When I look in the faded mirrors in Mamá Jacinta’s house, sometimes I think I almost look like my sister, which means I kind of look like my mother, especially when I take off my glasses. Now that I lost a little bit of weight, I can see the faint suggestion of cheekbones. I guess our noses were similar, too—rounded and slightly turned up at the tip. I used to think Olga and I didn’t look like sisters, but I was wrong.
There are black-and-white pictures of my great-grandparents in several rooms of the house. They look serious in each one, as if they’re ready to stab the photographer. Maybe it wasn’t customary to smile for portraits back then. I know people used to believe photographs would steal their souls, which makes sense to me.
I never paid attention to Amá’s old bedroom when I was a kid. She and tía Estela used to share a cramped, dusty room all the way in the back of the house. They even had to sleep in the same lumpy bed, which has never been replaced. I can’t imagine having to sleep next to my sister my whole life. We’ve always been poor, and I’ve never had much privacy, but at least I’ve always had my own room. When my grandfather was alive, he kept making additions whenever they had more children, but he was never able to keep up. There were eight of them.
I hate when Amá goes through my things, and here I am, doing it to her. I don’t find much, though, just a wooden chest with faded flowered dresses and tarnished bracelets. In the corner of the room, I see a framed drawing I never noticed before. It’s up high, way past eye level. I take it down and look at it closely. It’s Amá wearing a long dress, standing in front of the fountain in the town
square. She looks exactly like Olga. Or Olga looked exactly like her. I wonder who drew this.
I find Mamá Jacinta cleaning the kitchen table. “Mamá Jacinta, who drew this picture of Amá?”
“Your father.”
“What do you mean, my father? My father doesn’t draw.” “Who said he doesn’t?”
“I’ve never heard anything about this.” I don’t know why, but this almost makes me angry. How didn’t I know this about my own dad?
“You didn’t know Rafael could draw? He was the town artist. He drew everyone, even the mayor. Haven’t you seen that drawing of your tía Fermina hanging in her living room? Your father drew that, too.”
Not once in my whole life have I ever seen my dad draw. When I think of Apá, I picture him soaking his feet in front of the TV. “But how could he stop? I mean, if that’s what he loved to do, why wouldn’t he do it?”
“He probably got too busy with all the responsibilities of being a husband and father. You know how that is. You know how hard he works.” Mamá Jacinta takes off her apron and hangs it on a rusty hook near the fridge.
“But he could have made time. If I don’t write, I feel like I’m going to die. How could he stop just like that?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a shame because he was famous around here.”
—
I wonder how much longer until Amá sends for me. Sometimes I lie awake, thinking of what I’ll do when I get home. How am I going to find Olga’s boyfriend? Or should I call him her “lover”? That word sounds ridiculous, though. I can go to her old office, but I have no idea who he is. Two things are clear, though: he wanted to make sure no one would ever find out, and he’s the kind of person who could afford an expensive hotel almost every week. He has to be a doctor.
The nights are usually quiet, except for the meowing cats or the rooster next door that never knows what time it is. I like it when it rains because the soft pitter-patter on the tin roof is soothing, but it never lasts more than a few minutes.
I twist under the scratchy blankets, thinking about Olga and worrying about what will happen to me if I miss too many days of school. I write notes to myself about what to do when I leave: 1) Read all of Olga’s emails; 2) Talk to Mr. Ingman about what to do about my absences; 3) Find a summer job so I can pay for my trip to college. When I’m lucky, I fall asleep before the sun comes up.
—
My cousin Belén, tía Fermina’s youngest daughter, is the town hot girl. She’s dark, blue-eyed, and about a foot taller than I am. Her waist is impossibly small, and she loves to show it off in half shirts and skintight dresses. Wherever we go, every living creature eyes her up and down. I swear to God, I even saw a stray dog check her out. She gets marriage proposals when we walk down the street, and all she does is laugh and flip her hair. I feel kind of ugly next to her.
Belén has decided that she’s going to show me around and introduce me to anyone we see. She comes over to Mamá Jacinta’s house after school and drags me out, though I’d rather stay in the yard reading. My cousin doesn’t understand that I can be very awkward and that I don’t like talking to strangers. Today we say hello to a pair of twins nicknamed Gorduras and Mantecas— literally, “Fats” and “Lards”—in front of the supermarket. Mexican nicknames are as cruel as they are hilarious.
We usually get ice cream or aguas frescas from the town square and then take a “tour” of Los Ojos, even though I’ve been here before. When we go up and down the hills, I study all the colorful houses and try to peer inside, since everyone leaves their doors open during the day. Usually, I don’t see anything interesting, but yesterday I saw a woman in a towel dancing to Juan Gabriel in her living room. I like taking these walks during dinnertime because of the dinner smells wafting from the houses—toasted chiles, stewed meat, boiled beans.
Belén gossips about everyone in town, even when I have no idea who they are. The latest dirt is that the lady who owns the most popular burger stand is having sex with her second cousin. She also tells me the story of a man named Santos who left Los Ojos many years ago with the dream of becoming a dancer in Los Angeles. He tried crossing the border several times before he gave up and stayed in Tijuana. The rumor was that he began dressing like a woman and became a prostitute. When he returned to Los Ojos several years later, he was practically a living skeleton. Toward the very end, the sores all over his face and mouth attracted flies. His mother would sit next to him and shoo them away with a rag. Some of the townspeople said that it was his own fault for being gay, for bending over for all of Tijuana. I keep trying to interrupt and explain to Belén that AIDS isn’t a gay disease, that anyone can get it, but she doesn’t listen. She never seems to listen to anything I say.
I feel a longing in my chest when we pass Apá’s abandoned childhood home. Mamá Jacinta points it out every time I’m here. No one has lived there in a long, long time, and it’s about to fall apart. All of my father’s brothers and sisters are scattered across the United States—Texas, Los Angeles, North Carolina, and Chicago. His parents died right after he and Amá left Los Ojos. My grandfather got a tumor that ate away his lungs, and my grandma followed him a few months later. They say she died of sadness. Can I miss people I’ve never met? Because I think I do.
Belén tries to get me to talk to boys from her school, but I’m never interested in any of them. Maybe it’s because of the medication, but sex—anything related to it—is not really on my mind.
“That’s where the narcos beheaded the mayor,” Belén says casually, after we pass a group of her friends. She nods toward a depressing park made of metal and concrete.
“What?” I’m not sure if I heard her correctly.
“You didn’t know? They used to shoot each other in the streets and blow up houses. It hasn’t happened in a while, though. See?” she says, pointing to a charred house in the distance. “A Molotov cocktail.”
I shudder as I think of the mayor’s head rolling down the concrete and onto the street. Why would Amá send me here?
“Are we safe? Would they murder us, too?” I feel hot and cold at the same time. I jump when I hear a bird squawk.
Belén laughs. “No, tonta. Why would they care about you?
Unless you’re trafficking drugs and didn’t tell me about it.” I shrug, feeling stupid.
“Oh, but never, ever stay out late, especially alone. No one does anymore.”
