Up in the nursery, after cooking, cleaning, and bathing Ana Cruz, Orquídea put the finishing touches to a dress she’d spent weeks crafting. She’d used her mother’s old sewing machine and dress pattern. Orquídea had used most of her savings to purchase the fabric from a seamstress over in Las Peñas. The satin was a deep peacock blue that gleamed in the candlelight. She sewed crystal beads in the shape of stars around the waist to look like a sash. She swept her curls back into an elegant bun like a prima ballerina, buffed her nails, and lotioned her toned arms and calves. When she spun around in her room, Orquídea felt like the night sky. She could hear the music and imagined batting her lashes at a young officer, dancing with the mayor himself. If everyone, even Jefita’s family, was allowed to have fun, then so would she.
One day. All she wanted was one day to feel happy.
Jefita knocked on the door and gasped at Orquídea. “You look like a movie star! Beautiful like Sara Montiel in Ella, Lucifer y yo.” Then she made the symbol of the holy cross over her body. A woman of superstition and faith, Jefita was from Ambato, in the Tungurahua province. She’d come down to the coast for work after she lost everything at thirteen in the earthquake of 1949 and found it in the Buenasuerte household. She loved bitter chocolate, feeding the iguanas in the park, boleros, and scandalous soap operas, even if she couldn’t get through most seasons without hyperventilating.
“Are there a lot of people already?” Orquídea asked.
She snapped her fingers in the air and giggled. “The mayor’s just arrived. His wife is wearing a tiara. If you ask me—”
“No one asked you, Jefita,” Isabela interrupted. Dressed in an elegant blush pink gown, she looked like the whisper of a goddess, if a bit gaunt from her poor health.
Jefita bowed her head, her artfully coiled braids were threaded with gold and carnations. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Buenasuerte. We were just playing around. We promise to behave tonight.”
Isabela looked past her head of house, and at her daughter. Orquídea was a vision in blue, her hourglass shape accentuated by the stars.
“What are you wearing?” Isabela asked.
“You don’t like it?”
Isabela shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You look like ripe fruit for men to snatch up. Is that what you want? Is it?”
“I—”
“Do you want to embarrass your father and me?”
“He’s not my father.”
Orquídea felt the hot sting of her mother’s hand. It didn’t stop until Orquídea was crying, setting off Ana Cruz’s wailing. Jefita stood exactly where she’d been the whole time, staring at the floor.
“Ungrateful girl. Where would we be if Wilhelm hadn’t been good to us? I’ve tried so hard, Orquídea, but you’re a reminder of the mistake I made all those years ago.”
Isabela was the first to gasp at her own words. Deep down, she didn’t believe she’d meant it, but the words were spoken and could not be taken back.
“Perhaps it’s best if you stay here and watch Ana Cruz until you calm down and put on something decent.”
But Orquídea didn’t change out of her dress. She didn’t look cheap or easy. She looked and felt like a jewel, even if that might have been a diamond in the rough. She did not attend the party but watched from the top of the banister as the beautiful, wealthy families danced and laughed. Men with thick mustaches and growing bellies orated toasts in the Buenasuerte name. Every man in the room formed a line to dance with Mila and Marie in their chiffon and tulle dresses that made Orquídea think of butterfly wings. Those were her dances, and her charming smiles. All she’d wanted was one day, but no matter how hard she worked, how well she behaved, how much she tried, it wasn’t enough. She didn’t belong there.
That night, while the guests were being serenaded by Julio Jaramillo, the Nightingale of America himself, she snuck out and went to visit the river. She lived so close and yet she’d been severed from it, the only place that had claimed her.
“Please,” she begged. She wasn’t sure if she was talking to the river monster, or some distant god, or the stars.
And then, beneath the lapping crush of the river, the cacophony of the Buenasuerte house, and the distant fireworks, she heard it—a murmur. The pulse of the sky. An earnest reply.
Find me.
“Who are you?” Orquídea asked, turning in place. There was no one near her. Further along the row of shanty houses, kids kicked a soccer ball in the dark. Others lingered outside the Buenasuerte house waiting for the scraps the servants threw out.
Find me, the voice repeated.
