The Montoyas present let loose a collective scoff.
“Believe what you want, brother. I am disappointed your father or Ana Cruz is not among you. I wanted to see you all one more time. I wanted you to know that I did not die or vanish like my mother believed.”
“Our mother was sick over you,” the woman with the tightly set lips said bitterly. “She died thinking you hated her.”
“I suppose I did, at the time. I don’t anymore.”
“She told me what you did,” the woman with the hazel eyes said, then gestured to the high ceiling. “How you got all of this.”
Orquídea’s laughter was a deep rumble. “I couldn’t water a houseplant with the things you know, Greta.”
Greta balled her fists at her hips. Rey and Caleb Jr. slowly made their way to either side of Orquídea’s chair like sentries.
“Peace, Greta,” said a third Buenasuerte, lanky, with hair so black it looked like an ink smudge. He placed a gentle hand on his sister’s arm, the way Tío Félix had done to Enrique, and it was good to know that all families were the same in certain ways. There were those who felt too much, those who felt too little, and others who knew how to deal with those feelings. “If our sister is ready to put the past behind her and apologize for what she put our mother through, we are here to listen.”
“You misunderstand, Sebastián,” Orquídea said. “I did not invite you here to apologize. Isabela Buenasuerte was who she was, and I know, in my bones, that I was nothing more to her than a burden. I will carry that knowledge with me to my last moments. You mistook her sickness over me for guilt.”
“Then why call us here?” Wilhelm asked.
The ochre pallor of the Buenasuertes became shades of gray, a true black-and-white photograph. Even the air around them warped and faded at their edges, like they were on another plane of existence.
“To tell you the truth, I was hoping your father would be here.”
“His health is poor,” Greta said. “Ana Cruz remained behind to care for him.”
“Pity. I would have liked to see Ana Cruz again,” Orquídea said. “Reymundo, be a dear and bring me the cigarette box on the mantel.
Rey did as he was asked. The cigarette box was made of silver, emblazoned with a starburst and the initials BL. Marimar had tried to open it once, but the little lever at the side wouldn’t budge.
Of course, when Orquídea tried, the lid popped up to reveal an ancient, waxy green bill.
“Cinco sucres,” her voice regained its clarity. “That’s how I met your father and that’s how my mother’s life changed, and that’s how all of you came to be. That’s how my life changed, too, I suppose, but I always knew that I was on a different path than my mother’s. Even before I was born, we diverged. I’ve kept this note for decades, sealed, not even spending it when I had nothing else to my name because it carried a promise.”
“What promise?” Wilhelm asked.
“That I would never be indebted to anyone ever again, especially men like your father. This was a loan, and I want to pay it back.”
Orquídea held out the bill. The five Buenasuerte siblings remained still, offended, bewildered. Wilhelm looked like he was about to start foaming at the mouth, but he stomped across the living room, his feet barely making a sound as he snatched the sucre from Orquídea Divina’s hand.
“You might not be indebted to anyone,” he said, “but by the looks of all this, your descendants will pay the price. Whatever you did, I hope it was worth it.”
The Buenasuertes left soundlessly, and they did not look back.
The Montoyas stared at Orquídea who grinned deeply with her eyes closed.
“Was that necessary?” Reina asked.
Orquídea met her daughter-in-law’s eyes and said, “What is it like to live without rage in your heart?”
Reina knew better than to answer.
“I, for one, am loving this family reunion,” Rey exclaimed, going to the bar cart to select a bottle of amber liquid. He poured himself a large helping, then remembered the others in the room. Raising the glass, he said, “Salud, motherfuckers.”
“All right, everyone,” Félix said loudly, twisting his hands in that nervous way of his. “At this rate we’ll never get dinner finished in time. Reina, Silvia, Caleb, you’re with me in the kitchen. Penny, Marimar, Rey, you’re on cleaning duty. Juan Luis and Gastoncito, help Ricky bring the dining table in here.”
