Sitting at her kitchen table after performing her morning ritual of checking her plants and drinking a glass of hot water with a freshly crushed pepper in it, Flora Diaz could feel a prickling on her skin followed by a subtle change in the light just in front of her. Then came the distinct smell one associates with a burning wire. The light elsewhere in the kitchen was merely the warm light entering through the windows, but the cool-white light she could appreciate in front of her was not natural light. It was anything but natural. It was her nephew Javier Castillo. As she spoke his name, his form began to take shape, the cool-white light suddenly variegated and shimmering and then the shape of his head and his arms shaded, shaded and then definitely there. Within another thirty seconds or so, Javier Castillo was sitting in the chair across from his aunt, and ten or so seconds later he was solid enough to speak.
“I can never surprise you, Tía. Can I? Like Mama, you can sense me before I am completely here.”
“Why are you here, Javi?”
“Is that any way to greet your only nephew?”
“No games today, Javi. I am not in any mood.”
Flora Diaz was not one to waste time with small talk, I was told, even with members of her own family. The time for small talk was gone, was something she left behind when she left the island. She was not interested in pleasantries. She wanted the bare minimum, the facts. Her nephew was a reminder of her past, no matter how much she tried not to think of him in that way. She knew he had nothing to do with her early difficulties, but she couldn’t help but feel this way. In this, her family was no different than others. Javier Castillo was a reminder of her sister, of the life they had as children, of the island she grew up on, the fact she came from a long line of “difficult people.” He reminded her of her own mother, his nose most definitely hers. And, sadly, he reminded her of the Archbishop who had time and time again abused and violated both her and her sister so many years prior. The smile, that mouth, the way it was capable of deception: Javier Castillo had his father’s mouth which, to Flora Diaz, negated the regal nose he had inherited from her side of the family.
“I’m here because, because Mama is dying,” Javier said.
“No. She is not. I would know such a thing.”
“Well, she is dying. She’s lost almost thirty pounds over the past two months alone.”
“Nonsense,” Flora said. I am sure she believed this was a trick, an elaborate trick. Considering her nephew and his significant skills in manipulating people, she had to have considered this.
“I think she has something … cancer, something.”
“Not possible.” Flora Diaz waved her hand as if swatting gnats, but there was nothing in the air except the occasional and awkward silence after each of them spoke.
“Mama won’t even see people, Tía. She won’t heal anyone.”
“Because she is a selfish whore trying desperately to heal herself.”
“See. This confirms you know she is sick.”
“I don’t know anything. What I do know is that you are reckless. You are never satisfied. You manipulate. You are far too clever for your own good.”
Flora Diaz was probably not surprised at these thoughts she had, but she had to be surprised she was voicing them to her nephew. She was mostly a private person who said little, but she couldn’t stop herself then.
“I have, at many times, been a mother to you. And how did you repay me? You persuaded the Blanco man down the road to follow you. And for what? Because you need to be adored, to be worshipped? You let him see you disappear. You charmed him despite the fact you knew it would lead nowhere. You ...”
“Tía, it is just plain rude to look into other people’s lives like that!”
“You are a charmer, Javi. You have done this before and will continue to do it. You choose to charm ... You choose to do this.”
“Tía, we are all capable of charming, as you call it. It is the one thing that we can all do. Why can’t you admit this has nothing to do with my charming someone? What upsets you is the fact I charmed a man.”
“Don’t start that with me, Javi. I know what you are, and I have never so much as said a word to you about it.”
“But it bothers you. I know it does. It bothers both you and Mama. My behavior reminds you of someone neither of you will ever discuss. I have worked this out. I remind both of you of another man, one neither of you can bear to talk about.”
“Go home to your mother, Javi. At least there you won’t cause as much trouble as you have done here.”
“The Blanco man was a mistake, I admit that. But it was years ago, Tía.”
“Just forget it. It is done. No need to keep discussing it. I think it best you leave now, Javi. Go care for your mother.”
I wish I had been there to watch Flora Diaz chastise Javier Castillo, but once she had gotten the outburst out of her system she went on to surprise herself further with nothing but silences. Javier Castillo was definitely not polite. As if convincing people to turn over their money to him was polite. As if using your ability to manipulate people in all manner of ways was polite. Javier Castillo was his mother’s child through and through. That a man could possess the gift he had was something Flora didn’t know was possible until Javier Castillo was born. That he could bend light, as her mother Tita Diaz had called it, still amazed her, though she would never admit that. Her mother couldn’t do that. Not even her sister could do that. She had been taught that no woman since the first of their kind had held that particular gift. Both she and her sister had been warned by their mother not to have sons, but her sister had not listened. She was selfish and did whatever she wanted to do. And this was the result, the first man to possess one of the gifts, the most dangerous of the gifts. When Javier recounted this, he always had a sheepish and almost guilty look on his face. He knew quite certainly that he had been a mistake. And mistakes always have consequences.
