I put the baby back in his bassinet.
And I lie down on the couch, trying to forget this reality. Trying to lose myself in other worlds, in dreams.
* * *
~~~
I slip into a half sleep. I fall into a dark cushion from reality, and there I hear a faraway cry. El bebé, a part of me says. But another part of me says, No! There is no baby. It is only a rooster’s cry. And I see an image of our neighbor’s rooster crying against a blue-black night. I think of Doña Agostina and Don Felicio’s son, the one we called Gallo. The one I once loved.
A glowing white outline of a door becomes visible. I walk toward it, push it open.
It leads to a small room with orange-yellow walls. On my right is a dresser with a small television perched on top. In front of me, a single rectangular window sits high on a wall above a bed.
On that bed is Gallo, wrapped in a blanket. He’s crying.
I haven’t seen him since he left five years ago. I was twelve. I’d had such a crush on him since the age of eight. I’d go to Don Felicio’s store, where Gallo worked, and make sure my hand brushed his whenever he handed me the small items I bought. He knew I only came in there to be in his presence; we both did.
One day, after watching a telenovela, I went to the store and told him I wanted to marry somebody just like him. In fact, I said, I wanted to marry him. He didn’t laugh. He looked at me more kindly than anyone had ever looked at me before and smiled. He put his hand on mine and held it there. I thought I would die of happiness. But then, gently, he said, I am too old for you, Pequeña. And you’re better off without me. I’m not a lucky guy. Someday you’ll meet a lucky guy. One lucky enough to have your love and love you back, you’ll see.
No, I don’t think so, I said. I could not imagine anyone better than Gallo, who was always helping his parents at the store. Who only spoke about the way he would go to the States one day and make money so his viejos wouldn’t have to work so hard and could have a better life. I didn’t want to cry, but I felt tears spring up.
Don’t cry, he said. But I did, and I couldn’t stop. Finally he said, Okay, okay, listen. If when you’re twenty-five years old, you still love me, we will get married.
That’s a long time away, I said.
It is, but I promise. If you still love me then, we’ll get married.
I’ll still love you, I told him.
Okay, then, he said. He smiled and reached into one of the candy containers on the counter and handed me a ring pop. Here’s your ring. I opened it immediately and put it on. I smiled at him and went home, eating it along the way. I marveled over the glimmering red of it, glistening like a ruby in the sun. And then when I finished it, after I’d consumed all its sweetness and was entering my house, I knew it would never be. It was the first time I’d had a clear, unshakeable vision: I saw Gallo running in darkness and knew I’d never see him again. I sat in my room, the stickiness from that promise still on my mouth, and cried so much, Mami thought I was possessed.
I was happy he made it out, but sad to see Doña Agostina and Don Felicio distraught that he couldn’t return to visit them. Or say this final goodbye to his father, now.
I look at Gallo now, in that room, on that bed, alone and far from his parents.
“Gallo,” I call to him.
He looks at me as if trying to remember. “Pequeña?”
I hold out my hand to him. He gets up from the bed and takes it.
Immediately, we’re transported into some kind of garden. When I look down, my feet are bare, and I see trails of marigolds on the ground. When I look to my side, Gallo is gone.
Don Felicio, I whisper. And he emerges suddenly, as if from air, and stands next to me. He doesn’t speak. I look around for Gallo but I don’t see him. But then suddenly, in Don Felicio’s arms, a small rooster appears.
Don Felicio looks down at his arms, as if noticing for the first time what he’s holding. And when he does, the rooster’s feathers and feet are transformed into the arms and feet of a human baby, then it becomes a boy, and then dropping from Don Felicio’s arms is Gallo as I knew him.
He embraces his father, and the two men weep and hold each other. Gallo whispers into Don Felicio’s ear and Don Felicio hugs him harder. After a long while, Don Felicio makes the sign of the cross on Gallo’s forehead. Kisses it. And touches his son’s face with trembling hands.
