The Grief Keeper

by Alexandra Villasante

  “Yes, you are. Muy flaca. And you do not eat. I get one girl better, and I have one girl worse. What is happening to the world? I need all my nenitas to be good, healthy girls.”

  I smile. I like the thought of Gabi, Rey, and me being Olga’s girls.

  “Why don’t you go to the picnic? A little. So you can watch out for Gabi,” she says, shoving a roll of napkins into the basket.

  “She doesn’t need watching. Everyone loves Gabi.”

  “That is what I am saying. Everyone loves her. Good things and bad. You should watch over her.”

  I scowl. “You just want me to go to the picnic. That is why you’re saying it.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs, closing the top of the basket. She lifts it off the table and hands it to me. “Go, take it to them. See for yourself.”

  * * *

  I go to the bathroom to make sure my hair is combed before taking the basket out to the reflecting pool. I know why I’m doing this: plain, stupid curiosity. My plan is to give Rey the food and slip away before anyone really notices.

  The basket isn’t heavy, but soon I feel like dragging it instead of carrying it. Near the reflecting pool, a large blanket is spread out on the grass. A speaker plays music, and Juliette and Gabi sit close to each other near the pool. I see Pixie sitting next to Rey and two boys I don’t know.

  One of them, a tall white boy with red-gold hair, stands up and jogs over to me. “Need help?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “I’m Dave. You’re Marisol, right? Rey told us about you. We’ve been wanting to meet you.”

  We reach the blanket, and I stand like a fool for too many seconds.

  Rey comes over to me. I think she’s going to take the basket from me, touch me. I panic, dropping it so that fruit and food containers spill out. Dave moves quickly to put everything back in the basket.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she whispers in my ear. She gives me a quick, scalding hug. “Come meet everyone.” She takes my hand, pulling me forward.

  “You met Dave—he’s semi-normal.” I feel Rey’s emotions pouring into me, liquid, like bad medicine. I clench the hand that Rey isn’t holding.

  “Semi-human, you mean,” the other boy says. He’s morocho, black, with his hair in braids and the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a boy. He waves. I force myself to smile. These are Rey’s friends. And they were Riley’s friends too. Being with them makes her happy but also brings her painful memories of Riley. Like la nata rising to the top of a mug of warm milk, her feelings separate. She keeps the cream and gives me the bitter.

  “That’s Stitch,” Rey says, smacking his face gently as she passes. “He thinks he’s funny.”

  “Just because I don’t want a stupid nickname,” the boy named Dave says, “doesn’t mean I’m semi-human.” He examines the contents of the picnic basket with greedy interest.

  “I have a long list of reasons,” Stitch says. I try to concentrate on what the word stitch means. I say it under my breath. Stit-cha. I can’t remember what it means. “I’ll share my reasons with Marisol when she’s ready for the truth.” He winks at me.

  “Because the truth is out there?” Pixie asks. She looks bored and, underneath that, unhappy to see me. I avoid her eyes. I cannot absorb any more feelings.

  Mercifully, Rey lets go of my hand. The faucet slows to a trickle. Rey sits on the blanket, leaning back on her elbows, her long legs pale as mountain sunshine. She pats the space next to her for me to sit.

  “No way. We’re not going down an X-Files rabbit hole. We just binge-watched the new series,” Dave says.

  “Remember when Rey wore her THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE T-shirt for the sixth grade science presentation?” Stitch laughs.

  Dave laughs with him. “Pretty sure she got an F on that project for the total lack of any actual science.”

  “I got a D. My illustrations were really good.” Rey gestures again for me to sit next to her. As soon as I do, Stitch hands me an orange.

  “Or do you want an apple?”

  “This is good,” I say.

  “Told you she was practically mute,” Pixie says. When Dave shoots her an angry look, she continues, through bites of an apple. “What I can’t understand is your horrible, car-crash fascination with Cedar Hollow.”

  “Cedar Hollow, metaphor for repressed suburban life,” Stitch says. “Discuss.”

