Secrets of the Casa Rosada

by Alex Temblador

  I moved toward Marcela, ready to push her, slap her, when a man called out, “Hey, you! Put that down, now!”

  Marcela held a knife in her hand and was walking toward me. We both stopped as soon as she heard the voice. The cafeteria was quiet. Everyone watched us. The man, a young teacher on duty, walked up swiftly. I lowered my fist.

  Marcela still held the knife. She looked at me, her eyes black and her shoulders tensed. What was she going to do with that knife? Stab me? I felt her anger across the short distance. It pulsed, over and over again. At least, I thought it was anger until, suddenly, something happened with my vision and I saw that it wasn’t anger that was pulsing out of Marcela. It was something more—she had a don? It looked just like Abuela’s don but different. Marcela’s was darker, warped.

  No, that couldn’t be it. No . . . I shook my head a little and my vision cleared so that all that stood in front of me was Marcela.

  “I said, put it down.” The man now stood on Marcela’s left, about a foot or two away.

  Her hand tightened on the knife for one second before she dropped it. One, two, three, four, five tiny pings echoed through the large silent room, until the knife lay flat on the floor.

  “Principal. Now!” The man grabbed Marcela’s elbow and dragged her away.

  Marcela and I had reached a new level of hate for each other.

  After the teacher took Marcela to the principal’s office, I walked out. No one spoke to me, no teacher stopped and asked if I was okay. I did hear a guy say, “Why didn’t Martha just zap her with her witch power?” There were a few snickers from the surrounding tables, but when I looked at them, they stopped quickly and tried looking anywhere but at me.

  I left the journal where it was. Somebody else could throw it away. It was no use to me now. I felt bad that I couldn’t give it back to Juanita, but she had forgotten it anyway and wouldn’t miss it now.

  When I got to the hallway, I thought I heard someone call my name. Maybe it was Laura. I didn’t stop, and no one came after me.

  I couldn’t quite say how the rest of my classes went. My body went through the motions, but I wasn’t there. I was thinking too hard about Marcela. I had felt it in the cafeteria: her power. Didn’t I? It was all in her anger. And Laura had been right: Marcela really did have the gift, or some kind of gift, since she hadn’t exactly been trying to heal me.

  But that was crazy. It couldn’t have been a don. Could dons look like that? They were gifts meant for healing. What did you call a gift not meant for healing? Could you use it for evil? And why did I see it? Or did I? This was becoming too much. All this curandera-bruja crap. Because that’s what it was. Crap. I didn’t sign up for this. Seeing things that weren’t even there.

  And if Marcela did have a don . . . and I’m not saying she did . . . but if she did, Abuela would have seen it in Marcela the day she came to the house asking to be her apprentice. And she turned Marcela away. Why? If there hadn’t been anyone else that had come along with the gift, and if Marcela did have one, then why not accept her as an apprentice? Perhaps the difference between Marcela and me was that she had picked up a knife and I hadn’t. Is that what Abuela had seen in her? That capability?

  And what did that say about me? That I was a safe bet, or was it only because I was her granddaughter?

  By the end of the day, there were a lot of rumors about Marcela and me. A lot of people had heard that Marcela really had stabbed me. In my physics class, one girl turned to her friend and said, “See? I told you, nothing happened to her.” I wanted to punch this one guy during last period when he tapped my shoulder and said, “Is it true you stopped her with your mind?” I rolled my eyes and replied, “Don’t be stupid.” He just shrugged and turned back to the teacher.

  There was one rumor that was true. Marcela was expelled for pulling a knife and sent to a juvenile detention center for two weeks, which meant I wouldn’t have to see her until next semester, since school would be out in exactly two weeks for winter break. I got detention for two days. Thank you, Mr. Principal. At least, I wouldn’t have to watch my back for awhile . . . in school at least.

  At the end of the day, Abuela waited for me outside my last class. My detention would begin next week.

  “Why are you here?”

