I keep my eyes on my plate and don’t ask any more questions. I finish my dinner in silence and retreat to my room where I peel a long piece of paint from the wall and curl it through my fingernails before sliding it into my mouth. It tastes metallic, like biting down on a spoon. I chew it and swallow and decide I will never forgive you.
* * *
Now, I am no longer scared of Señorita Perron or of my father or of being here. I’m angry—fistfighting, spitting angry. But only in the daytime. At night, when I close my eyes and the city noises sound exactly like the city noises back home, a deep, weighty sorrow takes over. It’s different from the sadness when I first came here, or when you first left me at school, or when Grant died. It’s a darker wretchedness, one that rests over my insides and weighs me down like a water-soaked towel. I’ve tried squeezing it into nothing, but it just gets heavier and more compact and harder to fish out.
Surprisingly, my one comfort is school. For the first time in my life I almost like it. At Villa Cabrini Academy I was not considered smart or athletic or artistic or good at anything at all. Here the teachers marvel at my English, and since I grew up speaking Spanish at home, I understand the lessons perfectly. Señorita Casas smiles at me when I enter the classroom, calls me Señorita and brings me to the front of the class to read from English books, praising my skill.
You, of course, wouldn’t know what it’s like to not be good at anything. You’ve been praised your whole life for your singing and acting, your petite hands and feet, your figure and complexion. I can’t hum a tune, and I have none of your beauty. I am thin-lipped and small-nosed and wide-eyed. My skin is paler than Chu Chu’s but darker than yours. I have none of your beauty and none of your ambition. At least, that’s what Grandmother Maria used to tell me every time she found me sitting in front of the television. “What is this?” she’d cry. “You may not have your madre’s beauty, but you have a mind, no? Where is your ambition, nieta?”
What does ambition even mean? Wanting something badly?
I want lots of things. Maybe I just don’t want them badly enough.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
Unexpected Allies
Daughter,
The next morning, I sit at the rusty, red table on the outdoor patio while Miguel Espino’s sister, Dominica, serves me scrambled eggs with tortillas, black beans and tomatoes. “More, Señorita?” She holds the enamel coffee pot in the air, her heavy eyelids puffed from sleep, her bowling ball stomach rising under her dress. So far, I have seen no sign of a husband.
I nod and thank her, trying not to scratch at the wig itching my hairline. I have abandoned my sunglasses for round spectacles, my traveling dress for a heavy, floral skirt and shawl—the old-lady disguise I stole from Republic Studio’s costume department before I left California. It’s a stiflingly hot getup, and I am grateful for the early-morning clouds in the sky.
The coffee is divine with a hint of cinnamon, the eggs light, the tomatoes tangy with lime. I eat all of it, feeling full and grounded for the first time in weeks. I am the only customer, and when Miguel steps from the restaurant doorway, moving to brush off a tabletop with his hand, he takes no notice of me. Not until I rise, unhook my purse from the back of my chair and take a shaky step over the stone slabs does he looks over. “Señorita, do you need assistance?”
“Thank you kindly.” He offers an arm, and I lean heavily on it.
“Where are you headed? Do you need help to the bus stop?”
“I’m staying here.” I make my voice gravelly, keeping a hold of him as I push my purse under my arm and against my skirt. It’s the only item I’m carrying from yesterday that he might recognize. Despite everything, I am finding this charade ridiculously fun and a good test of my disguise.
“Staying here?” Gently, Miguel slides his arm from under mine, keeping a cautious hand out in case I topple.
I nod at my empty plate. “Will you have the kind woman add it to my room charge?”
“Yes, of course. Which room are you in?”
“Number three.”
Miguel looks confused, and then he leans in, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Estelita?” I pull off my wig, and he claps as I give a dramatic curtsy.
“Did I fool you?”
“Did you ever!”
Just then the restaurant door bangs open, and Dominica strides over, scanning me up and down, her eyes dark slits. “Whatever this is—” she makes a wide circle with her hand “—I want none of it here. I don’t need trouble. If someone’s looking for you, they’ll have to find you elsewhere.”
