Secrets of the Casa Rosada

by Alex Temblador

  Abuela gave me a beautiful gold necklace. It had a cross pendant with tiny, golden vines covered in thorns that wrapped around the arms of the cross and came together in the middle where a gold rose bloomed. I fingered the pendant, wondering if she had bought it with my mother in mind. Rosa. Rose.

  “Thank you,” I said trying to muster the feeling I felt for the gift. It was the nicest thing I had ever owned up until then and definitely the most expensive. It felt odd, considering how numb I had been the past few weeks. Abuela nodded once, looked like she was going to say something but then turned and told Lilia to open another gift. Abuela was never one for a lot of soft emotion.

  Everyone watched Lilia and Tomás open presents, not really paying attention to me. I opened a box and found a small, red photo album. On the first page was a picture of the entire family that had been taken one Sunday after church for Tía Perla’s birthday. She had insisted she needed an updated picture. I stood to the side of the group between Tía Juanita, who had her arm around me, and Tío Alvino.

  I smiled oddly in the photograph, as if I wasn’t sure what was happening. Looking at the picture made me smile. I flipped through the pages. The pictures were random ones of me or our family. Many were candid shots, snapped when I didn’t know someone was taking a picture. In one picture I was playing with Lilia. In another I was sitting between a few aunts eating a plate of food. I flipped through the pages, smiling. I loved the photographs of the family caught in various moments of laughter or cooking or talking rapidly to one another with hands held out in some explanation of an event. There were even a few pictures of Abuela, who, like me, didn’t know the camera was there. She didn’t like taking pictures and always turned around when a camera was near.

  As I was flipping through, Juanita moved from the couch and sat beside me.

  “You like?”

  I nodded, “Yeah. This is great. Better than the drawing I did for you.”

  “Martha, are you kidding me?” She held up the framed drawing I had made a month before of her, my uncle and two cousins. I had drawn Abuela a picture as well, of Mary and Jesus, and was going to give it to her when we got back to the house.

  “This is amazing! I didn’t know you were so talented,” Juanita said.

  I shrugged my shoulders. It wasn’t too bad.

  She smiled. “I’m going to hang it on the wall next to the kitchen so everyone can see how beautifully you drew my little family.”

  “If you want,” I said shrugging again.

  “Thank you again, Martha. Hey, flip to the back of the book.”

  I did as she said, but didn’t get far enough, so she flipped the pages for me until she got to the place that she wanted me to see. It was a picture of my mother at the age of seven or eight. She stood awkwardly in a purple dress in front of the church. I flipped to the next. My mother and Juanita sitting on a couch. Juanita was a baby, and my mother held her. My grandfather had his hands under my mother’s arms to make sure she didn’t drop Juanita. I couldn’t see his face; it wasn’t in the picture. Abuela must have been the one taking the picture because she wasn’t in sight. My mother looked down at Juanita with wonder, tiny lips parted and eyes wide.

  Each picture was from a different time, a part of my mother that I hadn’t known. I studied the pictures but not for long. I would do that alone in my room for many nights later. Juanita remained silent beside me as I continued flipping pages. Finally, I came to my mother’s high school years. She was laughing, posing with her friends, posing with Juanita. The pictures were now taken by friends most likely. I couldn’t imagine Abuela being okay with my mother doing a silly pose, kicking her leg in the air like a cheerleader. Abuela would have said “cochina” or some other word that would have meant my mother acted inappropriately.

  Suddenly I came to a picture with my mother and Sofía. They wore matching tie-dye shirts and each held a hand up to the camera in peace signs. The camera caught them in mid-laugh. Suddenly, Juanita grabbed the album from me. She looked at Abuela, who was watching Tomás open his present. Juanita hurriedly turned the page and handed the album back to me as if nothing had happened. Sometimes my family did too much to keep Abuela from being angry.

