The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (16)

Marimar kept the windows rolled down just enough that the wind whistled past and dry leaves made their way between the cracks and onto her lap. She held a green leaf by the stem. For a moment, she thought she could close her eyes and see the makeup of its whole being, the tree it had come from, and the earth that nurtured it. She held the leaf to her nose and wished she had a book with her to press it into. Then she let it fall to her feet among the drive’s collection of fast-food containers and empty coffee cups.

Rey’s truck jostled from side to side, his trinkets swinging from the rearview mirror.

“You’d think she’d have the road paved by now,” he muttered.

“Paving roads?” Marimar said, taking on their grandmother’s stern voice. “That would make it seem like I want people to find their way here.”

Rey put the dusty red jeep in park behind a neat row of cars off the side of the unnamed road that lead to Orquídea’s house. “That’s as far as this piece of crap is getting.”

The other factions of the Montoya clan were already there. Enrique’s Lamborghini was covered up with a black tarp. Cousin Tatinelly’s pink Beetle was sandwiched between two silver sedans. There were other cars she didn’t recognize, all parked at a hasty angle, but there were a lot of family members she hadn’t seen in years. When she’d lived there, it had only been Orquídea, her step-grandad Martin, her mom, Tía Parcha, and Rey. She hadn’t seen this many people there, maybe ever. There certainly weren’t this many people when her mom died. Orquídea had told the other Montoyas to stay away for their own good. Marimar still hadn’t forgiven her grandmother for that. And yet, when Marimar inhaled the valley air so deeply that her lungs hurt, she couldn’t wait to get to the bottom of the hill.

Rey pulled out his pack of cigarettes and slapped it against the palm of his hand. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Nothing brings family together like the promise of riches,” Marimar said, slamming her door shut. She was barefoot. When she was little, she’d liked to wiggle her toes in the ground like they were worms. But the dirt was too dry now, and she dug through the back seat until she found her beat-up penny loafers.

Rey shook his head but marched dutifully on beside her, pulling out a white invitation bleeding black scrawl, his thumb tracing his grandmother’s perfect calligraphy. He wondered if she was pulling one of the games she did when he and Marimar and Tatinelly were kids. She’d hide items around the house and give them clues, like they had to find something that had many eyes but could not see. Marimar had brought a button, Rey had brought a potato, and Tatinelly picked up a picture from the fireplace mantel. Maybe this invitation was a riddle, too. Come and collect. Maybe she wasn’t dying…

They began their walk down the steep hill. Marimar used to run across the green trying to wake the fairies that lived among the twisted gardens. Orquídea liked to tell stories of the winged creatures that protected the ranch with their otherworldly magics born right from the stars. Orquídea had promised that if Marimar found her spark, if she showed potential, she’d wake the fairies. But no matter how much she tried and tried, Marimar’s power would not wake, and she never saw any—there were too many bugs and dragonflies in the way.

Arm in arm with Rey, Marimar fought the urge to sprint into the tall grass fields and search for the winged beasties once again. But if the fairies had once protected the valley, they were long gone by now. The grass was yellowing the closer they got to house. The stench of unturned earth became more pronounced. For so long, the people of Four Rivers had called the Montoyas witches and other crueler things, but there was no magic here by the state of things, if there ever had been.

“Jesus, what happened?” Rey asked.

Was Orquídea simply too old to keep the land thriving and healthy on her own? The rest of Four Rivers had seemed fine on the drive in—the diner, the gas station, the video store—like it had been petrified in time. But this—this was different.

Marimar remembered one terribly hot summer. It was so arid, she felt like she was growing lizard skin. They didn’t have an air conditioner because they’d never needed it before. But her mother, Pena Montoya, wasn’t going to stand for the drought. She put on a record and dialed up the volume. She dragged Orquídea and Marimar outside and said, “Let’s call down the rain.”

Then they went outside, their voices singing to the sky, their bare feet kicking up dust. And when the sky broke open with thunder and lighting and what looked like shooting stars, Orquídea rushed them inside, and Martin mixed up a lemonade that was ice-cold and tasted bitter and sweet and perfect.

The pressure behind Marimar’s belly button returned. She was overcome with the sensation that something was about to end and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“This is depressing, and she’s not even dead yet.” Rey wedged another cigarette between his dry lips. This time his hands shook as he cranked the lighter’s sparkwheel.

Marimar wanted to laugh, but the crowd gathered in front of the homestead gave her pause. She remembered Orquidea’s stories of angry villagers who tried, and failed, to run her out of town when she and her late grandfather had arrived. But this wasn’t a horde of strangers. This was her family.

“Why is everyone standing outside?” she asked.