Miguel touches Dominica’s forearm. “She doesn’t look too criminal to me. Maybe we let her explain?”
I am nervous, jazzed up with eagerness, and not until this moment have I realized how much I need to confide in someone. The story comes out in a rush, everything from the night at Duke’s—I omit Alfonso from the narrative—to your father taking you, my stealing this costume and getting on a plane.
By the time I finish, the three of us are seated around the table. The hard lines of Dominica’s mouth have softened, but her expression is grave. She pats my hand and says, “You need a drink,” heaving herself from her chair and disappearing into the restaurant. It’s seven o’clock in the morning, but I don’t argue.
Miguel rests his chin on his fist. “Chu Chu Martinez.” He whistles. “Do you know where he’s taken your girl?”
“His family home is on Yautepec in La Condesa. I’m hoping she’s there. I can’t imagine he’d take her anywhere else. It’s a starting place, anyway.”
“Starting place for what?” Miguel moves his arm into his lap as Dominica returns, setting two mugs in front of us. “You plan to steal her back dressed like an old woman?”
“What else can I do?” I wrap my hands around the mug and take a sip. The drink is strong and sweet, café con leche mixed with alcohol and chocolate and cinnamon. I’d prefer to sit here all morning with this drink and Miguel, but I think of you and glance at my wristwatch, convincing myself that the heat in my belly is the drink warming me and not Miguel’s eyes on me. It is six minutes past seven.
Miguel gives his sister a satisfied smile. “Dominica makes the best pajarete. Puts the hair on.” He slaps his chest, and Dominica rolls her eyes.
“Not that you need any more.” She sits heavily, her swollen stomach pressed up against the table. “It’s a shame. I love Chu Chu Martinez. Now, if he comes on the radio—” she snaps her fingers “—I will shut it off! What is your plan? You steal your daughter back, and then what? How do you get out of the city? Where do you go? How does he not take her again?”
All things I have considered, none I have answers to. I throw up my hands in a helpless gesture, and Dominica slumps back, picking at a piece of thread on her skirt, her face scrunched up. “We will think of something. First thing is, you find her. Then we’ll make a plan.”
Miguel lifts the wig from the table and says, “Come, I will get you a taxi.”
I spend the thirty-minute drive to La Condesa holding onto my wig so it doesn’t blow off from the open windows. When we finally slow along the wide, tree-lined street, I drop my hands into my lap and slink down, scanning the sidewalk for any sign of you or Chu Chu. Not that I imagine for one minute that your father would walk you to school. I just don’t know who else to look for. Chu Chu’s parents passed away a few years ago, and his only sister lives in New York. I know he has two other children and is married to a third wife, but I’ve never seen a photograph of any of them.
The taxi crawls past elegant buildings with their crisp blue, orange and red facades abutting each other like tropical birds on a wire. There is an earthy smell to the air, of grasses and cosmos lining the walkways. It crosses my mind that you might be happy here with Chu Chu’s new family, and for a moment I wonder what our lives would have looked like if I’d stayed, given you a fat
her, siblings, a beautiful house in a beautiful neighborhood.
“Here,” I cry out, thumping the back of the driver’s seat. “This is it. Pull over.”
Chu Chu’s house is one of the few colorless, stone exteriors on the street. Below the high, second-story windows and wrought iron balconies, a row of casahuates shield the first-floor windows from view, their white flowers parading over the branches like mini, upside-down wedding dresses. The house looks exactly as I remember, and I begin to sweat under my wig, my glasses slipping down the bridge of my nose. I push them up and peer at the upper windows for any sign of life. A curtain flutters, and I quickly tell the driver to park at the end of the street. He obeys wordlessly. This man is less interested in me than the last driver. When I ask him if we can sit here for a while he nods, takes out a newspaper and spreads it over the steering wheel.
