The Queen of Water (16 page)

chapter 26

N
IÑO
C
ARLITOS’S LEAVING
is a relief. But having the children stay with me puts a glitch in the plan. He’s right; I can’t leave them alone. Yet that’s a relief, too—an excuse to stay a bit longer, at least for now. The boys and I spend the evening watching TV on their parents’ bed, Jaimito on one side of me, Andrecito and his dump truck on the other, all cuddled together, our arms warm around each other.

The next morning, while the boys are at school, I wait for Matilde, peering out the window in case she comes early. I wonder if I’ll recognize her. Every few minutes, I run to the hallway mirror to see how I look, to make sure my lips are still glossed, trying to guess what she’ll think of me.

Bangs frame my face now, and permed hair cascades down my back in waves that turn frizzy if I don’t use plenty of gel. But all the gel is worth it; on good days the hairstyle makes me look a little like a rock star. I’ve chosen a safari outfit look for today—a white T-shirt and my favorite green jean jacket and a tan skirt that just skims my knees. My socks are neatly folded over and my loafers polished a deep shiny brown, like roasted coffee beans. Spread over my eyelids is a touch of the Doctorita’s violet eye shadow.

At ten-fifty, there’s a knock at the door. With sweaty hands I open it. A pretty indigenous woman is standing before me, smiling. She’s a grown-up. She’s about twenty years old, dressed in a long, straight wraparound skirt and a puffy white blouse that glimmers in the morning light. Flowers of pink and yellow and orange trail around the neckline, and her face looks like a flower itself, with petal-smooth, rosy cheeks. Soft, dimpled elbows poke out from her lacy sleeves, and red beads wind up her wrists. With the spray of pink bougainvillea behind her, she looks as though she’s just emerged from a garden, dusted with golden pollen.

Behind her stands a skinny indigenous man in jeans and a white button-down shirt, his hair in a long braid. He looks younger, a boy still, about eighteen, with wide, friendly eyes.

Matilde wraps her arms around me, pressing me into her pillowy body. Beneath the smell of flowery soap is the deeper smell of Matilde. A sweet smell of ripe blackberries, with a hint of heat, like just-fried onions and sun-warmed rock. A smell I thought I forgot, but which must have lived in a secret nook inside me all these years.

She takes a step back and stares, studying my face. Suddenly, I see what she sees: a confused girl in safari clothes with rock-star hair and purple eye shadow and cherry red lip gloss. A girl who is no longer
indígena
. A girl who doesn’t know what she is. I twirl a strand of wavy-frizzy hair around my finger and search for words.

Finally Matilde speaks, in her grown-up voice. “Virginia, this is Santiago. My fiancé.”

I extend my hand, glad to have something to do with it. “Nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure, Virginia.”

I stand for another moment, feeling the breeze on my calves. “Uh, come in, sit down.”

I bring them lemonade, and we sip it awkwardly, me sitting on the red velvet chair, and Matilde and Santiago perched side by side on the sofa, two lovebirds.

“Tell us what’s going on, Virginia,” Santiago says. His lips are big and soft and never seem to close all the way, which makes him seem like a child, his mouth open in wonder. As much as I want to hate him, I can see why Matilde feels tenderness for him.

I start explaining, first in clumsy stutters, and then letting everything tumble out—how the Doctorita hits me and Niño Carlitos tries to hug me a lot and, finally, what happened the night before I called her.

Santiago sits through it silently, his eyebrows furrowed, mouth parted in rapt attention, holding Matilde’s hand as she grasps his more and more tightly. Afterward, she shakes her head and rests her hand over her chest. “Virginia, little sister, I don’t understand.” She leans forward. “Why didn’t you ever come home?”

I swallow hard. “The Doctorita said our parents didn’t want me anymore. That they’d sold me.” Saying these words makes my blood burn, but I force myself to go on. “That if I ran away, they’d sell me to someone else.”

Matilde leans closer, across the coffee table, reaching out her hands.

I don’t take them. Instead, I keep my fingers wrapped around the glass of lemonade balanced on my knee. The surface feels cold and slippery, the tiny droplets of water in the air condensing onto the glass.

Matilde is crying now. “Oh, little sister, our parents did everything they could to look for you. Mariana and Alfonso said you didn’t want to see them again, that you wanted to forget about your poor family. We didn’t know if they were lying or not. Mamita and Papito searched and searched for you; as the years passed without a word, they thought you must be dead.”

“They gave up on me?” I’m clutching my glass so hard it might shatter in my hand.

“Oh, little sister, it’s not like that. For years, Mamita slept with your old
anaco
and blouse. She put them to her face and cried into them.”

I blink. “She cried for me?”

“She cried nearly every day for you,
hermanita.
For years.”