  “I spent freshman year wishing those two would bone already,” Dave says with a grin.

  Rey points her toes at him, graceful as a dancer. I notice she has painted her nails yellow to match the flowers on her dress. “You’re an idiot on so many levels, David—someone could write a book about it. A very long, boring book, bonus cyanide tablet included.”

  I can’t understand them. I am listening to a conversation that has been going on for a long time. And I realize that is what this is. A friendship for many years.

  “How long have you all been friends?” I ask. I don’t want to prove that Pixie is right by not talking, though I’m scared of making a fool of myself.

  Rey is busy putting food on plates. Slices of ham and salami, little crackers, and cheese and grapes. I peel my orange slowly. I want to have something to do.

  “Since middle school,” Pixie says. “We’ve been friends, frenemies, lovers for too many years to count.”

  “You’re gross,” Rey says.

  “And it’s not too many years to count,” Dave says. “Six isn’t too high to count for you, is it, Peaches?”

  “It’s Pixie, you troglodyte,” says Pixie.

  “So many name changes, I forget which one we’re on now,” Dave says. He’s skinny and pale, like Rey, but covered with freckles. I watch his freckled fingers make a tower with crackers and salami. Do all Americans eat so strangely, or just Rey and her friends?

  “You could always call her by her real name,” Stitch says.

  “I wouldn’t,” Pixie growls.

  Suddenly, I very much want to know what her real name is.

  “Can I guess?” I ask.

  “Yes!” Rey says, squealing with delight. “Guess Pixie’s real name and you get a prize.”

  “The prize is, Pixie kills you with her laser beam eyes,” Stitch says, pointing his fingers like guns.

  “No, the prize is a kiss from me, of course,” Rey says with a small, secret smile.

  “Ugh. You always have to be the damn princess,” Dave complains.

  “You didn’t use to mind.”

  “No guessing,” Pixie says.

  But I want to guess. I want to make Pixie feel as uncomfortable as she makes me feel. If that means I’m mezquina, then fine. Or maybe I just don’t want anyone else to win the prize.

  I try to think of the most normal American name I can think of. Katie? Susan? What names have I heard on American TV?

  “Amber?” I say.

  “No! But that’s a good guess,” Rey says to me. “It’s not Aimee either. You’ll never guess. I think her parents lost their minds.”

  I listen to them tease each other in ways I cannot follow. Most of it, I think, is friendly. I feel Pixie watching me. I don’t guess at her name anymore, and they drop the game for other games, other memories. They seem happy. Juliette and Gabi sit down to eat with us, and I am surprised by how much Rey and her friends like being with the younger girls. They don’t make them feel unwanted, like they are pests. And when Gabi tells them she wants to cut her long hair to be more sophisticated, they say, with serious faces, that her long hair is very cool, very on trend.

  The food doesn’t taste like much, but watching Rey is enough for me. I’m fascinated by the headband of yellow flowers she wears. It’s only silk and plastic, but she wears it like a crown. Stitch asks her if she’s going to grow out her hair, and Rey answers that it depends.

>   “What does it depend on?”

  “How long I feel like this.”

  Pixie looks confused. “What do you mean, like this?”

  “Good. I mean, I feel good now, but I might not always, right, Marisol?”

  I’m unprepared for her question. “What?”

  “This is good, really good, right now. But it doesn’t always work like that. This new treatment has ups and downs. Marisol had some tough days too, right?”

  “Tough days,” I repeat, hoping it sounds like an answer.

  “So,” Dave says, “you’re doing these treatments too?”

  “Oh, yeah, we’re the Lab Rats—that’s our official name. We might get Lab Rat T-shirts. Matching tattoos.” Rey laughs. “It’s our job to figure out if it’s safe for you regular Joes.”

  That is my job, Rey. Only my job.

  “Sounds shady as hell,” Pixie mutters.

  “Not shady,” Rey says, sounding a little defensive. “Dad wouldn’t test it on us if it wasn’t safe.”

  Pixie snorts in disbelief.

