Rogelia's House of Magic (14 page)

“Do you ever get really upset over something someone says or something that happens, and no matter how hard you think about it, you just can’t get any peace?” Rogelia asked.

Marina looked up from her knitting. “Sometimes I get stomachaches trying to figure out why my mother is so strict with me.”

“Well, meditative work only requires the use of your hands, not your brain. While you work, you get the answers to tough questions. The more able you are to quiet your mind, the better you will be at calling on the voices in your head to help you.”

“Oh,” Marina said.

“Housework is like that, too,” Rogelia said. “Do you know why I do not charge money for
curanderismo
services?”

“No,” Marina answered quietly.

“While I clean house my mind is free to wander. I imagine my clients being healthy, happy, and free from whatever ails them. While I dust, or sweep, or vacuum, the
remedios
I need to cure others come to me.” Rogelia took Marina’s knitting and placed it on the bed beside her. The healer held Marina’s hands in her own and studied the lines of her palms for a moment. Then she added a chunk of copal resin to the charcoal. “How long has your family lived in Orange County?”

“Two hundred years,” Marina answered.

“That’s a long time and a lot of family history packed into one place,” Rogelia observed.

“There are little monuments all over this area—one at the Santa Ana River down the road that marks the spot where a big battle was fought during the Mexican-American War.” Marina looked at Rogelia. The healer encouraged her with a smile. Marina continued. “Across the river at Camelot, the miniature golf place, there used to be an Indian village. You know the yellow house on the top of Oceanview Street? That was a flour mill in the 1800s. Before that it was the hacienda of the Yorbas.” Marina gained momentum. “And down Buena Vista Road is Orange Olive School, an elementary school with a hidden room that has one-hundred-year-old desks and inkwells draped in cobwebs. Across Glassell Street, there was a Sunkist orange-packing house, and before that it was the horse corral for the Yorbas. Fern read about the archeological dig when they found horseshoes and stuff.” Marina smiled. She couldn’t help feeling a little pride at the extent of her family history. She ignored the irony of how she sounded like her mother.

“It sounds like you live on a place of power. A vortex,” Rogelia said. “Very similar to how the Spanish Mexico City was built upon the ancient Aztec capital of Tenochtitlán. People are drawn toward places of power even if they don’t know why.”

“The only vortex I know about is the black hole called a dryer that steals my socks every week,” Marina said.

Rogelia chuckled. “The kind of vortex I am talking about is a swirling center of intense and immense energy, like an invisible, stationary tornado. Fantastic things happen in vortexes.”

Marina wondered if the vortex had anything to do with spells. Maybe spells had more punch to them if you performed them in a vortex.

“Did you ever hear voices before you and Fern cast the spell?” Rogelia asked.

Marina shook her head. “No, but sometimes before I’d go to bed, I’d hear noises like the sounds of a busy city. It was all jumbled.”

“The night after your first spell casting, there were clear voices?”

“Yes.”

“How many do you normally hear?”

“Two.” Marina paused. This would be the time to ask the question burning inside her. She couldn’t afford not to ask Rogelia now that they were alone together. “I’ve been hearing voices pretty much daily ever since the first spell. I’m kind of getting used to them, but I can’t help but wonder if I’m going crazy.”

“No, no,
mi’jita,
” Rogelia laughed. “You have deepened your ability to hear. You have become a doorway, the channel, for these spirits to speak through you.”

A channel? Will I start sprouting commercials next?

Rogelia chuckled. “No, you won’t be advertising anything strange. These voices are your friends.”

Marina stared at Rogelia, still amazed at her mind-reading abilities. “I wish I knew who they were,” Marina said.

“You can’t summon people from the other side, just for the asking,” Rogelia said. “They will reveal themselves when the time is right.”

Marina sighed. Well, at least she felt better now that she understood a bit more about the voices. Of course, there was one more thing she wanted to ask Rogelia. “Will you teach me Spanish?” Marina asked.

“I would love to,” Rogelia answered. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything and everything,” Marina said excitedly. “It feels weird that I don’t know the language. And I’ve always wanted someone to teach me at home.”