“But she never acted like she loved me.” Anger is rising inside me, pure, fiery anger. “She told me she’d be happy if I left forever.”

Matilde moves from the sofa and crouches beside me, holding my limp hand. “Virginia, Mamita started having children when she was your age. And many of them died. She was always mourning her dead babies. She drank to forget them. And remember how Papito beat her? Remember how there was never enough food? She was a young woman, in over her head. She never should’ve let you go. She made a bad decision. Now she’s older and understands that. You’ll see. If you come home, trust me, it will be the happiest day of her life.”

I take a sip of tart lemonade. It’s too tart, not nearly enough sugar. Like me. Matilde is all white sugar—sweet and forgiving—while I’m pure acidic lemon. Why can’t I find any sympathy for Mamita? Why do I feel only rage?

Matilde stands up, and Santiago follows. “Get your bags, Virginia,” she says. “Let’s go, little sister.”

“I—I can’t.”

“What?”

“I can’t go,” I say, almost defiantly. “I can’t leave the children. They’re at school and Niño Carlitos is in Quito for two days.”

Matilde looks at me doubtfully.

I go on. “And anyway, I’m scared of what my bosses will do to me.”

She and Santiago glance at each other out of the corner of their eyes, as though they have their own secret language.

It’s not supposed to be like this.
I’m
supposed to have the secret sister language with Matilde, and Santiago is supposed to be the outsider. “And—and more than that,” I say. “Matilde, we never laughed together as teenagers or told each other secrets or talked about crushes on guys.” I glare at Santiago. “You’re all grown up and getting married—and—and it’s too late now.”

Matilde throws her pudgy arms around me. “Oh, come on. Just because I’m getting married doesn’t mean I’m dying. I’m here! We can still share things.”

I push her away. It’s as if no time has passed, as if we’re girls and she’s made me so angry I want to pounce on her and hit her. My voice grows shrill. “No, we can’t! You don’t understand. There’s more to it, there’s the price I’ve paid to live here with these people. I have no money. I have nothing to show! Sure, my body has grown taller, but my spirit—my spirit has grown small and bitter.”

Matilde puts a hand to her mouth and steps toward me.

I move away. “The Doctorita said she’d give me a diploma. And my own house. And I don’t think it’s worth it to leave after so many years of suffering and—”

“Virginia!” Matilde yells. “You’re crazy! Now that you can finally go, you’re choosing to stay? And for what? A house?”

She’s shaking, and Santiago’s holding her elbow to steady her. I don’t remember her ever yelling before; she always seemed as soft and mushy as overcooked potatoes.

“I swear to you, Virginia, they will never give you a house! Look at all the other
indígenas
who spend their lives serving, without being given anything in return. That’s all they do. They serve the
mestizos.
And that’s how you want to live? That’s how you choose to live your whole life?”

I’m speechless, standing in the middle of the living room. The door of my prison is open and I’m too scared to leave. I bury my face in my hands. “I don’t know. I’m so confused. I tried to leave before and they wouldn’t let me.”

Matilde’s face is blazing. “Virginia, listen to me. What are they going to do to us? We’re your family. We have every right to claim you.”

“But you don’t understand. They’re going to punish me, beat me.”

“Listen, little sister. I’ll come with our parents the day after tomorrow. Your bosses can’t hurt you if we all come.”

I’m still not convinced, but I say, “Fine.”

After they leave, I wash the lemonade glasses to hide evidence that they’ve been here. My mind feels like a thick, swampy cesspool, a muddled mess. I was always the strong one, and Matilde weak. Now Matilde is the one who wants to stand up and fight, while I’m ready to roll over, belly-up, like a frightened puppy. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

chapter 27

T
HE NEXT DAY
, Niño Carlitos comes home looking haggard, with dark crescents beneath his eyes. He plunks down at the kitchen table and I bring him lemonade before he even asks. “Are you hungry?” I ask, biting my cuticle.

He shakes his head and sips the lemonade.

“How’s the Doctorita?”

“Fine. Bored. Knitting a lot.”

I stand in the kitchen doorway, watching him, trying to force the words out.

He glances up. “What is it?”

“I have to tell you something.”

“What?” His voice is wary.

“My family is coming tomorrow.”

He stops sipping. “H-h-how did they find out you’re here?” He’s stuttering. He must be scared.

“I called my sister.”

The vein in his forehead pops out. “Where did you call from?” he booms. “And with what money? Did you steal from us?”

You
stole from
me! I want to shout.
You stole my childhood.

Instead, I say, “Blanca’s mother let me use her phone.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Nothing. Just that I wanted to talk with my sister. And she came here and we talked.”

“So you were plotting together in secret? Remember what happened last time you tried this?”