Orquídea felt a pull. A sense of certainty. In that moment Orquídea realized that some people stay in certain places forever, even when they’re miserable, and that is neither bad nor good. It’s survival. She had learned that lesson too early because one day she’d grow comfortable in thinking the worst was behind her.
But in that moment, she walked toward the voice.
Find me.
It wasn’t safe for girls to walk in the dark dressed in satin, her dress so blue it was like a soft bruise. Isn’t that what her mother had called her? Ripe, bruised, spoiled fruit. But Orquídea felt protected. No, possessed. It was like the night had laid out a path for her to follow, and anyone who laid eyes on her could see that she was spoken for by fate.
Hours later, when the moon was swollen and tinted red, Orquídea came upon a lot where a carnival had been erected. A great white tent pierced the starless sky. Even though the sound of the voice was gone, she knew she was in the right place. Her feet hurt, but she crossed the parking lot, strewn in hay, and stopped in front of a woman draped in red velveteen and smoking a cigarette from a silver holder.
“Hello. Do you have work?” she asked.
The woman smiled with the burden of someone who knows too much. “My dear, you are just the thing we were looking for.”
10
THE HUNGER OF THE LIVING
Marimar pressed the photograph against her chest. Was this sylph of light clutching Pena Montoya the father Marimar had never known? Her mouth could barely form the word. She usually went out of her way to avoid saying it out loud after over a decade of having to explain herself at school. Teachers were always either sympathetic or judgmental about her situation. One year, Marimar wasn’t allowed to be exempt from the Father’s Day card art project and resentfully glued some macaroni into the shape of a hand flipping the middle finger. She’d seen her tía Parcha do it all the time. When her mother had to be called into the school to pick her up for being rude and disrespectful, Marimar asked, for the hundredth time, where her father was.
Pena Montoya had a smile that stopped traffic, and it often did when she took long walks into town. But on that day, she didn’t smile. She raked her long waves back and gnawed on her bottom lip. She looked up at the sky and Marimar swore that her mom was asking it for help.
Pena got on her knee to be eye level with her daughter. “He’s gone, Marimar. He had to go.”
She’d sounded so sad, and even at seven years old, Marimar knew not to press. For some time Marimar figured that “gone” meant that he was dead. But there were so many ways for a person to be gone that had nothing to do with their mortality. Was he dead the way Rey’s father was dead? The way Orquídea’s husbands were dead? Or just gone like how Vanessa Redwood’s dad had left in the middle of the night and everyone in Four Rivers knew it?
Now, Marimar ran out into the hall in search of answers, clutching the photograph like a compass. Sweat pooled between her breasts and ran down her spine. Her heart thundered as she stormed into the living room. They’d moved the table in here, set for sixteen. Silver cutlery, candelabras, and porcelain dishes glinted in the evening light. Red embers peered from the fireplace like tiny blinking eyes.
“What is this?” Marimar asked, holding up the picture in her grandmother’s face.
Orquídea stirred the ice in her drink with her index finger. The nail had turned into a slender bran
ch, like the new buds of spring. “It’s a picture, Marimar.”
Marimar grunted. She’d walked into that one. The only way to get real answers from her grandmother was to ask yes or no questions.
“Light the fire, Marimar,” Orquídea said softly. Wrinkles deepened around her lips, the color of her eyes fluctuated between black and milky gray.
“I will if you answer me.” Then, because she knew she’d do it anyway, Marimar added a strangled, “Please.”
“The transformation makes me cold.”
“Transform” was a prettier way to say die. But she couldn’t deny her, even if she was angry with her. Marimar left the photograph on the table and hauled two logs from the iron rack in the corner. She threw in a fire starter, lit four matches at the same time, and waited for the flames to catch. She took the empty seat in front of Orquídea and once again picked up the old photograph.
“Is this my father?”
Orquídea tipped her glass back. She reminded Marimar so much of Rey in that moment. Or Tía Florecida, with the dimple in her cheek that only the two of them shared. The spark of secrecy, though. That was Orquídea’s alone.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
No, she wasn’t, but she still said, “Yes.”