  The corners of her lips fell farther down her face, stretching out the skin of her flabby cheeks. She didn’t say anything but turned and began walking to the front of the school. Abuela’s forceful steps were a billboard for her anger. Someone had told Abuela about the incident with Marcela. Still, I hadn’t imagined she would pick me up.

  Abuela had brought the gold Cadillac and parked it on the left side of the school, right in the way of everyone else who was trying to pick up their kids. Either Abuela didn’t care or she didn’t realize what she had done. It was probably a combination of the two. We got into the car, and Abuela took off, jumping into the traffic seamlessly as if the traffic had been waiting for her to pull out.

  Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. She looked straight ahead, leaning forward in her seat, so that her large chest almost touched the steering wheel. Her lips were pursed, as they always were when she was angry.

  Once we made it into the neighborhood, only a few minutes away from the school, Abuela spoke, “What did I tell you? I said stay away from that girl!”

  I had been slouched before, but feeling attacked, I sat up in my seat. “I did stay away! And she started it!”

  “So, you think it’s okay to retaliate? To push her? To raise your fist? Over a book?” How the hell did she know all this?

  “You weren’t even there. You don’t know the whole story. She . . . ”

  “Ay, she is nothing! You! I said, stay away from her and you don’t listen. How can I trust you?!”

  I yelled back. “Trust me? How can I trust you? You changed my freaking last name! Who does that?”

  “I can do whatever I please! You are a Gonzalez whether you like . . . ”

  “You never tell me anything! I’ve done all you’ve asked, and you blame me for stuff . . . ”

  Abuela’s voice rose louder. “Of course, I blame you. I expect more from you, and you let me down, just like your mother!”

  She slammed on the brakes, and I was jerked forward in my seat belt. For a moment I couldn’t breathe because the seat cut into my chest then all at once I was slammed back into the seat.

  I shouted when I could breathe again, “God!”

  I turned to Abuela, fuming and wishing she was Marcela so I could hit her. The area just below Abuela’s white hairline was tinged in pink, and her eyes were dark with a similar rage I had witnessed earlier.

  “Go. I need to do some things,” she said through gritted teeth.

  I turned and looked out of the window. We were at Juanita’s house.

  I jerked my seat belt off and pushed the door open, but before I stepped out, I turned back. “I’m not my mother. But it’s not hard to see why she left this place. She couldn’t stand your craziness!”

  I hopped out of the car and slammed the door. Stomping to the house, I silently cussed Abuela out with every single bad word I could think of in Spanish and in English.

  My grandmother sped off with a screech of her tires. I was once again reminded of the day my mother left me.

  Nueve

  JUANITA GAVE ME MY SPACE, at least for a little bit. I flew past her when she opened the door, stomped through the hallway into the kitchen and then out the back door. I dropped my backpack on the ground before I threw myself into an old, woven green lawn chair. I was left alone for about an hour, seething in anger.

  How could Abuela think that I was anything like my mother? She was delusional. I couldn’t stand her crazy mood swings and the ridiculous stuff that came out of her mouth. No wonder my mother had left. There’s your answer, Martha! She left because her mother was a lunatic.

  Juanita came outside with two panes de dulce and a glass of milk. She sat down in the
other lawn chair next to me. She placed the glass of milk and the sweet bread on a small, plastic table between us. It was warm outside but not necessarily hot, since it was the beginning of December. Or perhaps I had grown used to the heat, as I had grown so used to other things: the brown people, the language, the food, the life. I just hadn’t recognized my comfort with it until now.

  I refused to look at Juanita. Looking at her would remind me of the journal, and the journal would remind me of the fact that I wasn’t any closer to finding out why my mother had left or where she was. I wanted so badly to ask Juanita what she had known, why my mother had left. But she wouldn’t tell me, and even if she did tell me, she’d run and tell Abuela, and then Abuela would do everything to keep me from searching.

  “When your mother and I were little, we used to run away sometimes.”

  Oh, so my mother learned to run away early. That would have been a nice warning.

