The Night Orchid

by M. G. Hernandez

  “Con, what happened? Did you guys fight? I want to understand why she would leave late at night.”

  Hands lifting in exasperation, she cries. “No. It was a joyous occasion. We were celebrating her birthday, for god’s sake.”

  “And that boyfriend of hers?”

  “Brandon has a tight alibi. He brought her home from an excursion at Santa Cruz, and we took her to dinner. He attended Jordan’s party, and he stayed there overnight. Everyone saw him there. No mention of a fight between them, either. She didn’t look distraught. In fact, she looked… happy.”

  Mrs. Ocampo is on the verge of tears and something inside me stirs. In an uncharacteristic move, I reach out for her hand. But then I remember my principle. I don’t get involved. I clench my fist and return my arm to my side where it belongs. Mother sees my small action and gives a slight nod.

  “We’ll pray for you, Con. And dedicate our rosary tonight to Alexa.”

  “Thank you, sis.”

  We said goodbye and went our separate ways. In the car, my mother reminds me to never give false hopes to Alexa’s mom. I fix my gaze on the rolling hills outside my window. For once, we’re seeing eye-to-eye.

  ***

  When we reach home, I hear the pots clanging. Mama Nilda is here. I leave the front door ajar and head to the kitchen. Mama Nilda, as I’ve called her since I was eight, is a petite, Filipina in her early seventies. My parents hired her as our housekeeper ten years ago. She lives twelve miles from Wakefield, but I wish she stays with us. The warmest soul in this household, I credit her for keeping me sane amidst the constant scrutiny of my parents.

  “Have a seat.” She keeps her eyes on the stove. “You have a big day today.”

  I beeline to the dining table and sat on the chair. My senior year is beginning outside this home. The news marking the end of my homeschooling happened last week. Six months ago, my father, who is a cardiothoracic surgeon, suffered a heart attack. Though he recovered well, his medical team advised him to scale back on his surgeries to focus on his health.

  Three years before, my mother sat in a corner office as the Assistant Chief of Nursing at Wakefield General. She sacrificed that leadership role to become my homeschool teacher on top of being an overbearing parent. To compensate for my father’s reduced hours and to keep up with this family’s current lifestyle, she accepted a position as the Director of Nursing. This circumstance gave her no choice but to release me to school, even though I only have four months left of high school education.

  A calloused, yet gentle hand pulls my wrist up, and I turn my head. Mama Nilda’s face is in line with mine as she crouches to my level. “You’re scratching your way to the bone, honey.”

  I glance at my right arm and found it covered with angry, red abrasions. A habit I picked up since I was eight, I scratch until I bleed. “I hadn’t realized I’d been doing that.”

  “Nervous, mahal?” She calls me “love” in the Filipino language as she places my hand on the table.

  I’ve been telling myself I wasn’t, but I only do this when I am. “I’m such an awkward person, mama, and I hate the first days of anything.”

  “But you’ve been looking forward to returning to school, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, to get away from her.”

  She takes my face in her hands and kisses my forehead. I sniff her glorious scent of lavender that always reminds me of springtime. “You’ll be ok. It’s time you’re around kids your age.”

  “That’s a popular opinion these days.”

  She quirks an eyebrow, but the growling of my stomach distracts her.

  “Anong niluto mo, Mama?” I ask in Tagalog, which means, “What did you cook?”

  The squeak of her orthopedic shoes makes its way to the kitchen as she retrieves my breakfast. “Pasensya na.”

  The sound of her apology as she returns to me, make me pause and raise a suspicious brow. A sigh escapes from her lips as she places a canister of Slim Fast on the table. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, I gaze at the can.

  “I’m sorry, mahal. Mom’s orders.”

  I shake my head. “Not your fault, mama.”

  My mother’s obsession with having an ideal daughter is unequaled. Besides my mental health, my weight is another one she loves to control. Yesterday, she said I was fat, and she rang that word as if it was contagious.

  In her mind, her spawn should be perfect—a Barbie Doll with smooth hair, flawless skin and a size four. That’s great and peachy, but I don’t meet that criteria. Say hello to my frizz, big ass and pimples on my chin. And good luck finding size 4 outfits in my closet. As expected, these curves are a disappointment.

  Mama Nilda places a hand on my shoulder and leans. “I snuck a nice chocolate cupcake in your lunch bag. Right next to your Slim Fast.” After a conspiratorial wink, she moves away, but not before I wrap my arms around her waist.

  “You’re the best!”

  A throaty laugh echoes the room as she returns to the kitchen to cut fresh fruits and brew coffee. But this girl wants fried rice, sausages and sunny side ups. Ever since my father’s heart attack, my mother nixed that menu.