Enrique snatched Rey’s drink from his hands mid-sip and took a seat in the chair opposite his mother. “I’m busy.”
“I’ll do it,” Frederico, Silvia’s husband, offered.
“See? So helpful.” Enrique grimaced at the burn of his stolen drink.
“What about me?” Tatinelly said, rubbing her belly. “We can help.”
“Tati, you rest for now,” Félix said.
Enrique laughed. Gestured to the shoots of branches sprouting between his mother’s knuckles. “Of course, you’re all fine with this. None of you question anything she does.”
“On the contrary,” Silvia said. Her hair was pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful. “I question it all the time. I’m just okay with not having answers. I accept our mother the way she is. You’re just a needy fuck.”
There was a moment of uncertainty. Hurt and anger momentarily crossed Enrique’s features before he hardened his resolve.
Félix’s eyes softened, like he was waiting for his little brother to come to his senses, to soften and yield like they always had. Juan Luis and Gastón didn’t know anything about the world, but they knew their uncle Enrique was a jerk and needed to be taught a lesson. Tatinelly squeezed her husband’s hand. Rey poured a new drink. Marimar waited. Ernesta looked up at the portrait over the mantel, the one of her mother as a young girl. She had a look on her face, like someone who was daring the universe to fuck with her. Little did they know, it had.
Félix let out a resigned sigh and then spurred into action. He clapped his hands together, jolting everyone out of their momentary indecision. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go. Kitchen, cleaning, dining table. Now!”
The Montoyas spread out, racing out of the living room, arming themselves with brooms and kitchen knives, like witches going to war.
* * *
Tatinelly loved this house. Unlike most of her cousins, she had been born at the Four Rivers hospital. Her mother had refused the tradition. Her exact words were, “I’m not giving birth on a ranch like a prized hog. It’s 1990, for Christ’s sake!” The nurses had all gathered around the little girl, the first Montoya to be delivered at their hospital. Tatinelly had come right out, like she’d been counting down the seconds, like she had wanted to get the show of living started. She didn’t cry. She didn’t fuss. The most extraordinary thing about her was how normal she was. Tati’s mom had told her, years later, that the nurses had placed bets to see if she’d come out with webbed feet, claws, or a third eye. But Tatinelly was ordinary in so many ways, and she was perfectly content with that. Still, she didn’t like feeling left out, so she always said she’d been born in the same room as the other Montoyas.
Her family was different, off to others, but they were hers. As she and Mike made their way upstairs and into the guestroom, Tatinelly rubbed her belly and hummed a song that had been stuck in her head since they left Oregon. She imagined that the creaking floor and wheezing hinges were singing back. The house had seen better days, but this particular bedroom was spotless. It was almost like Orquídea had known… The wallpaper pattern was of rose petals, so faded it had taken on a dusty mauve shade from too much sun exposure. When Juan Luis and Gastón were born, she remembered peeking through the skeleton keyhole. There was so much screaming, so many women running around. None of that had startled her, but the one thing that had was the moment the twins were pulled out from between their mother’s legs, and the rose petals on the wall moved.
She told Mike as much. He set their overnight bags on the four-poster bed and made a strangling sound he’d
never made before.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “You were very little.”
Tatinelly went to the window and basked in the warm light. From this room, she could see the plot of graves out back. Orquídea’s husbands and her aunt Pena. The grass around their family cemetery was the only part of the property that wasn’t affected by the drought.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m sure,” she said softly. “It’s what I saw.”
He jumped on the bed and folded his hands behind his head. He hadn’t gone on his bike ride that morning and his pent-up energy had him wiggling his toes. “I have to tell you, honeybee. I—I’m not sure this is where we should be.”
Tatinelly felt a strong kick from her daughter. Restless, eager. “Why?”
“It’s just not you.” Mike sat up. The mattress so thick it didn’t even groan as he stood. He paced in circles for a time, like a bee performing a ritual dance.