“I’m used to bloody noses,” I say quietly. “One more won’t matter.”

He slams back his chair. There’s splashing and clattering as he dumps the lemonade in the sink, pours a cup of liquor, downs it, and pours a second cup. Then he storms over to Blanca’s house, banging on her door. “Don’t let Virginia use your phone!” His shouts sound through the walls. “I forbid it. And stay out of our business.”

That night, I barely sleep, my muscles tensed, watching my locked bedroom door. With dread, I wait for the knob to turn, the banging to start. But all is quiet, eerily quiet, except for the tick-tick-tick of my clock. The room feels small and suffocating, and I begin to worry that he might lock me in here. He could tell my family I went away. Or that I changed my mind. And keep me prisoner. But I’m too scared to open the door to check. He might be there, waiting. All I can do is watch the patch of black night through my window turn to blue and then yellow, ever so slowly, with the light of morning.

*  *  *

Niño Carlitos and I do not talk at breakfast. I sweep the floors, even though they don’t need sweeping, to give my hands something to do. Every few minutes, I peek anxiously out the window. Niño Carlitos has sent the boys to their room to play and now he sits on the red sofa holding his origami instruction book—his latest project—with little squares of colored paper spread on the table in front of him. His eyes stare at the print, unmoving, his fingers motionless on the pages. He looks old and worn, like the red velvet sofa that’s frayed and faded over the years. The first time I saw all that velvet, eight years earlier, I thought of berries and blood. Sweetness and fear. And now I see that my life with these people has been a confusing mixture of both.

The doorbell rings.

Niño Carlitos puts down the origami book, takes a long breath, and stands up. I make it to the door first, and open it.

Two strangers face me. They look small and old and dark. There is a man who must be my father. He barely reaches Niño Carlitos’s shoulder. The sour smells of wood smoke and wool and cows cling to him, saturating his poncho, his rough skin. He’s not the scary, big man I remember from my childhood. No, he stands crookedly, like a humble farmer, out of place in this city, out of place on the milk-white tile floor. His feet look like animal paws in sandals, heavily calloused with thick nail-claws and coated with dirt. His worn hat keeps his eyes shadowed.

And the woman who is my mother stands behind him, shorter than me, her shoulders hunched, a black shawl knotted at her neck over her blouse. Fake gold earrings and fat plastic beads loop around her neck, framing a face that might have once been pretty but is now deeply lined with exhaustion.

Beside them, Matilde and Santiago are smiling expectantly, Matilde with her apple cheeks and Santiago with a wide gap between his front teeth. Maybe I’m supposed to hug my mother, the way Matilde hugged me before. But Mamita never held me or comforted me as a child. Anyway, how can I touch this strange
indígena
? She’s no different from the ones begging for coins on the street with outstretched hands—the ones who make guilt creep over you like tiny, biting fleas.

“Come in,” Niño Carlitos says gruffly, and ushers them into the room.

My father removes his hat and holds it in his thick, farmer’s hands, the palms caked with grime, soil caught beneath the fingernails. Teary-eyed, my mother takes a step toward me and pats my back lightly, murmuring words in Quichua.

I cringe at her touch. I have no idea what she’s saying. She could be a guinea pig, chattering in incomprehensible squeaks.

Seeing my blank face, my father speaks in broken Spanish, choppy and slow. “Are you all right? Where have you been all these years? Why didn’t you come back? Why did you leave us?”

The words stick in my throat. Finally I whisper, “They said you didn’t want me anymore.”

“
Tonta!
Fool! How could you believe what they say? You know how the
mishus
are.”

I stare at my father, unable to speak.
Then why did you let them take me?

Niño Carlitos clears his throat and says, “Sit down,” motioning to the sofa. My parents perch on the red velvet, their feet not quite reaching the ground, dangling like children’s feet. Matilde and Santiago sit in the armchairs and I drag in two dining room chairs for Niño Carlitos and me to sit on. There’s room for me on the sofa, but I don’t want my mother to try to touch me again.

“So, how is the corn harvest this year?” Niño Carlitos asks, as though they’re normal visitors.

“Fine,” my father says.

“N-n-not much rain, though.” Niño Carlitos shuffles the origami papers nervously. Red, yellow, blue, green, gold.

My father shakes his head.

“How was the p-p-potato crop?”

My father scoots forward on the sofa, so that his sandaled feet skim the floor. “Why did you take my daughter? Why? Why didn’t you ever bring her to visit?”

I flush at his directness.

Niño Carlitos is caught off guard. “W-w-well, she’s the one who didn’t want to go. A-a-and also, you know, we’ve been really busy.”

“Busy for eight years?” my father says. “She’s my daughter. You had no right to keep her here.” I strain to understand his thick accent. It’s like trying to understand a two-year-old. He can’t pronounce his r’s properly, and his vowels come out all wrong.