“Two hundred years is a long time to be a Mexican minority in the United States,” Rogelia said.

Marina shook her head dismissively. “Someone in my family should have had the courage to stay true to their Mexican roots. My mom just goes on about being Spanish.”

“Some people think Spain is a more impressive homeland than Mexico. There was and still is a lot of pressure to assimilate,” Rogelia said. “For years nearly every authority figure in America told Latinos that their children would have a better life if they gave up their customs and language. Your relatives weren’t the only Mexican Americans to abandon their culture.”

“I didn’t realize they were doing it for me,” Marina said, looking down at her cranberry painted toenails.

“It’s not easy to give up your language, your ways of life.” Rogelia gripped Marina’s hands. “Repeat this word:
‘valentia.’
”

“Valentia,”
Marina repeated. “What does it mean?”

“Courage,” Rogelia said. “Now say
corazón.
”

“Corazón,”
Marina said.

“That means ‘heart,’” Rogelia said. “You see how the words ‘courage’ and
‘corazón’
are similar? That is no accident. The words come from the same root. Follow your heart and you will have courage.”

Fifteen

F
riday afternoon, Fern admired her finished artwork on the poster announcing the Hands Across the Wetlands demonstration. She couldn’t wait to show Tristán, who would be coming over any minute. A pile of crumpled sketches spilled out of her wastebasket onto the floor in the corner of her bedroom. Throughout the week, she had tried pastels, oils, and charcoal and finally settled on watercolors as the best medium to depict the wild beauty of the Bolsa Chica wetlands. Fern shook her hand. It was cramped from days of endless work.

The doorbell rang. Fern checked her reflection in the mirror and decided that this green tank dress she was wearing really set off the summer highlights in her hair. She pinched her cheeks for a little color and inspected both her left and right profiles. Rolling up the poster, she held it behind her back as she raced barefoot to the front door. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves before she opened the door.

Tristán stood on the threshold smiling. His hair was swept back and fell in dark waves to his shoulder. His soft blue plaid shirt hung loosely over his cargo shorts. “Hi,” he said.

“Hey,” Fern replied, holding on to the front door for support. She smiled back at him, locked in a moment of near rapture.

Tristán looked around Fern inside the house. “Um, can I come in?”

“Oh yeah, of course.” Fern blushed, recovering her senses. Why was she always acting like a lovesick puppy around him? She stepped aside so Tristán could enter.

There was a long silence while they stood there staring at each other in the entryway. Fern grinned at Tristán until she realized what a dork she must seem like, just gawking at him. Abruptly, she slammed the door. “Let’s go over our plans in the backyard.” Fern turned quickly and led the way through the house. Tristán admired the black-and-white photographs of nature in silver frames adorning the indigo painted hallway.

Her mother was in the den listening to music playing on a classic turntable when they entered the room. She moved her fingers in time to the soulful sound of the Gipsy Kings’s music.

“Mom, this is Tristán,” Fern said. “He’s come over to help me plan that demonstration I was telling you about for Bolsa Chica.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Fuego,” Tristán said politely.

Fern’s mother stood up from the floral-upholstered armchair to shake Tristán’s hand. “It’s very nice to meet you,” she said. Reaching for a bowl of caramels on the teak coffee table, she offered some treats to Tristán. “Would you like some candy?”

“Thanks.” Tristán took a piece.

While he selected a candy, Fern’s mother mouthed in her daughter’s direction,
Nice
eye
candy.

Fern glowered at her mother, took Tristán by the forearm, and dragged him toward the back door. “We’ll be going now.”

The Fuegos’ backyard was a jungle of plants and luscious flowers, statues of all shapes, and colorful ceramic wall hangings of celestial orbs, animals, and flowers. Fern led Tristán down a mosaic walkway to a stone bench and two rattan chairs. Behind the sitting area, attached to the backyard fence, was a mosaic design of a large parrot sitting on a banana tree.

“I don’t remember telling you my last name,” Fern said, sitting down on the bench.

“I know a lot about you, Fernanda Isabel Fuego,” Tristán said, sitting beside Fern.

