The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (23)

“Mamá Orquídea!” Penelope shouted. She was thirteen, but still so young. Younger than Orquídea had ever been allowed to be at that age. Her thick curls were gathered into pigtails which made her look younger. But still, Penny ran to her grandmother, kneeling at her side and setting her face on her lap. Orquídea shut her eyes and took a deep breath as she gently stroked her granddaughter’s shoulders. “Mom said we were coming to your funeral. But you’re still here. Are you really dying?”

“Not for a few more hours.”

Penelope looked up with wide brown eyes and na?ve worry. “Are you stuck?”

“When I was born,” Orquídea began, “it was May 14. I only came out halfway. The doctor and nurse thought I was dead. It wasn’t until minutes after midnight that they were able to pull me the rest of the way out. My mother used to tell me that because of this, I would always live a life in between. My death is no different. So, yes, Penny. I suppose I am stuck. Not really here, nor there.”

Aunt Silvia poured herself some wine and nodded thoughtfully. She liked to translate her mother’s stories into something like reason. “That was likely shoulder dystocia, and also likely because of the shape of your mother’s uterus.”

“May 14,” Marimar said. “That’s today.”

“I thought you hated birthdays,” Ernesta said, pinching the crooked bridge of her nose. “You never celebrated them. I never even knew what day it was. Did you?”

Her siblings shook their heads, as if none of them had ever truly realized that they didn’t know when their mother was born. Marimar, like Rey, had snooped but never found a birth certificate or proof. Proof of what? That her grandmother was a real person and not some traveler from some faraway magical kingdom?

“I spared you my birthdays. Which is why I’m asking you all to celebrate my death.”

“That’s a bit morbid,” Rey said. “And I happen to love morbid.”

Orquídea peered into the embers in the fireplace. For a moment, her eyes were milky white, but then she blinked, and the dark of her irises returned. “I know you have questions. I don’t have answers. I did the best I could. I knew the price y lo hice de todos modos. Ya no tengo tiempo.”

The Montoyas traded worried glances. Orquídea never slipped between languages. It took Marimar and some of the others a moment to mentally translate their mother’s mother tongue. She knew the price and did it anyway. She’s out of time.

Marimar took a tentative step forward. In her mind, Orquídea was as imposing as a mountain and as mysterious as the sea. She imposed hard rules. She filled their minds with whimsy. She would laugh one moment and then lock herself in her room the next. It was as if there was something jagged within her, a bruise that she had passed down to all of her kids, and maybe even grandkids. But this woman transforming in front of them was showing something Marimar wasn’t used to seeing—fear.

“It’s okay, Ma,” Caleb Jr. said, his voice was soft, but his forehead lined with worry.

Enrique grimaced. “None of this is okay.”

There was a rustling sound, like loose pages carried off by a breeze. Ears popped. Floorboards and hinges creaked. A group of strangers appeared at the living room entrance. Five of them in total. They shared a family trait of beige skin, black hair, and haughty sneers. They all looked like they’d escaped out of an old photograph from the sixties. Three women all in dresses. Two tall men in white button-downs tucked into belted brown slacks. Even though they clutched invitations in their hands, they looked like intruders. Sparrows among hummingbirds.

Ever the diplomat, Félix waved them in. “Welcome! Give us a moment.”

“Who the hell are they?” Rey muttered to Marimar.

“Secret family?” she suggested. Marimar had a vague sense of déjà vu, like she’d met them before.

One of the women sniffed at the air. Her hazel eyes settled on Orquídea with a quiet resentment. She took in the dust blanketing nearly every surface. The dirt soiling her sensible black dress shoes. She touched the golden stamp of the Virgin Mary resting against her chest.

After an uncomfortable stretch, the oldest man of the bunch approached Orquídea, who somehow managed to look like a queen rooted in her throne.

“Wilhelm,” Orquídea said in greeting.

“Sister,” he said. There was a delay of sound when he spoke.

“Sister?” Florecida repeated.

Marimar felt a tiny surge of vindication and grinned. “Called it.”

“These are the Buenasuertes,” Orquídea explained. “My brothers and sisters.”

“I thought you were an only child?” Caleb Jr. asked.

Orquídea gave a solemn shake of her head. The vines sprouting from the ground coiled around her chair, sprouting green buds. Her eyes went white then black again.

“She ran away from us after mother married our father,” Wilhelm said.

Even though he was standing right there, he looked like he had stepped out of a photograph, one of those old ones filtered by a shade of ochre or burnt sienna. Marimar had noticed it before, but now it was more pronounced. Like the longer they stood there, the more faded they became.

“I ran away because I would have rather taken my chances on the street than spent one more minute under the Buenasuerte roof,” Orquídea said. “You saw to that.”