  I turned the pages, not really caring to say anything to Juanita about what she may have been hiding from Abuela. She didn’t say anything either, and a few moments later, she pointed out a picture of her and my mother dressed in matching pink dresses. She laughed as she told me about how the two of them couldn’t stop itching in those dresses all day.

  I came to a picture with my mother and another woman. They sat smiling in a red booth at a restaurant.

  I asked, “Who is that?”

  “Carlita, one of your mother’s friends.”

  Carlita looked different from her homecoming picture and the pictures I had found in the yearbook. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she had blunt cut bangs. I looked at the picture again. Wait a second . . . I had seen her before. I swear I had. But where? It was the woman from church! The one who refused to look at us. How could I not have realized it was Carlita until now? God, I was a freaking idiot! She had been at church, only ten feet in front of me, and I had lost my chance.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Abuela. “¿Qué es eso?” What is that? she asked. She had stood up and was looking over my shoulder. Her hand was held out for me to give her the album.

  I gave it to her without saying a word. So much had happened in a few moments that I didn’t know how to respond. She looked at it, at the picture of my mother and Carlita. Abuela’s face never changed as her eyes took in the picture. After a few moments, she handed the album back to me.

  “I have breakfast to make,” she said and walked to the kitchen.

  Once

  ABUELA WASN’T EXACTLY SURE why I came back to life. I don’t think she really cared why, or even why I had gone into my small, self-pitying depression in the first place. She was just happy to have me back. Or as happy as Abuela could get, which meant ordering me around a little less than usual.

  I had a goal once again, something to work toward. Carlita was the key. She would know what had happened to the baby, exactly how and why my mother had left, and maybe even where she was now. So that was my plan. Find Carlita and ask. It was simple. I already had addresses that could be hers. I figured it could only be one of the two addresses closest to the church.

  We were still on winter break and more people were sick. I didn’t have time to look for Carlita because Abuela kept me with her twenty-four hours a day, running errands and administering cures at the houses of patients while she took care of the ones that came by the house. Carlita hadn’t been back to church.

  By New Year’s, we were swamped with plastic containers of frijoles, arroz, mole, pozole, tortillas, pollo, carne guisada and plates and plates of pan de dulce. I became so sick of eating all the food everyone brought us as thanks and payment that I stopped eating everything but rice and fruit for a few days.

  The day before I had to go back to school, Abuela brought out two large canvas bags and threw them on the table next to me. “Apúrate, Martha. We go to Mexico today.”

  I stopped chewing the bread I was eating. Abuela hobbled down the hall and into one of the rooms. She hadn’t ever taken me to Mexico. I had my suspicions that she went regularly when I was at school.

  Soon after, we drove the Cadillac to a parking lot near the border and then got out to walk on foot. I had the two empty canvas bags draped around my neck. We had to walk up some stairs, then down another set of stairs, then up a few more, until we finally walked onto the bridge. Cars waited bumper to bumper to cross into Mexico, whereas on either side were two sidewalks to allow pedestrians to cross the border on foot. There was a large fence on our right, a means by which to prevent anyone from falling into the Rio Grande.

  The sidewalks were crowded with people. On the other side of the car barrier were those returning from Mexico or going to work in Laredo. All sorts of people walked be
side us on the path to Mexico. A grandmother with her daughter and her daughter’s children walked ahead of us at a slow pace, trying to allow the three little ones with them to walk on their own. We passed men with dirt-stained work pants and buttoned-up plaid shirts who talked with each other of the work they had done overnight on some construction project in the United States. We even saw a few tourists. The Anglos walked with cameras hanging on straps around their necks and sunglasses over their eyes. They smelled like sunscreen, too.

  As we walked, I turned to Abuela. “So why are you bringing me to Nuevo Laredo . . . Mexico?”

  “You need to know where I get some of my supplies.”

  “But why?”

  “Ay, Martha! ¿Por qué? ¿Por qué? You just need to know, okay? What if I need to send you to get me something?”