  But I can sneak those fatty breakfast foods once I reach school. Another plus for my return to Wakefield High. I grin as I drink my chalky chocolate Slim Fast.

  That smile disappears when my mom enters the dining room. Suited up in a sleek Anne Klein suit, she’s dressed for power and important decision-making. “If you’re done, go upstairs and get ready.”

  Maybe it’s my hunger, but without thinking, I narrow my eyes as I stand from the table. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Then, I give her a small salute and an eye roll as I pass her. The cause of my action rears its ugly head when my mother’s icy fingers wrap around my wrist, stopping me from moving further. Courage jumps out the window as I realize the stupidity of my little stunt. Heart beating, I expect the worst.

  She leans, pausing only when her ruby red lips are inches from my ear. “Don’t test me this morning.” Her hands tighten. “Do you want me to remind you of what I can do?”

  Nose flaring and eyes stinging, my tears threaten to fall. My mother doesn’t give idle threats based on her sending me to the psych ward once. She didn’t hesitate either to send me to the Philippines one summer to live with my wealthy grandparents. Something that sounded wonderful until I realized they swear by the merits of corporal punishment. I learned the hard way that a belt buckle leaves welts and those cute red chili peppers burn the tongue for days.

  Mama Nilda stops grinding the coffee beans, quieting the room. She’s watching us, and I close my eyes. She worries over me. A senior with only this gig as her livelihood, she’ll risk her employment to protect me, and I don’t want her losing this job over me. I take a deep breath and order my tears to stay put.

  “I’m sorry.” The words are gravel on my tongue.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  Releasing my wrist, I stumble at the force and grab the edge of the table for balance. Then she hisses, “Go upstairs.”

  Don’t cry, idiot. I burst into my room and clutch my chest. Can’t breathe.

  I gasp for air and claw my skin. My nails scrape my arms and face as I drop to the ground. This time, the cut stings, and I wince. There’s a long gash from my forearm to my wrist. A trickle of blood pools at the end. My vision focuses on the rich, dark red liquid as it magnifies in my brain. Then my tears fall on it, diluting it to a pitiful pink, and I curse.

  Warm hands wrap around me and pull me up from the carpet. The soothing scent of lavender. Mama Nilda wipes my tear-stained cheeks, then leads me to the bathroom. She washes both my arms under the sink with lukewarm water and soap. Then she scrubs my fingers to get rid of the scraped skin underneath my nails.

  “Mama, I have to confess something.”

  She says nothing as she rubs me dry. Then, she selects a cotton ball and dips it in alcohol. I expect the pain and wince as the antiseptic sears my skin when it t
ouches the wound.

  “Sometimes,” I continue. “I enjoy watching it bleed.”

  She exhales as she releases me and discards the used cotton. When she faces me, she takes my face in her hands. The heat from her palms warms my body and calms my beating heart. “Don’t let her get to you. This is temporary. You have one more month, and you’re free.”

  I close my eyes. After five seconds, I can breathe again.

  “She’ll be here soon, mahal. Hurry.”

  ***

  I stare at the mirror. Blue chambray shirt tucked in a floral pencil skirt and tan pointy-toed shoes with kitten heels. The girl mocking me in the reflection is an office manager—not a high school kid.

  A blinking red light on top of the dresser catches my eye. The flat iron’s indicator light signals it’s hot enough to flatten my unruly hair.

  “Mom, can I leave my hair the way it is?”

  “No daughter of mine shall look like a madwoman from an institution.”

  “Been there, mom. Might as well look the part.”

  I touch my cheek, bringing me back to the present. She slapped me across the face after that sassy comment.

  I drag myself to the dresser and sit with my hands on my lap. I didn’t have to wait long. She walks in the room a few seconds later. My heart beats again as my body reacts to fear, but I take a cleansing breath to calm myself.

  As my mother nears me, she brings along the scents of citrus and gardenia. This fragrance is different, and I sniff. “I-Is that a new perfume?”

  She stands behind me, hair straightener in hand. “No.”

  Huh, interesting. That means she’s wearing Bloom by Gucci. But the smell lingering in the air is peculiar. But far be it from me to argue, I brush it aside.

  When she finishes, she places a tablet and a bottle of water on the dresser. “You have five minutes.” Then she leaves.

  I sigh. Every morning, I get a quetiapine pill to treat schizophrenia and depression — both illnesses I don’t have. The upside of obedience is that she relaxes on her surveillance. She doesn’t check the inside of my mouth anymore to see if I’m “cheeking” the pills. She assumes my compliance because I’ve been “normal” in her eyes. I welcome her laxity because then I can take the medication, walk to my closet and throw it in the secret bin. I just have to keep a low profile and control the sass. Easy.

