by Laura Resau
The next day, Niño Carlitos is out playing basketball with a friend and I’m in the living room making Play-Doh monsters with the boys. The Doctorita is with a patient in her office, and I’m not expecting her to be done for an hour or so. But after a few minutes, she storms into the room and, without warning, punches me in the face.
Jaimito screams. Andrecito cries. And the Doctorita beats me with a handful of wire hangers from the hall closet. “¡Longa tonta! You fool! You didn’t sterilize my tools! One simple task, and you mess it up. ¡Longa estúpida!”
I cover my face with my hands, clutching my nose. Sticky liquid spreads over my face, my hands. Blood drips to the tile floor. The hangers cut into my arms, sting my shoulders and back. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jaimito kicking his mother, trying to pull her away from me. “Stop, Mamá,” he cries. “Stop! Leave her alone!”
Finally, the Doctorita pushes me toward the bathroom. “Clean yourself up.”
I rinse the blood from my face, but more keeps pouring out, like water from a broken faucet. I give up and go back to the living room with blood still trickling from my nose. The Doctorita throws a kitchen rag at me. “Hold your nose and put your head back.”
I do what she says, sitting cross-legged on the floor. It’s been a while since she’s beaten me this badly in front of the children. This has shaken them up as much as me, maybe more. Andrecito hugs me and Jaimito snuggles against me, stroking my hair. “It’s all right, Virginia,” he whispers. “We love you.” For once, he is quiet. He holds me fiercely, like a little lion cub, so tightly that I have to loosen his grip.
When I notice he’s crying, I wipe his tears and rock him, one hand holding him, the other at my nose, and say, “It’s all right, mi amor, it’s all right.” He’s so sensitive, he probably won’t be able to sleep tonight; he’ll call for me to stroke his head and sing to him.
When Niño Carlitos comes home and sees the bloody rag at my nose and my puffy, tear-streaked face, he kneels down beside me. “What happened, m’hija?” His voice is hoarse and tender, as it always is in the aftermath of the Doctorita’s beatings. And this one is especially bad. The bleeding won’t stop, no matter how hard I press the rag against my nose.
I don’t say anything, only glance at the Doctorita, who is shuffling through school papers at the table. By now Andrecito has gotten distracted with a wooden Bugs Bunny puzzle, but Jaimito has not left my side. He points a little finger at his mother.
Niño Carlitos turns to her, his eyes hard. “What happened to la Virginia?”
“Nothing,” the Doctorita says defensively.
“Then why is her nose bleeding?” He’s yelling now. He hardly ever yells. “After the last time, you said you’d be easier on her.”
At the sound of his father’s raised voice, Andrecito drops the puzzle pieces and runs over to me, burying his face in my shoulder.
The Doctorita slams down her pen. “She didn’t sterilize the instruments. And a patient came and I had nothing to use. She humiliated me.”
Niño Carlitos’s lip curls in disgust. “My God, Romelia, she’s a child. The Baby Jesus incident nearly put her in the hospital.”
He’s talking about the time I was dusting her Baby Jesus doll, when I dropped Him and His arm broke. I tried to hide the damage under His crocheted green dress, but when the Doctorita discovered it, she erupted in a rage. Luckily the boys didn’t witness that beating—they would have had nightmares for weeks.
The Doctorita glares at me, then says, “Don’t make me out to be the bad guy again, Carlos.”
He clenches his fists at his sides. “This has got to stop. You’d better not hurt her again. Not under my roof.”
“Not under my roof,” echo Jaimito and then Andrecito, their arms loyally around my shoulders.
It feels good that Niño Carlitos cares about me and protects me like a father. I have not told you much about my father yet. I would like to say it’s because he wasn’t around much. It’s true he was often working for weeks at a time on construction projects in Quito. And when he was home, he was usually in the fields all day with Alfonso’s oxen, plowing or planting or harvesting. In the evenings, he went out to drink puro with other men. When Papito was with us, he was mostly silent and stony-faced, communicating through grunts and orders.