  “But how does it work?” Dave asks. I feel Gabi watching us. Half of me wants to stop them from talking about this, to disappear, and the other half wants to tell them exactly how it works. If Pablo were here, he’d say, No te achiques, don’t make yourself small. I feel less than small. I feel invisible.

  “Well,” Rey admits, “I don’t know how the science works.”

  “You don’t know how it works, but you still wear that thing?” Pixie says.

  “You don’t know how combustion engine thingies work, but you still drive a car,” Rey shoots back.

  “You are both so bad at science,” Stitch groans.

  “Gabi! You like cars! I bet you know how they work,” I blurt out, wanting to get them talking about anything other than the cuff. Gabi looks startled, then a little embarrassed at all the attention on her.

  “I like cars,” she says shyly, “but I don’t know how they work, exactly.” She shoots me an angry look, as if to ask, What are you doing? I don’t know the answer to that. I wish I had never come out here.

  “Anyway,” Rey says, taking back the conversation. “I don’t know how it works, and I don’t care.” She sits up, crossing her legs. The cuff circles her ankle like an ornament. It has never seemed this way to me when I see it on my own leg. It has always seemed to me like un eslabón de una cadena. “This little beauty takes our grief away.” She smiles at me.

  Our grief.

  “I don’t get it. I mean, I’m happy for you, believe me. But I don’t get how that’s physically possible,” Dave says.

  “It’s probably placebo effect,” Stitch says.

  “Bullshit. You don’t know anything,” Pixie says.

  “It might be!” Rey says brightly. “It might be all in our heads, but it doesn’t matter, right? If it works?”

  Rey reaches for my hand, and I am truly part of a chain. I cannot escape. “Marisol convinced me to try it. She said it would make me feel better, and it has. It helped her when her . . .” She stops, then finds her voice. “When her brother died. And now it’s helping me.” She looks to me. As if I can say anything to help her words.

  “And when it wasn’t working that great for me, Marisol helped me.”

  “That’s her job, right?” Pixie says.

  “Fuck off, Pixie,” Stitch says.

  “No, I mean, she’s like an old-fashioned maid or something, right? A paid companion? You watch those shitty British shows, Dave, don’t tell me you don’t. Marisol’s like a lady’s maid.”

  I watch Gabi’s face. She’s confused, angry, her beautiful eyes watching as Rey’s friends talk about me as if I’m not here, as if I don’t matter.

  “I watched one episode of Downton Abbey with my grandma years ago, and you can’t let it go,” Dave mumbles.

  “Pixie. Don’t be a bitch. I’m getting really sick of your jealous crap,” Rey says, and it’s enough to shut Pixie’s mouth.

  I see disaster coming. I see Gabi stand, her face a swirl of emotions. I see Juliette, confused, unhappy with how things have turned. I see it all, but I can’t stop any of it.

  “You have it wrong. The wrong way around.” Her English is stilted. It happens sometimes—too much emotion clouds our thinking. When we’re angry, words come to us in Spanish first and we stumble as we translate.

  “My sister is curing Rey’s grief.” She knows the words aren’t quite right, and I feel her frustration.

  I stand up, facing my sister. “Gabi, it’s okay. It’s not a big deal,” I say, hoping she understands the words I’m not saying. Leave it alone. But she won’t look at me.

  “She’s helped me so much,” Rey says.

  Gabi gulps. “No, you don’t understand. She’s not helping. She’s taking it.”

  Don’t, Gabriela. Don’t say any more.

  Rey looks at me, a line of confusion creasing her forehead. I am helpless to respond. “You’ll feel better soon.” Rey sounds hesitant, unsure. “The treatment will start working for you too. I know it will.”

  Gabi doesn’t give up. “It will never work for Marisol.” Her voice trembles as her eyes move from the boys to Pixie, then finally to Rey.

  “Sol takes your grief, Rey, and keeps it. That’s how it works. She suffers for it. I’ve seen it.”

