by Laura Resau
As I watch the Doctorita’s belly swell, I think about the diapers I’ll have to wash now that Andrecito is out of his. My life, endlessly washing diapers. Recently, Niño Carlitos suggested buying a washing machine, but the Doctorita said, “Humph. What do we need that for? We’ve got Virginia.” That’s what I am, an appliance, a multipurpose appliance that cooks and cleans and washes and babysits.
I imagine what the commercial for me would be like. The Doctorita’s on TV, her teeth bleached white, a giant fake smile stuck to her face. Hi, she says in a voice as slick as motor oil. I want to tell you about my favorite new appliance, the ultimate time-saving device, My Virginia! The camera zooms in on me holding a broom—a zombified me with wide saucer eyes—then swings back to the Doctorita. It cooks, she says, and it cleans, and it takes care of your children! Niño Carlitos walks into the room, exclaiming, Is there anything it doesn’t do? He rests his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. The Doctorita assures him, My Virginia does everything. And the best part? It’s free! No strings attached! And easy maintenance! Just pound My Virginia once a month and you’re set! Don’t wait! Get one today!
After dinner one evening, as I’m collecting the dirty plates, the Doctorita rubs her giant belly. “Virginia, sit down for a moment before you do the dishes.”
I sit down. It must have scared her when I tried to run away. She must have realized she couldn’t take me completely for granted. Here in Ibarra she doesn’t hit me as much, although that could be because of her pregnancy, or because now they’re making more money, living more comfortably.
“What’s wrong with you?” she demands. “Why don’t you talk anymore? Or smile?”
I shrug.
“Why don’t you play with the boys anymore?”
I shrug.
She pastes a kind expression on her face. “Now that we’re all settled in the city, I can get you that elementary school diploma you’ve been wanting.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“All right,” I say dully. Soon might never happen.
She must sense my doubt, because she tries a different tactic. “You know that Carlos and I are earning more in our jobs here. In a few years we’ll build another, small house on this property. A house for you. Your own house.”
My own house? I perk up. If she really gave me a house one day, I’d paint it purple with white trim. I’d invite Antonio and my friends from Kunu Yaku to come over for parties, and we’d blast cumbias and dance into the night. But then the Doctorita intrudes on my fantasy, barging into my dream house and flipping off the stereo. The room goes silent. Longa, she shouts with all three chins jiggling, you have a pile of diapers to wash. Your friends had better leave and you’d better get started. Now!
Later that night, the moon is a sliver in the sky, shining like a luminescent potato peel. On the roof, I lean against the cement wall and think about my options.
Stay with the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos and get my diploma and my house—if she ever keeps those promises. And in return, be their maid forever.
Run away to my family and live with them in their dirty house with fleas and put up with my father’s beatings. And turn back into an indígena.
Run away to my sister and see if she can find me a maid job with another family that might let me go to school. Or might not.
Run away to Kunu Yaku and marry Antonio and live life as a poor farmer’s wife and have lots of kids. And no books.
Something else. And until I figure out what that is, write poetry.
Number five seems like the best option at the moment. I open my notebook and, by the glow of our neighbors’ yellow living room, write:
This world is a valley of tears.
This world is a valley of tears.
This world is a valley of tears.
* * *
When the Doctorita is seven months pregnant—her belly nearly the size of a basketball—her doctor finds a problem with the baby and tells her that whenever she isn’t working she should be resting in bed. This means I’m often alone in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning up. Which means that Niño Carlitos has even more opportunities to come up behind me at the sink and press against me and move his hands over me like magnets as I squirm away. At night I cry, feeling ashamed, as though his hands have left prints on my skin, like marks in drying clay.
When I was little, back in Yana Urku, the wind and sun would burn my cheeks and calves and feet, crack my flesh, make spidery red lines of blood that would fill with dirt and sting and ache. Despite this, I couldn’t resist scratching the flea bites clustered at my ankles, making the skin more and more raw, oozing blood and pus. Seeing this, Mamita had me pee in a cup and then she poured my warm urine over the cracked flesh, gently rubbing it in. My eyes watered at the hot sting, but within a few days, my skin was healed, whole again. I ran my fingers over my smooth legs, brushed my hands on my soft cheeks, feeling as brand-new as a freshly laid egg.
This is what I long for now, something to make Niño Carlitos’s touch disappear, something to make me good and complete and pure again. More and more now, I think about telling the Doctorita. Then, one day, something happens that makes me realize that she would blame me without a doubt.
I’m in the storeroom ironing Niño Carlitos’s button-down work shirts, when the Doctorita storms through the door, waving my notebook and shouting, “Why are you writing love poems? Who is this you’re writing about? What’s his name? I thought I forbid you to have a boyfriend!”
Oh, no. She must have looked under the refrigerator for some reason. “I don’t. I never did,” I lie. “It’s all from my imagination.”
“And did he teach you to read, too? So he could send you love letters?”
I watch my notebook as she swings it around. I hate seeing her fat hands on this thing that is sacred to me.
“Ha!” she snorts. “You know, longa, if you ever left here and went after this guy, you know what would happen?”
