by Laura Resau
After she hugs the boys, she greets me with forced warmth. “Virginia! My, you’re looking beautiful. What a lovely young lady.” Her words seemed sugarcoated, hiding dark intentions, and as she ushers us inside, I feel a chill. Is she also being nice to me so that I won’t take this opportunity to run back to my parents?
A little while later I’m watching the boys play with sticks in a patch of grass at the edge of the driveway, when Mariana approaches me. “Virginia, I want you to leave Romelia and Carlitos and come to work for my daughter in Quito.” When she says the Doctorita’s name, her lip curls, as though she’s tasted something rotten. I remember that Mariana doesn’t like the Doctorita, that she’s often told her son his wife is too fat, too dark-skinned, too bossy—far from the slim, fair, gentle wife he deserves. “Well? What do you say, Virginia?”
I stare at the profile of her giant bun and shrug, thinking it best to keep my mouth shut.
She goes on. “Quito is a big, beautiful city, so much prettier than those boondocks where you live now. And my daughter needs a maid desperately. She’s an angel. She’ll treat you well.” She looks at me expectantly. When I stay silent, she says, “Think about it,” and goes inside.
Of course I won’t go. I don’t trust a word she says. Still, I can’t help considering it. Later, as I’m cleaning up after dinner with the maids I mention Mariana’s offer. They exchange looks. “Go to Quito, Virginia,” they urge. “The Doctorita beats you and treats you terribly. How could you want to stay with her?” They push and push so much I realize Mariana must have told them to convince me to go.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, and step outside into the cool dusk, thick with the scent of fresh earth and cows. I feel all mixed up, the way soil must feel after the oxen come through, plowing it, turning it inside out, getting it ready for planting. And when a seed is dropped in, it can easily germinate and take root and push its tender new leaves toward the sun and begin the marvelous process of photosynthesis. When I think about it, the seed has been inside me for years—the idea of leaving the Doctorita. Every time she yells at me or hits me or reminds me of my place as a lowly longa maid, she’s watering the seed. And now Mariana’s offer is like cow manure, fertilizing it, nourishing it, reminding me of my power, my options.
But Quito is not where I’ll go. I’ll go home to my family.
Sunlight shines on the green cornstalks and makes my eyes scrunch up. The corn is taller than me, a forest of leaves whispering along with the breeze. Corncobs poke out everywhere, ripe and wrapped in green, ready to be picked and opened up and grilled. It’s late Sunday morning, and everyone has gone to Otavalo except me and the other maids, who are pasturing the cows in the valley. They were supposed to keep an eye on me, but I insisted I had a headache and wanted to stay behind to rest.
I walk along the cornfield, toward my family’s house, framed by mountains. I squint into the sun, looking at the house, trying to tell if my mother or father is in the yard. No one. Strangely relieved, I walk closer and closer, my eyes glued to the house, spots from the sun swimming in my vision. Still no one. My heart’s racing now, and I slip inside a row of corn. Here in the cool shadows I feel protected, as though I’m undercover in the jungle, a secret agent, spying on my own family.
As I walk, I remember the Doctorita’s words from the last time she brought me here. If you go back to your family, they’ll give you to another family, a family that won’t treat you as well. And my mother’s words. I’d be happy if one day you left forever.
I creep around the house, sticking close to the shadows of the corn. There’s my father’s soga hanging on the wall, his farm tools, my mother’s broom, the eucalyptus stick she smacked me with when I misbehaved. Two huge pigs are asleep in their pen, and two sheep are rooting around in the weeds by the tree where they’re tied. Chickens peck at corn kernels scattered across the dirt. No Cheetah the goat. She’s probably been eaten by now.
I take a deep breath, then run across the clearing to the house, ducking a little, as though at any moment someone could open fire. Instead of bullets, dogs skid around the corner of the house and descend on me—a whole new set of scrawny, half-starved dogs, barking and growling. From my pocket I tear my weapon—a plastic bag of stale bread I thought to bring at the last minute—and hurl pieces at the dogs like hand grenades.
After that, they follow me eagerly, wagging their tails, drooling. I make it to the wooden door and knock softly.
No answer.
I knock harder.