But I must force myself to shine a flashlight into the darkest places, to admit the real reason I’ve avoided mentioning Papito. You see, Papito ignited worse than fire. If someone—man, woman, or child—provoked him, the cold, quiet man disappeared and the fire inside him flared up like a rag doused with kerosene, all flames and flying fists.
There are so many moments I’ve tried to forget.
There was the moment Papito discovered that the dogs had snuck into a hole in our house’s clay wall and stolen the meat. He blamed it on me, strung me up to the rafters by a rope looped around my neck. As I dangled there, gagging, he beat me with a dried leather whip until my hands stopped struggling to pull the rope from my neck, and I could no longer breathe, and blackness swallowed the world. Then he released me and I fell to the ground in a gasping heap of snot and tears and blood.
There was the moment when, at a drunken party, Papito accused Mamita of sleeping with the man who bought pigs door-to-door. I watched him punch and kick her unconscious and then drag her home by her hair, her face scraping and bouncing over the rocks. The next morning, I watched her wince as she spread a bright green herbal remedy on her face, which had been bruised to black, one eye swollen shut.
There were the moments when Papito beat Mamita, even though her belly was big with a baby inside. There were the moments she lost her babies. I was a little girl, and vague on the details of pregnancy and miscarriage, but I remember that for a long time after the last baby died, Mamita cried and screamed and told me to leave her alone. “I wish I’d given you away, brat.” But this only made me plead for more attention, to whine at a higher pitch, to beg extra hard to work in the fields with her. The more I pleaded, the more she seemed to hate me.
The worst was that Papito kept beating her, and as he did, he glared at me with beady eyes, reddened and drooping from liquor, and yelled in her face, “That brat is the pig trader’s daughter, admit it. Admit you lay down with him.” Which was not true, because when Papito was gone, Mamita worked in the fields and fed the animals and sold pigs, always with Jaimito strapped to her back. She was never alone, ever, especially not with a man, and especially not lying down. Anyway, the pig man was fat and ugly, and I didn’t look anything like him. And Papito and I had the same feet, with extra-long toes, proof that I was his daughter. As a little girl, despite everything, I wanted Papito to want me, to feel proud I was his daughter.
* * *
Now I’ve found a kind of father in Niño Carlitos. He calls me daughter, and defends me, and says he’s proud of me, and calls me pretty and smart—all the things I always wanted to hear from my own father. How can I leave Niño Carlitos? And how can I leave the boys, who love me more than anything? But my nose is throbbing, and as much as I love Niño Carlitos and the boys, I hate the Doctorita.
Hours later, I’m in my room, nursing my wounds and clutching the paper with my sister’s number. Niño Carlitos and the boys have left to pasture the cow, and the Doctorita has sterilized the tools and is now filling the patient’s cavity. I stare at Matilde’s message, the neat, round letters and numbers that I already know by heart. And then, quickly, before I can change my mind, I take some coins from the Doctorita’s purse and walk to the shop with a phone booth. My face is hot and angry, my nose pulsing, my head aching. The fabric of my shirt rubs at the raw scratches all over my torso. I walk like an old lady, every step painful.
When I reach Don Luciano’s store, I hesitate outside. A sick feeling spreads out from my stomach. I can guess what will happen next. Don Luciano will have me write the number on his notepad, then he’ll dial, and when someone answers, he’ll tell me to pick up the phone in the booth, and then he’ll hang up. He�
��ll eavesdrop on my conversation through the thin wood door, and within an hour, word will spread all over town that I’ve called my sister because I can’t stand living with the Doctorita anymore. What will she do to me then?
I think of the elementary school diploma the Doctorita promised. How can I throw that away? And what if my parents don’t even want me back? Or what if they do, and I never see Jaimito and Andrecito and Niño Carlitos again? What if my parents force me to live in their dirty house without rice or meat or books or a TV? What if Papito still beats my mother? What if he tries to beat me? He’s much stronger than the Doctorita. I look at the scars on my legs from when Papito whipped me as I dangled from the rafters. The scars have faded a little, but I doubt they’ll ever disappear.
