“Do you want me to help you?” the boy offered as I stood in the doorway trying to figure out how to make this happen.
“Do you speak Spanish?” I asked hopefully. Before I knew it, despite his language skills, which were barely better than mine, the woman apparently told the boy to watch the store, and was out the door, hopefully to return with more scarves.
“These people are so nice,” the boy said, gesturing for me to sit. “We’ve baptized quite a lot of them.” Then he eagerly began his spiel on me.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I interrupted. “I’m not really that into being converted right now.” He slumped his shoulders, lowering his gaze to the ground. “Though I do enjoy watching Big Love,” I added.
IT WASN’T UNTIL AFTER THE last of Cynthia’s guests had settled in for the night that we got a chance to relax. She grabbed a bottle of wine and some chips from the kitchen and the two of us plopped ourselves down on the terrace outside her room.
“So are you feeling it, Deb?” she asked as Señorita and Max sailed onto her lap.
I lifted my feet onto the empty chair facing me and moaned. “Right now I’m feeling something, but I doubt it’s what you’re asking about.”
Cynthia laughed. “You are a champion shopper, eh?” She took a sip of her wine. “Did you know that shopping can be an addiction?”
“Whoa, back off there, missy. Don’t be messing with my shopping.”
“No, seriously, Deb. It can be a coping strategy for people affected by trauma, just like eating disorders, or drug abuse. It’s what some people call dissociative behavior, a way of avoiding whatever’s going on.”
“Thanks a lot, pal. I thought you said I was getting better. Now you tell me I’m suffering from shopping sickness?”
“I’m just saying, Deb. But seriously, shopping can provide a shot of dopamine for some people, which makes them feel happy and satisfied, for however long it lasts. That’s how it becomes an addiction.”
I didn’t want to admit it out loud to Cynthia, but I could remember the rush I used to get from staying up all night shopping online in California, and the withdrawal I went through after moving to Mexico, where the customs hassles I’d have to face and the duty I’d have to pay on anything I ordered forced me to go cold turkey. I had always suspected my weight problems were somehow connected to bigger issues, but shopping? Really?
Cynthia wasn’t through with me yet. “And yes, I do think you are definitely on the road to healing, but I don’t want you to think it’s going to be like getting over a cold, or beating cancer. It’s not going to be like you have it one minute, and then poof, it’s gone.”
“Damn.” I unzipped my boots and kicked them off under the table. “You know, I still don’t quite get it. Unless I’m blocking something, for the life of me I just can’t pinpoint whatever it was or whoever it was that did its number on me.”
“But it’s not always like that. In your case, it could very well be a chain of escalating events; it could be a series of abusive situations throughout your life. And I suspect it probably started when you were a kid.”
“But I’ve told you, my parents weren’t abusive!” I protested. I was all too familiar by now with stories of rough childhoods. Mine was idyllic by comparison.
“Don’t be offended, Deb. That’s not what I said. All I’m saying is that there are all different kinds of abuse. Some of us grow up with parents who are so caught up in their own drama that they don’t attune to us emotionally, and then we don’t learn to attune to ourselves.”
Cynthia and I had discussed the dynamics between me, my mom, and my dad, and how my mom had used me in a game of two against one. “But I obviously survived my childhood, and that obviously was a long, long time ago.”
“Yes it was, you old lady. But childhood is when we develop our beliefs about how we fit in, what we deserve, how we interact with others.”
“Lots of people grow up in less-than-perfect households, right? So why have I been the one walking around like a ticking bomb?”
“Because people don’t all break the same. In a way, trauma is just part of being human. Most of us have had at least one experience where something was a threat to our security or well-being, but most people manage to cope. Some even use it to their benefit. I heard someone say once that it’s like dropping two glass bottles at the same time. One might crumble and one might break into giant sharp pieces. The same thing that crushes one person might make another stronger.”
“But my parents? Even though they might not have gotten along so well, they were always supportive of my decisions, good or bad.”
“Good people can do harmful things, Deb. Without even realizing it. And like I said, if they are a part of the picture, they’re no doubt just a part of it. But I do believe your heightened arousal level probably started when you were a kid, because you don’t seem to have much of a sense of missing your lower gears.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a high-energy person or something.”
Cynthia ignored my theory. “But whatever the root of our trauma, we tend to re-create the sensation by sending ourselves into familiar situations. Look at your own life. You went from one lion’s den to the next, into relationships where you were a victim, where sometimes somebody was intimidating and controlling, where there was emotional abuse. And look at where you’ve put yourself, geographically. Just being at Ground Zero right after 9/11 had to be traumatic. And then Afghanistan? You weren’t just surrounded by danger, it was sitting in your living room having a smoke! It’s like you went from the frying pan into the fire into a roaring blaze. We’re talking cumulative trauma.”
“My friend Karen from Michigan likes to say that in Afghanistan I was like a frog dropped into a pot of cold water put on to boil. The frog just sits there as the water heats up slowly, but it won’t jump out of the pot. It doesn’t even know it’s being boiled to death.”
“But you did jump out. Escaping from Afghanistan was your launching point toward the healing process.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t my choice. It was more like a giant hand came and grabbed me by the collar, and yanked me out.”
