting had exaggerated loops and curves, so at first it was difficult to read the entries. At least it was in English. After a few tries, I was able to decipher the first page.
Sister Bertha gave me this journal. She asked to see me after Sunday school one day and handed me this beautiful book. I didn’t even know nuns had money to buy things! Anyways, she asked me to write down my thoughts every day and to bring it to her at the end of every month. She said it was important to use full sentences and to write down every detail. I asked her why she wanted me to keep a journal. I never have before! She said she noticed I had difficulty expressing myself, not just in Sunday school class, but with Mamá and Rosa too. Can you believe it? I mean, I never thought about it, but I guess she’s right. They are just so loud and strong and sometimes they don’t listen to me. Sister Bertha says this will help. And even if it doesn’t, what can it hurt? Besides, I can’t say no to a nun!
After the first page, I read three pages of Juanita explaining her life, as if she had to introduce herself to the journal. After that she began to write about her days in so much detail that I wanted to poke my eyes out! Who cared about what she ate and every single step she took that day? Did she really need to write down that she went to the bathroom after lunch?
Then I came to the quinceañera section. Juanita was almost fifteen and obsessed with quinceañeras. She planned every single detail out in her journal: the location, her court, the crown, the shoes . . . she even drew a crude drawing of what she wanted her dress to look like. Apparently nothing went the way she wanted, because there were five pages of rants about how her mother got everything wrong, her dress was ugly and the decorations weren’t as cool as some girl named Roselia’s, and to top it all off Juanita’s uncle got drunk and embarrassed her with a slurred speech in front of everyone in which he continually repeated, “M’ija, we love you!”
Finally, I came to a passage about my mother. Juanita mentioned that Abuela would begin teaching my mother curanderismo. I punched the air in relief and excitement when I read that sentence. Thank God! This had to be around 1971. No more stupid dresses or talks about boys and friends! Juanita was a little jealous of this, but she was hopeful that maybe one day her mother would see the gift in her too. My mother was learning how to be a curandera . . . something I was doing now.
Funny: I had never thought about it before, but my mother and I had never had anything in common, except the gift.
Ocho
FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS I couldn’t put the journal down. Although most of the entries were useless: Juanita writing about her day, someone she liked, who she had kissed. I was too scared to skip over anything. I didn’t want to miss something significant.
I almost fell out of my chair at lunch one day when I read a very small passage about my mother winning homecoming queen. Juanita didn’t seem too happy when she wrote, Rosa won’t shut up about her stupid dress and stupid crown. I was elated. The journal entry was from around 1972, the year that my mother’s life changed.
Each time my mother or Abuela’s name popped up, I would stop and go over the entry, trying to read between the lines, trying to see something that wasn’t there. It wasn’t until I had read over half of the journal that something interesting finally came up. I was in math class and had already finished my worksheet, so I was free to do whatever I wanted, like read.
Rosa has been a puta lately. She keeps sneaking out the house at night to meet up with Jorge and then she expects me to lie for her! She doesn’t even say thanks! She’s moody all day and pissed off. Mamá and her are fighting so loud that I can’t concentrate on writing this! They shout about nothing most of the time!
Was this it? I read the next page.
Rosa is refusing to help Mamá with her healing. She says she’s too busy but I know she is lying and it has something to do with Jorge. I can hear Rosa and Jorge arguing through the window when she’s sneaking back at night. I think Jorge wants to get married or something stupid like that. It’s hard to hear. Doesn’t Rosa know how lucky she is? She’s such an idiot.
The bell interrupted my reading, forcing me to go to the cafeteria for lunch. I packed up my binder and notebook but kept the journal out. I was planning on reading it as soon as I sat down. I got in line, grabbed a tray, a burger and fries. A line had formed at the cashier. I looked ahead. Some guy was arguing with the lady about something while he searched
through his backpack. Probably lost his money.
I grabbed a fry from my tray and popped it into my mouth. Might as well read a page while I waited.
I could kill Rosa! We had the biggest fight today. I walked into the bathroom and she was just standing over the sink, one hand on her head, and she was breathing frantically like she was having a breakdown or something. Her face was pale and I thought she was going to throw up or faint or something. When I asked if she was okay, she went crazy on me! She started yelling at me to get out, to mind my own damn business. That’s what I get for being such a good sister? My own sister calling me a puta? Damn her. I hope Mamá finds out.
The next instant, the journal was out of my hand flying in an arc away from me. It took me a second to realize that Marcela had walked past me with her friends, laughing. She had grabbed the journal and had thrown it on the floor before pouring a full carton of milk all over it.
“Hey!” I dropped my tray and a loud clang echoed throughout the cafeteria. I pushed past Marcela, hitting her shoulder with mine as I did. She stumbled back and I glimpsed her pissed-off face.
“Fuck!” I didn’t care who heard. I squatted down slowly and picked up the journal, careful not to get milk on me. It was hopeless. Half the journal was soaked through, the blue ink bleeding into misshapen blobs. I shook off some of the milk and looked through the dry pages. Most of them were at the beginning of the journal—stuff I’d already read! The dry pages at the back of the journal were starting to get moist and stick to the wet pages. Damn it. I had been getting somewhere. I felt it, I was about to find out. And even if I wasn’t, I would never know now. Marcela had taken that from me.
My neck grew warm, and then warmer, and then burning hot. Anger built up in me. Sweat formed on my brow. I dropped the journal back into the milk. It was useless, gone, done. My only chance was gone, and Marcela was to blame. She had caused this.
I turned around and spit out, “You bitch!”
Secrets of the Casa Rosada Page 13