She Walks in Shadows(47)

I didn’t mind. It was a relief, one more connection severed from the world.



Abuelita died on December 23rd. I tiptoed in to check on her in her tiny, cold room and took off a glove so I could hold her hand as she passed. She didn’t breathe, and her hand was already cold, but it went slack — more limp than it did in sleep — and a foul smell crept in under the scent of frankincense and myrrh.

I was sorry she didn’t get another Christmas Eve. Although she hadn’t been to Mass in decades, she always listened to Midnight Mass on the radio. She loved the hymns.

“Vaya con dios,” I whispered. For the first time in years, I dared to kiss her on the cheek. It was tissue-soft and very, very cold.



Immediately after Abuelita’s passing, I trudged through the blowing snow out to the old barn. We used it for storage, mostly, but it was also our garage for the RV and the truck. I started the truck in the dark and let it warm up, keeping an eye out for lights in the house. No one stirred.

Careful in the snow, I drove the truck further out into the country, out to the property of a self-described gentleman farmer who spent his winters in Phoenix. I ran the truck into a ditch. Then I made sure the windows were secure, turned up the heat, and peacefully breathed in the fumes as the snow gradually covered the windshield.



I woke to the smells of frankincense and myrrh and old woman.

Abuelita was gone and I was in her bed. The jewelry roll was sitting on the dresser, all rolled up as if it actually had jewelry in it. Sara was sitting in my old place, the chair beside the bed.

“Welcome back, Mom,” she said. She looked exhausted. “You’re just in time for the New Year.”

I tried to speak, but it came out in a whisper. “What ....”

“You really did a number on yourself.” Sara gave me a sharp look through her tears. “Mom, couldn’t you have told me? I could have mixed something for you. Something safer. They kept you in a locker at the morgue for a day. I was afraid they’d do an autopsy on you, just like on Tía Rosa, and you’d never be right again.”

“Where’s Abuelita?”

“She died. You knew that, didn’t you? You wouldn’t leave her.” Tears spilled down Sara’s face. “We took you home and said we’d bury you, and we buried her in the grave Gaspar made in the barn a while back. We’re hoping nobody ever exhumes it, but if they do, maybe they’ll think it’s you.”

“I wanted to die,” I murmured. “Really die.”

“I won’t let you, Mom,” said Sara. She took my hand. I felt the pressure, but not the warmth. “I’m an Herrero at heart and we always take care of our mothers.”



We loaded everything we needed into the RV and the truck over the next five days. They packed me into a chest freezer for the journey.

“Are you comfortable?” Tío Gaspar asked. “I could get you a blanket for padding. You’re not giving off heat.”

“I’m fine,” I told him. “I don’t really feel anything.” It was just barely nightfall and the temperature was already dropping. I was outside after dark without a parka, without gloves, for the first time in months.

Tío Gaspar nodded. He looked back at the house, where Sara was fussing with the last things to pack. Grandpa Estéban was testing the vapor-absorption systems for the freezer and the RV. I could smell ammonia.

Gaspar leaned in. “I know why you did it,” he whispered. “I would do it, too, if Papá died, or if he wanted to. But you know how he is.”

Grandpa Estéban started singing to himself. His voice was cracked and tiny, but I could make out “We Three Kings of Orient Are.”

“You have relatives in other places,” I whispered back. “Omaha. St. Paul. Maybe even New York, for all I know. Or you could go somewhere new.”

He shook his head. “I’m going to Portland with you. It’s what Papá wants and where he goes, I go.”

“Westward leading, still proceeding …,” sang Grandpa Estéban.

“I don’t have to agree,” said Gaspar. “I’ll always stay with my family, no matter what we are.”

He closed the freezer lid gently. I heard some stumbling as he helped Grandpa Estéban in. The whole RV would be cold. Since Grandpa Estéban had never gotten a death certificate, he could have the run of the cabin.

“No matter what we are,” I repeated in my forceless murmur.

“King and God and Sacrifice,” sang Grandpa Estéban, barely audible through the freezer walls.

I heard the RV’s motor start, smelled the ammonia anew. I buried my face in my hands. Without breathing, I took in the scents of frankincense and myrrh: the oils I had blended, the scent of our stone-cold tomb.





EIGHT SECONDS


Pandora Hope

EVER PLAYED A hand of poker with the Devil, knowing that if you could keep the game going for eight seconds, just eight seconds, you’d beat the bastard and then you’d get to be a god for a day?

That’s how it is for me with rough riding.

Before she left me, Lula said that only a person with a sickness in the head would want to sit a thousand-kilo bucking bronco and stay on for eight seconds. She said a lot of other things, too, wound after wound, but I hung on, not saying a word. I’d learnt in the ring that you just had to hold on until you were beyond feeling the pain. Beyond feeling anything.