Cynthia shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, girl. Even though that brain of yours might not have known how to take charge, your body did, at least once you created enough safety around yourself to free up your natural impulses, to allow yourself to change, to start processing all that shit you’d been thrashing around in for all those years.”
“But I wasn’t looking to create safety. I was way more comfortable in a war zone than I was in the suburbs. Trust me.”
“Still doesn’t matter. Stop going there. As painful as it was, all that sitting out there in Napa is what led you down here. It’s all part of the process.”
“So Mexico is my safe haven.”
“Well, in a way.”
“All I know is that something about this place just feels right.” I stood and leaned over the railing, my gaze resting on the back wall of the empty courtyard below. “You know, when I first arrived in Mexico I felt like I was taking in my first full breath of air. And now, with Tippy Toes and the girls in school, even though my days are crazy busy, I actually feel calmer than I’ve ever felt.”
“It’s called being happy, Debbie.”
“Who knew?” I poured us each a touch more wine and sat back down in my chair.
“Seriously, Deb, it’s a huge shift for you to be able to enjoy that feeling of happiness. People with trauma tend to develop these core beliefs that they’re not worthy, to the point where they don’t think they deserve to have positive feelings.”
“And you know what, Cyn? When I come up here, to Pátzcuaro, everything feels even more right, if that makes any sense to you.”
“Aha, so you are feeling it.” Cynthia sat back and rocked Señorita in her arms. “You’ve found your place, Deb. Not just geographically, but energetically. There are certain places on the planet that feel more like a fit for certain people. There’s
a physical reason you feel differently here. Don’t forget about the vortexes. It’s an energetic match for you down here.”
I had to laugh. “Right now I feel like an energetic match for a mausoleum. I’m exhausted.” The truth was, I had barely slept the night before. I didn’t know if it was the place or if it was Cynthia’s unrelenting poking at my psyche, but Pátzcuaro seemed to bring out the most vivid dreams and graphic memories in me. Last night’s dream was one I had had before. It was clear that it stemmed from Noah’s growing desperation to get the baby her American passport to allow for a visit to Michigan before it was too late, before my mom’s dementia progressed much further, or worse. But in my dream, Italya and my mom finally do get to meet for the first time. My mom’s mind is still all there, and they take to each other as though they have known one another forever. Italya is just old enough to say a few words and hears everyone calling my mom by her first name, Loie. Can you say Nana? Noah asks the baby. Loibella, she answers, clear as a bell, reaching out for my mother’s arms. Loibella. Beautiful Loie.
“I wish my parents could see all this.” I sighed.
Cynthia raised one eyebrow.
“I mean, my life. To get to know the baby. To see what a good father Noah is, to see how well Zach is doing. We all went through a lot together. They’d be so proud of my kids, and of me, too. Mom would get such a kick out of the idea of the girls in beauty school, but it’s hard to know how much she’s actually grasping these days. And my dad, he never even got to witness what I built in Kabul, let alone any of this stuff. He would have loved to have seen a happily-ever-after to the roller coaster we were all on for so long.” I shuddered a little at the thought of what a wild ride it had been.
Cynthia must have noticed. “You know what, Deb? Tomorrow we’re going to build an altar for your father. You’re going to welcome him back, tell him about Mexico, and Italya, and the boys, Tippy Toes, your beauty school project, and Denis. All of it. It’s time for the two of you to spend some time together.”
“Really?” I asked, as I felt a tear springing from my eye. Though the shrines that had been popping up in doorways and courtyards all around Pátzcuaro were incredibly captivating, it had never occurred to me to build one myself. But now the thought of it kind of made me tingle all over.
“Why not?” Really, I thought. Why not? The thought of it felt somehow right, to show some respect for Dad, even if it was a little late for that. And who knew? Maybe it wasn’t too late. I’d learned by now not to discount any of life’s possibilities, especially down here. “I’ll go with you to pick up everything we need.” And with that, Cynthia stood and embraced me in one of her legendary bone-cracking hugs, and headed to her room with Max and Señorita close behind.
ARMINDA WAS ALREADY WAITING IN the courtyard when I opened my door the next morning. Cynthia had hired her to lead a group of us on a preliminary tour of the cemeteries the day before the Day, to see firsthand what goes into the preparation for the big night. Being a Purépecha, a direct descendant of the indigenous people of the area, she was well versed in all of the Day of the Dead traditions.
“Isn’t it sort of like the Mexican Halloween?” asked a stout man in Bermuda shorts and knee socks.
Arminda slowly shook her head. “Even though the Day of the Dead comes one day after Halloween, it was not always on that day. It was the Spanish who moved it to Todos los Santos—All Saints Day—because before, we celebrated in August, during the, how do you say, harvest time, when we were offering corn and squash and beans. Also wild duck from the lake, with molé. We had no chickens then.”
My stomach growled as I tiptoed behind Arminda to grab a breakfast cookie from the kitchen counter.
“It is very important to receive the spirits with enthusiasm. They are very hungry after their long journey. And thirsty. They are coming from far away. I don’t know from where, but it is very far.”