Gallo wipes away his tears. He looks at his father and takes a deep breath, before suddenly vanishing.
But Don Felicio and I remain. And then the old man holds his hand out to me and I take it.
We walk slowly and silently through the empty streets of el barrio, Don Felicio leading the way. I look down at my feet, covered in dust. The place feels eerie, like time has stopped. Like no one else exists. I search for our neighbors but see no one. Don Felicio turns to look at me every so often. I can tell where we are headed. But only when we get closer do I finally see people. Mourners, funneling into his and Doña Agostina’s house.
The old man looks back at me, and I see the sadness in his face, and I don’t want to follow him anymore. But I know I have to.
We walk among the mourners like the ghosts we are. And we make our way past them, into the living room where people are gathered around a coffin. Don Felicio’s coffin. Mami and Tía Consuelo are positioning candles around it, rearranging the surrounding flowers.
Don Felicio leads me to it, and then we are staring at his face. Through the glass covering, we see his face underneath, like an ugly pressed flower being preserved. I look over at his ghost next to me and see how he begins to breathe harder.
I panic.
It’s okay, I try to tell him, but my mouth won’t say the words and the best I can do is think them over and over again, hoping he understands. But his breathing becomes more labored, as he keeps looking at himself under glass. He lets go of my hand, and both of his hands clasp around his neck. He breathes harder, and the sound of horrific gurgling fills the room. I look around but nobody else can hear it. People are eating the tamales the neighborhood women have prepared. The bread they’ve baked. They’re sipping on coffee and speaking in hushed tones as Don Felicio struggles to say something. Nothing but gurgling and wheezing comes out. His face is desperate but nothing comes out, and I try again and again to calm him, but I can’t.
Then comes the blood, like a faucet has been turned on. Gushing through his fingers. Blood and more blood.
I scream, or I think I scream, but nobody hears me.
I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me! Please stop, please! I tell him, but I can only think the words. His eyes are bulging and focused on something behind me. One of his hands lets go of his neck and he points. I turn and look in the direction of his bloodied finger. And there, in the crowd, are Pulga and Chico.
They are talking quietly to each other. Chico looks sad and scared. Pulga looks worried.
I don’t understand any of it. I’m trying to piece together what I’m seeing, but none of it makes sense. For a brief moment, I think Don Felicio is accusing them, but it can’t be true.
Don Felicio’s gurgles fill my ears, growing louder and louder.
I don’t understand!
I look back at Pulga and Chico and that’s when they start shaking; their bodies start trembling. And then I watch as both of them reach for their necks, just like Don Felicio. Their eyes get wide and scared and desperate. And blood begins to rush through their fingers.
No! I scream, turning to Don Felicio, but he’s holding his own neck, his eyes staring at the ceiling. I don’t want to see this. Stop it, please!
I try to wake myself up. I try to find the door again, to escape the reality that has invaded my imaginary worlds.
But I can’t breathe. And it’s difficult to swallow. I reach up and feel my neck. It’s wet and warm.
When I look at my finger
s, they’re bright red with blood.
I shake my head. No! I try to yell, but no one hears me. I look to Don Felicio for help. But he just stands there gurgling and wheezing, until finally he looks at me. And finally—his eyes desperate and wild—one word escapes his lips.
Just one word, but it fills my mind.
Corre.
Run.
* * *
~~~
“Pequeña.” Mami’s voice reaches me. I am shaking. I am crying. Saliva has collected and filled my mouth. I’m choking.
Mami whispers my name again and I open my eyes to the sound of a baby crying and Mami standing over me dressed in black. Milk trickles from my breasts.
Behind Mami are Tía Consuelo, Pulga, Chico, and Doña Agostina, back from Don Felicio’s wake.
“¿Estás bien?” Mami asks. “You don’t look okay. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I’m sweating and my skin feels clammy. Mami puts her hand on my forehead and makes a face.
“I think you have a fever,” she says.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
She looks worried for a moment but then asks, “Did you change his diaper?” I don’t answer. Mami and Tía exchange looks.