She remained standing, picking up and setting down little glass bottles on top of a dresser. She’d loved all of these things. The whole house made it feel like it was there for her to play with. Even with cracks and layers of dirt, she still wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. It hurt that Mike didn’t think this place was like her.
“I love my family,” she said. “They’re part of who I am. So, in that sense, this place is me.”
Mike stopped pacing at the side of the bed, nearly doubled over. He breathed hard. His skin was so flushed he almost looked translucent. He’d had anxiety attacks throughout the years over taxes and work. Over retirement funds and market crashes. Once over a Super Bowl loss. But this, this was different. Tatinelly had always been so certain that Mike loved every part of her. They were supposed to be the constant things in each other’s lives. If he didn’t like this part of her, could he truly keep loving her at all? Could he love their daughter?
She waddled over to him. She rubbed soothing circles on his back the way he liked. His muscles were so tight beneath. He turned and looked at her in that way of his, like he’d never seen anyone or anything so beautiful. Even if she wasn’t, he made her feel that way.
“I’m sorry. Your grandmother—your family—this is a lot.” He sat at the edge of the mattress.
She didn’t want to mention that he was sitting on the same spot her aunts and grandmother had rested on in preparation for delivery. That they’d gripped the posters of the bed when contractions came. That their blood and embryonic fluid was the reason there was a permanent stain in the wood at their feet.
Then it occurred to her. Could they stay long enough for her to deliver her baby girl here? She was sure now that it would be a girl. It happened the moment they stepped out of the car at the top of the hill and she practically glided down the steep road. A breeze beheaded stubborn dandelions and took on a shape. The shape of a girl. Then the wind blew again, and the shape was gone.
“How are you not freaking out?” he asked. His hands were cupped in front of her, begging for an answer. “None of you are freaking out.”
How was she supposed to explain her family? She shouldn’t have to. “It’s just—how things are.”
“You grandmother’s feet are tree roots! You might as well have said ‘open sesame’ to get the door open. That entire family turned black and white. Not to mention your uncle Enrique is a dick.”
“Well, yes, that’s never happened before. The roots part. Uncle Enrique has always been… I want to say, difficult. So that’s not so new.”
“But other things have?”
She thought about the moments she never questioned while spending summers in this house. Once, a girl stuck a wad of gum in Tatinelly’s hair at the Four Rivers community pool. Panicked, she cut it as close to the root as she could, but she had a bald patch right on the top of her head. Orquídea calmed her down. She expected Orquídea to tell her it was her own fault for trying to chase after people who didn’t want to be friends with her. Instead, Orquídea went into the kitchen and Tatinelly followed. She pulled out glass bottles of oils and syrups with cork stoppers and poured the nasty smelling liquids into a bowl. Then she cut herbs from her garden. Smooshed cherries and an apple from the orchards. Covered all of Tatinelly’s scalp with it. In the morning, the bald patch was gone, and her hair had been restored. Back then she didn’t call it by what it was—magic. It was just how Orquídea was with her home remedies. Everyone had home remedies, didn’t they? Everyone had brought secrets from the old worlds with them.
Not everyone had, alas. When she met Michael Sullivan’s family, she realized they didn’t have remedies or languages they spoke only in private. Everything the Sullivans ate came from a can or a frozen bag. They didn’t use salt on anything, except a pinch in their food. They didn’t suck the marrow from their chicken bones for health. They didn’t have stories of ghosts or duendes or cucos hiding underneath the bed. Their grandmothers lived far away in old people homes and, though he had cousins, Mike could go his whole life without ever seeing another Sullivan and be all right with it. Tatinelly was starting to make herself fit into Mike’s family because he had been so good to her and he loved her so much. But being back at the ranch made her feel like she had been missing something. If not for her, then for her child. She wanted her daughter to know there was magic in the world.
“I’ll go get you some water,” Tatinelly told Mike. She brushed his thinning hair back and kissed the sweat on his forehead. She didn’t think he could handle much more of this.
“Maybe something stronger.” He kissed the back of her hand, worshipped her boney knuckles with his lips. “Please.”
