by Debra Mares
“Please tell me how your mother is.”
“She passed away.”
“My dear, I’m sorry to hear that. Was she sick?”
“No, she was not sick.”
“An accident?”
“No, it wasn’t an accident.”
“Well, she was a woman who had a passion for life. I’m sorry to persist. But I loved your mother and I’m curious what happened to her. I’ve dreamed about her for many years. Every day I see something that reminds me of her. Her favorite number was three. She even said she wanted three kids because that was her favorite number. I remember she wanted to buy one of the blue houses here because that was her favorite color, and there are not many of the vibrant blue casitas here in the Walled City,” says Señor Borges.
“Aw, you remember so many little details,” I say.
“Because she has lived in my heart and dwells in my mind every day. Like the ghosts in El Monasterio. Have you had a chance to visit that hotel?”
Remembering I read in a travel book on the plane that the Monastery Hotel used to be a morgue, I notice his eyes are becoming glassy.
“I’m sorry, I’ve had several glasses of wine. I’d like to buy you two a drink,” says Señor Borges.
“That is beautiful that my mother lives in your mind and your heart. It proves to me that all the men are romantic here. That is what I love about this place.”
“It is not just the men here that fall in love. Women dwell in the minds and hearts of men everywhere. Here, we are just more able to express it. This man here has eyes for you,” he says, pointing at Dylan. “I was watching you two from across the room. I don’t need to know the both of you to know that you are in love with each other.”
Dylan and I start giggling almost on cue. I begin to wonder if Dylan understands what Señor Borges just said. Two glasses of red wine make their way in front of us at the bar.
“Cheers to love,” I say.
Clinking our glasses together sends me into a memory I have of my mother, who loved to toast her glass of wine. “Salud,” she would say, until the day my stepfather ripped a wine glass from her hand during a toast. He thought smashing the glass against the wall would teach her to make eye contact with him during their toasts. A piece of glass hit my mom in the eye before my stepfather punched her in the side of the head.
“Excuse me. I’ll be right back,” I say discreetly.
Running to the bathroom and wetting my face with cold water was something I did as a child when my mom would get hit. Today, it still stops a bad memory from swelling my mind. Within seconds, I’m in the bathroom of Trece Mares and the cool water on my face makes me feel better. I reapply my powder and lipstick to refresh myself before rejoining Dylan and Señor Borges, who are now outside on the cobblestoned street.
“Are you okay?” asks Dylan.
“Yes, why?” I reply.
“Because you looked like a deer in headlights before you left,” says Dylan.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
Learning to live with the death of my mom and the nightmare of her life with my stepfather is something I’ve learned to cope with and sweep under the carpet. I’ve learned to shoo away the spirits that lurk in my mind and heart.
“Señor, how have you coped with my mother dwelling in your thoughts?” I ask.
“Señorita, I loved your mother,” he says. “I welcome her spirit every day. I ask that she appear in my heart and mind every morning that I wake up. She comes invited. I would never turn her away. This is what you must learn to do, also. There are bad spirits and there are good ones. You must learn to welcome the good ones. The more you allow them into your heart, they shoo away the bad. Trust me. It is the same with love. When you let those good people, lovers, family, and friends love you and come into your life, they help to shoo away the ones that are not good for you, the bad ones.
“It’s the same thing with your mother. Try to welcome her spirit into your life. You seem like you try to shoo away what is painful and hard for you to understand. You are a beautiful woman, and you must try to welcome the good memories of your mother. She will help you send away those bad memories, like the one you had a couple of minutes ago.”
“That’s all it takes?” I ask.
“Your mother taught me to fill your heart and life with love and passion. Be open-minded to these things and you will be guided through life. She believed that the Universe has a plan for you already inscribed in here, your heart. Let it be. Calm yourself and slow down; that is what your mother taught me. I hope that she somehow was able to feel calm before she passed. And if she could not, all the more important it is for you to do that in her honor. She would have wanted that for you. She was a beautiful woman. Please though, I need to know what happened to her.”
“I will tell you in a letter if it is okay. I have a hard time talking about it, even though it happened twenty years ago.”
“Of course, of course. I don’t want to upset you. Please take my card. Promise me you will write me and tell me what happened to her. Do you have any sisters or brothers?”
“I will explain when I write. But no, I’m an only child. Thank you for caring about my mother. It means a lot to me to know that she experienced true love.”
“We were in love, he says. “Tell me what I can do for you here in the Walled City. How can I help with your investigation?”
“We may need your help tomorrow if we have a problem at the mortuary, but I think Officer Nuñez has everything covered. The police have been a big help to us, thank you,” I say.
“Good, I’m happy to hear that. I’m glad I got a chance to meet you while you were here. I’m going to leave you two lovebirds alone to enjoy the night here in the Walled City. Please take advantage of the time you have in this place and anyplace you find yourself together or in the company of those that love you. We have a short time here on this Earth. Hug those a little tighter that you love and live every day like it’s your last. Because you never know what tomorrow brings,” Señor Borges says before stepping up into a horse-driven carriage.
