by Laura Resau
“But how could you—” And then my sobs take over.
“Virginia.” Her words are soft. “Shhh, it’s all right.”
I wipe my nose and try to breathe. “Matilde, I want—I want to go home.”
“Of course. Of course, little sister. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
An old, familiar feeling washes over me, Matilde’s tenderness when I least deserved it. I remember the time when I was little and ventured alone to the market in Otavalo to buy boots with my saved-up snack money. I got hopelessly lost. As punishment, Mamita beat me with a eucalyptus stick, but later, when I told Matilde about it, teary and embarrassed, she held my hand and used that same soothing voice. I’ll help you, little sister. I’ll take you to the market myself. As though she’d forgotten about all the times I’d hit her and refused to share fruit and yelled at her in a jealous rage over who would get the biggest potato.
“Thank you, Matilde,” I say.
After she copies down my address and assures me it’s not far from her home in Quito, she says, “Virginia,” her voice full of concern, “can you wait until tomorrow? The señora isn’t here now and I can’t leave her children alone.”
How will I survive one more night of Niño Carlitos? Maybe I can sleep at Blanca’s again if things get bad. I take a deep, wavery breath. “All right. Can you come around eleven tomorrow morning, Matilde, when my boss is at work?”
“Of course, little sister. There are plenty of buses from Quito to Ibarra. I’ll see you at eleven o’clock.”
My tears finally stop and I feel a strange sense of calm, the glassy surface of a lake once the wind stops. Now that we’re older, maybe I can let go of the last lingering envious feelings. Maybe it isn’t too late to giggle together and tell each other secrets. I rub my fingers along the edge of the blue checked tablecloth, feeling the crisp, fresh fabric. A new beginning.
And then, with excitement creeping into her voice, Matilde says, “I have some news.”
“What?”
“I’m getting married.”
Married. A punch in the stomach. Matilde will live with her husband and start having babies and have no time for a little sister. A new batch of tears and mucus streams down my face.
“Virginia, are you still there?”
“Yes,” I manage to say between gasps.
“Hermanita,” she says. Little sister. The word comforted me for so long whenever I read it on my precious piece of paper. Now it stabs at me. “Tomorrow I’ll bring my fiancé with me so you can meet him.”
“All right,” I whisper.
“See you tomorrow, little sister.”
“Bye.” I hang up and cradle my head in my arms and bawl all over the freshly ironed tablecloth.
An hour later, I’m standing on the terrace in a gray drizzle, watching Niño Carlitos leave for school, his widening bald spot exposed, followed by the boys, who are hunched under big backpacks that make them look like turtles. I’m not sure what Niño Carlitos thinks about my leaving last night. I wonder whether he looked for me, or whether he’s worried about me. I wonder what he told the boys this morning when I wasn’t there to make their breakfast and get them ready for school.
Once they disappear around the corner, I shiver, then breathe out slowly. I poke my head inside to thank Blanca’s mother.
“Oh, honey, are you sure you don’t want to stay here until your sister comes?” she asks for the tenth time.
“I’ll be all right, señora.” I walk slowly across the terrace toward our house, not caring that the rain is soaking me, vaguely wondering why I refused Blanca’s mother’s offer. And the only answer I come up with, unbelievably, is that I don’t feel ready to leave the Doctorita’s family, as flawed as it is. Inside, I sit on the red velvet sofa, my skin damp and goose-bumped, my feet tucked under me. I stare at everything I might never see again: the dangling plants, the crocheted doilies, the cross-stitched roses that I know so well.
Do I really want to go with Matilde tomorrow? I remember the elementary school diploma and the house the Doctorita has promised me. My rewards for putting up with them for eight years. But if I leave now, I’ll have nothing. Absolutely nothing. After all these years.
I’ve already survived the worst. Now the Doctorita only beats me once in a while; maybe after this next baby she’ll get a fourth chin and be so fat, she won’t be able to muster the strength to hit me. Besides, a small part of her appreciates me, respects me even, a part she tries to hide but that springs out sometimes.
