The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (32)

Pena got on her knee to be eye level with her daughter. “He’s gone, Marimar. He had to go.”

She’d sounded so sad, and even at seven years old, Marimar knew not to press. For some time Marimar figured that “gone” meant that he was dead. But there were so many ways for a person to be gone that had nothing to do with their mortality. Was he dead the way Rey’s father was dead? The way Orquídea’s husbands were dead? Or just gone like how Vanessa Redwood’s dad had left in the middle of the night and everyone in Four Rivers knew it?

Now, Marimar ran out into the hall in search of answers, clutching the photograph like a compass. Sweat pooled between her breasts and ran down her spine. Her heart thundered as she stormed into the living room. They’d moved the table in here, set for sixteen. Silver cutlery, candelabras, and porcelain dishes glinted in the evening light. Red embers peered from the fireplace like tiny blinking eyes.

“What is this?” Marimar asked, holding up the picture in her grandmother’s face.

Orquídea stirred the ice in her drink with her index finger. The nail had turned into a slender branch, like the new buds of spring. “It’s a picture, Marimar.”

Marimar grunted. She’d walked into that one. The only way to get real answers from her grandmother was to ask yes or no questions.

“Light the fire, Marimar,” Orquídea said softly. Wrinkles deepened around her lips, the color of her eyes fluctuated between black and milky gray.

“I will if you answer me.” Then, because she knew she’d do it anyway, Marimar added a strangled, “Please.”

“The transformation makes me cold.”

“Transform” was a prettier way to say die. But she couldn’t deny her, even if she was angry with her. Marimar left the photograph on the table and hauled two logs from the iron rack in the corner. She threw in a fire starter, lit four matches at the same time, and waited for the flames to catch. She took the empty seat in front of Orquídea and once again picked up the old photograph.

“Is this my father?”

Orquídea tipped her glass back. She reminded Marimar so much of Rey in that moment. Or Tía Florecida, with the dimple in her cheek that only the two of them shared. The spark of secrecy, though. That was Orquídea’s alone.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

No, she wasn’t, but she still said, “Yes.”

New shoots sprouted at her grandmother’s knuckles, her wrists. She took in a deep breath like it hurt and then said, “That’s him.”

“You knew what this would have meant to me.” Marimar trembled. She looked at the photo again. Her mother’s head tilted toward the man like a flower toward the sun. Her father. The lights of the Ferris wheel in the background were blurred. She could practically hear her mother’s infectious laughter. The stark joy on Pena’s face meant that they’d been happy once—then what happened?

“What did you want me to do? Give you an old photo of a flash? What would you have done with that?”

“You’re not telling me the truth. Why is that so hard for you?”

“Because I can’t speak his name, Marimar!” Orquídea shouted, her breathing was short, jagged. She coughed and coughed. She covered her mouth and tiny bits of dry dirt appeared on her palm.

Marimar went to get water, but Orquídea shook her head. Marimar picked up the bottle of bourbon instead and refilled Orquídea’s glass. She took it in shaking hands and drank. Cleared her throat until her voice regained its even alto.

“There are so many things that I can’t speak,” Orquídea said bitterly.

“Why?”

“Because I made a choice, long ago.” She grabbed Marimar’s hand and squeezed. The beautiful dark brown of her eyes faded again. “I thought we’d be safe here, but I didn’t see the danger until it was too late. And then he took her—”

Orquídea leaned forward. She dropped her glass and it shattered. Marimar could see the strain at her grandmother’s throat as she coughed up more dirt. This time it took longer for her airways to clear.

And then he took her. Despite the roaring fire, Marimar felt cold. She stepped away from her grandmother, who rested her head against the high-backed chair, staring at Marimar.

“Did my mother really drown?”

“Yes.”

“Did my father have something to do with it?”

When Orquídea breathed she made a terrible wheezing sound. So she only nodded, but even that motion hurt her. It cost her.

There were hundreds of things Marimar wanted to know. Why is this happening? Why can’t we stop it? Why didn’t you try to tell me sooner? Who are you? Why do this? What broke your heart so completely that its splinters found their way through generations?

But Marimar knew she had inherited her grandmother’s silence, and said nothing else as she walked out of the room.

She took a right at the hallway and cut through the kitchen. Teal and white tiles covered the walls, vines snaking their way in through breaks in the windows. Her aunts and uncle Félix were busy peeling potatoes, splitting the husks of green plantains, dicing so many onions that they sang along to the music in order to combat the salt of their tears. Tía Silvia blew a strand of hair out of her face as she poured half a bag of rice into a giant steel pot and shouted, “Juan Luis, you better bring that rooster down here!”