Minutes passed then with not a word between the two of them. The birds outside had stopped their morning racket, the relaying of the news as Flora’s mother Tita Diaz used to call it, which only made the silence in the kitchen more palpable. And Flora became very much aware then of her nephew Javier Castillo and the sadness in his face. He had come for her help, but this was one time she refused to help, could not help even if she wanted to do so.
“Mama needs you. You should have known I was coming. You should have seen me coming.”
“I am not in love with my skills the way you and your mother are. She has made herself known as a healer. She should heal herself.”
“That is cold, Tía, even for you.”
“Not cold, Javi. Not cold at all. Just the truth.”
But Flora Diaz had lied, at least somewhat. She did know Javier Castillo was coming. She had seen it weeks earlier. But what likely upset her was the fact she didn’t foresee the reason why he was coming. She must have known it was because he was in trouble. But to hear Javier tell the story this was, for the first time in over three decades, a moment his aunt had not seen correctly. And this must have confused her, disturbed her. It certainly disturbed him.
“Are you okay, Tía? You seem a bit out of sorts.”
“Why? Don’t tell me you suddenly have the gift of Reading?”
“I don’t need your gift to see the changes in your face.”
“You always were a clever boy, Javi. So clever. But you are not that clever.”
“Mama’s dying, Tía. You know it as well as I do. There has to be someone in the family who can heal her. I know it isn’t you, but you would know the right person.”
“There is no one. We three are all that is left. There have always been at least three, three gifted fools sharing none of the same gifts. Your abuela could have saved her. Your abuela could have saved anyone. But this is irrelevant because your mother would not have the strengths she does were my mama alive.”
Flora could remember as a child watching her mother tend to the sick from all over the island. And she remembered the way
her sister Cassie would study her, memorizing everything she did. The way her mother cracked the window; the way she steadied her hands or shook her head; the way in which she lowered her voice: Cassie studied it all. Did she steal this skill from their mother? Or was it that Cassie already had the skill and was simply taking advantage of being able to observe a good teacher? Flora would never know, Javier would never know, though in the secret space of this story we all believe Cassie stole that gift from her mother. She was that ruthless. She was born ruthless. Flora Diaz had no gift for healing. All she had was sight, what her mother had called the gift of Reading. And that had not become fully her own until her mother had died in the time after she had escaped the convent. None of them fully appreciated their “gifts,” fully commanded them until her mother died. Javier was quite sure of this. He would say that the day his abuela died his entire body changed, his mind changed, everything changed. It was as if the air itself surrounding him had thinned.
“Go back to your mother. She will not be happy you came here.”
“Tía, you must come back with me. There must be a cousin, someone who can help her.”
“I won’t. I will not. I have no intention of returning to that place. Why would I fly halfway across the world and then take a boat to that horrible place?”
“There has to be another like us in the family. There must be a distant cousin, someone in the country.”
“There are seven gifts, Javi, but there are only three of us left. Even if a distant cousin had skills, it would not be strong enough to help. And it would not be the gift of Healing.” As she said this, Flora Diaz sighed as if worn out, as if annoyed at the ignorance of her nephew, as if by doing so he would tire and leave. “There are only three of us, Javi. We are all that is left of our kind. At one point, there were many of us, but we are all that is left now.”
Javier Castillo sat still and stared at his aunt. He said nothing more. His face became determined, and he slowly faded into a shadow, and then a shimmer, and then air. It was gradual. There was the man, and then the man seen through but still there, and then the spotlessly clean wall of the kitchen behind the chair where Javier Castillo had been sitting. Flora had seen this many times. The Blanco man had seen it. I have seen it. She knew that within minutes he would be near his mother’s side or God knows where else in the world. She remembered her nephew as a child, before her mother had passed. He was born in that convent. She remembered how Javier, not even five years old, demonstrated his gift, materializing to each of them in their rooms in the evenings, moving from room to room and across town without walking. And she remembered how each time he left her she could follow the thread he left in the air to see where he went after disappearing. But when she concentrated, she could not see him. She couldn’t see Javier Castillo at all. Not one to give up easily, she got up, crossed the room, tore some dead leaves off the ficus and crumbled them on the table. She held her hands over them for almost fifteen minutes but saw nothing of Javier Castillo’s whereabouts. No matter how she concentrated, she could see nothing of her nephew.
She had not foreseen the reason why her nephew had come to visit her, and then she could not see him at all. She kept trying. From what I have told you, you know she had to have kept trying. She must have stared so hard at the leaves crumbled on the table that she could feel the muscles on her scalp and the slim muscles along her temples begin to twitch and ache from her staring. Her mother had been the only person on earth she could not see from a distance. You know Flora had to be confused. She must have considered the possibility that Javier was as strong as her own mother. But trust me when I say this: that was just not possible. In all of this, the one thing I have learned is that none of them—Cassie, Flora, or Javier—were as strong as the old woman Tita Diaz had been in her prime.