“I’ll be waiting for that letter,” he says before being whisked away.
22
THE MORTUARY
The first funeral I went to was my mom’s. This is the second time I’ve stood at a mortuary looking into the casket of a dead person. Standing at the mortuary with Dylan makes me feel like dying again. Officer Cruz’s body disintegrates as I stare at him and my mom appears inside the coffin.
When my nana walked me up to her coffin at her funeral, my mom looked like she was sleeping and her eyes would open at any moment. She looked a lot older than just the week earlier when I saw her alive. It was probably all the makeup they put on her. The mortician did a terrible job. The makeup was chalky and didn’t match her warm skin tones. It was a bad attempt at hiding the marks on her face. I couldn’t remember which ones my stepfather made. There were so many times mom’s face was puffy, her eyes were swollen, and she had dark circles under her eyes; for the most part, I thought they were all natural.
As I stared at my mom in her casket, I hoped I died, too. I wanted to crawl into her casket and wondered if there would be enough room for me to fit inside with her. I just didn’t want to live without her and I felt so bad about not saving her. I never told anyone how bad I felt that day, especially not Nana. I was afraid of getting in trouble. Nana was so angry that my stepfather hadn’t been arrested yet. She was frustrated at how slow police were working on the investigation. She squeezed my hand and said, “We really need an attorney in the family.”
Later that day I told Nana I wanted to be an attorney. I figured they protected women like my mom from bad things happening to them, and that’s what I wanted to do if I couldn’t go with her to heaven.
I stare back at Officer Cruz, who looks like he’s about one hundred years old. The flames from the fire really wilted his whole body and his skin looks leathery. Dylan starts with Cruz’s hands. One by one, he clips the finger
nails from each hand. Then he moves to his head and pulls off several follicles of hair from the base of his head.
Inside Cruz’s mouth, Dylan swabs all around the inside of his mouth, collecting cells. Dylan does the same in the ear and nose area of Cruz. Dylan looks at Cruz’s fingers. Then he opens his briefcase. He sets up his casting materials next to Cruz’s casket to take a mold of his thumb.
It looks like Cruz is grasping tightly onto something. The rigor mortis is fully developed. His hand is clenched tightly and his fingers look wrinkled and hardened. Dylan takes some wet cloths and begins to clean Cruz’s thumb with a wet towelette before he starts to dry it. Then, he wipes a black fingerprint powder to the thumb with a brush, struggling to keep Cruz’s fingers separated. The thumb returns back to his fingers, like an instant reaction every time Dylan pulls it away for the casting.
Once he gets a stable grip on Cruz’s thumb, Dylan sets the casting material around it on top of the black powder. We sit for fifteen minutes, before Dylan begins to peel off the casting material.
“This isn’t looking good. The cast didn’t come out that well. It’s really hard to separate his fingers to get a good working space here. His hand is clenched so tight,” says Dylan.
“Miss Ruiz. I know you are trying to get this impression. But the mortuary is closing. It’s five o’clock,” says Officer Nuñez in Spanish.
“Do you think we could come back tomorrow to get another impression?” I ask.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t think they are going to let us back in. We were lucky to get in today. But let me go ask,” says Nuñez walking away.
“Dylan, we need that thumb. We can’t leave without it and they’re closing. This is our last chance,” I say, wondering if I should have worn my Celia Cruz outfit instead of this Evita one.
“What do you want me to do, cut it off?” asks Dylan.
“Yes, if you have to. “What do you think this is for?” I say, pointing to a scalpel in Dylan’s molding kit.
“Stop!” says Dylan.
“We wouldn’t even need the whole hand. Just the thumb. And we’d only have to sliver off the pad of it where his thumbprint is. That’s only skin. It’s not even bone or nail!” I whisper excitedly.
“No, we can’t do that!” says Dylan.
“They used to chop off hands before they had these types of things,” I say, pointing to Dylan’s molding kit.
“I’m not doing it. We can get his print from his internal police file,” says Dylan.
“What if he somehow destroyed that, too? Make me one promise. If I slice it off, you will transport it back,” I say.
“You won’t do it,” says Dylan playfully.
“Promise me,” I say seriously, hearing someone walking towards us. I hear Officer Nuñez’ voice.
“They will not allow us to return. The funeral for this gentleman is tomorrow and the burial is immediately afterwards. It would require us to get another court order. And that might delay the funeral or require us to dig up the body once he’s buried,” says Nuñez.
I translate for Dylan.
“Okay. Would you be able to ask them if we can stay here another hour to finish up?” I ask nervously, smiling at Officer Nuñez.
“Yes, of course,” says Officer Nuñez, turning to walk away.
“Well?” I whisper to Dylan.
“I’ll check it in with my suitcase,” says Dylan.
I remove the scalpel from Dylan’s briefcase and thank God I won’t be on the same flight back with him tomorrow.