The baby cries harder. “Did you feed him?” she asks next.
I don’t answer again and then all I hear is Mami’s heels clicking hard and fast as she walks away.
I sit on the couch and stare at the telenovela. A man forces his kisses on a woman. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, the news is on. The newscaster tells us of more deaths. Of more bodies. Not people. People don’t matter to anyone. Just the bodies.
Tía Consuelo comes over and gives me a kiss on top of my head, smooths my hair. Mami comes back with the crying, angry baby. She hands him to me, nestles him next to my breast. “There are no more of those tiny sample bottles of formula, Pequeña. And he needs to eat,” she says.
I shake my head.
“I’m sorry . . . I know this is not what you want, my love.” Mami’s voice softens. “But we cannot starve this child.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Pequeña!” Mami’s voice is sharp and harsh. “I’ve tried to give you time to adjust to this. But we can’t afford to buy formula each week. And if you don’t start feeding him, your milk will dry up. You have to do this, hija. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I know she is. But it doesn’t stop her from pulling on my shirt. The baby’s mouth is searching, searching, searching.
I close my eyes, shake my head, and begin to cry.
“Muchachos, sálganse.” I hear Tía Consuelo command Pulga and Chico to go outside. Mami puts the baby on my breast as she tries to explain to me how to feed him. But I can’t listen. I just keep my eyes closed as that baby drains life from me. That baby who is like his father. That baby who is like this neighborhood, this land, like everything around me.
So I let myself think about dying.
I think of how when I was ten, Mami went to a bruja outside of town when she wanted to know about my father cheating. But when the woman saw me she took a chicken egg and cracked it into a glass of water. She stared in at the yolk and then looked up at Mami and said she saw me consumed by a hellish, fiery blaze.
“Look,” she told me, gesturing to the glass. “I know you can see things, too. Look closely.” And when I did, I saw fiery orange flames flickering in that yolk. And there I was, surrounded by all those flames. I could feel the heat in my lungs, and the fire burning, burning. So hot on my skin. I thought I was burning right there in the woman’s kitchen before she took the glass away.
Maybe my destiny was to die in fire, I thought then.
Maybe it’s the way Rey will kill me, I think now.
When he realizes how much I detest him, he’ll throw gas on me, light a match, and watch me burn.
But the thing is, I want to live.
I feel the child taken from my arms, and I cross them across my chest. Tía Consuelo puts a blanket over my shoulders that I wrap around myself tight. And then Mami hands Tía the baby—that baby who never should have been, who had no right to invade my body, just as his father did.
She returns with a cup of hot chocolate.
“No,” I tell Mami.
“It will help keep your milk from drying up.”
“Stop!” I tell her. The thought of it makes me cringe. That milk is excreting from my body disgusts me. Like I’m some kind of animal. I get up and go to the bedroom.
“Pequeña,” Mami calls. But I ignore her and close the door.
The room I share with Mami is small and crowded with the bed, the wardrobe, the dresser and mirror. It smells of mothballs, of Mami and me. It smells of the baby now, too. And of birth. I can detect it even though Mami has washed the sheets and pillows. Even though she’s mopped the floor and even wiped the walls after my complaints. But the pungency of my blood, of my insides, of gushing water, lingers. Along with the sour milk that emanates from my shirt and skin. I cannot sleep in this room anymore—not since the baby. Now I sleep in the living room where there is no netting to keep the bugs away and they buzz in my ears and feed on my skin.
I sit on the bed, stare at my image in the inescapable mirror stationed in front of it. My hair, long and dirty, hangs past my shoulders. I stare at my face, unrecognizable to myself.
A knock at the door startles me out of my thoughts.
¨Pequeña?” Pulga calls from the door. He opens it slightly and peeks in. “Want to play?”
He holds up a deck of cards and when I don’t say anything, he and Chico slowly come in.