“Oh,” Fern said shortly.
He found out my middle name. He’s sitting so close. I’m going to faint.

As Tristán settled into his seat, Fern caught the merest glow of a soft pink light over Tristán’s head.

“So what are you hiding?” Tristán asked.

“Huh? Oh yeah.” Fern pulled out the poster and handed it to him. He unrolled it and examined it for a full minute without saying anything.

“Well?” she asked anxiously. Fern noticed that the subtle pink light slowly began to rise and emanate from the top of Tristán’s head.

“You’re good,” he said, obviously impressed.

“You’re just saying that.” Fern looked away and stared at the mosaic parrot.

“No, I’m not. This is really beautiful work,” Tristán insisted.

“Thanks,” Fern whispered, pulling the spaghetti strap of her dress back onto her shoulder.

Tristán followed Fern’s gaze to the mosaic on the wall behind them. “Did you do that, too?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Fern said. She had worked for hours getting all the right colors and shapes. It had been difficult and time-consuming, one of her longest projects. She was stoked that she’d had enough stamina to finish it.

Tristán whistled. “You’re an amazing artist.”

“I’ve had good teachers,” Fern said, glancing at Tristán. Waves of pink light floated around his head, dancing in a gentle, hypnotic way.

“Maybe you’re a good student,” Tristán observed. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

Fern laughed. “Not that I can think of. As a matter of fact, I talked to my old art teacher, and she said her printing company will donate the cost of producing five hundred posters. She’ll send them to press as soon as the art is ready.”

Tristán took another look at the poster. “I’d say it’s ready. I’ve got good news, too. My uncle Jimi knows a few of the people from Red Nation Security Guard. They keep the peace at the powwows. They’ve agreed to come to our fundraiser.”

“And Kim called yesterday to tell me she got the permit from the city,” Fern said.

“It’s really coming together,” Tristán said.

“Yeah, I can’t believe it,” Fern admitted. She stared as Tristán’s pink aura gradually glided down his head to his shoulders.

“Why not?” Tristán asked.

“I don’t know,” Fern said. “I guess sometimes I find it easier to dream about things than actually going out and doing them.”

“Yeah, I heard that about you,” Tristán confessed.

“What else did you hear about me?” Fern asked, taking back the poster. She rolled it up and set it beside her on the bench. She looked up to see that the rosy aura had grown to about three inches wide and was floating around his head, shoulders, and arms.

“I’ll never tell,” Tristán said, holding up his hands in defense.

“Come on,” Fern pleaded. The aura still undulated around Tristán, but more pressing at the moment was finding out what he had learned about her.

Tristán pointed to Fern’s bare feet. “You don’t like wearing shoes.”

“Shoes are nature separators,” Fern declared.

“Uh-huh,” Tristán agreed.

“That’s not fair,” Fern protested with a laugh. “I’m at a disadvantage here.”

“What do you want to know?” Tristán asked.

Fern thought for a minute. What should she ask? She had an open field and nothing was coming to mind. “When is your birthday?”

“March twentieth,” Tristán replied.

“Spring equinox,” Fern said. “The day of balance.”

“That’s me,” Tristán said lightly.

“Okay, you know my middle name. What’s yours?”

“Ernesto,” he replied with a slight grimace.

“Family name?” Fern asked sympathetically.

“Grandfather’s on my mother’s side,” Tristán confirmed.

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“Two brothers,” Tristán answered. “Okay, what else?”

Fern squeezed her eyes tight, trying to come up with a clever question. “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?” she blurted out.

“Chocolate chip,” Tristán said resolutely.

“Me too,” Fern said.

“Glad to hear it,” Tristán said, smiling.

Fern noticed a dimple in his right cheek.
How adorable is that!
She giggled. She looked around Tristán. The rosy light around him gave her a warm and cozy feeling. Rose was a very romantic color. Fern found it very interesting how the auras appeared different sometimes and wondered what made them do that. She just knew that the
limpia
with Rogelia today would help her understand Tristán’s auras better. After all, it was Friday the thirteenth. What better day for magic?

“Anything else?” Tristán asked.

“That’s all for now,” Fern said. “But I may come up with other questions later.”