Tatinelly smiled. Her smile had made Mike dizzy when they first met; and even now, when he was confused and a little scared. She had Orquídea’s smile. So would their daughter.
“I’ll be right back,” she said. When she touched the wall, a rose petal fluttered under her fingertip.
* * *
Downstairs in the library parlor, Marimar opened every window and every shutter. She swept dirt and dust out the door. Rey and Penny followed with mops and buckets full of Orquídea’s homemade cleaning liquids.
“That’s all of it,” Rey said, turning the bottle on its head until only droplets fell out.
“There’s no salt,” Penny said, holding up a burlap bag.
“What do you mean there’s no salt?” Marimar asked. She gently picked up the bag, needing to feel its featherweight in order to believe it. She hurried into the hall and yanked open the pantry. The jars were empty, too. The metal bin, usually full of coffee beans only had a handful of kernels.
“This is all that’s left after they took what was needed for cooking,” Penny said, gnawing on the inside of her lips. “This is bad, right? I mean, I know we’re avoiding Mamá Orquídea turning into a tree but, like, I feel we should all admit that this is bad.”
Rey pulled their cousin into a hug and brushed wisps of hair away from her face. “We’ll do without. Why don’t you see if your mom needs help?”
Penny ran off, leaving Rey and Marimar alone in the hall.
“What do we do?” Rey hissed. He was out of cigarettes and had moved on to the rum. Oddly enough, the liquor in the house was still well stocked.
Marimar pushed down her anxiety. The house was too big to fix in time for dinner. She reminded herself that Orquídea didn’t have long and didn’t need a clean house anymore. Admitting that to herself, even in her own thoughts, filled her with a deep melancholy she’d been trying to avoid. What would her mother have done if she was alive and among them? She’d put on one of Orquídea’s records and pretend like it was all a game. The first one to find something silver, something red, and something made of glass would win. Marimar would polish the silver, oil a red leather footstool, shine Orquídea’s menagerie of tiny crystal animals. For a moment, Marimar heard the echo of her own childlike laughter, the blur of her and Rey running down the same corridor and playing in the same parlor. She ached for a time that was long gone and for things she could never get back
. She scratched at the hollow of her throat wishing she could carve out the emotion.
Then, a skinny rooster clucked through the front door leaving a trail of blue feathers.
“Gabo!” Marimar shouted, unable to believe the creature was still alive.
The twins trailed in after. “Come back here!”
“You’re supposed to be making up the dining room.” Marimar felt a hundred years old as the words left her mouth.
“I’m trying to save him,” Gastón explained. Or maybe Juan Luis. She never could tell them apart.
“Yeah, Ma wants to cook him. Says it’s a mercy kill since otherwise he’ll be left all alone when Orquídea is gone.”
The bird cocked his head to the side like it knew they were talking about him. He was little more than skin and feathers, and Marimar wondered if, like the protections and wards around the house, Gabo the rooster was just another thing that had protected Orquídea and her valley.
“I need a refill,” Rey said as he leaned the mop against the wall and left the hall, laughing.
“Okay, take Gabo and leave him in the shed,” Marimar suggested.
“That’s where dad’s killing the pig!” Twin One said.
“Right,” she said. “Put him in the guest room upstairs. No one would bother Mike.”
“Probably because he looks like a blobfish,” Twin Two said.
“No, blobfish are round and pink. He’s like if a blobfish and a giraffe had a baby,” Twin One said.
Marimar spotted her very pregnant cousin waddling down the stairs. If she heard the twins talking about her husband, she didn’t comment.
Juan Luis and Gastón made the sound of a scratched record. They snatched up the ancient rooster and Juan Luis (probably) cradled it like a baby.
“Tati, hey,” Marimar said.
“I was just coming down to get Mike something to drink. He—”
She stopped in front of Marimar and faltered, unable to find the right words. He can’t handle this? He can’t handle us?
The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina Page 8