The Grief Keeper

by Alexandra Villasante

  Why does a house need so many doors? This one doesn’t open. It’s locked. I knock, hoping it isn’t another bathroom. Someone behind the door giggles.

  I pound and pound and pound on the door, desperately willing it to open.

  * * *

  Until, suddenly, the door to el Club opens, and Antonio’s grinning face emerges.

  “I knew you’d turn out pretty,” he says, self-satisfied. “I am never wrong.” He opens the door wide to let me pass. In the years since I first saw him, Antonio has aged more than anyone. He is just as tall but much fatter, much more wrinkled. As if the weight of so much power has settled into his skin. He’s impeccably dressed in fashionable American clothes, the picture of a gentleman even with a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants.

  “Where is Gabi?”

  Antonio’s mouth turns down in disappointment. “No pleasantries?” He shakes his head sadly. “No, you have never been pleasant. But I was right about you!” He circles me like a cat he wants to play with before killing it. “You did turn out pretty.” He trails his finger down my cheek. I don’t know how it doesn’t leave a scar. How I am able to withstand it.

  “But your little sister is much prettier,” he says with a bellowing laugh.

  I dig my fists into my sides. She’s not here, I think, he’s playing with me as he has always done. I turn to leave while I still can.

  “Pablo!” Antonio shouts. “Bring out your lovely sister!”

  I turn back to face him, feet pinned to the floor.

  From the tiny bathroom of el Club Atlético, Pablo—the only boy I have ever looked up to—pulls Gabi by the hand. As if it’s a natural thing, Pablo holds una pistola loosely in his other hand. When Gabi sees Antonio and me watching her, she trips in too-big heels. She hides behind Pablo, covering her face with her hair.

  “Gabi,” I whisper.

  Her thin body is wrapped in a skintight skirt, her arms bare in a blue tank top with sparkles on the straps. A pink bra peeks through the tank top. They have put her en un disfraz, a costume of a grown woman. Gabi’s eyes dart to mine. It’s okay, it’s okay, I say with my eyes. She tries to walk to me, but Antonio grabs her in a sickening embrace. My sister stands in front of me, and I can’t touch her. She cries, the makeup running down her face, and I can’t reach her.

  My brother walks behind me, leaning into my ear, a snake spitting poison.

  “Did you think I would stand for such an insult to our family? That I would let you infect our little sister with your disease?” His mouth is so close, I can smell the beer and cigarettes on his breath. In the shower room, El Flaco, Tato, and other boys I grew up with laugh, the sound echoing like gunshots.

  “Sos nada. Menos que nada. Sos una mancha.”

  I could not argue with him. It is how I felt. Unclean and guilty. If I had not been with Liliana, if I had been paying attention, would they have taken Gabi? It’s my fault she’s being held by this monster.

  “No te preocupes, Marisol, mi amor,” Antonio says. “I’m going to make sure Gabi never catches your disease.” He squeezes Gabi so tightly that she yelps like a whipped dog. He lifts her up to his face, her body like a rag doll, and kisses her with no pity.

  “Pablo! You have to stop him!”

  The smile fades from Pablo’s face, as if there is some mistake, as if this isn’t the movie he wants to see.

  “Do something!” I scream.

  “Cálmate,” Pablo says, his voice high, unsteady. “Okay, Tonio, that’s enough.” He forces his words to sound teasing, light.

  “¿Qué te pasa, Pablito?” Antonio says, tightening his hold on Gabi. “You said you didn’t want otra camionera in the family. You said you would die of shame, remember?”

  We both watch, frozen, as Gabi cries and Antonio crushes her to his side. It’s a parody of love, of closeness. I can see Gabi shaking from where I stand.

  “But I thought you said you would show . . .” Pablo’s hand loosens from my arm, and I pull back, not wanting him to be able to grab me again. “You said it was to show, to show Marisol.” He steps closer to Antonio, confusion on his face. In the shower room, one of the boys puts on a radio and loud music fills the room. I imagine that Antonio told them to put the radio on loud so no one would hear the screaming.