A few years ago, when she and Niño Carlitos were in their biggest fight ever, on the verge of divorce, I decided it was up to me to save their marriage. I cooked them a special candlelit dinner, complete with blackberries and cilantro sprigs as garnishes, and rice molded to the shape of an upside-down cup like I’d seen in a magazine. I played a tape of old, romantic music from the years when they were dating, the kind that always gave the Doctorita a far-off, dreamy look in her eyes. Then, despite their protests, I lured them to the table and made a speech. “We are a family. Jaimito and Andrecito and I want our home to be peaceful and happy. So we’re asking you to make up. Now apologize and hug each other.” They smiled hesitantly, then laughed, then really looked at each other for the first time in weeks. And as they said they were sorry, their voices softened, and they melted into a hug.
Later, after dinner, I served them liquor in fancy crystal glasses and they insisted I join them. The Doctorita hummed along with the songs, her hand in Niño Carlitos’s. “The music is a nice touch, Virginia,” she said, “but I thought you didn’t know how to work the stereo.” Feeling brave, I said, “Well, actually, I listen to it every day when you leave the house.” She grinned. “Virginia, what would we do without you?” And Niño Carlitos pulled his wife closer and looked at me with pride. “Thank you, my daughter. You’re tremendous.”
They need me.
Now, in the watery light, I shift on the sofa, move my gaze to the framed photos on the coffee table that I dust every day—Jaimito and Andrecito looking adorable in their school uniforms; the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos walking down the aisle amidst flowers and rice, just married; all four of them together at Christmas, crowded around the Baby Jesus doll in its new lime green outfit. And more frames hold relatives at balloon-filled birthdays and First Communions and baptisms—parents and sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews, all arm in arm, fitting together perfectly.
Their favorite nephew, Raúl, with curly hair and a charming smirk, has a frame all to himself. The Doctorita loves to brag that he’s at the top of his class in the most prestigious colegio in Otavalo, República de Ecuador, the colegio where her own smart boys would surely go one day. I wonder, does she ever brag about me?
And then it hits me, I am not in a single photo. I am the behind-the-scenes person, the invisible one who makes their lives run smoothly, the one outside the camera frame, the one in the kitchen cooking food or on the patio washing diapers. As much as I want to be part of this family, I am not. And I never will be.
Still, it seems impossible to unravel myself from their lives. Like it or not, we’re crocheted together as tightly as the yarn of a Baby Jesus dress.
The clock says twelve o’clock. An hour until the boys and Niño Carlitos return from school. Maybe if he’s nice to me, if he apologizes, if he promises to go back to how things were before … maybe then I’ll give him one last small chance.
Around one o’clock the door opens and, with a burst of color and noise and raindrops, the boys tumble in and throw their slippery arms around me. Andrecito makes a beeline for his favorite dump truck and starts zooming it around the living-room-table legs. Jaimito shrugs off his backpack and asks, “Where were you this morning, Virginia?”
I glance at Niño Carlitos. Now is his chance to apologize, to make everything better. But no. He’s glaring at me, his face turning red. “Go upstairs to your room, boys.”
They start to protest. “But—”
“Now!”
Groaning, the boys disappear upstairs. Niño Carlitos moves closer. “Where were you last night?”
“In my room.” I stand up, bracing my muscles to run.
He takes a step toward me. “You’re lying.”
I edge away, toward the door, my heart pounding.
He blocks my path. “What’s going on with you?”
I force myself to look at his eyes, searching for a remnant of the soft-spoken man who once thanked me for saving his marriage. But there’s only this crazy-eyed man cornering me like a rabid dog, acting as if he wants to tear me to pieces.
For a tense moment, we stare at each other as the rain drums against the windows. Finally, he barks, “Make the boys their lunch,” and stomps upstairs.
I heat up chicken and potato soup and rice, crying. At the table, my stomach is too jittery for me to eat. Niño Carlitos doesn’t touch his food, either. Jaimito and Andrecito keep putting down their spoons to reach over and hug me. Andrecito offers me his dump truck for comfort, placing it gently on my napkin. Jaimito rests his head on my arm. “Why are you sad, Virginia?”
I look at Niño Carlitos.