The small crowd nodded in unison, as if they had already experienced that journey themselves.
“Somebody asked me, is this sad for everybody? Personally, when my mom died I was very sad. But now I am very happy.” Arminda took a deep breath. “I am very happy, because I am going to check with her, and stay with her, and it is only once a year we can do this. So I am very happy.” She paused and smiled a little wistfully. “What you will see most today is the cleaning of the graves. This has been happening all week. They will pull the weeds, and make the dirt fresh. After, the family will decorate. You will see lots of cans, which will be filled with candles. It is the light which will guide the spirits to the cemetery or to the home where their family is waiting. It is believed that if they don’t have a candle they have to light their finger to find their way, and they will be very sad because their loved ones have forgotten them. You can bring candles for graves who have no family there. It is important to have candles so the dead can find you. My mother told us, please, when I die, bring me a candle. I don’t want to burn my finger looking for my place.”
A polite laughter echoed through the courtyard. Cynthia hugged Arminda and began herding the group to the vans waiting on the street.
“A parade!” squealed one of the guests standing close to the gate. Outside, the cobblestone streets were jammed with schoolchildren, walking slowly and silently toward Plaza Grande as they scanned our faces for admiring looks. There were little girls in wide-brimmed, plumed hats, parasols, and fancy gowns, and boys in black suits, bow ties, and top hats, all with painted white faces and the blackened eyes of a skeletal corpse. There were veiled Catrina brides carrying flowers, and others who looked like they were celebrating a macabre First Communion, or like they could have been tiny grieving widows. Mustachioed little skeletons twirled their canes in their hands, stopping only to strike a serious pose for the awestruck tourists lining the sidewalk. A parade of dead children, I thought. But then again, I guess it wasn’t any weirder than the zombies and mummies and Freddy Kruegers that were roaming around the streets up north this very day. But these kids were all so quiet! Eerily quiet. It was hard to imagine kids in the States being so well behaved and respectful. These little guys apparently knew better than to mess with the dead.
ARMINDA CONTINUED HER LESSON ON the traditions of the day when we reached our first destination. I trailed behind the rest of the enthusiastic group, a little wary since, until now, setting foot in a cemetery was an experience I’d managed to avoid. Although I’m not sure what I had expected, whatever it was certainly wasn’t this. Behind us, entire families were pouring through the gates with shovels and buckets and small machetes, their arms full of marigolds and baby’s breath and tall white candles. I could see men hacking away at long pieces of sugarcane, which Arminda had explained would be used to build the arches adorning each grave. There was so much activity it was hard to imagine that this was supposed to be the ultimate place of rest.
We stood in a light mist, surrounded by mounds of freshly turned soil. Arminda quickly explained that these were not new graves, simply newly “renovated,” in a way. They had been spruced up in preparation for the festivities. Cameras began to click as she continued with some advice. “Tomorrow night when you come, be, how do you say, respectful. If you see people who look sad, it is better to leave it alone. That means that person died this year, so they are still sad. Next year they will have a big celebration. You can take pictures, but no flash. Do not disturb people. But if someone offers you something, say ‘muchas gracias.’ Do not say ‘no thank you.’ They are making you a gift from the deceased. And now, please walk around and look. By tomorrow night, it will be transformed.”
As I navigated the narrow rows between the graves, trying my damnedest not to step on the dead, I marveled at the works in progress. There were tiered mounds of wet dirt, looking almost like little adobe pyramids, and others that were just shallow piles of fresh soil bearing simple crosses. Others were more elaborate elevated marble or concrete monuments. Some were half covered with petals, while others supported ornate marigold lat
tices or sculptures that had been already erected. It was already a beautiful sight. I couldn’t imagine it getting much better than this.
IT’S HARD TO EXPLAIN WHAT happened the next day. Everything started out normal enough. Sticking to her promise to help with Dad’s shrine, Cynthia led me to the flower market that had popped up next to the basilica, where dozens of trucks overflowed with fresh marigolds and cockscomb and baby’s breath. The men who had climbed to the tops of the piles couldn’t toss their bundles down fast enough to the waiting customers below. We passed through the long row of tables sagging under the weight of more blooms than I had ever seen in one place at one time, Cynthia filling my outstretched arms until I was forced to cry uncle. I felt like Miss America cradling the massive bouquet against my chest. I hoped Dad would appreciate the effort, and I also hoped that my allergies would be kind enough to grant me a day off.
The ton of flowers, added to those spare pounds I was still carrying around, made keeping up with Cynthia a chore. She was like a mountain goat on those hills. I struggled to catch my breath as we maneuvered our way through the crowded sidewalks. On the street across from the plaza, we managed to jostle ourselves up to the rickety tables covered with elaborately decorated sugar skulls, some with bright green eyelashes or neon pink teeth and sequin eyes, all swarming with bees that had hit a holiday jackpot. It was hard to make a choice. There were sugar skeletons sitting upright on top of their coffins, wearing sombreros and waving bottles of tequila, candy skeleton couples sitting on park benches made of Popsicle sticks, tiny sugar infants tucked into their little sugar coffins. It amazed me that something so incredibly sad could seem so cute and playful.
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