I take one last look at the phone booth through the window of Don Luciano’s store. My nose isn’t throbbing as much now, and the swelling will probably go down in a few days, and the welts from the hangers will fade in a week—a small price to pay for a diploma and a house full of books and weekly MacGyver access. I fold the worn paper with Matilde’s phone number on it, turn away from the shop, and trudge home.
A scene flashes in my head: MacGyver telling the slaves, “Go! You’re free!” and the slaves just standing and staring. I understand why. Fear feels familiar. And freedom feels terrifying.
chapter 15
INSTEAD OF ESCAPE, my mind turns to revenge. In the meantime, I keep the paper under my mattress, in case I really need it one day, although I’m not sure how I’ll know when that day comes.
It’s Saturday morning and silvery rain is pouring outside, trickling down the windowpanes, making it cozy inside the house. My wounds from the Doctorita’s hanger rage have nearly disappeared, but my anger at her has lingered. She’s gone now, along with Niño Carlitos and the boys, to spend the weekend with her family, while I’ve stayed here to feed the guinea pigs and pasture the cow.
I consider starting the long list of chores she made me memorize. She still doesn’t know I can read, which is a good thing, because then she’d probably write me an extralong list of chores. I pick up the mop and bucket, and then, on second thought, let them clatter to the floor.
I have the house to myself and I will do what I want. ¡Viva la libertad! I snatch the Doctorita’s favorite green polka-dot dress from her wardrobe. It barely fits her anymore, clinging to her bottom so tightly the seams have almost split. I put it on, loving how it skims my new curves and hangs gracefully at my ankles. I slip on her high heels and let my hair loose and admire myself in the mirror.
The swelling in my nose has gone down. Now there are only faint purple-blue marks beneath my eyes. My friend Marina said she’d read in a fashion magazine that if you have a pimple on your face, you should wear lots of eye makeup and lipstick to distract people. My puffy nose isn’t exactly a pimple, but maybe the same strategy will work. I put on the Doctorita’s bright red, special-occasion lipstick and gold eye shadow. Pleased at my reflection, I dance in front of the mirror and sing along with the cumbia music blasting on the stereo.
Still wearing the high heels, I sweep and mop until my feet hurt, then I change into my regular clothes and put on fresh lipstick and run out to feed the guinea pigs and pasture the cow. Later, back home, I read for a while. When my stomach growls, I make myself a mountain of greasy potatoes and fried steak for dinner and papaya and mangoes for dessert and lounge on the Doctorita’s pink llama blanket watching TV until I nod off.
Sunday morning, I wake up late in the Doctorita’s bed, to watery gray light and more rain pattering on the windows. My gaze rests on her wardrobe, on the drawer she forbade me to open my first morning here, a rule she continues to remind me of regularly. She keeps the key in a secret place, and I’ve never seen her open the drawer. It must hold something very, very secret if she’s managed to hide it from me all these years. I tug on the drawer, hard, but the lock is too strong.
I eat breakfast and read for a while, then feed the animals and do my other chores. In the afternoon, as I’m dusting the Doctorita’s room and making the bed, I catch a glimpse of myself in the wardrobe’s mirror, at the two blue-yellow crescents beneath my eyes. When I was younger and the Doctorita beat me, I thought that when I was big I’d get revenge. But I am big now, nearly as tall as her, nearly grown up. Thirteen years old and she’s still beating me.
Revenge. I stare at the drawer. I’ll find a way to open it. I take a knife from the kitchen and wiggle it around in the keyhole, the way I’ve seen MacGyver do. I imagine him at my side. The clock is ticking. Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight … only one minute to open the drawer and defuse the bomb. The evil, jiggly-chinned thief is plotting to blow up the world, and I am the only hope to unlock the drawer in time. Me, María Virginia Farinango, world-famous lock picker, the expert who flies around the globe, opening locks in the nick of time. Nine, eight, seven … almost there. MacGyver leans over me, whispers in my ear, his breath warm. If anyone can do this, you can, Virginia, my love. Three, two, one …
There is a click and the drawer opens. I pull the drawer out and set it on the floor, my hands shaking with excitement. I shuffle through the papers—birth certificates, a marriage license, diplomas. Boring, boring, boring. A few pieces of jewelry—clunky earrings and bracelets I’ve seen the Doctorita wearing to weddings and baptisms. And that’s it. All these years of wondering about the forbidden drawer, and it’s just a bunch of junk.