  She continued, “She would wake me up in the middle of the night with a bag full of clothes and snacks and tell me to be quiet as we snuck out of the house. But we never got farther than down the street before we got too scared and would run to the backyard, pretending we were somewhere we weren’t.”

  “Why did you want to run away?”

  “C’mon, Martha. You can’t imagine why? ”

  “Let me guess, the big bad I-want-to-control-everything wolf?”

  “Of course.” She grabbed a pan de dulce, tore a piece off and threw it in her mouth. I took the other one and did the same, except I dipped my piece into the glass of milk before eating the sugary deliciousness.

  “Why is she like that? It’s so hard to live with someone like her.”

  Juanita chuckled. “You think it was easy for me and Rosa? You have it much easier, trust me.”

  “I doubt it. She expects so much from me! Curandera work. Good grades. Stay out of trouble. I didn’t ask for all of this. When I came here, all I wanted . . . ”

  “Wanted what?”

  Was to be invisible. But I couldn’t say that. “Nothing. It’s just so much.”

  Juanita put her hand on my shoulder. “Martha, do you want to be a curandera? Do you even like learning those things?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, I mean I did. I do. I don’t know right now. It’s a lot of work, and sometimes I don’t even know if I’m doing it right or doing anything at all . . . if it’s even real.”

  She nodded her head. “I understand. But look, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. You can be a normal kid. I can ask Mamá to stop teaching you. Whatever you want.”

  Is that what I wanted? Although I wish I could say it was, it wasn’t. I did like learning this stuff. Even if healing from a distance or seeing someone’s don seemed impossible, I knew the physical cures worked. I had seen it myself. The teas, the pastes, the massages, they were the real deal. And I enjoyed that. If I didn’t have curandera work, what would I have? Who would I be without it? Who would I become?

  “No, don’t do that. Maybe just get Abuela off my back a little.”

  Juanita took another bite. “Look Martha, your abuela, she doesn’t understand some things. She was brought up in a different time with different ideals. And she’s a stubborn, strong woman. She won’t ever admit that she’s wrong.”

  “Well, she should! She can’t use her upbringing as an excuse. I don’t.”

  “Don’t you?”

  I started to flick my wrist at Juanita but caught myself. I stared at my hand in horror. Oh, shit . . . no, that didn’t mean anything! I was nothing like Abuela. Nothing like her.

  Juanita waited, so I quickly said, “Whatever.”

  We sat there and let a few moments pass by, finishing our sweet bread.

  “Martha, I really am proud of you. I know no one has said it, but you’ve carried yourself well, especially with everything that’s happened. Your mother and all. I just want you to know that people do notice.”

  I didn’t respond, just sat there trying not to let the lump in my throat rise up and spill over.

  Instead, I asked, “So why did you and my mom run away? The first time, I mean.”

  Juanita screwed her face up in thought. “You know, I don’t even remember.” She laughed. “We tend to forget those things that we found so important at the time they happened.”

  I looked at Juanita. She was different from the girl of the journal. She wasn’t hyper-excited, pitying herself or obsessive about material things any longer. Actually, Juanita wasn’t too bad.

  Something else bothered me. “Will you be honest with me?”

  She nodded yes.

  “Do you know where my mother is?”

  She leaned back in her seat and looked across the front yard. “Martha, I wish I did.”

  “If you did know where she was, would you tell me?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it quickly. She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and shook her head no. “I don’t think I would.”

  “Why?”

  “Martha, you have to understand that Rosa was never good at . . . relationships. Not even with me. Once, she got so pissed at me for not agreeing with her that she left me in Mexico, so I had to find my way home, alone. I was only twelve.”

  “But, that doesn’t mean . . . ”

  Juanita interrupted me. “She wanted to leave, Martha,” she paused. “And sometimes we are better off if some things are never found. Even if those things are people.”

  Abuela and I didn’t speak that night when she picked me up from Juanita’s. We didn’t speak on the car ride home, nor did we speak when Gloria greeted us in the kitchen with dinner. We didn’t even speak during the meal. When Gloria finally figured out that no one would converse with her, she got up, stomped to the cupboard and pulled the mini television out, switched it to a telenovela and ignored us.