They sit on Mami’s and my bed, cross-legged. Pulga begins shuffling and the sound fills the room. He deals and I focus on the flick, flick, flick of the cards as he pulls them from the deck.
“You okay, Pequeña?” Chico asks.
I pick up my cards and stare at the three of hearts in my hand. I see those little red hearts turn black. I see them oozing and shriveling up into nothing.
“Pequeña?”
“I’ll be okay,” I tell Chico.
I put the cards down. Those hearts are us. Pulga, Chico, and me.
They look at me.
“Something bad has happened. Something bad is going to happen.”
They look at each other, and then back at me. Both of them have the same look on their faces, a look that tries to mask terror.
“We can’t be here . . . we can’t stay here,” I say.
What I’m saying shouldn’t make sense to them, but I can tell it does. They should be telling me I’m talking nonsense. That I’m being ridiculous. They should be laughing at me, and Pulga should be telling me he doesn’t believe in my bruja thinking. But they don’t do any of that.
What they do is sit there silently, waiting for me to say more.
“What are we supposed to do?” Pulga whispers.
The image of them holding their necks fills my head.
So I say the only thing I can. “We should run.”
Pulga
We should run.
The words fill my mind as the priest throws holy water on Don Felicio’s coffin. Neighbors slide it into its vault. Doña Agostina holds her rosary and wails.
Yesterday at his wake, she’d told me to run. Yesterday, Pequeña had told us to run, too. Today, my eyes scan the cemetery, looking for Rey or Nestor, and all I can think about is running.
The crowd disperses.
Another day.
Another death.
Another body.
When we get home, Mamá sinks into the couch, exhausted. My mind sees the red velvet cushions. Blood-red. So much blood.
We should run.
“You and Chico go rest,” she says, pulling up her legs and lying down without bothering to change out of her black dress. “I’m going to stay here for just a little
while. Close and lock the door.”
Chico gets up from where he was sitting in the doorway and I do as Mamá says. He heads to our room and I follow. There is a heaviness in the air, pressing down on us. The thud of my own feet sounds terrible. But as I walk past Mamá, she reaches for my arm and grabs it.
“Pulga,” she says. The force of her touch and her voice startles me. I look at her tired face and she says, “Te quiero mucho, Pulgita.”
“I know, Mamá. I love you, too.” But there is something else she wants to say, and doesn’t. I can see it on her face. She just nods, lets go of my arm, and closes her eyes.
I stand there for just a moment, wondering if Doña Agostina told her about the dream she had. Or maybe Pequeña said something. Maybe Mamá is starting to believe in brujas and superstitions. Maybe I should, too.
Maybe Mamá will even tell me I should run, because it’s the only way. That I have her blessing. That she understands broken promises.
Instead she takes a deep breath, lets it out.
And I go to my room.
Chico has the fan on the highest setting and it whirs loudly.
I close the door, even though it keeps the room hotter.
“Well?” Chico asks as I enter. He is fidgety and restless. The brown stripes on his shirt match his skin perfectly. I stare out the window.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. I haven’t told him what Doña Agostina told me, but the strange things Pequeña said put him on edge. He hasn’t been able to sit still since, and even here, he seems to be looking over his shoulder.
“She said something bad was going to happen. To us, Pulga. Something bad is going to happen to us.”
I don’t say anything and try to stay calm.
“Holy shit,” Chico whispers, making my heart beat faster. I look out the window, expecting to see Rey standing there with a gun pointed right at us.
There is no one there.
When I turn back to Chico, he is looking at me strangely. “You believe her . . . don’t you?”
I think of the book I keep under my mattress—information I’ve collected over the last few years on how to get to the States. Notes. Printouts. The train. La Bestia. I think of how my tía in the United States sends money for me every year and Mamá only gives me five or ten dollars before saving the rest for me in a hiding place. I think of how I know that hiding place. How I know that tía’s phone number and address. Have memorized both. How I know where to exchange dollars to quetzales and pesos and have already done so with those bills Mamá has given me each time.
We Are Not from Here Page 6