Still no answer. I push at the door. It’s open. I slip inside and close the door behind me.
Inside it’s quiet and heavy and dark, and my eyes take a moment to adjust. A thousand memories press on me all at once, nearly suffocating me. There’s the lingering odor of kerosene, woodsmoke, dirt, guinea pigs, wool. I wander around the room, opening drawers, poking in cardboard boxes, peering at the guinea pigs huddled in a corner, feeling the thick fabric of my mother’s anacos, sitting for a moment on the bed and touching the woven grass mat that serves as a mattress, patting the musty pillow stuffed with rags and hay, picking up a wooden spoon, running my hand over a blackened iron pot. I kneel at the fire pit, hold my hand over the ashes still warm from breakfast. Nina—fire. Uchufa—ash. Chushac—empty. My family must have been here earlier this morning. Maybe they left to spend the day in Otavalo.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it will burst through my chest. I’m praying no one will come home and find me spying. And I am spying. This is not my house. This is the house—no, the run-down shack—of poor people, Indian people. It’s dirty and ugly, no decorations like crocheted table runners, or framed cross-stitched roses on the walls, no red sofas or plush chairs. All gray and brown and dark and hard. Packed-dirt floors, dull wood rafters, crumbling clay walls. Filthy clothes and blankets heaped in piles on the ground. Flea-ridden guinea pigs squeaking and humping and scratching, living in the same room as the entire family.
How could I have come from this place? What was I hoping to find here? Love? Love that never even existed?
I wouldn’t have learned to read if I’d stayed here. I’d be working in the fields all day, right in the midst of so much photosynthesis, yet without any idea of what photosynthesis was. I wouldn’t have shelves of books waiting to be read. I wouldn’t speak Spanish perfectly.
I’m heading toward the door when I spot something strange.
At the foot of the bed, on a shelf, is a book. There were never books in my parents’ house before. They can’t read. I pick up the book, brush off the thin layer of dust. The Holy Bible is written in swirly gold lettering on black vinyl. I open it and press my nose in the pages, like I secretly do with all books. It smells new, of paper and plastic and glue, as though it’s hardly been touched.
What is this Bible doing here? My parents pay more attention to the gods of the mountains and sun and rain than to the Christian God. Maybe a door-to-door missionary gave it to them, or maybe Matilde brought it from the house where she worked. I flip through the pages, whispery thin and edged with gold paint. And then, on the first page, marked by a red ribbon, I notice something written, lightly, in pencil, and a phone number underneath it.
Mi Hermanita Virginia,
I do not know if you even exist anymore, but if one day you find this, call me.
Love,
Your Sister Matilde
I read the message again and again. My heart feels like it’s cracking in two. Hermanita, little sister. Someone loves me, someone misses me and thinks about me. I am someone’s beloved little sister. Tears stream down my face.
I tear out the page and clutch it in my hand, press it to my lips. Gently, I lay the book back down and walk out the door, into the sunshine. Who knows when Matilde wrote these magical words, or what made her write them, or how she guessed I would find them. It’s a mysterious miracle. Like a TV sound track, that flute music wells up inside me, the indígena music, the music I hate and love with all my soul.
&n
bsp; * * *
When I was a little girl, my love for Matilde was as thorny and tangled as a blackberry bush. Somewhere in there were sweet berries, but my legs got scratched with so many spines and branches along the way. Once in a long while, buried somewhere in all the brambles, I caught glimpses of some pure, deep blackberry love—like when she helped me buy my first pair of shoes at the market. But most of the time her sweet smile and beautiful clothes and perfect skin filled me with rage. Most of the time, I wished she would go away and let me be the oldest, best-loved daughter. Most of the time, I thought I hated her.
The last memory I have of her is this.
It was nighttime, and I’d just returned from a two-week trip high into the mountains, where, at about seven years old, I was the youngest person harvesting potatoes. Mamita and Papito stayed at home, and I went with my good-natured aunt and uncle and cousin, who laughed at everything. At night we slept with dozens of other workers in a single hut, shivering and trying to get the spot closest to the hot ashes of the fire pit. During the days we dug up delicious fat purple potatoes, chatting and joking all the while. We handed most of the potatoes over to the landowner in exchange for our wages, but some we boiled into soup, which we ate every night for dinner.