In a flat voice, he demands, “Why are your eyes puffy, Virginia?”
For a moment I stare at him in disbelief, and then my voice shoots out, hard and cold. “Maybe I’m sick.”
He shakes his head and pushes his plate away, as though I’m the unreasonable one. “I have to go back to Quito for a few days to check on la Negra. You’ll stay here to take care of the boys.”
I look out the front window, past the dripping pink bougainvillea bush to the street, wishing Matilde would appear now and snip every last tie I have with these people.
He moves his head close to mine and whispers low enough that the children won’t hear, “You wouldn’t leave the boys, Virginia.” His words are smug. “Would you?”
I hand Andrecito back his dump truck, whisper thanks, then collect our dishes, letting their clatter fill the silence, and head toward the kitchen without a word.
chapter 26
NIÑO CARLITOS’S LEAVING is a relief. But having the children stay with me puts a glitch in the plan. He’s right; I can’t leave them alone. Yet that’s a relief, too—an excuse to stay a bit longer, at least for now. The boys and I spend the evening watching TV on their parents’ bed, Jaimito on one side of me, Andrecito and his dump truck on the other, all cuddled together, our arms warm around each other.
The next morning, while the boys are at school, I wait for Matilde, peering out the window in case she comes early. I wonder if I’ll recognize her. Every few minutes, I run to the hallway mirror to see how I look, to make sure my lips are still glossed, trying to guess what she’ll think of me.
Bangs frame my face now, and permed hair cascades down my back in waves that turn frizzy if I don’t use plenty of gel. But all the gel is worth it; on good days the hairstyle makes me look a little like a rock star. I’ve chosen a safari outfit look for today—a white T-shirt and my favorite green jean jacket and a tan skirt that just skims my knees. My socks are neatly folded over and my loafers polished a deep shiny brown, like roasted coffee beans. Spread over my eyelids is a touch of the Doctorita’s violet eye shadow.
At ten-fifty, there’s a knock at the door. With sweaty hands I open it. A pretty indigenous woman is standing before me, smiling. She’s a grown-up. She’s about twenty years old, dressed in a long, straight wraparound skirt and a puffy white blouse that glimmers in the morning light. Flowers of pink and yellow and orange trail around the neckline, and her face looks like a flower itself, with petal-smooth, rosy cheeks. Soft, dimpled elbows poke out from her lacy sleeves, and red beads wind up her wrists. With the spray of pink bougainvillea behind her, she looks as though she’s just emerged from a garden, dusted with golden pollen.
Behind her stands a skinny indigenous man in jeans and a white button-down shirt, his hair in a long braid. He looks younger, a boy still, about eighteen, with wide, friendly eyes.
Matilde wraps her arms around me, pressing me into her pillowy body. Beneath the smell of flowery soap is the deeper smell of Matilde. A sweet smell of ripe blackberries, with a hint of heat, like just-fried onions and sun-warmed rock. A smell I thought I forgot, but which must have lived in a secret nook inside me all these years.
She takes a step back and stares, studying my face. Suddenly, I see what she sees: a confused girl in safari clothes with rock-star hair and purple eye shadow and cherry red lip gloss. A girl who is no longer indígena. A girl who doesn’t know what she is. I twirl a strand of wavy-frizzy hair around my finger and search for words.
Finally Matilde speaks, in her grown-up voice. “Virginia, this is Santiago. My fiancé.”
I extend my hand, glad to have something to do with it. “Nice to meet you.”
“A pleasure, Virginia.”
I stand for another moment, feeling the breeze on my calves. “Uh, come in, sit down.”
I bring them lemonade, and we sip it awkwardly, me sitting on the red velvet chair, and Matilde and Santiago perched side by side on the sofa, two lovebirds.
“Tell us what’s going on, Virginia,” Santiago says. His lips are big and soft and never seem to close all the way, which makes him seem like a child, his mouth open in wonder. As much as I want to hate him, I can see why Matilde feels tenderness for him.
I start explaining, first in clumsy stutters, and then letting everything tumble out—how the Doctorita hits me and Niño Carlitos tries to hug me a lot and, finally, what happened the night before I called her.