  “I will show her,” Antonio says with a nod. “The Morales family is a good Christian family.” He turns to me and enunciates in English, carefully, as if he has been practicing, “No. Faggots. Here.”

  Antonio digs his hands into Gabi’s sides, making her whimper. I scream, stretching out my hands, as if I have any power to save her.

  Pablo runs to Antonio, pulling on his jacket to get him to let go. When that does nothing more than earn him a slap, Pablo puts himself between Antonio and Gabi. She falls to the floor in a heap by his feet.

  Antonio, with a growl of rage, pushes Pablo. But Pablo locks an arm around Antonio’s neck, trying to bring him to the floor. A bang, sharp as a scream, echoes in the room. Antonio shoves Pablo away, kicking him when he lands on the floor. We stand frozen, me and Antonio, his heavy chest heaving.

  I wait for Pablo to get up, to wipe the blood from his mouth. To use his charm to get us out of this horrible pesadilla. But he doesn’t move. Antonio’s gun hangs from his hand, as if it’s a harmless toy.

  I stumble to where Pablo lies on the floor. Gabi’s cries get louder, shrieks of a bird. Pablo’s light blue shirt, from his favorite equipo de fútbol, turns purple as the blood soaks through it.

  “Marisol?”

  The music from the shower room, the laughing, gets even louder. It crowds every thought out of my head. I pick up Pablo’s gun, cold in his hand, and turn it on Antonio. I don’t wait for the words that form in his mouth to come out. I shoot him. I want to destroy his mouth, his hands, so he can never use them against someone again. I’m pretty sure my bullet hits the soft underside of his large belly. When he falls to the floor, I drop the gun.

  * * *

  A hand grabs my arm. My fist is raw from pounding on this door.

  Rey’s worried face meets mine.

  “Marisol?” she repeats. Her voice pierces through the fog of my mind. I am not in el Club Atlético. Antonio is dead. All should be fine, but it’s so far from fine. I lean both hands against the closed door, nowhere for my rage to go.

  Pablo and Antonio dead on the floor and corre, corre, corre driving like a train in my head. The images of what happened weeks ago and what is happening now bleed together, and I can’t place myself anywhere. Rey’s hand—I am sure that I would recognize the feel of her hand no matter where I am—clasps mine.

  The door opens suddenly. A confused-looking boy opens the door. I blink and he blinks.

  “Sol?”

  Gabi’s hair is messy—what’s left of it. It’s been cut to just below her ears, a shiny black cap. She has a game remote in her hand—like the ones in Rey’s room. She squints at the brightness flooding the dark, little room with the huge TV screen. I see my sister’s bare feet, her toenails painted pink. Her feet have always been so small. Pata de pájaro, Pablo used to call them. Bird feet. The boy looks from Gabi to me and laughs. “What the hell is this—”

  But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence because I push him away. I grab Gabi as if she is an apparition, as if she will melt away. She is real and safe. That is all I need.

  Chapter 33

  My name is Carla Manzo, and this is a credible fear interview. Your name is Marisol Morales, correct?”

  I answer the woman’s questions slowly and carefully. I am not in a detention center. Gabi is at school. Olga will pick her up at 3:00 p.m. People who love her will make sure she is all right.

  “You have claimed that you are seeking asylum in the United States of America due to your belief that you are in physical danger of torture or death, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” I say,
aware that every answer is being recorded.

  “You have stated that you and your sister have been targeted by gangs in El Salvador and that your lives are threatened by violence and torture. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the nature of these threats?”

  I hesitate. After all these weeks that have turned into months, I still hear Pablo’s and Liliana’s voices in my head. Tortillera. Dyke.

  Carla Manzo clears her throat when I don’t answer. “Are these threats political? Religious? Based on ethnicity?”

  “No. They are because I am gay,” I say. I feel as if I have dropped a bomb. As if the room should shake and dust should fill the air. But all that happens is that Carla Manzo writes something down.

  “And your sister? Is she also being persecuted because of her sexual orientation?”

  “No!” I say. Then, “I don’t know.”