23
HONEYMOON PHASE
I lay alone surrounded by darkness in my bed at the historic hotel wishing Dylan hadn’t left this morning. All I can hear is heavy panting and bed creaks coming from the room next door. I close my eyes in utter disgust. And I pull the blankets over my shoulders and up to cover my ears. I wrap my body into a ball. I knew I should have asked for another room when I saw my hotel neighbor, aka “Señor Crazy,” at the bar last night. He had one of the cleaning ladies from my hotel pinned up against a brick wall. She was obviously not into him and looked completely bored as he demanded kisses from her. When I pointed it out to Dylan, he sized her up as a sex worker.
“No,” a faint female voice says.
The bed creaking and moans stop suddenly.
I remove the blankets from my ears to listen closer.
“Don’t say ‘no’ to me,” Señor Crazy responds sternly in Spanish.
A loud slapping sound followed by a shuffling sound in Crazy’s room moves towards the wall closest to my headboard. I try to make out muffled words of what has to be the sex worker.
What is she saying? Does she need help? Does he have his hand over her mouth?
I pull the blankets back up over my ears and purse my lips tightly, curling back up into a ball with my head down. My heart starts beating fast and the rushing sound of blood flowing through my ears makes my head buzz and feel warm.
Twenty years later, I’m still accustomed to blocking out fights or tension from the room next door. I became so good at doing it as a kid hearing my parents fight, it still feels like a natural thing to do today. My stomach starts to clench up.
I hear a loud laugh from the sex worker. And the knot in my stomach starts to loosen up and my beating heart calms down. The alarm clock on my night stand reads: 1:52. I can’t believe I’m up this late. I glance over at the phone wondering if I should call the front desk to complain about the noise, but they’re not going to be up.
A loud thump against the wall with more muffled moans startles me again.
I think hard frantically. Should I call Dylan? No, who knows where he’ll be. Should I call Señor Borges? No, he’s probably sleeping. Should I call Officer Nuñez? No. Mom, what should I do?
I pick up the phone and dial the front desk. It rings nine times before I hang up. I hear two more thumps to the wall and then dead silence.
The neighbor in the motel room next to Laura heard thumps the night she was assaulted. I heard thumps after my mom pleaded for me to call police the night she died.
I cover my head with the blankets again. Tears warm my cheeks as I think about my mom and how I didn’t do anything to try and save her.
Pick up the phone, Gaby, call the police. Walk next door, Gaby, and help the lady.
“Please, no!” I hear in a low woman’s Spanish-speaking voice.
I look back at the list of numbers on the phone. Bell desk, laundry, housekeeping, restaurant. I go through each one, letting each ring eight to nine times before I hang up to dial the next. No one answers. I move down the contact list to Policía and hesitate a couple seconds before pushing that button. It seems to ring forever, before I hear a loud knock at my door.
I throw the phone receiver down onto my bed, step into my slippers, and throw my hotel room robe on. I grab a letter opener from the desk, stick it in my pocket, and open my door.
The cleaning lady sex worker stands at my door. Her lipstick is smeared above her upper lip and her black eye makeup smudged under her eyes makes her look like a racoon. It matches her black dishelved hair. She looked much prettier last night at the bar.
We speak to eachother in Spanish.
“Do you need help, Miss?” I ask.
“Yes please. Can I come in?” says the sex worker desperately.
“Yes, of course. Come in,” I say, watching her close the door quickly behind her.
She makes her way into my room and towards the sink. She removes her black lacy top and studies the red scratches down her back in the mirror.
They look just like ones I’d see on my mom. She starts wincing in pain from the sight of her back.
“Look at this,” she says pointing to the scratches on her back. “Asshole!” she says angrily.
I move to the sink and begin soaking up a washcloth with cool water.
“Do you want me to call the police?” I ask.
“No, no,” she says adamantly.
“Why not?” I ask curiously.<
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“Because they can’t help me,” she says.
I let out a sigh feeling hopeless as I wring out the towel. The white hotel wash cloth stains with red blood every time I pat her back with it.
The lady looks at me fondly in the mirror, like this is the first time anyone has touched her to help her instead of hurt her.
Her smile turns to fright when a knock at the door startles us both.
“Shhh,” she whispers with her finger up to her mouth.
“Who is it?” she yells.
“Me,” Señor Crazy yells in Spanish.
The sex worker’s scared look turns to anger and she motions for me to move into the closet.
“No. Why?” I ask.
“Please. Trust me,” she says sternly.
“What is he going to do?” I ask.
“Please,” she says insistingly.
Another loud knock at the door startles us. “Open the door!” Señor Crazy yells in Spanish.
I give in, following her direction towards the closet. I crouch down and she throws some clothes over my head.
I peek through the clothes and lock eyes with her. “Miss, don’t go with him,” I whisper fiercely.
“Don’t worry,” she says assuringly, closing the closet door.
I sit in the darkness and listen to her heels click towards the door she opens. They speak in Spanish.
“What are you doing here?” Señor Crazy says.
“What do you want?” she asks rudely.
“Who’s here?” he says.
“No one. Don’t worry,” she says dismissingly.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“No. I’m going to sleep here,” she says aggressively.
The silence goes for too long. It reminds me of all the times my house would go mute. It happened right before I would hear a head or rib being punched by my stepfather. I start to shake, curled up in a ball.