I say nothing and keep ironing.
“You longas are like dogs, dogs that we spend a lot of time training. It wasn’t easy for me—you were wild when I got you. I fed you and gave you shelter, and you’ve had a good life. But you know what happens when a dog gets in heat?”
I stare at the shirt on the ironing board, half wrinkled, half smooth.
“Answer me!”
I shrug.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s tamed or not. Within a month the dog is knocked up. It lives on the street scrounging for scraps. And then one day it shows up, back at its owner’s door.”
I bite the inside of my cheek in humiliation. The iron hisses and spews an angry cloud of steam.
“Don’t even think about running,” she yells. “Because in three months you’d be knocking at my door, pregnant and begging for your job back. Because that’s how you longas are.”
I set down the iron, shaking now.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
What I want to say is this: You and your husband are the animals. You and your husband are the dogs, dangerous dogs, frothing-at-the-mouth, rabid dogs. But me, I’m the poetess. I’m the scientist. I’m the singer. I’m the secret agent. I’m the dancer. I’m the human.
Instead, I say flatly, “Can I have my notebook back?”
She throws the notebook on the floor on her way out. I pick it up and hug it to my chest. Then I ball up Niño Carlitos’s half-ironed shirt and hurl it against the wall. In my room, I open my notebook and read, This world is a valley of tears.
chapter 24
THE DOCTORITA RETURNS from her eight-month prenatal appointment pale and terrified. The doctor has said there’s a major problem, that she has to go immediately to the big hospital in Quito.
In a panic, Niño Carlitos packs her bag and drives her to the hospital, over an hour away. That evening, when he comes home, dark circles hang beneath his eyes, and he sinks into a velvet chair. “Can you get me some lemonade, m’hija?”
I pou
r his lemonade. “How’s the Doctorita?” I ask nervously. “Will she be coming home soon?”
He shakes his head. “She has to stay there until the baby’s born.”
“How long?”
“A week. A month. Depends when the baby comes.”
My muscles tense. That means a week or more in the house with just him and the boys. No amount of booby-trapping will stop him from getting what he wants. I’ll have to do something else. In the meantime, until I make a plan, I hope he’s so exhausted he’ll just go to bed and sleep all evening until the next day.
After dinner, he goes to his room to rest. The boys are in their room, playing with their dump trucks. I can hear faint bbbrrrs and vvvrrrmmms and plastic truck crashes through the door. I start washing the dishes, praying Niño Carlitos will just fall asleep and sleep until morning.
His voice calls out. “Virginia!”
“Yes?”
“Bring me some water.”
I pour a glass of water and take a deep breath. The water shivers in its glass. Upstairs, I knock on his door softly.
“Come in.”
I push the door open. Niño Carlitos is lying on the pink llama bedspread, his head propped on fluffy pillows, watching me with colorless eyes, the lids half closed. His face looks gray and pasty and eager, his thin hair combed pathetically over the growing bald spot. How could I ever have wished this man was my father? How could this man ever have been my protector?
I set the glass on a doily on the bedside table and turn to leave. “M’hijita,” he says, his voice greasy. “How nice you are. How pretty.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, and head out the door.
“Come here,” he says. “Come sit down on the bed.”
I keep walking. “I need to wash the dishes now,” I call over my shoulder, and run downstairs to the kitchen. With trembling hands, I finish washing the dishes. As I’m drying my hands, his footsteps sound on the stairs. He presses up behind me, same as always, but this time is different. This time I know I can defend myself for only so long. Even if I run out on an errand, he’ll be waiting for me, alone, when I come back.
I duck away. “I’m going to clean the floor now,” I say, and dash upstairs.
He follows me.
I run up the next flight of stairs to the terrace, where I keep the bucket and mop.
Thankfully he doesn’t chase me up here. “Bring me more water,” he calls.
I lean against the wall, feeling nauseated. Orange light pools at the horizon, like heaps of glowing silk. I think about Understanding Our Universe, of its diagram of the sun’s rays angled in the evenings. Air molecules scatter the short wavelength colors, so only soft, warm pinks and yellows and oranges shine through. Knowing this comforts me. I want to stay out here, beneath the sky where things feel safer and simpler, where I understand things.
“Virginia!” he shouts. “Now!”
Every cell in my body dreads going downstairs. Clutching the bucket and mop, I force myself to walk down to the kitchen and pour another glass of water. This time, as I put it on the bedside table, his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. He pulls me onto the bed, on top of him.
“No,” I cry, struggling with all my strength. His grip is firm, but I manage to untangle myself. I stagger back, away from the bed. Once I catch my balance, I run upstairs to my room. I lock the door and sit on my bed, my heart hammering.
And then, with a drowning feeling, I realize: he has an extra set of keys to all the rooms of the house.
* * *
Later that night, after the boys are asleep and the city is dark and quiet, Niño Carlitos bangs on my door. “Open up!” His voice is slurred. He must have been drinking. “Open up, Virginia!”
¡Dios mío! It’s only a matter of time before he goes downstairs for the extra set of keys. What to do? What to do? I sit on the edge of my bed and hug my pillow tight.
