The Grief Keeper

by Alexandra Villasante

  “Who’s Juliette?”

  “My friend.” Gabi shrugs.

  “What does Juliette say about Rey?”

  Gabi sits up, eyes wide with excitement. “That she went crazy after her brother died. That she’s been to the hospital, and they even had to tie her up and make her do drugs.”

  “Take drugs,” I say.

  “Yes, take drugs,” Gabi says. “They only gave her—how do you say it, la dieron de alta?”

  I search my mind for the English words. “Release, no, discharge. They discharged her from the hospital.”

  “Yes, that’s it. They only discharged her a few days ago. Amazing, right?”

  I’m silent. I don’t know how to let Gabi know that seeing Rey glassy-eyed and staring into space was not amazing. It was sad and terrible.

  “You didn’t tell anyone at school about what I’m doing? About the experiment?” It would be like Gabi, wanting to fit in, to tell a good story.

  “What? No, por supuesto que no. I’m not stupid.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  She sighs dramatically. “I did tell them I saw her try to kill herself.”

  “What?” I groan.

  “Cálmate. I didn’t say anything to do with the experiment.”

  “Just don’t say anything about Rey to your friends, okay?”

  Gabi lies back again. “Okay. But you didn’t answer my question. What’s Rey like?”

  I think about what she’s like and try to put it into a single picture. All I come up with is what she isn’t. She’s not nice. She’s not shy or happy. She’s not easy to be with.

  “She’s difficult,” I finally say. I lie down next to Gabi, careful of her still-drying nails.

  “Is she mean to you?”

  “No, not like that. It’s only that one minute she’s angry, and the next she’s making a joke. A lot of the time, she’s like a blank—not there.”

  “Pero, she didn’t act like a crazy?”

  “No, she just seemed very sad.”

  “I thought you said she was angry.”

  “You can be angry because you’re sad.”

  Gabi turns onto her side to look at me. “And when she puts on the cuff? Will you be sad and angry and difficult? Will you feel all the things she’s feeling?”

  “I think so. But that’s okay because it’s only for a little bit. And anyway, it’s her grief for her brother that I’ll be getting. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “How will you be able to tell the difference?”

  “What difference?”

  “Between your grief and hers?”

  I wish I could tell Gabi that I don’t feel any grief over Pablo. It would be a relief to admit it. But she suffered so much after his death. She had to grieve on the journey, silently if she could, and in front of strangers when it couldn’t be helped. She wouldn’t understand that by the time Pablo died, he was already a stranger to me.

  “It’s not the same,” I say. “That’s all over with. We have a chance for a future. I know everything is going to be all right.”

  Gabi checks to make sure her nails are dry, then reaches for the TV remote. “I think it’s like when Señora Flores wanted to send her son to America but didn’t have enough money.”

  “I don’t know this story.”

  “Yes, he didn’t want to join Barrio, and they were pressuring him, you know.” She flips through channels so fast, I can’t figure out what’s on the TV. “So, the coyotes told her that if he carried a package with him, they would charge him less.”

  I grimace. That can only mean drugs. Señora Flores must have known that.

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know.” She frowns. “I saw her in the beauty salon, crying to Mamá.”

  “That’s how you know about it. Orejaste.”

  “I didn’t mean to listen. She was very loud.”

  “So, how am I like Señora Flores’s son?”

  “It’s obvious. You have to carry something for someone else so you can be in America.”

  I take the remote out of Gabi’s hand, annoyed with all the channel flipping. We decide on a show about a family with lots of kids and lots of pets. When the kids or the pets break things or get dirty, no one seems to mind.

  Between watching Gabi swim, painting her nails, and watching TV, I have wasted the afternoon. We eat dinner, and then it’s time for bed. Indranie comes in to say good night, and I tell her that I am worried.

  “I didn’t accomplish anything today. I need to do better.”

  “It’s okay, Marisol,” she says, keeping her voice down. Gabi has fallen asleep. The blue light from the TV flickers on her face. “Rey is stubborn, and she’s been through so much.”

  She’s been through the same thing that millions of other people have been through, I think. What makes her pain more unbearable than anyone else’s?

  “Try not to worry,” Indranie says on her way out the door. “You’re doing great.”

  I know I’m not doing great. I have to convince Rey to do the experiment. Tomorrow. No Cedar Hollow, no nail-painting, no distractions until Rey wears the cuff too. Or else there’s no point to any of this.

  Chapter 13

  The next morning, after Gabi leaves for school, I ask Olga what Rey’s favorite food is. When I want to convince Gabi of something, food is usually how I do it. And I could never convince Pablo of anything, even that the sky is blue, without the promise of something attached to it.

  As she wipes the already clean kitchen counter and puts away the breakfast dishes, Olga gives me a long list of homemade meals that makes my mouth water.

  “She is being difficult right now,” she says with arms spread wide, annoyed. “She sent the beautiful breakfast I made her back sin tocar.” Olga’s face darkens. “All she eats is that orange soda and the pills from the doctor. What kind of thing is that for a young girl?”

  “There must be something else.”

  Olga taps her front teeth with her finger. Her nail polish is as purple as her T-shirt.