  Carla looks to me. “And what is the nature of the threat against her? I have to specify for each asylum request.”

  I shift in my chair, uncomfortable in my new dark blue suit. Olga bought it for me along with the black high-heeled shoes that pinch. I am not in a detention center, I remind myself. I can leave this lawyer’s office whenever I want. The lawyer Indranie hired sits next to me, taking notes.

  “Would you like some water, Marisol?” she asks. I nod, and my lawyer, Irene Sagasti, crosses her office to a little fridge and brings out three bottles of water.

  After a long sip, I answer Carla’s question. “They were threatening Gabi because they thought she would turn out like me. They wanted to . . . make her . . . force her . . . to not be like me.”

  Carla Manzo’s mouth turns down at the corners, but she does not comment, only writes more notes.

  She asks Irene some questions about my legal status, questions that I don’t understand, and then it’s over.

  “I can go?” I ask when Carla Manzo stands and gathers her things.

  “Yes,” she says, holding out her hand for me to shake. “It was a pleasure to meet you. We’ll be in touch with Ms. Sagasti’s office throughout the process. Thank you for your time.”

  * * *

  Rey is waiting for me outside the lawyer’s office. “You look amazing in a suit,” she says.

  I hug her tight, my fear and elation mixed like sweet and sour on the tongue.

  A man walking past with a newspaper looks at us, and I pull away from Rey. I don’t know if he was looking because he liked my suit or if I reminded him of someone or if under his breath he was saying “tortillera.” I’ll never know. But it doesn’t matter anymore.

  “I thought Indranie was picking me up,” I say once we reach Rey’s green-and-white minicar. “Not that I mind. This is better.”

  Rey grins and pulls her seat belt on. “She and Dad are making plans. They have an idea.”

  “Good idea or bad idea?”

  “Interesting idea,” she says. “Dad thinks he can set up a hearing with a senator he knows. On undocumented minors.”

  “What does that mean?” I click my seat belt into place. Now that the interview is over, I can finally relax. It doesn’t mean everything is fine—of course it doesn’t. But it’s a start. And I’m not alone.

  “It’s when expert witnesses talk in front of lawmakers about a specific problem. It’s called testifying.”

  “Like in court,” I say, remembering Mrs. Rosen’s crime shows about law and order.

  “Actually, it takes place on Capitol Hill.” I look behind me. The lawyer’s office is a few blocks from the Capitol building. I can see the dome clearly through the back window.

  “Your father is going to talk to senators about undocumented illegals and minors?” I ask. I say illegals because I know she gets a little mad when I do. But she doesn’t react.

  Rey grips the steering wheel, even though the engine is not turned on. She looks tense, like there’s something she wants to say and she’s not sure I want to hear it. “No,” she says at last. She looks over at me. “They thought maybe you could do the talking.”

  My mouth hangs open. “Me?” I finally manage to say.

  “You’re the expert,” Rey says, a half-worried, half-expectant look on her face.

  Strangers asking me questions? Knowing things about me my own family doesn’t know? It wouldn’t just be about Antonio and Pablo. It would be the weeks on the carretera. Every remembered face, everyone who was not as lucky as me and Gabi.

  “It would be terrifying,” I say to Rey. Which is not the same as no.

  She grins. “Yeah, but you’re brave. Gabi says so.” She turns the engine on and waits. “So,” she says. “Where are we going?”

  I take a deep breath, for courage. For me.

  “Where aren’t we going? That is the question.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Grief Keeper would not have been possible if not for the support, creativity, and sometimes intervention of so many good people. In 2015, when I first imagined two sisters crossing the border—the older willing to do anything to protect the younger—I wasn’t sure I could write a book like this. I thought I wasn’t a good enough writer, that I didn’t know enough. I thought it would be too hard.

  My agent, Barbara Poelle, told me in no uncertain terms to write the hard book. Without Barbara, I wouldn’t have had the courage to try. The first thing I said to Barbara after she offered me representation was, “I love you!” That hasn’t changed. Thank you for being the absolute best.

  My thanks to everyone at Irene Goodman Literary Agency, who put up with my kids visiting for Bring Your Kid to Work Day—and who are unfailingly supportive.