New shoots sprouted at her grandmother’s knuckles, her wrists. She took in a deep breath like it hurt and then said, “That’s him.”
“You knew what this would have meant to me.” Marimar trembled. She looked at the photo again. Her mother’s head tilted toward the man like a flower toward the sun. Her father. The lights of the Ferris wheel in the background were blurred. She could practically hear her mother’s infectious laughter. The stark joy on Pena’s face meant that they’d been happy once—then what happened?
“What did you want me to do? Give you an old photo of a flash? What would you have done with that?”
“You’re not telling me the truth. Why is that so hard for you?”
“Because I can’t speak his name, Marimar!” Orquídea shouted, her breathing was short, jagged. She coughed and coughed. She covered her mouth and tiny bits of dry dirt appeared on her palm.
Marimar went to get water, but Orquídea shook her head. Marimar picked up the bottle of bourbon instead and refilled Orquídea’s glass. She took it in shaking hands and drank. Cleared her throat until her voice regained its even alto.
“There are so many things that I can’t speak,” Orquídea said bitterly.
“Why?”
“Because I made a choice, long ago.” She grabbed Marimar’s hand and squeezed. The beautiful dark brown of her eyes faded again. “I thought we’d be safe here, but I didn’t see the danger until it was too late. And then he took her—”
Orquídea leaned forward. She dropped her glass and it shattered. Marimar could see the strain at her grandmother’s throat as she coughed up more dirt. This time it took longer for her airways to clear.
And then he took her. Despite the roaring fire, Marimar felt cold. She stepped away from her grandmother, who rested her head against the high-backed chair, staring at Marimar.
“Did my mother really drown?”
“Yes.”
“Did my father have something to do with it?”
When Orquídea breathed she made a terrible wheezing sound. So she only nodded, but even that motion hurt her. It cost her.
There were hundreds of things Marimar wanted to know. Why is this happening? Why can’t we stop it? Why didn’t you try to tell me sooner? Who are you? Why do this? What broke your heart so completely that its splinters found their way through generations?
But Marimar knew she had inherited her grandmother’s silence, and said nothing else as she walked out of the room.
She took a right at the hallway and cut through the kitchen. Teal and white tiles covered the walls, vines snaking their way in through breaks in the windows. Her aunts and uncle Félix were busy peeling potatoes, splitting the husks of green plantains, dicing so many onions that they sang along to the music in order to combat the salt of their tears. Tía Silvia blew a strand of hair out of her face as she poured half a bag of rice into a giant steel pot and shouted, “Juan Luis, you better bring that rooster down here!”
Marimar stormed out the side entrance, past the smelly chicken coop. Past the shed bloodied from the pig Tío Félix killed earlier. Past the dead orchards with leaves and bark crumbling into ash.
She stopped at the cemetery, overgrown with yellow weeds and dead flowers. She wasn’t going to get answers from the dead, either, but at least here she would have quiet. Her father had been responsible for her mother’s drowning. The momentary elation she’d felt at the prospect of knowing his name was gone. She wanted to scour the earth for him. And what? Introduce herself as his daughter and then ask Sheriff Palladino to arrest him? Kill him herself, perhaps.
She wanted to scream.
Marimar was so full of want for things she couldn’t put to words. She wanted a magic that had always existed at her fingertips. Every time she thought she got closer, it drifted away. She wanted her mother alive. She wanted her grandmother’s love. She wanted simpler things, too. A good job. A home of her own. She wanted truth.
“You should be here,” Marimar said to her mother. She brushed the simple, marble headstone. She traced the letters, Pena Lucero Montoya Galarza. Sometimes, when she was starting to forget her mother’s smile or laugh, Marimar remembered the little things. Her mother was the wildflowers blowing in the breeze. For someone who had rarely left Four Rivers, who had worked at the local vegetable farms and the video stores, Pena Montoya had gone through the world like she’d already seen it all and loved every second of it. She burned with light. Effervescent. And then she drowned. She was murdered.
“You should be here.” This time, the hollow space in Marimar’s chest felt like it echoed. She heard a susurration in the sunset air, the cicadas and crickets nearby. When she was a little girl, her mom and Tía Parcha liked to say that they could hear the stars speaking to them. That’s why they spent so much time outdoors. Marimar could never hear stars speak. But for a moment, there was something out there. It felt like a voice calling to her.