Niño Carlitos turns to me. “
M’hijita,
you haven’t wanted to leave, isn’t that right? You’ve been happy with us, learning all kinds of things. Isn’t that right, my daughter?”

I press my lips together, tasting the cherry gloss, and stay silent.

My father says, “We’ve come to take Virginia back.”

“But Miguelito,” Niño Carlitos says, his voice suddenly hard, “what do you have to offer her? You live in filth. In a place like that, anything could happen to a young woman. Here with us, she’s safe.”

“We’re bringing her home.”

Then my sister speaks, eyes flashing with anger. “Virginia, tell this man! Isn’t it true that you want to come with us?”

I hesitate. I don’t know what I want. Suddenly, the thought of leaving forever terrifies me. Leaving and starting a new life with these strangers who are supposed to be my family. Maybe I could just go for a little while and see how I feel with them. And if I don’t like it, I can come back to live here, where life isn’t perfect, but at least I know what to expect. At least I know who I am.

I swallow hard. “Well, Niño Carlitos, it’s just that I want to go to my sister’s wedding. That’s all.” My voice sounds small and timid. “A few days. Just for the wedding.”

Matilde widens her eyes. “Virginia—”

“And when is the wedding?” Niño Carlitos interrupts.

“In a week.”

He turns to my sister. “So you’re only taking her for the wedding, then bringing her back?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “Of course.”

Niño Carlitos weighs my words. “Fine,” he says, turning to my father. “I’ll send Virginia to Yana Urku in a week.”

My father stands up and my mother follows, hanging her head like a submissive
indígena
wife, and then Santiago and Matilde stride to the door, hand in hand, glaring at Niño Carlitos. Mamita pats me on the shoulder and says some things in Quichua. I give her a weak smile.

“We’ll be waiting for you there, Daughter,” my father says. “On Friday.”

“And on Monday, she returns here,” Niño Carlitos says harshly. “Right, my daughter?”

I nod, even though from what I remember, weddings in Yana Urku seemed to go on for days, maybe even weeks. But I’ll deal with that later. I’m too overwhelmed to argue. For now I want these people to leave so I can think about what I’m going to do.

“Goodbye, my daughter,” Papito says, and Mamita says something in Quichua.

Matilde holds my hand tightly. She narrows her eyes at Niño Carlitos. “You promise you’ll let her come?”

“I always keep my promises,” he says, smoothing the few strands of hair over his bald spot.

“Promise you won’t touch her?” she presses. “You won’t hurt her?”

He pats my shoulder. “I’ve never hurt you before, have I, my daughter?”

I step away.

Matilde hugs me, whispering in my ear, “You’re not really coming back here, are you?”

“I don’t know, Matilde. I don’t know.”

After they leave, Niño Carlitos slouches on the sofa, folding origami and then balling the paper up and throwing it against the wall. After three throws, he seems to come to a decision, and calmly picks up a bright green square. With precise movements, he folds a perfect origami frog. “For you, my daughter,” he says, offering it to me. Then he calls upstairs, “Come on, kids! Get in the truck. I have a surprise.”

The boys run downstairs and bounce into the truck. I follow warily.

He drives us to Yaguarcocha Lake, nestled between green mountains, a place where we’ve come only a few times before for special treats. The water in this lake is supposed to be sacred. If you throw an orange peel into the lake, it passes through long underground tunnels and mysteriously reappears kilometers away, at the Peguche waterfall, a place where wishes come true.

At a restaurant at the lake’s edge, we eat our fill of fried fish and share a giant bottle of Coca-Cola, which the Doctorita never lets us have for fear of cavities. Afterward, we buy a bag of tangerines for dessert, and as the boys play chase on the shore, Niño Carlitos walks with me. Sunlight glints off the water, off the tips of tall grasses and reeds.

“You like the origami frog,
m’hija
?” he asks.

“Yes.” I squint up at him, the sunlight so dazzling it’s hard to see.

“I can make you a penguin next.”

“All right.” I pop the last section of tangerine in my mouth. I like the juicy, sweet part, but have to force the white, stringy part down my throat. I toss the peel into the lake, watching the waves lick at it, carrying it farther from shore. How long it will take it to travel to the place where wishes come true? Weeks? Months? Years? Will it really ever get there?

I try to make a decision. It was easier to feel strong when Niño Carlitos was attacking me. Then I
knew
I had to leave. I had no choice. But now that he’s showing his sweet side, I feel weak. Staying with him might not be so bad after all.

Niño Carlitos holds out his hand, midair, on the path to touching my cheek, then he snatches it back and rubs it over his face. “Virginia, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”