  Me? Go to Mexico alone? The idea of crossing into another country didn’t appeal to me. I’d already crossed into a new country once: Laredo. And I had barely been able to navigate its waters. Imagine Mexico, alone. Could I do it again?

  There was little chatter as we crossed the bridge, except for the Anglos, who didn’t care or notice the lack of conversation. Everyone had somewhere to be, and there wasn’t any room for anything that would slow them down.

  Only one guard stood on our side. Three faced Mexico on the other side of the bridge. They looked closely at each brown face that walked by, stopping people every once in a while. I’m not sure what the border patrol asked the people they stopped. Sometimes they responded and were allowed to walk on, while other times they pulled out something from their pockets or bags, showed the border men and then continued walking.

  Before we got to our guard, one of the other guards on the US side stopped a young woman with a bright pink scrunchie in her hair. Walking ahead of her was an older woman with short, graying hair who was holding the hands of two children, a girl and a boy. The patrolman looked as if he was asking the woman he stopped for papers or identification. She smiled unsurely and looked frantically through her pockets. She turned to the older woman with the two children. The children were trying to look over their shoulders at the pink scrunchie lady, but the woman who held their hands hurried them away.

  “Martha, stop staring.”

  I tripped over Abuela’s heels. “Sorry,” I said trying to find my balance once again.

  “That’s their mother, right?”

  “Sí.”

  “Why won’t they let her pass?”

  “No papers, probably. Mexican citizen.” Abuela walked faster, as if trying to put distance between her and my questions.

  “But why can’t they let her pass? We’re going to Mexico, and we aren’t Mexican citizens.”

  “Don’t they teach you this in school?”

  “No. Are they supposed to?”

  “Mexico likes Americans coming in, buying stuff, because we come back home and leave our money behind. Mexicans don’t want to leave the United States, and the United States doesn’t want Mexicans.”

  “But why?”

  “Why? Why? Why do you care?”

  I wasn’t sure why I kept asking why. Maybe I just needed to know how a woman would let her kids walk away with someone else, to another country.

  “It’s just that that woman . . . ” I sighed, “Forget I asked.”

  Abuela kept silent as we walked past the guard and into Mexico.

  When we neared the end of the bridge, I spoke again because something had occurred to me. “I don’t have papers. How am I going to get back across?” The idea of attempting to return to the United States scared me. Would they believe me? Take me to jail?

  “I have your birth certificate.”

  I stopped, stunned. “Wait . . . what?” Did my mother leave it with her? “How did you get it?”

  “I had to pay a man one hundred dollars to get you a new one. I was surprised to discover you were born in Texas.”

  A new birth certificate? Did she mean that she had my birth certificate reissued or that she got a fake one with my “new” last name, Gonzalez? You never knew with Abuela.

  “No worries. They won’t even stop us. I know their mothers.”

  The buildings in Mexico were older and more rundown than those found north of the Rio Grande. As I looked around, I was vaguely left with the sense that Mexico was a blur of brown. Brown buildings, brown streets, with hints of bright colors from banners or signs that swung slowly in the slight breeze. Cumbias, rancheras and Tejano music fought a cacophonous war high in the air over dominance of our ears.

  There were slightly more poor people in Mexico. Children ran toward the Anglos that had walked ahead of us selling chewing gum, pleading, “¡Un peso, un peso!” They didn’t bother with us.

  “Why don’t they run at us?” I asked Abuela.

  “You want these poor souls to beg you for money?”

  I shook my head and looked around. “No, I just noticed they only ran to the güeros, not to any of the Mexicans.”

  “Then you must be Mexican now.”

  Women and men without teeth or limbs dressed in raggedy clothing sat on the side of the street with signs in Spanish begging for money. Abuela stopped every once in a while, pulled something out of the bag she carried—coins, an orange, a wrapped piece of food, a vial of something—and gave it to some of those we passed.

  After about the fifth one, she said, “Too many . . . just too many.”