So many links. Too many links. The first time Javier Castillo had visited Flora Diaz there in the Valley, she should have known, should have seen what was to happen. It is likely she saw the events about to unfold but wanted no part of it. He had asked about the man down the street many times. He wanted to know what he did for work. Flora was so stupid not to intervene then. But she ignored what was right there before her eyes, ignored her nephew’s comments about how the man had really green eyes, the kind that startle you. He wanted the Blanco man. This I know. He wanted him. Her nephew was worse than the idiot girls she despised, the ones who threw themselves at men, tried to seduce them with coyness and guile. Yes, her nephew was, in many ways, worse than any of these girls. He wanted the Blanco man, and he was going to have him. But if you pull a link from a chain, the chain will no longer be complete. She knew this. She and her sister had pulled many links from many chains in their youth, destroyed them even.
A few days after Javier Castillo’s visit, Flora Diaz was surprised by the sound of her own doorbell. When she opened the door, Carmen Jiménez was standing there with that stupid look on her face. “I am sure you knew I was coming, so I won’t keep you too long.” Flora Diaz ushered her to the kitchen where, as she had done countless times, she crumbled the dried leaves Carmen Jiménez brought her onto the kitchen table. With her hands over them, Flora saw nothing. Carmen was chattering on about how she might be up for a promotion but that she wanted to make sure. But the way Javier recounts all of this, Flora Diaz saw nothing of Carmen’s future, and the only aspect of Carmen’s past she could see was what she had already seen years before, not sight really but plain old memory.
“So, do you see the promotion? I know you can see that I had an affair with the manager, but what’s a girl to do, right?”
“I’m very tired today, Carmen. I didn’t sleep well last night, and now I am having trouble concentrating.”
“It’s okay, girl. We all have bad days.”
“Yes, come back in a few weeks.”
“Well, if I haven’t heard about the promotion by then, no need to come back!”
Carmen was up and out of the house in what must have seemed a blur to Flora Diaz. First the visit from her nephew; and then her inability to find him in her sight; and then the unexpected visit from Carmen Jiménez: how was this possible? Unexpected? Nothing was ever unexpected for Flora Diaz. She was the soothsayer, the fortune teller, the oracle. Though she would never have used any of these words to describe herself, they were the words others had used to label her for her entire life. Try as she must have, she had no explanation for her sudden lack of vision. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her chest. Something was terribly wrong.
Flora tried to go about her business. She swept off her front porch and noticed the histrionic Blanco woman down the block pretending not to see her. Of all people her nephew could have chosen to charm, he had to choose that crazy woman’s husband. And why? Vanity, she must have thought, nothing but vanity. Javier Castillo was always such a vain boy. She went back inside. She rearranged the plants in her living room and kitchen. She went out into her backyard and weeded the flowerbeds. As she pulled the weeds, she realized that she was merely pulling them from the dirt, that she couldn’t feel them the way she had her entire life. As a child, she remembered the first time she touched a plant and felt the spark in her fingertips, the way her mother had smiled at her and said, “It is okay. This is how some of us are.” But there in the backyard, she felt no spark. The weeds were just weeds. They rose from the dirt with the slightest of tugs, and there was nothing more than that. The weeds rose from the ground at her insistence and clumps of dirt fell from their tangle of roots when she shook them. Something was wrong.
Flora stood up and walked around her backyard. In almost every flowerbed, weeds thrived. Several of the plants had died because the weeds had stolen too much of the water around their roots. She did not believe she had neglected her yard, but there was the evidence staring her in the face. But the evidence seemed rigged, flawed because she knew she had weeded the beds just a few days earlier. But there in front of her was an overabundance of weeds choking off her plants and flowers. She walked over
to the old tree in the yard with a kind of confidence one sees in a magician who not only knows the magic trick but how to convince the audience it is every bit as real as the walls around the theater. Surely her skill was just weakened. Surely she was just out of sorts, too tired. Surely something as large as a tree . . . She touched the tree and felt only the grooved and cracked surface of the bark. Nothing more. No spark. No sudden rush of images. All of her life a tree was like an antenna for her. It amplified her ability to see with its roots extending down and out, its branches spreading out above her. But there in the yard that day, nothing. Flora Diaz backed away from the tree and, for the first time in weeks, knew in the quiet of her mind that something was, in fact, terribly wrong.
Flora heard bells. She became aware it was someone ringing her doorbell over and over repeatedly. Carmen Jiménez must have left something and had come back to retrieve it. But again, she hadn’t seen Carmen coming. When she answered the door, she was faced not with Carmen Jiménez but with Rosa Blanco, the woman who lived down the street. Flora did not invite her in.
“You may have fooled everyone that lives around here, but you haven’t fooled me!”
“I would never try to fool you, Rosa.”
“I know you are a wicked old bruja. You made my husband disappear. You did it. And you killed my son!”
“I did nothing but tell you the truth, things you didn’t want to hear.” Flora tried to close the door, but Rosa pushed her foot against it to keep it from closing.
The Affliction Page 12