The Grief Keeper

by Alexandra Villasante

  A tear leaks out of her eye, though her face is curiously blank.

  I touch my hand softly to hers, under the table, to tell her it’s okay. She grabs on to me. I think, I am pulling her out of a deep well.

  Rey wipes the tear away when a tall man in a skirt comes by with a tray of drinks and desserts. It’s much more than we ordered, a drink for each of us and heaping bowls of ice cream, crema, butterscotch, and chocolate sauce.

  “Pixie does it again,” Rey says with a grin. “She never lets me pay for anything and always overcompensates.”

  “You like?” Pixie says, stepping up to the table to check on us.

  “Yes. It’s too much. Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re fine.” She waves my thanks away. “That is all I’ve got time for today, Rey-Rey. Got to serve the unwashed masses.”

  “You love unwashed. And masses.”

  Pixie salutes with her middle finger as she jumps down from the step and disappears into the cavernous restaurant.

  “She’s great, isn’t she?” Rey says again.

  I sip at my cold coffee-and-cinnamon drink instead of answering.

  Rey takes a tiny bite from her bowl heaped with ice cream and peanut butter sauce, and frowns.

  “Why don’t we go home now?” I say.

  “We have to finish all these desserts. It would be rude not to,” Rey says, stabbing her spoon repeatedly into her dessert.

  “Okay. But you aren’t even eating.” She holds her spoon over her bowl of ice cream and a strange expression crosses her face.

  “My stomach is full of butterflies,” she says.

  I think about that idiom. “Because you are nervous?”

  “Because I ate butterflies,” she says, and bursts into laughter.

  Her laugh turns into a cough. She takes a sip of water, her hand shaking as she puts the glass down.

  “I think the butterflies want me to go to the bathroom.” Her expression turns sharp and uncomfortable.

  “Are you okay?”

  Rey tries to climb down from our table without falling.

  I help her down from the booth, then hurry to follow, as she weaves between waiters and customers.

  The bathroom is at the very back of the restaurant. Behind a swinging gray door, just like the one at the detention center, I hear the sound of plates and voices from the kitchen. Rey stumbles to the door at the end of a dark hallway. She hunches over, hands out to keep from falling.

  “Rey?”

  She shakes her head as she goes through the door with a question mark on it. Nowhere on the door does it say Damas or Caballeros or men or women or anything. I trust Rey knows where she is going and follow her in.

  The bathroom is large with every surface—sinks, walls, and doors—painted baby pink. At the end of a long counter of sinks, against a wall covered with mirrors, two girls kiss.

  I can see my own face, full of shock and disbelief, reflected in the mirror. One girl is a little on the short side, like me, wearing jeans and a sweater the same pink as the tiles. She pulls the girl she’s kissing impossibly close. The other girl is tall with long black hair swinging in a braid. I cannot stop staring at them. They will yell at me when they catch me, when they see me looking at them like a spy, como una mirona. But I can’t stop.

  From a stall, I hear the sound of vomiting. The girls stop kissing, and the one in the pink sweater peeks around the taller girl and catches my eye. If I could disappear, I would. I almost run out. But a small choking sound from Rey draws me to her. I kneel down next to her in the tiny space. Her whole body trembles. I pull papel from the dispenser and help her wipe her mouth.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. Always, always with the stupid questions, Marisol. That is Pablo’s voice in my head, I realize.

  “I threw up the butterflies,” she cries.

  I help Rey stand and walk to the sink. The tall girl with the braid wets a paper towel and hands it to me.

  “Is she okay?” she asks, though clearly Rey is not okay. Rey leans heavily against the sink, against me. I can feel her shake as if with terrible cold.

  “Want me to call someone?” the girl in the pink sweater asks.

  “No, uh, I don’t think her father would like that.” The girls exchange looks in the mirror.

  Rey’s pale skin looks gray. She’s sweating even though she’s cold to the touch.