  The children were extremely skinny and had round bellies. My mother and I never had it that bad, ever. How could this be? We weren’t even a mile from Laredo, and the difference was drastic in the level of poverty. For a moment, I felt nauseated and guilty for the life I had lived, and for complaining about the dingy apartments and hotel rooms my mother had found us.

  Abuela led me through brick streets that were as narrow as two people with their arms outstretched. Shops were crammed tightly together on each side of the street. Merchants stood on doorsteps inviting us in or haggling with a customer or two. Abuela walked past them, sometimes she nodded to someone, but mostly she kept on straight. I, on the other hand, kept finding myself trailing behind. Each food cart we passed made my mouth water. Mexico smelled like a mixture of dust and spicy food. It was the oddest thing.

  I was fascinated by all that was being sold. Bright clothes, books, spices, food, statues, liquor . . . It was a market with everything you needed, for mere pesos. When Abuela told me that one dollar equaled almost seven pesos, I freaked out. I could be rich in Mexico.

  Five minutes later I said, “I’m a little surprised.”

  “At what?”

  “I thought Mexico was going to be a lot different from Laredo, but it really isn’t.”

  She shrugged. “I guess that’s why they call it ‘Nuevo Laredo.’”

  We finally came to a small alcove of shops down a side street. Our destination was the last shop on the left, squished between a shop full of perfumes and one that sold old cassette tapes and played ranchera music on a portable stereo, the kind of stereo that was as tall as your knee caps and as heavy as a bag full of bricks.

  The shop we entered was compact and smelled like Heaven, if Heaven had a smell. I entered a thick cloud of aromas: dried plants, herbs and sharp, stinging spices. Oddly enough, the one spice that stood out among the others was cinnamon. My senses were overloaded, so much so that I felt my body go woozy and my eyes closed for a second. I loved it. Abuela’s curandera room was only a small taste of the rich perfume that permeated the shop.

  Thousands of clear jars neatly lined the shelves that had been built into the walls. There were small scoopers and bags so that customers could pack their various purchases separately. There were even small weighing stations set up on tables. My fingers itched to touch everything, open up every jar and discover how I could use all the hidden treasures. The brightness in the shop made me look up. In the ceiling, an old, plastic skylight let in the Mexico sun for a natural brightness.

  Abuela left me and went straight to the shelve
s to get things I assumed we were short on. When I finally got my bearings, I caught up to her. She already had three small bags filled.

  “What’s that?” I asked pointing to a jar filled to the top with a gooey substance. Inside the gooey substance were objects of some sort. I moved closer. It was a . . .

  “Is that a baby mouse?” I asked.

  Abuela nodded, with a small smile.

  “Please tell me we are not getting that today.”

  “Well, I wasn’t planning on it, but stick your hand in there and get one. Never know when it might be useful.”

  I looked at her in disgust, and she responded with a laugh.

  After collecting some reddish powder, another grainy, tan powder and dried petals from a jar, Abuela finally went to the cash register, where a young woman with long, dark hair, smooth, caramel skin and big eyes stood. She was the most beautiful person I had seen since we had entered Mexico, although, when she smiled at Abuela, I noticed that her right front tooth overlapped the left one.

  “Buenas, María. How are things?”

  “Good, Margarita. This is my granddaughter, Martha. Martha, say ‘hello.’”

  “Mucho gusto.” Nice to meet you, I replied.

  “Igualmente.” Margarita put our purchases on a scale.

  “How’s your family? Your sister, is she still having problems?” Abuela asked Margarita.

  “The family is good. Healthy and strong. As for my sister, she will be all right. Nothing a few teas, protection and prayer can’t cure.”

  Margarita must have been a curandera, too. Why have all these ingredients if you didn’t know how to use them? She rang up the prices, and Abuela handed her some dollar bills and waved her hand when Margarita took the bills to indicate that she did not need change.

  I moved to the door to leave but stopped when Margarita said, “María, I wanted to tell you. A young woman from your side came in the other day . . . looking for herbs.”