  Shout-out to my fellow Poelleans—a posse of excellent and talented writers who have supported me, counseled me, and held my hand through this amazing experience. Looking at you, James Brandon, Traci Chee, Sarah Lemon, and Renée Ahdieh.

  Stacey Barney, my editor, is a magician. She can turn leaden words into gold. And she calls me out on my BS without mercy, but with infinite kindness. She is that smart, that good, that gracious. Thank you for loving these characters and bringing forth the depth and sweetness of the story.

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons/PRH is a family. From the kind (and hilarious) VP and Publisher, Jen Klonsky; to Caitlin Tutterow, who made sure I got my edits done on time; to copyeditors Nicole Wayland, Kathleen Keating, and Cindy Howle, who worked hard to get every palabra right. Thank you for welcoming me into this family with open arms.

  The beautiful illustration on the cover is by the incredibly talented artist Kaethe Butcher. The book was designed by Kelley Brady and Dave Kopka. I still can’t believe how perfectly they captured the connection and emerging love between Marisol and Rey. I am so thankful.

  Jennifer Herrera, Lynda Gene Rymond, Kerri Maniscalco, Sarah Jude, and Becky Levine have been critique partners and beloved kindred spirits for many years. Through countless drafts, your support and creativity have made this book (and oh! The books that came before!) the best it could be. Thank you for keeping me honest and making me better in a million ways.

  A huge abrazo y beso for mi hermana Anna-Marie McLemore. Your beautiful words showed me the way, and your encouragement and mentorship are a continuing joy. I can’t wait to see what we get up to in years to come.

  Maribel Fernandez DeLeon—who, from our first bus ride together freshman year of high school, has felt like family—thank you for reading a very early version of The Grief Keeper and encouraging me to keep going.

  My thanks to Norma Gorrochotegui for her friendship and for helping me make up for my deficiency with los acentos en español.

  My sister, Anamari, was unabashedly my model for Marisol. As the older sister, she took care of me and kept me safe (and sane!) with equal parts exasperation and love.

  Thank you to my parents, Gladys and Armando, who came to this country looking to create a better
life for themselves and their family. You worked tirelessly and you instilled in your daughters an appetite to do more, be more. I am grateful beyond what I can say for your example and your love.

  Thank you to Meredith Kneavel, Associate Dean and Professor of Public Health, La Salle University, for sharing her expertise on neurotransmitters, PTSD, and anxiety disorders.

  And to Elizabeth R. Blandon, Esq., a wonderful and passionate immigration lawyer based in Florida. Elizabeth answered all my questions about immigration law and how the current administration applies the law—and all the ways that is shifting.

  Thank you to Laura Pegram, editor of the Kweli Journal and founder of the Color of Children’s Literature Conference, for her love and support. The work Kweli does to empower and lift voices of POC, Native, and marginalized creators is vital—and Laura does it beautifully.

  So much gratitude to the Highlights Foundation (where parts of The Grief Keeper were written and revised) for serving as a refuge and safe place for writers seeking community, quiet, and inspiration. George Brown and Alison Myers, you turn the lonely, difficult job of writing into a communal act of generosity (with great food!). Thank you!

  So many people have supported me throughout the years in ways that seem invisible but have actually been monumental. Abbey Luterick, Rebecca Nellis, Michele Fecher, and Joyce Stewart have all heard me whine about how hard writing is, too many times to count. The Pretty Bird coven—Brandy, Alina, Lisa, and Kate—thanks for keeping me company (and caffeinated!).

  To my daughters, Rowan and Lyra, for being the realest, most wonderful example of sisters who love each other and sisters who get on each other’s nerves. Thank you for being patient all those times I was writing instead of helping you make slime. And thank you for showing me that love has no finish line, it goes on and on.

  Lastly, but in no way least, thank you to my husband, Timothy. From our first date at IHOP, you have been the best man I know. There isn’t anyone more supportive, more deeply caring, or more generous. It is no lie that I couldn’t do this without you. Gracias, amor.