  “Do you know the girl who works here? With the little bows in her hair?” I swallow my pride. “Her name is Pixie. Can you ask her to come and help?”

  Chapter 18

  Though I don’t like her—for giving Rey poison, for calling me a “little friend,” for knowing more about Rey than I do, and, oh yes, for giving us free ice cream—I am happy Pixie can drive. Otherwise, I don’t know how we would get home.

  I sit in the back of Pixie’s car, Rey’s sweaty head in my lap, wiping away her tears with my sleeve. I should have brought papel from the bathroom, but I didn’t think of it.

  “How you doing back there, Rey-Rey?” Pixie calls. Rey doesn’t speak, making a thumbs-up sign instead. But she hasn’t stopped crying since the bathroom.

  Indranie’s car is still gone. I don’t know if that means she came back and left again, or if she hasn’t come back yet. It felt like an eternity in Archetype, as if it had to be the middle of the night. But it’s barely seven o’clock and not yet dark. I check the phone Indranie gave me. If she had found us missing, she would have called. There is no message, no missed calls.

  Pixie follows me as I help Rey into the main house and upstairs into her room. Everything has been cleaned up. The floor is clear and all the clothes have been put away. I suppose that she finally let “the maids” do their job.

  I help Rey take off her brother’s jacket, then I put it on the chair and lay her on her bed. Pixie stands by the door, arms crossed and face worried but useless because either she can’t or won’t help.

  Rey’s eyes open a little. “At least I didn’t get puke in my hair,” she says weakly.

  “Yes, very smart. We should all cut our hair so short to avoid puke.” My smile dims. “Do you want me to call Indranie? Or your dad?”

  She shakes her head slowly. “Fuck no. I’ve had enough of her, and my dad.” She turns onto her side. “Just let me sleep.”

  I get a washcloth from the bathroom with a little soap and water on it. I wipe traces of vomit and tears from Rey’s face.

  Pixie watches, making me uncomfortable. I wring out the towel in the bathroom, and wet it again with cold water. When I come back into the room, Pixie has put Riley’s leather jacket on.

  “Please take that off,” I say, unable to hide the anger in my voice.

  “What?” She’s startled, as if a piece of furniture has started to talk.

  “Take that off. Please. It’s Rey’s.”

  “I know whose it is. I used to wear it.” Her voice is unfriendly. But so is mine.

  “In any case, it doesn’t belong to you now. She’ll wake up and wonder where it is. She’ll be upset.”

  I want Pixie to take it off, now. Before the jacket smells more of her than Riley. Before she makes the jacket hers again.

  Pixie slips it off slowly, then drops it onto the floor, where it lands in a stiff heap. I want to pick it up, to drape it over the chair again. I hate that it is so, so disrespected.

  I look over at Rey. Her eyes are closed. Maybe I don’t have to call anyone. Maybe it will be all right.

  “I know what you are,” Pixie says. She walks up to me, her angry face close to mine. “Rey told me everything.” She sweeps her foot against my ankle, tapping the cuff under my jeans.

  “You’re nothing more than an indentured servant.” She points her finger at me, and I fight to keep looking into her eyes when all I want to do is look away. “A glorified maid. A service dog.”

  It
has been a long time since someone made me so angry that I forget who I am, who I am protecting. But this girl is digging up all my hidden anger.

  I take a step back. “You should go before Mr. Warner gets home. He always checks to make sure his dogs are in the house.” I shouldn’t let myself get so angry. I can’t help it.

  Pixie leaves without another word. Maybe because she knows I’m right, that if Mr. Warner or Indranie found her here, they’d have a lot of questions for her. Or maybe she leaves because she’s already done enough damage.

  * * *

  I find myself in the carriage house kitchen without a memory of walking through the gardens to get here.

  “¿Qué te pasa?” Olga asks.

  “Nada.” I sit in the chair, exhausted. Olga plays merengue on an old-fashioned radio, like my tía used to have, the kind that plays cassettes. She lowers the volume and puts her hand on my forehead.