The best part was that we could each gather a free sackful of potatoes to take home. I filled my sack to the brim; I could hardly budge it, so people helped me carry it, marveling over how vivísima I was.
After a long, bumpy, windy ride in the bed of a pickup back to Yana Urku, I was still buzzing with excitement, eager to show off the purple potatoes to Mamita. At first, it was just how I imagined. I showed her all the delicious fat potatoes and she said, “Oh, my poor little Virginia, pobregulla, look what you brought back all by yourself.”
I soaked up her kind words like a thirsty sponge and felt like an angel, basking in my purple-potato glory.
Then she gave the bad news: “Your sister’s visiting. You better be nice to her this time.”
The next morning, Matilde was already dressed in her nice anacos: two layers, cream underneath and deep blue on top. She was wearing a bright white embroidered blouse and shoes made of black velvet with square toes and a dainty string tying them to her ankles. Her skin was shining, clean and soft, almost as fair as a mestiza’s, as though her boss’s whiteness had magically oozed into her, as though all that fancy rice and fluffy bread had seeped into her skin.
I grew conscious of the dried mud splattered on my legs, the thick coating of dust and grime, the cracked, reddened web of skin on my cheeks from ten days out in the sun and wind. It had been more than two weeks since I’d washed myself. I tucked in my filthy blouse and tied my faja around my waist and ran my fingers through my tangle of hair.
Mamita was sitting next to Matilde and stroking her smooth hair in its painfully tight-looking ponytail wrapped with a ribbon. “Ah, how I missed you,” she told Matilde. “My oldest daughter, my pretty daughter.”
“Good morning, Guagua Zapalla,” Matilde said to me in her light, happy way. Zapalla means “pumpkin,” and it was also the name of my grumpy old grandmother, and the last thing I wanted to be called was Pumpkin Kid.
All morning, Matilde and I pastured the cows and sheep together, with Cheetah close at my side. While the animals munched on grass, we went to a capulí tree to see if any little fruits were ripe. All the lower branches had been picked clean, but I spotted ripe, red capulís higher up. Matilde was no good at climbing trees since she lived in the city. And her soft padding of fat made her slow and clumsy. Anyway, she didn’t like to get her blouse dirty or risk tearing her anacos.
“I’ll do this,” I told her smugly. I scrambled up and picked handfuls of capulís, then leaned over to hand them to her, and she made a little pile of berries at the base of the tree. After a while, I noticed that as I was busy picking the capulís, Matilde was choosing the ripest, reddest, biggest ones from the pile and popping them into her mouth.
“Stop!” I shouted.
“What’s wrong, Guagua Zapalla?” She smiled sweetly.
“I worked for those capulís!” I shrieked. “They’re mine. You can’t take the best ones!”
She plunked another big red one on her tongue. “Be quiet, crybaby.” She chewed contentedly.
I barely restrained myself from pouncing on her and slapping and clawing at her. Last time she’d stolen fruit from me, that was exactly what I did, and I got a beating from Mamita as a result.
Matilde popped another capulí in her mouth, grinning. To her, the world was one happy joke. She smiled at everything. I’d bet she could fall off a cliff and then, bleeding and broken, still laugh about it. It was always like this with her. I was the one who did all the work; I was the one who had to put up with Papito’s beatings and Mamita’s harsh words, while Matilde just breezed in and out of our lives like a plump, pretty princess, always getting the best of everything.
Back at the house, at lunch, things got worse when Mamita was about to serve the purple potato soup.
“I got these potatoes,” I reminded Mamita. “I brought them for everybody, but I don’t want you to give Matilde the biggest ones. Those are for me.”
Mamita looked at me like I was a rat that she wanted to hit with a broom. She turned her head away so I could only see the angry whites of her eyes. Papito didn’t say anything, just sat on the stool, staring at the hot coals with his stony expression.
Matilde laughed, a tinkling bell sound. Her cheeks were pink and merry from our walk, her lips stained red from the capulís she had stolen from me.
My voice rose to a piercing pitch. “Mamita! Don’t give her the biggest potatoes. Give me the biggest ones.”