  Chapter 7

  Julian

  “Hey, thanks for meeting up with me, bro.”

  Despite the wall clock’s thick film of dust, I can see the short hand pointing to six—prime hour at Bob’s Diner. Half of the senior class is here, chowing on the restaurant’s famous Belgian Waffles and greasy breakfast staples.

  Wayne Lee sits across from me, getting his recorder, notepad and pen ready for my interview with the Wakefield High Gazette.

  “No problem, man, I got you.” I respond to Wayne between bites of my smoked, crispy bacon.

  He smiles as he pours ketchup on his hash browns. “Yeah, you do.”

  Wayne is the school newspaper’s editor, and he’s covering the sports section for Alex Walker, who has the flu. We’re longtime buddies, our friendship blossoming after I defended him in third grade from the notorious bully Johnny Smithson. We got twin shiners in return, but we formed an alliance after that moment. Though our circles never cross anymore, we stayed friends and continue to be each other’s ally.

  “You do the same for me, bro.” And it’s true. His reporters cover the swim meets more than football, making swimming the second most revenue-generating sport in Wakefield High. He teases that the newspaper pumping up my image is the reason for my popularity, so he owns my soul. I take no offense. The money our events bring home after the competitions pays for the team’s expenses. I can’t complain.

  “So let’s get started.” Wayne places his thumb on his recorder and presses it. “Ok, the team smoked Everington High last week. Walk me through the victory. "

  The interview weaved through the team’s plan and strategies to beat every school in our meets this year. We chat between gnawing our hash browns and slurping our orange juice. He ends it with a query about how swimmers stay fit—an ironic question as I demolish my greasy fast food breakfast.

  “So how’ve you been, bro?” I ask. “It’s been awhile.”

  “The newspaper got me busy, man. I want to end my high school journalism career with a bang.”

  “Hell, yeah. So, are we getting another expose this week?”

  Well-known for his thirst for the truth, he uncovers illicit activities and scandals. A passion that gets him embroiled in controversy and multiple trips to the principal’s office. He leaves scott-free every time, citing freedom of expression and the right to inform the public. It helps to have big-shot lawyers as parents, too. Principal Dwyer never stands a chance. I have to admit, our school newspaper is better than the local gazette.

  Wayne looks around and leans his lanky body towards me. “Listen, man, I got to warn you since you belong in the same circle.”

  I cross my arms and raise an eyebrow. This can’t be good.

  “We’re covering Alexa’s disappearance. Not naming any names—just opening the floor for discussion.”

  A group of guys move past the table, making me lean forward for privacy. “You have nothing. What the hell will you write about?”

  “Alexa is still missing, bro, and someone here knows more than they’re sharing.”

  “You’ll create paranoia and suspicion,” I hiss. “And they’ll target some more than others.”

  “Like your friend, Brandon?” Wayne eyes me with interest.

  I frown. “Don’t use me to get an angle for this piece. I trust you, but I also know your thirst for titillating stories. Don’t sensationalize this for the sake of a stellar college resume. And I will not,” I pause and air quote, “be your reliable source.”

  He leans back in his chair. “Off the record, Ian. Brandon, being the boyfriend, is the obvious suspect. But what about your girl?”

  His question surprises me. No one has connected Bianca to Alexa’s disappearance. As far as everyone’s concerned, she’s the grieving friend. “What are you getting at?”

  He shifts forward and lowers his voice. “Did you ever ask her about how she became the cheer captain?”

  “No, because her talent speaks for itself. She was a gymnast and a cheerleader since five.”

  “Sheryl Winters was the captain in Freshman year. Then mid-season she fell down the stairs at English Hall and injured herself. So bad she couldn’t perform anymore. Then she transferred to another school for unclear reasons. But she disappeared and enter Bianca and Alexa.”

  “What does that accident have to do with my girl and her best friend?”

  “Look, do you deny Bianca’s insane competitive drive?”

  “Are you accusing her of pushing Sheryl down the stairs?” My voice rises over the noise. “Tread lightly here, man. That’s a serious allegation.”

  He sighs. “Anna Chao was Sheryl’s co-captain, but she was also my girlfriend. Anyway, Sheryl’s parents pressed charges against Bianca and hired a lawyer. My ex supported her emotionally throughout the ordeal, and she kept me in the loop.”

  I shake my head. “You’re bullshitting me, man. I would have known about this.”