Santiago sits through it silently, his eyebrows furrowed, mouth parted in rapt attention, holding Matilde’s hand as she grasps his more and more tightly. Afterward, she shakes her head and rests her hand over her chest. “Virginia, little sister, I don’t understand.” She leans forward. “Why didn’t you ever come home?”
I swallow hard. “The Doctorita said our parents didn’t want me anymore. That they’d sold me.” Saying these words makes my blood burn, but I force myself to go on. “That if I ran away, they’d sell me to someone else.”
Matilde leans closer, across the coffee table, reaching out her hands.
I don’t take them. Instead, I keep my fingers wrapped around the glass of lemonade balanced on my knee. The surface feels cold and slippery, the tiny droplets of water in the air condensing onto the glass.
Matilde is crying now. “Oh, little sister, our parents did everything they could to look for you. Mariana and Alfonso said you didn’t want to see them again, that you wanted to forget about your poor family. We didn’t know if they were lying or not. Mamita and Papito searched and searched for you; as the years passed without a word, they thought you must be dead.”
“They gave up on me?” I’m clutching my glass so hard it might shatter in my hand.
“Oh, little sister, it’s not like that. For years, Mamita slept with your old anaco and blouse. She put them to her face and cried into them.”
I blink. “She cried for me?”
“She cried nearly every day for you, hermanita. For years.”
“But she never acted like she loved me.” Anger is rising inside me, pure, fiery anger. “She told me she’d be happy if I left forever.”
Matilde moves from the sofa and crouches beside me, holding my limp hand. “Virginia, Mamita started having children when she was your age. And many of them died. She was always mourning her dead babies. She drank to forget them. And remember how Papito beat her? Remember how there was never enough food? She was a young woman, in over her head. She never should’ve let you go. She made a bad decision. Now she’s older and understands that. You’ll see. If you come home, trust me, it will be the happiest day of her life.”
I take a sip of tart lemonade. It’s too tart, not nearly enough sugar. Like me. Matilde is all white sugar—sweet and forgiving—while I’m pure acidic lemon. Why can’t I find any sympathy for Mamita? Why do I feel only rage?
Matilde stands up, and Santiago follows. �
�Get your bags, Virginia,” she says. “Let’s go, little sister.”
“I—I can’t.”
“What?”
“I can’t go,” I say, almost defiantly. “I can’t leave the children. They’re at school and Niño Carlitos is in Quito for two days.”
Matilde looks at me doubtfully.
I go on. “And anyway, I’m scared of what my bosses will do to me.”
She and Santiago glance at each other out of the corner of their eyes, as though they have their own secret language.
It’s not supposed to be like this. I’m supposed to have the secret sister language with Matilde, and Santiago is supposed to be the outsider. “And—and more than that,” I say. “Matilde, we never laughed together as teenagers or told each other secrets or talked about crushes on guys.” I glare at Santiago. “You’re all grown up and getting married—and—and it’s too late now.”
Matilde throws her pudgy arms around me. “Oh, come on. Just because I’m getting married doesn’t mean I’m dying. I’m here! We can still share things.”
I push her away. It’s as if no time has passed, as if we’re girls and she’s made me so angry I want to pounce on her and hit her. My voice grows shrill. “No, we can’t! You don’t understand. There’s more to it, there’s the price I’ve paid to live here with these people. I have no money. I have nothing to show! Sure, my body has grown taller, but my spirit—my spirit has grown small and bitter.”
Matilde puts a hand to her mouth and steps toward me.
I move away. “The Doctorita said she’d give me a diploma. And my own house. And I don’t think it’s worth it to leave after so many years of suffering and—”
“Virginia!” Matilde yells. “You’re crazy! Now that you can finally go, you’re choosing to stay? And for what? A house?”
She’s shaking, and Santiago’s holding her elbow to steady her. I don’t remember her ever yelling before; she always seemed as soft and mushy as overcooked potatoes.
“I swear to you, Virginia, they will never give you a house! Look at all the other indígenas who spend their lives serving, without being given anything in return. That’s all they do. They serve the mestizos. And that’s how you want to live? That’s how you choose to live your whole life?”