  “Well, when she is really bad, we get this, this garbage food from one of those fast-food places. Disgusting.” She makes a face to match her words.

  “Could we get that for her? Since she hasn’t eaten?”

  “The place is an hour away. I don’t drive, mijita. And Manny is too busy.”

  I hadn’t thought this would be so hard.

  “Why don’t I make some ropa vieja? She loves my stew,” Olga says.

  “No, thank you, Señora Borges. I’ll find a way.”

  * * *

  “I can’t believe I’m spending my afternoon hand-delivering drive-through,” Traci says as she gives me a plain brown bag. I had to wait almost two hours for Traci to arrive with the food from Rey’s favorite restaurant.

  “That’s it?” I’m skeptical. It doesn’t look like much.

  “That’s it,” Traci says, shaking her head. “Extra pickles and a peach milkshake, which I drank, since it would have melted anyway.” She hands me a magazine with a yellow race car on the cover. Dream Cars Monthly.

  “That’s for Gabi, not Rey.”

  “Yes, I figured.” I smile. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Tell your sister I’ll take her out in my GTO next time I’m down.”

  “I will.”

  Olga heats everything up in the microwave, shaking her head the whole time. I run to the main house, because I don’t want the food to get cold again. I have to admit, though I am not hungry, it smells delicious. When I get to Rey’s door, I wave the bag into the room, hoping the smell will wake her up.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  There’s no answer. I open the door wider and walk in. It’s only a little after noon—it won’t be dark for hours. But in Rey’s room, it’s very dark—o
scuro como la boca de lobo—dark as a wolf’s mouth. A single candle burns weakly on the shelf above Rey’s bed, a prayer candle like the one Mamá lights to San Simón.

  Rey is curled into a ball under her bedcover. I can tell she is not sleeping.

  “I have your favorite chicken fillet sandwich,” I say, trying to sound as cheerful as I can. She doesn’t move. Next to her on the bed is the white box with the metal cuff in it. It looks exactly the same as mine.

  I move closer to the bed. “Rey?”

  “It’s so heavy.”

  I look at the cuff, thinking that’s what she means. Maybe she tried it on and it was too heavy on her. Or maybe it’s the blanket she’s under.

  “Want me to help you sit up?”

  “There’s no air.”

  I can hear it, her breath harsh as if the blanket over her chest is crushing her lungs. I don’t know how to help her. I don’t know if I should call Olga or Indranie or Traci. I turn toward the door.

  “Don’t leave.” The desperation in her voice makes me stop.

  “Okay. I won’t leave.”

  This girl must be made of a different material than I am. Her brother died, and that is terrible. My brother died, and it is terrible. But I am not melting. No soy mantequita.

  I edge toward the bed and put on the sweet voice I use with Gabi when she is being difficult.

  “Come on! I have delicious chicken for you. You know you want to eat it. Yum, yum.” I drop the bag of food onto the bed.

  “Fuck you and your chicken.”

  Well. Gabi has never said that to me.

  “I’m not going to stay if you curse at me like that.”

  She doesn’t apologize, but she does drag herself up, her face emerging completely from the blanket. I’m shocked by her face, and how much it’s changed since yesterday. It has become a mask. It reminds me of the sad face carved in stone in front of the Teatro Nacional, the mask for tragedia, with slashes for eyes and a mouth pulled down in sorrow.

  I didn’t notice how bad the room smelled yesterday—like dirty clothes and sour sweat—or maybe it smells worse today. Rey doesn’t seem to notice. I try to open the doors to her balcony, but they are stuck.

  “Dad had them seal the door yesterday. No death by balcony for me,” she croaks.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. Of course she’s not okay. I want to kick myself for being so stupid.

  “My brother left me. He fucking left me. Why didn’t he take me with him?”

  How I wish I’d had the luxury of self-pity. Maybe if I hadn’t needed to take care of Gabi, I would have felt like Rey. But after Pablo died, there was no room and no time for anything but escape.

  “Is it time for you to take more medicine?” I remember yesterday, Dr. V telling Rey to take her medicine. Who is making her take her medicine today?

  “Dr. V wants me to be a good zombie. I want to be a good zombie too, but those pills don’t do it.” She smacks her head with her hand. “I need a lobotomy.” Smack. “I need to forget.” Smack. “Stop. Feeling. Anything.” Smack, smack, smack.

  I make myself move closer to her, though it’s the last thing I want to do. If it is dark like a wolf’s mouth in this room, then Rey is the wolf. She can bite with her words.

  Indranie said to show Rey that I have lost a brother, show her that I understand. “When my brother, Pablo, died, I felt like that too.”

  But I didn’t feel that way. From the moments after I saw him die, I refused to think about Pablo. Every secret we shared, every smile and silent understanding—I locked away. I fit Gabi in the space in my heart where Pablo used to be. She is the most important thing.

  “It does get better. You will get better too.” Even to myself, I sound unconvincing.

  “That’s what Dr. V says. She doesn’t want me to put on the cuff. She says I have to get better on my own.”

  Dr. V doesn’t want Rey to put on the cuff?

  I put this new information aside to tell Indranie.