“Then I’m fairly warned,” Tristán said. “But you’d better be sure you’re ready for the answers, because I’m a tell-all kind of guy.” At that moment, his phone rang. Tristán fished his cell out of his pocket. He looked down at the window and laughed. Quickly, he sent a text message.

Fern frowned.
What does that mean? Like kiss and tell? Oh man, why does he have me going one way one minute, then off in the opposite direction the next?

Tristán shoved the phone back into his pocket. He tapped Fern’s hand, sending a shiver up her arm. “So what’s next on our to-do list for Bolsa Chica?” he asked. “We’ve only got another three weeks until the hearing, right?”

“Uh, right,” Fern said, distracted by her mixed-up feelings about Tristán. “As soon as the posters are ready, we need to put them up on business windows and stuff like that.”

“She’s not only an artistic genius, she’s also resourceful,” Tristán complimented.

Fern blushed. “Are you always this nice?”

“Only when it’s deserved,” Tristán said, moving his chair closer to Fern.

Her teeth chattered nervously. “I gotta go to Xochitl’s now.”

Tristán noticed a small red flower on the ground and handed it to Fern. “Can I walk you?”

“Sure. It’s just right around the corner,” Fern said, holding on to the flower with a trembling hand. “I’ve got to get something first.” Fern stood up and led the way back along the mosaic path and around to the front of the house. “Be right back.” She left Tristán standing at the front door.

Fern ran to her room and grabbed a wool book bag with a bird stitched on the front in bold colors of orange, gold, teal, and apple green. Fern put the red flower in her bag, thinking she might be able to use it for the
limpia
later today. The flower could represent heat or fire to correspond to the southern direction, as she certainly was burning up at the moment. Prickles of excitement and confusion surged through her as she slipped into her rubber flip-flops. She really liked Tristán, but simultaneously she felt such a strong reluctance to move forward with him.

What if the gray aura she had seen around him meant he would break her heart? And what was with the other colors? Yellow could mean cowardice or happiness. Blue could make her sad, and green reminded her of nature and a feeling of connection and belonging. Fern sighed heavily. Then again, she could be totally wrong about what the colors meant. She just had no idea what Tristán’s changing auras meant. She trotted back to the entryway, where Tristán waited for her. “I’m off to Xochitl’s,” Fern called to her mother.

“Cool bag,” Tristán said as Fern closed her front door.

“It’s from Colombia,” Fern said proudly. “Like me.”

“Were you born there?” Tristán asked.

Fern turned right at the end of the driveway and headed down Occidental Street toward Xochitl’s house. “No, but my brothers and sister were born in Bogotá. I’m the first generation to be born in the United States,” she said.

“So you’re the baby of the family,” Tristán concluded.

Fern pushed Tristán’s shoulder. “Watch who you’re calling baby,” she countered.

“Artistic, resourceful,
and
feisty,” Tristán said with a wink. “Quite a combination.”

Fern looked intently at Tristán. All she saw around him now was that same pinkish color she had seen since they’d been in the backyard. Where had the gray aura gone?

“What?” Tristán asked.

“Nothing,” Fern lied. “This is it.” She pointed to Xochitl’s house.

“This is the house you crashed into,” Tristán said.

“I didn’t crash into the
house,
” Fern retorted. “I merely hit the fence.”

“Mangled the fence,” Tristán corrected. “But it looks fixed now.”

“Yeah, my sister Pilar had it replaced right away,” Fern said. “I’ll be babysitting my nephews until I’m eighteen to pay it off.”

“Let me know when the posters are ready, okay?” Tristán said. “I want to help you put them up.”

“Okay,” Fern said. Before she could say or do anything stupid, she ran up the few steps to Xochitl’s front door. Once at the doorstep, she turned to look back at Tristán.

He waved and broke into a big grin that once again revealed the tiny dimple in his right cheek. “See you!”

Fern felt both hot and cold all over. Tristán just stood there for a second. He kicked a rock in the road, then turned and walked away. As he did so, the pink aura immediately changed to gray again and made its familiar yet totally unwanted creep down his body.