  In two steps, I am next to Gabi, grabbing her wrist, pulling hard. “Basta, ingrata,” I spit at her, so nastily that it’s like I’ve slapped her. Her eyes widen, and her mouth hangs open. I see tears start in her eyes.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Rey says to me quietly. I see that Gabi is crying, and I’m surprised that it’s possible for me to feel more shame. I let go of Gabi’s wrist as if it is fire.

  “I would never hurt Gabi,” I rasp. But who am I talking to? I don’t understand what’s happening. Gabi stands by Juliette, who hugs her protectively. That’s my job, I think. I’m supposed to protect Gabi.

  I turn to run back to the carriage house. The sun shines and the sky is beautifully clear. But La Mala Suerte has found me, and I cannot escape.

  Chapter 25

  Nothing stops me. I see Manny talking to other gardeners in the stone-walled garden as I pass. I walk through the carriage house, hearing Olga moving around upstairs. Right through the front door. Indranie’s car is gone, and I am surprised but not sorry.

  The half-moon driveway is covered with fine red pebbles. My shoes kick up little clouds of dust. I don’t walk too fast because that draws attention, but not too slow because that invites thinking. Just like on the carretera, I keep my head down. When I pass the open black gates, I wonder what they are for. Who do they keep in or out? Or are they all a show? A reminder that only the ones who are invited may pass?

  The road is quiet. Neatly paved and deep black—no holes or defects in this road. On the other side of the road is a lake. It is difficult to see past the trees and bushes that line both sides of this road. I know that to go back to Washington, DC, I turn left. To go to the town with the Archetype ice cream place, I go right. To feel water cover me, destroy the cuff on my leg, wash away the weight of too many memories, I have to walk into that lake.

  I stand at the side of the road, my chest rising and falling as if I’ve been running for hours, days. I can’t get enough breath in my body for what I have to do. Every sound is explosive in my head. A car speeding past. A door opening and closing. I remember being underwater in the pool, surrounded by silence, weightless. I want that again.

  I take a step toward the water, my feet heavy and plodding. I stop, my breath coming too quickly, like a dog. I take another step, as if I am already pushing into the water and it is already dragging me in. But when I move again, a hand grabs my arm and yanks, hard. For a moment, I am falling backward. Indranie catches me.

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she shouts, pulling me farther
back from the road as a car blurs past, too fast almost to see. I stare at her, my mouth open. Answer the question, Marisol. Are you trying to get yourself killed? I don’t know.

  She points across the street accusingly. “There’s nothing but Lake Carter on the other side of this road.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “But you were crossing the road. Why?” Her eyes are suspicious, worried, frantic. Nothing like her usual wall of calm.

  “I—I don’t know.” I shake my head. I was going to do something. I was walking toward something, or at least that’s what it felt like. Now that feeling has disappeared. I don’t know where I should go. A wave of emotions—I don’t know who they belong to—breaks over me. I start to cry. I am inutil. Una desgracia.

  Indranie pulls me into a hug. It is many minutes before I realize that it’s her sobs I hear, her tears that fall hot on my cheek. I feel in my pocket for a brown napkin, the kind from a fast-food restaurant. I give it to her.

  “Don’t cry,” I say. No llores. It must be the most useless thing to say to someone when the world is falling apart. When there is more pain inside than can fit. I know what that feels like, what it looks and sounds like.

  “I’m so sorry, Marisol.”

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  “Oh God,” she says, crumpling the napkin against her face, covering it. “I did everything I could to ruin your life. But I swear I didn’t want you to suffer. I only wanted to keep Rey safe.”

  I shake my head, wordless sounds coming from my mouth. If Indranie hadn’t found us, given us this chance, we’d already be back in Ilopango, desperate to find the money to try again before it was too late. None of this is Indranie’s fault. She looks at me, tears making her brown eyes look like glass.

  “Listen to me. I lied to you.”

  * * *

  It is not cold in Indranie’s car, but she has put the heat on. We drive down roads I don’t recognize. If Indranie were driving me to the border, thousands of kilometers away, I don’t think I could protest. I am so tired.