  I didn’t find out where Abuela had gone during the day. It didn’t concern me much at all, until I woke up the next morning and found that Abuela had burned three candles for protection throughout the night and had left an amulet beside the candles. I stared at the flickering flames, then picked up the amulet. It surprised me that the candles had not melted during the night, just like those candles from my first night at Abuela’s.

  The amulet, a leather pouch, smelled strongly of garlic, which was confirmed by the clove I found inside. There were also a few gold coins, a red ribbon and a piece of lodestone. Wherever Abuela went yesterday, whatever she encountered, made her believe that I was in serious trouble, because the amulet was the strongest protection that Abuela knew. Still, what could this little sack do against Marcela? I hated to admit it, but my faith was shaken when it came to some of the curandera stuff. I just didn’t know what to believe.

  The next day was Saturday. Abuela still wasn’t speaking to me, but we had patients to take care of at their houses. Even though I still was an apprentice to Abuela, I was pretty skilled in a lot of things by this time and a bit more independent. Or at least, I thought I was. I had also been practicing healing without touching patients. It took a lot of concentration, but I could do it. At least I thought I could. Sometimes I just wasn’t sure if what I was doing was real, if what I was feeling wasn’t some ludicrous self-fulfilling prophecy bullshit that I had created, thanks to a little push from Abuela.

  But then when I healed . . . I felt my don and was sort of convinced that it was real. That build-up of power at the center of my chest . . . a ball of energy pushing outward into what felt like an empty cavity: it pushed with so much force that I thought I might throw up . . . and then, suddenly, I would breathe and the energy would spread out and everything inside me vibrated with something. Something would make my head woozy and my body loose . . . . From there, my don found the sickness in the patient, and I healed the sickness away. I mean, one moment it was there, all dark and blotchy like a blind spot in my vision, and the next it was gone. And when I was done, my don returned to the center of my chest, almost cutting off my breath until as quickly as it c
ame, it disappeared and I was left wondering if it had ever happened at all.

  As we were leaving the house, Abuela said, “Here,” and shoved a paper bag at me. “Go to Juan Pedrito’s and give him the alcanfor for his rheumatism. Then go see Señora Gallos and give her the herbs. I’ll meet you at Doña Cristelia’s.” She turned and walked down the street in the opposite direction, leaving me with the bag and nothing else.

  That was it? Looked like I would mostly be administering physical cures. And not really even that. This lady was killing me.

  Juan Pedrito was an old widower whose rheumatism was so bad that his left hand had curled into a claw. When I arrived at his house, I went inside and made him a tea with the herbs Abuela had placed in the bag for him. Then I massaged both his right hand and his left hand claw with the camphor oil Abuela had placed in a little bottle. It stung the skin of my palms a bit, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. Thirty minutes later I was finished, he thanked me and I left.

  Señora Gallos’ house was a different story. She needed more herbs to prevent pregnancy. She had seven children already, and her husband couldn’t keep his hands off her. They could barely afford the ones they already had. Most of the children I had seen on the visits to the Gallos house ran around without shoes, and their clothes were either too big or too tight on their skinny bodies.

  When I arrived at the house, she greeted me, “Buenas, Martha, ven, come in, quickly now.”

  Although everyone in her neighborhood had come to see Abuela many times, Señora Gallos was nervous that if anyone saw her with the curanderas, they’d gossip about her, just as she gossiped about them. Sometimes I didn’t understand the people of Laredo. They respected the curandera and curandero but whispered lies or rumors of witchcraft. They begged the curandera for cures but then denied their association with them. God forbid anyone just admit the truth in this town!

  Then again the people that had opened yerberías, herb shops, around the neighborhoods weren’t helping the curandera name, either. They promised healings for a small price and many people with hope had flocked to the stores for convenience or in desperation, only to have their money stolen and be left with no cure. Because of those frauds there were a lot of people who didn’t believe that curanderas had gifts and who thought that we were only out to make money off sick people and their hopes and sufferings.