Mamita’s mouth formed a tense, thin line. “Your sister only comes from Quito once in a while. Treat her well.”
“But I worked for these potatoes. They’re mine.”
“You’re a selfish brat,” Mamita said. “You don’t deserve any potatoes.”
“Yes, I do!”
Mamita gave me a long, cold look. “Know what? I’d be happy if one day you left and never came back.”
Her words froze my insides. Fine, I said to myself. I will leave, and after I’m gone you will cry and cry and cry over me.
When the soup was ready, Mamita served the biggest, best potato to Matilde.
I glared at Matilde across the ashes, my skin prickling with rage. If I never see you again, I silently told her, I’ll be very happy.
* * *
Have you noticed that if you really want something, you can make it happen? But you need to be sure it’s what you really want, because sometimes, when it comes true, you realize too late that it’s not what you wanted.
Not at all.
chapter 14
BACK IN KUNU YAKU, I keep the paper under my mattress. Every night, I take it out and read the word Hermanita. Little sister. A cozy word, like sweet, warm bread. I imagine Matilde and me giggling over our crushes like Marina and Marlenny do. I imagine telling her about the volcano I made, and eating popcorn and dressing up and pretending to be famous singers together.
The phone number she wrote has an area code from Quito, the capital, just a few hours away. It’s bewildering to know that if I call her, she could be here within hours.
We don’t have a phone in the house, so I can’t call her easily. I could go to a phone booth at one of the nearby stores, but all the store owners know the Doctorita and are prone to gossiping. And what would I tell Matilde anyway? To come visit me? To take me away from these people? And then what would I do? Where would I live? I’m afraid if I call her without a plan, she might try to convince me to go back to our parents’ little shack. For the moment, I decide to just hold on to the paper while I think of a plan, and let its kindness ooze into me.
For the past week, the Doctorita has been in a bad mood. It started the day after we got back from Yana Urku, when we ran into Niño Carlitos’s slim, pretty ex-girlfriend on our evening walk. He was quiet the rest of the evening, and
then, the next day, when the Doctorita criticized him for spending too much time building tiny spaceship models, he accused her of being fat and lazy. “¡Plastona!” he said. “Stuck to the couch all the time!” She yelled back, “Well, who’s the breadwinner in this house? Who has two jobs? Who deserves to relax at the end of the day?” He grumbled under his breath that he should have married the ex-girlfriend instead of the Doctorita. When she heard that, for days she lay in bed crying and knitting dresses for her Baby Jesus doll.
After a few days, Niño Carlitos apologized and bought her an aerobics book full of photos of thin, fair women in shiny leotards and leg warmers. She used the book once, gasping and sweating for ten minutes, then stuck it angrily on the bookshelf and flopped on the sofa.
She hasn’t touched the book since. She’s barely talked to Niño Carlitos all week. Instead, she’s been taking her rage out on me.
I’m on the roof in the glaring sunshine, cleaning the Doctorita’s dental instruments with soapy water in the cement washbasin. With my fingernail, I scrape at the dried blood and bits of crushed tooth and gum stuck to the metal. This is my least favorite task, almost as disgusting as washing diapers. Once all the gunk is off, I carry the tools down two flights of stairs in a plastic bin, to the Doctorita’s dentist office, just off the entrance hallway that serves as a waiting room. I plunk the tools into the sterilizing machine, which will kill the germs so the tools will be ready to use on the next patient.
At that moment, Jaimito bursts in the room, his eyes wide and excited. “Virginia! Come outside! I found a dead snake!”
I run out the door after him, reminding myself I’ll have to return to arrange the tools and press the Start button, but soon I’m caught up in examining the snake’s shiny skin and entrails. I wish I had a lab notebook to write my observations in, the kind with graph paper like the colegio students have. This is like a dissection, seeing the inside parts that let the snake eat and breathe and make energy and waste. I explain to Jaimito that snakes are cold-blooded reptiles, that they need the sun to warm them, which is why sometimes you come across them sunbathing on rocks. He listens and asks question after question, and most of them I can answer scientifically. I hope he won’t tell the Doctorita what I’ve told him, or she might suspect I’ve been reading Understanding Our Universe.