“You should be here.” Marimar only said it once more before moving on to tug at the wilted weeds growing around the headstones. She moved on to her grandfather, Luis Osvaldo Galarza Pincay. Tía Parcha, whose headstone was purely decorative since she was buried in Woodlawn Cemetery. Then Héctor Trujillo-Chen. Caleb Soledad. Martin Harrison. By the time she was done, the sun was nearly finished setting, and her anger had ebbed.
Marimar noticed a glittering stone sticking out of the dirt. She crawled on her hands and knees to get closer. It almost looked like bone, but bone didn’t gleam.
She brushed the earth away, digging her fingers around the object. It was stuck. She found a flat rock and used it as a pick and shovel. She looked up to see fireflies surrounding her, illuminating as she dug deeper and uncovered the artifact.
It was a baby the size of a watermelon made entirely of moonstone. How many more of her grandmother’s secrets would she find that night?
Marimar picked up the moonstone baby and held it in her arms. It was cold to the touch, but she traced its smooth forehead, its closed eyes and round little nose. Strange as it was, it looked peaceful. Whoever had carved it had done so to perfection.
Sitting on her knees, Marimar glanced back at the house, all lit up to celebrate a death. As she trudged back, the statue in hand, she noticed Gabo flap his blue and red feathers on the roof, chest puffed up like he was ready and waiting to crow at the waning moon.
* * *
Rey couldn’t find Marimar anywhere. He’d half expected to see her running up the main road, but he remembered that if she was going to steal his truck, she’d need the key in his pocket. He decided to be mad at her later when they were on their way home. She’d left him all alone to finish helping in the kitchen.
He didn’t want to be the guy who got drunk in order to deal
with his family, but as Tío Félix told Rey of his detailed plans to retire super early and take a fishing road trip across the States, Rey fixed himself another drink. He was good at listening. His mom told him once that he had a tender heart and a sincere face and needed to protect himself. He’d been ten, and it wasn’t the strangest thing his mother, who liked to dance barefoot on full moons in Coney Island, had ever said.
In a few hours, he was caught up with everything the Montoyas were up to. Tía Florecida had just had a divorce party, which no one in the family had known about until Rey asked about the tan line on her ring finger. Penny was living with her dad most of the time, since he got to keep the house, and Flor was having a second coming of age in San Diego. Ernesta had gone into marine biology and spent her time in Florida and labs because she was better at talking to sea life than to people. Caleb Jr. was busy smelling great and making designer perfumes. Silvia was an ob-gyn and every spare moment was dedicated to making sure her twins didn’t accidentally burn the house down with their pranks. Honestly, Rey didn’t see what the big deal was. When his mom was still alive, she’d left Rey and Marimar alone all the time, and between her smelly sage and his cigarettes they’d never burned down the apartment. Everyone seemed to be doing just fine.
“How’s work treating you?” Félix asked as he cut a sliver of crackling pork skin and crunched down on it.
“Good. Got a promosh. Totes fulfilling.” He didn’t want to talk like the bros in his office who abbreviated every word, but it just slipped out when he was nervous or if he didn’t want to have a conversation and deflected. “Actually, I forgot I had to refill grandma’s drink.”
Rey carried a bucket of ice back down the hall, taking in the deep scent of dirt and lemon cleaner. First, he stopped in the parlor to key up another record—Buena Vista Social Club, Martin’s favorite. Rey danced by himself, determined to keep a hold on his bright mood. But this house was a memory capsule that refused to remain buried. He traced a finger along the rows of records that had been the only music allowed in the house. Pushed aside the rug to see if the stain was still there from the time he and Marimar had tried to make paint out of berries and crushed insects. He moved out into the hall and stopped at the bannister leading upstairs. Instead of marking his height with a marker like other mothers, Parcha had made little cuts into the grain of the wood panel. She said it was so the house could remember his height, but now that Orquídea was passing on, who would get the house? Who would remember the boy he’d been?
The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina Page 10