The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (26)
Then it occurred to her. Could they stay long enough for her to deliver her baby girl here? She was sure now that it would be a girl. It happened the moment they stepped out of the car at the top of the hill and she practically glided down the steep road. A breeze beheaded stubborn dandelions and took on a shape. The shape of a girl. Then the wind blew again, and the shape was gone.
“How are you not freaking out?” he asked. His hands were cupped in front of her, begging for an answer. “None of you are freaking out.”
How was she supposed to explain her family? She shouldn’t have to. “It’s just—how things are.”
“You grandmother’s feet are tree roots! You might as well have said ‘open sesame’ to get the door open. That entire family turned black and white. Not to mention your uncle Enrique is a dick.”
“Well, yes, that’s never happened before. The roots part. Uncle Enrique has always been… I want to say, difficult. So that’s not so new.”
“But other things have?”
She thought about the moments she never questioned while spending summers in this house. Once, a girl stuck a wad of gum in Tatinelly’s hair at the Four Rivers community pool. Panicked, she cut it as close to the root as she could, but she had a bald patch right on the top of her head. Orquídea calmed her down. She expected Orquídea to tell her it was her own fault for trying to chase after people who didn’t want to be friends with her. Instead, Orquídea went into the kitchen and Tatinelly followed. She pulled out glass bottles of oils and syrups with cork stoppers and poured the nasty smelling liquids into a bowl. Then she cut herbs from her garden. Smooshed cherries and an apple from the orchards. Covered all of Tatinelly’s scalp with it. In the morning, the bald patch was gone, and her hair had been restored. Back then she didn’t call it by what it was—magic. It was just how Orquídea was with her home remedies. Everyone had home remedies, didn’t they? Everyone had brought secrets from the old worlds with them.
Not everyone had, alas. When she met Michael Sullivan’s family, she realized they didn’t have remedies or languages they spoke only in private. Everything the Sullivans ate came from a can or a frozen bag. They didn’t use salt on anything, except a pinch in their food. They didn’t suck the marrow from their chicken bones for health. They didn’t have stories of ghosts or duendes or cucos hiding underneath the bed. Their grandmothers lived far away in old people homes and, though he had cousins, Mike could go his whole life without ever seeing another Sullivan and be all right with it. Tatinelly was starting to make herself fit into Mike’s family because he had been so good to her and he loved her so much. But being back at the ranch made her feel like she had been missing something. If not for her, then for her child. She wanted her daughter to know there was magic in the world.
“I’ll go get you some water,” Tatinelly told Mike. She brushed his thinning hair back and kissed the sweat on his forehead. She didn’t think he could handle much more of this.
“Maybe something stronger.” He kissed the back of her hand, worshipped her boney knuckles with his lips. “Please.”
Tatinelly smiled. Her smile had made Mike dizzy when they first met; and even now, when he was confused and a little scared. She had Orquídea’s smile. So would their daughter.
“I’ll be right back,” she said. When she touched the wall, a rose petal fluttered under her fingertip.
* * *
Downstairs in the library parlor, Marimar opened every window and every shutter. She swept dirt and dust out the door. Rey and Penny followed with mops and buckets full of Orquídea’s homemade cleaning liquids.
“That’s all of it,” Rey said, turning the bottle on its head until only droplets fell out.
“There’s no salt,” Penny said, holding up a burlap bag.
“What do you mean there’s no salt?” Marimar asked. She gently picked up the bag, needing to feel its featherweight in order to believe it. She hurried into the hall and yanked open the pantry. The jars were empty, too. The metal bin, usually full of coffee beans only had a handful of kernels.
“This is all that’s left after they took what was needed for cooking,” Penny said, gnawing on the inside of her lips. “This is bad, right? I mean, I know we’re avoiding Mamá Orquídea turning into a tree but, like, I feel we should all admit that this is bad.”
Rey pulled their cousin into a hug and brushed wisps of hair away from her face. “We’ll do without. Why don’t you see if your mom needs help?”
Penny ran off, leaving Rey and Marimar alone in the hall.
“What do we do?” Rey hissed. He was out of cigarettes and had moved on to the rum. Oddly enough, the liquor in the house was still well stocked.
Marimar pushed down her anxiety. The house was too big to fix in time for dinner. She reminded herself that Orquídea didn’t have long and didn’t need a clean house anymore. Admitting that to herself, even in her own thoughts, filled her with a deep melancholy she’d been trying to avoid. What would her mother have done if she was alive and among them? She’d put on one of Orquídea’s records and pretend like it was all a game. The first one to find something silver, something red, and something made of glass would win. Marimar would polish the silver, oil a red leather footstool, shine Orquídea’s menagerie of tiny crystal animals. For a moment, Marimar heard the echo of her own childlike laughter, the blur of her and Rey running down the same corridor and playing in the same parlor. She ached for a time that was long gone and for things she could never get back. She scratched at the hollow of her throat wishing she could carve out the emotion.