  “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  She smooths back my hair the way Mamá would if I were home. I am sick. Homesick. Sick with worry over Rey.

  “You’re so quiet. You miss your hermanita, right?”

  I forgot about Gabi. How could I have forgotten about Gabi?

  “When is she coming home?”

  “Manolo went to get her, just now. They’ll be home any minute.” She turns away. “¿Tienes hambre? I made arroz con pollo, but I also have sopa, si estás mal del estómago.”

  I find words to say to Olga so she doesn’t worry. I even eat the soup she gives me because she thinks I’m unwell. When Gabi gets home, we sit on the couch in the living room, and I let her tell me all the things she’s done and seen. Her happiness falls over me like music.

  “Juliette goes to parties all the time. She’s going to a party at Jake O’Brien’s house, and he’s a freshman in high school.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true. She can go to parties even on school nights. She says her mother trusts her completely and doesn’t want to be a helicopter parent.”

  “What’s a helicopter parent?”

  “You know, when you are always flying around your kid. Watching all the time. Being annoying.” She turns on the TV. “I had to ask too. I told her we don’t have helicopters, I mean, helicopter parents in Ilopango.”

  “We don’t have helicopters either,” I say.

  “Maybe someone does.”

  “Like who?”

  Gabi thinks for a minute. “Señor De León.”

  Señor De León is the owner of a bus company. We took one of his buses from San Salvador to Guatemala City, at the very beginning of our journey here. Even he doesn’t have enough money for a helicopter.

  “Did you eat?”

  “Yes. With Juliette. She’s a vegetarian. She says she won’t eat anything with a soul, so we had steamed broccoli and rice.”

  “Comida de conejos,” Olga mutters, coming in with a bowl of popcorn for us to share. “I have real food in the kitchen, Gabriela. You come and eat something else, anything you want, okay?”

  “Okay, Señora Borges. Thank you.”

  When Indranie comes in and asks Gabi about her day, the Juliette stories start again. Indranie encourages Gabi, laughing in the right places. It’s so comfortable, it almost feels like home. That’s as far as I let myself think. I don’t let myself imagine living somewhere nearby with Gabi and Mamá, or going to school, making friends. Seeing Rey. I keep my attention on today and tomorrow only.

  “Did you see Rey today?” Gabi asks me.

  “No,” I lie. “Why would I?”

  She shrugs. “She said she’d help me find a cool American hairstyle.”

  Indranie laughs bitterly. “I’m not sure she’s the best person to ask. She cut all her beautiful hair off, just to spite me.”

  “Why would she do that?” Gabi asks, though I think I know. That woman tries too damn hard. Indranie wants to be Rey’s mamá, that much is clear.

  “Because,” Indranie says, pulling at the end of Gabi’s braid, “she was mad at me. I don’t know why.”

  I doubt that’s true. I bet Indranie knows exactly why Rey was mad at her.

  “Anyway,” Indranie continues, “I checked in on Rey when I got home. She’s sound asleep. Which, by the way, is where we should all be. It’s getting late.”

  We say good night to Indranie and Olga and go upstairs to our bedroom.

  “So,” Gabi says, bouncing once on her bed. “How is Rey?”

  “I told you, I have no idea.”

  “Mentirosa.”

  “Gabi, come on.”

  “I can always tell when you’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Asi que, you didn’t see Rey today?”

  She’s like one of those annoying dogs—she never stops yapping until she gets what she wants.

  “I did. A little,” I admit.

  “I knew it!” she crows. “You like her now? A little?”

  I don’t know what she means by “like her,” but I’m already shaking my head. Gabi flops down on the bed.

  “You know, you are ridiculous,” she says.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Juliette says that—”

  I put my hands up to stop the flow of Juliette this and Juliette that. “I don’t want to hear any more about what Juliette says.”

  Gabi’s eyebrows draw down, and I think she’s going to really start a fight, but I don’t think I can take it. I feel so hollowed out.