The longer we wait, the hotter and more impatient I become. Eventually I peel off my shawl and then my stockings and shoes, my calves itching like crazy. And then, looking up, I suddenly see you, the sight of your dark hair parted down the middle, your thin lips pressed together and your concentrated steady gaze sends a piercing ache through my whole body. It’s all I can do to not jump from the car and pull you into my arms. But I stay still, flatting against the seat with an elbow propped on the door handle to shield my face as you walk past with an intimidating-looking woman. Her middle is a solid block of flesh, and she appears to have no neck at all. Her shoulders are hunched and wide, but her arms are bizarrely scrawny, sticking out from her body like twigs. It’s a wonder anyone that size could have such skinny arms, I think, wondering if I could wrestle you from them if I had to.
You look miniature beside her, wearing an absurd outfit for a girl your age: a belted, white dress, pleated and starched to a crisp, ballooning out from your waist like an umbrella. You have on high white socks and white patent leather boots that remind me of the shoes Mamá bought for me the first night I performed in Havana. I wonder if your boots are pinching your feet as much as those shoes pinched mine.
You round the corner out of sight, and my heart seizes. “Go!” I slam a fist into the door as if this might move us forward. “Por favor, follow those two, but slowly, at a distance.”
My driver carefully folds his newspaper and lays it on the seat next to him before pulling into the street at a crawl. I don’t breathe until you are in sight again. Your back is to me, and I can’t see your face. Is it a happy one? Your body looks weary, one shoulder hunched under the weight of a leather bag that keeps sliding down your arm. I worry that your cumbersome chaperone will hear the low, growling engine and look behind her. Thankfully she doesn’t, and we follow you down another street where you disappear inside the iron gates of a school building, engulfed by a crowd of girls in identical white-pinafore dresses.
I stare after you wondering how I am going to get inside as we slowly pass the troll-woman who stands tipped back on her heels with her hands latched behind her, watching you enter the schoolyard. Who is she? A nanny? There’s no way she’s Chu Chu’s newest wife.
Just then she turns, sharply, and for one horrible moment our eyes meet.
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
Caught
Mother,
A light rain falls as I walk home from school, my eyes on the sidewalk trying not to step on a crack and break my mother’s back. I hear someone walk up behind me and turn as a hand slides over mine, sweaty and rough, and I nearly cry out, but the man hurries past before I have a chance to make a sound, and I realize he’s slipped something into my palm. My hand squeezes around what feels like a hard-edged piece of paper. The man, short and wide as a tree trunk, retreats around a corner, and I glance up at Señorita Perron who walks slightly ahead of me, oblivious in her hurry to get out of the drizzle.
When we arrive home, I dash up to my room, shut my door and slide down it, sitting on the floor as I uncurl my palm. In it is a piece of paper folded into the size of a quarter. It peels open like a tiny book, and hot tears spring to my eyes as I see your neat, looping cursive. In my anger, I imagined if you ever contacted me I’d tell you I had a father now and I didn’t need you anymore. But I am crying so hard I can’t read the words you’ve written.
Blinking my tears away, I finally read that you are here, in Mexico City, and you are going to take me home. I am to tell no one. Tomorrow, you write, when you leave for school, a taxi will be parked outside the house. You are to get in fast. Can you do this?
My chest heaves with confusion and excitement and relief. None of this makes sense, but I don’t care. I want you this instant. Nothing matters anymore but being with you. I’d do anything, even if that meant sleeping under the same roof as Alfonso. Why do I have to wait for tomorrow? Why don’t you come right now? The thought of escaping Señorita Perron’s smelly breath and heavy footsteps, dinners with Florinia and my distant father—who has not mentioned taking me to see him perform since I brought it up—and this peeling paint and the creepy dollhouse makes me want to run screaming into the street after you.
I fold the note back into its tiny square, tuck it into the waistband of my underwear and close my eyes, bringing back the memory of your orange-blossom scent, the slick feel of your fingers through my hair and your tumbling laughter. Tomorrow is Friday. With glorious satisfaction, I picture Chu Chu and Señorita Florinia Martinez arriving for dinner, a seaside tan on their skin. They call up the stairs for me, and Señorita Perron descends slowly, alone, ashamed to admit she’s failed at her only job as she tells them with sniveling sobs that I have disappeared.