Deflated, I shove the drawer back into the wardrobe. But it won’t shut all the way. The metal lock is sticking up. I try to push it down, but it’s stuck. I jam the knife in the keyhole and wiggle and twist it, with no luck. Frantically, I grab a handful of knives from the kitchen and try each one in the keyhole. One of them has to work! I try scissors and hairpins and knitting needles, but nothing will budge the lock.
Just thinking about what the Doctorita will do when she sees the drawer makes me shudder. If she gave me a bloody nose for forgetting to sterilize her instruments, what will she do to me now? My thoughts bang around, frantic and crazy, until I think my head will explode.
I could call my sister. She could come and take me away from here. But it’s Sunday afternoon. Don Luciano closes his shop on Sunday afternoon to have lunch with his family. And what about the elementary school diploma? And meat and books and TV?
Then, in the midst of my panic, an idea shines through, clear and bright. An idea that makes me wipe my eyes and sit up straight. I am stronger and smarter than the Doctorita. I can think of a way out of this. MacGyver always identifies his enemy’s big weakness first. What is the Doctorita’s weakness? What is she most afraid of?
I mentally flip through her large, strange collection of fears, fears that make her break out in a sweat, make her moan about feeling suffocated. Germs, gas leaks, bad traffic, volcanic eruptions, kidnappings, thieves. When Niño Carlitos rolls his eyes at her ridiculous fears, she insists it’s not her fault. Supposedly, according to her doctor, it’s nervios from working two demanding jobs, and she should drink lots of lemon balm tea to calm her nerves.
I try to narrow down her fears to the very worst one.
Thieves.
Years ago, the theft of the bus traumatized her. Ever since, she’s ranted about thieves, double- and triple-checking to make sure our doors are locked, worrying that someone will steal the truck, clutching her purse against her chest in crowded markets. Yes, thieves it is.
So thieves she will get.
But it will have to be convincing; I can’t just go halfway. I glance at the clock. Three o’clock. That gives me about two hours until they come back. They usually return before dark because the Doctorita frets that a gang of bandits will jump out in the darkness and hijack the truck.
I turn the drawer upside down, dump the papers and jewelry on the floor, kick them around. In a mad whirlwind, I tear the curtains from the rods, gather the pink bedspread in a ball and hurl it at the wall, knock over the lamp, push the trinkets and doilies off the chest, throw magazines and pillow
s around the room. This feels delicious!
Gathering momentum, I run into the living room, swipe the photos off the table, rip the framed cross-stitched roses off the wall. I consider knocking over some flowerpots, but that wouldn’t be fair to the innocent plants, who are only trying to lead a peaceful existence of photosynthesis and respiration. Instead, I grab the cushions from the couch, toss them around the floor, pull out drawers and scatter clothes in heaps, jump on her favorite polka-dot dress. Room by room, I terrorize their belongings, just like a thief on a TV show.
But the best part is still coming. Breathless and full of wild energy, I take a ball of rope from the kitchen drawer and run upstairs. To make it really convincing, I’ll have to tie myself up. Thieves always tie up their victims. I stand with my back to the bedpost and wind the rope around myself, feet first. In almost every MacGyver episode, someone gets tied up, so I know how to do it. I wrap the rope around the post and my body, all the way up to my neck, and knot it tightly.
Then I stand there, waiting, feeling my heartbeat slow a little. The alarm clock is lying on the floor, facedown, so I’m not sure how much time has passed. With the rain, I can’t tell where the sun is.
I wait and wait. After a while I get thirsty. And then hungry. And then I have to go to the bathroom. And then my legs grow tired. I watch a fly buzz around the room, land on the overturned lamp and then on the naked curtain rod. I listen to the raindrops drumming on the windows. My nose itches, but I can’t scratch it with my hands bound.