  “You are too crabby to talk to,” she says, jumping up from the bed and going into the bathroom.

  “I’m going to check on something. Don’t wait up for me.”

  “Something. Sure, uh-huh.”

  “Gabriela, sos una peste, ¿sabes?”

  She leans out of the bathroom. “Yeah, it’s my job to be a pain, remember?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Rey’s sleeping peacefully, her chest moving up and down. But she’s still got her boots on, and that can’t be comfortable. Gently, so I don’t wake her, I pull off one of her boots to reveal a sock with a picture of a girl on a bike and the words Hell on Wheels.

  It’s so funny and odd and perfect. It’s a very Rey kind of sock. I pull the other boot off, careful not to disturb the cuff. Rey’s cuff is on her left leg; mine is on my right. Dr. Deng didn’t tell us which leg to put it on—or exactly how close we had to be to each other for the cuffs to work. I feel so defeated that the experiment isn’t working, like there has to be something I can do to make it work.

  My headache pounds behind my eyes. I decide that after a day like today, I need a good night’s sleep. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, and I’ll sleep better if I stay here and make sure Rey is okay. That’s what I tell myself.

  I grab a blanket from Rey’s closet, take off my shoes and socks, and lie down on top of the bedcover the way Rey does. I spread the blanket on top of both of us; with her bare shoulders and arms, she must be cold. The bed is big enough that we can lie down, side by side, without touching. This will be fine. I relax my shoulders, letting my body sink down into the bed.

  Rey shifts toward me, her eyes opening to slits.

  “Are you okay?” I whisper.

  “No.” A tear runs down her face.

  “Do you still want to die?”

  “I do.” Her voice is faint, sleepy. “But I’m too tired to do anything about it.” I wonder if the drugs that Pixie gave her will make her feel worse tomorrow, erasing the few hours tonight that she felt good.

  I have that same hot/cold feeling in my bones that comes before a sore throat and a day in bed. Maybe I am getting sick.

  When I’m almost asleep, I feel Rey’s long fingers wrapping around mine.

  Chapter 19

  I wake up just befor
e dawn feeling awful. My eyes are stuck shut and my head is groggy, aching. I unlace my fingers from Rey’s and wrap the blanket around her. I don’t want Indranie to find me in Rey’s room.

  Gabi is still asleep when I get to our room. I crawl into bed, shivering so much that I’m afraid it will wake my sister. I fall asleep thinking that I have to ask Olga for some remedios. Gripe, I think. That’s what I have.

  The next time I wake, the sun is up and I can’t remember where I am. I wonder if this is a safe house or the detention center. But then I see Gabi in the bathroom and I remember that we’re safe. I watch her, reflected in the mirror, as she tries to curl her beautiful hair.

  I sit up and start coughing so hard it takes me a minute to control myself.

  “Sol, are you okay?” Gabi asks from the bathroom door.

  “Tengo gripe, amor,” I say, my voice cracking.

  “Pobrecita. Do you want me to make you té con limón?”

  I smile, though my head is aching. Gabi has never made me lemon tea when I was sick. I have made it for her one hundred times or more. “You know how to make tea in this house?”

  “Yes, Olga showed me. There is una tetera eléctrica. And I know where she keeps the honey.”

  “Yes, please.” I sink back into the pillows, suddenly weak.

  Gabi untangles the curling iron from her hair and for a moment there is a big, fat curl. But the weight of her long hair—almost to her waist—unravels the curl soon enough, until it’s only a little wave. Gabi groans in frustration, pulling the cord of the curler out of the outlet hard.

  “Careful,” I croak. “That belongs to Señora Borges. You don’t want to break it.”

  She gives me a look that is I know and Leave me alone and Ugh all rolled together.

  I watch her, in the fog of my aching head, as she gets ready. I am sure she has grown since coming to America. Her skirt looks too short already, her legs stretched long.