Even if I push furniture in front of the door, that will only keep him out for so long, and this time there’s no Doctorita down the hall. I look around for a weapon. Nothing. My room is stark—a narrow bed, a small table, a bare lightbulb, an old chest of drawers for my clothes. Not even a lamp or a pocketknife.
Eventually the banging stops. Niño Carlitos curses and stumbles down the metal stairs. I take a deep breath and open the door a crack, peering out. All clear. Now’s my chance. I run across the dark terrace, climb over the wall, and head toward the neighbor’s glass doors. The lights are on, but no one’s in the room.
Niño Carlitos’s shouts rise from below and his footsteps start clanking up the metal steps. I hear the keys jangling.
No time to knock. I open their door, slip inside, and lock the door behind me. I wander down the hallway and run into Blanca in a sky blue nightgown and fluffy pink slippers.
She jumps. “Virginia! What are you doing here?”
I try to think of a good reason. “I—I—I—” And then I break down into tears. “Blanquita, please don’t make me leave. Please let me stay, please.”
Her mother comes into the hallway. She has a sweet, worried face and a frilly blue and white checked apron, just like a TV mother’s. She takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen table. Everything is blue and white checked in the kitchen—the towels and napkins and curtains and tablecloth. A neat, cozy place. “What happened, honey?” she asks in an angel’s voice.
“It’s that—it’s that”—I can’t cover it up any longer—“it’s that my boss, he’s drunk, and he’s trying to come into my room, and the Doctorita is in Quito, and I’m scared. I’m really, really scared, señora.”
She pats my shoulder. “It’s all right, Virginia, you can stay here. Calm down, honey. You’ll spend the night here. He’s not going to touch you. We’ll take care of you.”
She boils water and serves us lemon balm tea in dainty yellow cups. She takes the chipped cup for herself and gives me the perfect one, as though I’m a real guest. As I sip, she looks at me with concern. “Is there anyone you can call, honey? We have a phone. You could call your parents.”
I shake my head.
“Brothers or sisters?”
I hesitate. “I think my sister lives in Quito. I know her phone number.” If it is still her number. It’s been years since I found her note in the Bible, and who knows how many years earlier that Matilde had written it there.
“Well, honey, Quito’s not far at all. Just a bus ride away. Now, why don’t you get a good night’s sleep and tomorrow you can call your sister.”
I nod. “Thank you, señora.”
That night, I sleep with Blanca in her bed. We stay awake talking for a long time, and she tells me about her boyfriend and makes jokes and giggles a lot. “I’m glad you’re here, Virginia,” she confides. “I’ve always wanted a big sister.”
I stay awake most of the night, wondering what will happen when I call my sister the next day. I can’t imagine what she’s like now. I’ve always pictured her the same age she was when I left—probably about twelve. Younger than I am now. Blanca’s age. Which means Matilde must be a grown woman.
This realization makes a new round of tears soak my pillow. What I want is to go back in time—to a childhood I didn’t have—and be a carefree girl like Blanca, giggling with her big sister, sharing jokes and dreams. I want this simple sweetness, this innocence. I want it so badly. I ache with wanting something that never existed, something that never can exist.
The next morning, I wake up early, after just a few hours of broken sleep. The señora is up already, wearing her blue checked apron. “Good morning, honey,” she says, and serves me chamomile tea and bread with blackberry jam, while the morning news blares on the TV. “Your boss hasn’t come for you,” she assures me as she whirls around the kitchen. “I don’t think he even knows you’re here, dear. You’re safe with us. You just take all the time you need.”
I thank her and try to force down the bread and tea. It’s good, but my insides feel too fluttery to eat. After breakfast, she shows me the phone
and then, with an encouraging smile, leaves the room to give me privacy.
I put my hand on the receiver, feel the cool plastic. Will Matilde try to make me go back to our parents? Will they give me away again? Is my sister even at this number anymore? Hundreds of questions bang around in my mind while my stomach leaps wildly. Finally, I dial the number that I’ve known by heart for years and press the receiver to my ear.
After three rings, a woman’s voice answers. “Hello?”
“Hello,” I say, sweat trickling from my armpits. My voice sounds strange, outside of my body. My life is about to leap into an unknown place. Here at the edge, it feels like a dream. “May I speak with Matilde, please?”
PART 3
chapter 25
“THIS IS MATILDE,” she answers in a grown-up voice, smooth as cream. As children, I realize, we always spoke Quichua, and now her Spanish words make her sound like a stranger, even though I no longer speak Quichua myself.
I try to steady my voice, but it squeaks out with an edge of desperation. “This is Virginia.”
A pause. “Virginia?” Another pause. “Virginia who?”
I go numb. Then, suddenly, I want to cry, scream, throw the phone against the wall. I grip the edge of the table until my knuckles turn white. “This is your sister.”
A silence. Then a whisper. “Virginia? It’s really you?”
Within seconds, I’m blubbering like a little girl. “You forgot about me, all of you, didn’t you?”
“Oh, Virginia, no, little sister. It’s just that it’s—it’s been so many years.”