  “After the funeral, they left me alone. I could stay in here and cry all I wanted. But when I started breaking things, they—” Rey presses her hands into her chest. “They wanted me to stop. Move on.”

  I nod like I understand. Like I sympathize. But I don’t. What else is there to do except move on? Breaking things will not make anything better. Rey is not strong enough to accept reality. The light from the candle casts deep shadows on her face, making her look fragile. Es un pajarito, I think. A bird with broken wings.

  “I don’t know if I can stand it, you know? The weight of not having Riley, it’s pushing on me all the time.” She tilts her head back, eyes on the ceiling. “We were twins, did you know?”

  “You told me. When I saw you in the garden.”

  “We didn’t look alike, but I fit into his clothes. He thought he was too short, too slight, for a guy, but he was perfect. He was perfect,” she repeats. “And when I put on his leather jacket, I can still smell him. I don’t want any of it to go away.” Tears spill down her cheeks. I feel frozen.

  “If you take my grief away, I’ll have nothing.”

  I have Gabi. As long as I have Gabi, I can withstand anything. Maybe the only reason I am not falling to pieces like this girl is because I have an anchor. I push the cuff on the bed closer to her so I can sit down.

  “I don’t think that anything can take someone away from you, not when you love them.”

  “That’s bullshit,” she says. But she doesn’t sound angry.

  “Okay, but bulls’ shit can be true, can’t it?”

  She finally looks at me instead of the ceiling.

  “No, Marisol. That’s what bullshit means. It’s not true.”

  I shrug. “All right. I don’t know what bulls’ shit means, then.”

  A ghost of a smile forms on her lips. The light brightens a little in the wolf’s mouth. It makes me bold.

  “What if you put the cuff on now, then you can eat and we can watch more Cedar Hollow?”

  She hesitates, her fingers twitching toward the brown paper bag. She must be hungry.

  “You’ll do anything to watch that dumb-ass show, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say, trying not to sound too eager. “Amber is very important to me.”

  “I’ll eat,” she says grudgingly. At least that’s something.

  Rey unwraps her sandwich, then takes it apart, making a pile for the bread, a pile for the breaded chicken, and a pile for the six pickles. She picks up one pickle and puts it into her mouth. I’ve never seen someone eat so strangely before. Rey catches me watching her, and my cheeks burn.

  As we watch the fourth episode of Cedar Hollow, then the fifth, Rey eats all the pickles one by one before eating all the bread. Finally, she tears the chicken into pieces, eating it in the same strange way.

  “What is the point of having a sandwich when you’re just going to take it apart?”

  “I call it deconstructionism. Tastes better if you eat all the parts separately.”

  “But then why get a sandwich?” I insist.

  Rey tips her head to one side to look at me. “You got me there.” She snorts, a sound that’s almost a laugh. Suddenly, I want to make her really laugh, to hear what it sounds like. But I don’t know how.

  We watch episodes six and seven. I have never, not even in Mrs. Rosen’s house, watched so much TV before. I feel like I’ve been sick, because I haven’t moved around, haven’t done anything. I stretch, not liking the stiffness in my neck.

  “What should we do now?” I say, accidentally eating the last fry.

  “Why can’t we just keep watching? There’s like five more seasons.”

  Because I’m no closer to convincing you to wear the cuff. Because I want to get lost in Amber and Aimee’s world and I know I can’t. I try to sound casual. “I’m tired of sitting. Do you want to go for
a walk?”

  “Outside?” She sounds disbelieving.

  “Yes. Outside.” I wonder if Americans walk inside their houses sometimes. You could walk a lot of kilometers inside this house.

  She’ll say no. She’ll think and think and then finally choose not to move because that hurts less. Where yesterday I felt happy in this room, watching Cedar Hollow and forgetting that Gabi and I have no sure future beyond the next month, now it makes me feel itchy. I have been still for too long.

  “Aimee and Amber would go for a walk,” I say.

  Rey looks unconvinced.

  “They’d go for a walk in the creepy woods, all right. And then they’d get attacked,” Rey says.

  “Yes, but then they’d be rescued by attractive boys who would also take them to a cool coffee shop after. And buy them lattes.”

  Rey lets out a laugh, a real one this time, even though I don’t think what I said was that funny. Sometimes things are funnier when they’re unexpected.

  “Fine. We’ll walk.” Rey gets out of bed, walking without shoes to the door. I follow her down a long hallway, but instead of turning the way I know, she keeps going, past closed doors, her bare feet making no noise on the thick carpets. Finally, she opens a door that I think will be a closet, but there is a staircase instead. We walk down to the first floor, to a silent, spotless kitchen much bigger than Olga’s kitchen in the carriage house. At a sliding back door, Rey slips on a pair of rubber shoes.

  I hurry to catch up with her long strides. From the outside, I recognize where we are more clearly. I look up and see the underside of her bedroom balcony. Directly in front of us is the rectangular pool where I listened to her talking to Riley.

  When I do catch up with her, she’s staring into the pool, all trace of her previous laughter gone.

  I sit next to her.

  “What is this pool for?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  “What?”

  “Gabi thought it was a pool for birds,” I say, “but I told her that was ridiculous.”