I’d like to imagine my father’s face as devastated, but it’s hard to believe he’ll care one bit. After all the trouble he went to he’ll probably just be mad that you changed your mind. Why have you changed your mind? Why not just tell Chu Chu to send me home?
I get up and watch out the window as the cars pass, wondering if you are in any of them. The drizzle has turned to a heavy rain. The window was left open, and I run my fingers through the puddles on the sill, keeping my eyes on the street, slick and wet and shiny as tin. The steady splash under the car wheels reminds me of the swishing sound our washing machine made back home. I miss the sound of that machine. I miss loading the wet sheets into my arms, then standing in the dry heat of the sun with Grandmother Maria, pinning them on the line. I miss watching you stretch out on a pool chair in your big sunglasses, telling Grandmother that the cleaning lady can do that and how she’d shake her head at you and say, “How will Nina get anywhere in this world if she can’t hang a sheet on a line or make her own breakfast?” I never imagined missing my grandmother’s sharp tone and cutting eyes, her deep authority. But now, I think about her hands on my shoulders when she left me at school, how she said, “I’m going to fix this,” and then Alfonso steps into my memory, walking out onto the patio in his tight swim shorts, slinging a towel over his shoulders as he leans down to kiss you. In a flash my anger is back, full-blown. I slam the window shut and turn to my aging, yellow room.
Maybe I won’t sleep under the same roof as him after all. Maybe I will refuse to get into the car with you tomorrow. Why should I? Why should I keep doing exactly what you want me to do? I’m sick of being left at school, left in hotel rooms when you’ve dragged me on location or left behind with Grandmother Maria when you haven’t. You think you can send me off with my father and snatch me back whenever you want?
I bite the inside of my palm, tiptoe to Señorita Perron’s door and press my ear to the wood. It’s quiet so I ease the door open, prowling like a cat over the creaky floor. Sipping her tequila has become an after-school ritual. Just one swig, enough to feel the floaty sensation that leaves an empty, cool space in my head so the pinpricking thoughts in my brain slip away.
Only this time, I am on my knees pulling the cork from the bottle when the door to the hallway opens. Before I can scramble to my feet, Señorita Perron’s fist hits the back of
my head hard enough that the cork flies across the room, bouncing over the floor.
“You like this?” Señorita Perron grabs the bottle from me and sits heavily on the bed, the mattress sagging under her fat bottom, her thick ankles brushing the tops of my knees. She plants her wide, flat palm on my shoulder, shaking the bottle in my face. “Go ahead, drink up.” I stare at her, disbelieving, until she presses the bottle against my lips, tilting it so that a huge gulp burns down my throat and sputters out the sides of my mouth. Señorita Perron smiles a neat, yellow row of teeth at me. She takes her own swig, hands it back. For once, she doesn’t speak in rapid-fire Spanish, but slow and clear. “We drink together, yes?”
I feel hot and queasy, and I don’t want any more. I press my lips closed and slit my eyes in defiance when she grabs my hair and yanks my head back. “You like it so much, you will drink it.” My anger surges as her words spray a fine mist in my face. I think of biting her wrist that is near my face as she holds my head back. I want to pin her to the bed and dump the tequila down her throat, scream at her that I will be gone tomorrow, my mother is coming for me! Only by now the tequila and her heavy hand are weighing me down. When Señorita Perron tilts the bottle to my mouth again, I don’t fight her. My eyes smart and water, and my throat goes numb as I gulp it down, this time without coughing.
By the time the bottle is empty, I am soaring so far outside my body I wonder if I even have one. From this strange height, I see Señorita Perron fling the bottle on the floor and flop backward onto the bed, her voice slack and drawling. “Go to your room.”
I steady myself against the wall, trailing my hand through our adjoining door to the yellow skin of my walls, tearing a piece as I go by. My bed looks far away, and when I step forward the room tilts away from me, and I drop to my knees and roll onto my back watching the ceiling circle around me. My throat begins to burn like a hot poker’s being stuck down it, and I’m vomiting into my hair, my stomach heaving and retching until the room spins black.
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