The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (39)

“All you have is each other. Protect your magic.” She drank and then shattered the glass on the floor.

For a moment, there was only the buzz of thousands of wings, the crackle of fire, then the howl of every creature in the room. Beneath all of that, a series of heartbeats. Each one with its own unique rhythm of wishes and hopes and dreams. The symphony of Orquídea’s death.

Tatinelly slammed her palm on the table, the other on her baby bump and the earth rumbled. Orquídea Divina Montoya stretched higher and higher. Her legs finished transforming into the base of a thick tree trunk, roots undulating through the floorboards like rivers carving their way through stone, pushing away the table, breaking through the nearest wall, the ceiling.

“My water broke,” Tatinelly announced with a gentle gasp. She lifted her shirt, revealing the pearly stretchmarks across her belly. A rose grew out of her belly button. “My water broke!”

“Upstairs! Juan Luis, get the bag out of my car.” Tía Silvia shooed everyone out of her way. “Someone, for God’s sake, wake up that man from the floor and tell him he’s about to miss the birth of his child. If you can’t make yourself useful, stay here and clean up. That guest room better be spotless.”

“It is,” Tatinelly assured her, as they left the room. “It’s like she knew. She knew.”

After Rey called for help, he and Marimar pulled up a seat at the destroyed banquet.

“Did you cough up any magic beans?” Rey asked.

“Nope. I just get this house, apparently,” Marimar said. Most of the glasses were shattered, so she drank straight from the bourbon bottle and grimaced.

Upstairs Tatinelly’s screams were piercing, competing for attention with Gabo. She could hear Tati’s frantic pulse in her ears, plus a second heartbeat—the baby’s. Marimar’s own blood was like fire beneath her skin. Something hot and piercing stabbed at the notch between her clavicles. But she ignored it as Enrique stood before her.

“You always were her favorites,” Enrique said, his eyes pale, ensorcelled by his own hate. “Sign over the deed, Marimar. You don’t know the first thing about fixing this house. It’ll be worthless once she’s done.”

The house groaned around them. The tree still growing. At its center was a smooth heart made of moonstone.

“You’re wasting your time,” Marimar said. “I’m not signing over anything to you.”

Rey got between them and shoved Enrique. “Leave. You didn’t want to be here in the first place.”

Enrique threw the first punch and Rey was slow with drink, but he punched back. Marimar shouted around them to stop. Orquídea was dead and Tatinelly was giving birth upstairs. There was no time for this. She picked up an empty bottle and hit her uncle across the head. He fell to his knees, nursing the spot. His eyes regained their jade color. He watched in horror at the sight of his mother’s tree, then turned to the open windows.

A storm of dragonflies clustered around him, their tiny arms and legs crawling all over his face, his eyes. A frog leapt into his mouth when he screamed, and a snake wrapped around his throat. He tried to pick himself up but yanked on the tablecloth, knocking over candelabras.

The fire caught fast. It spread along the tablecloths. The stuffing inside Orquídea’s favorite upholstered chair. The alcohol-drenched rug and the floorboards.

Upstairs a newborn’s cry pierced the night.



* * *



Tatinelly got her wish. She didn’t know why but, despite the pain of the delivery, she was overcome with a certainty that her daughter would be okay. Even though she’d grown up to do ordinary things, she would have an extraordinary daughter. She promised to tell her stories of her Mamá Orquídea who built her own house in a magic valley. Mamá Orquídea, who was strong and angry and silent, but saved her real love for when it mattered.

Earlier that day, Orquídea had called her in.

“Tatinelly,” Orquídea had said. “Let’s see you. Come.”

Tatinelly waddled around the table and took the upholstered seat Enrique had vacated. “How are you, Gran?”

“My bones are weary. But I’m happy you came. It’s been so long since we’ve had a baby in the house. The last ones born here were Juan Luis and Gastón.”

When Tatinelly sat, her shirt rose up a bit. Her belly button looked like the bud of a rose.

Orquídea held her hand out. “?Puedo?”

“Of course,” she said.

Orquídea placed her free hand on the top of the belly and closed her eyes, as if her fragile bones could protect that child from the world. She listened. What was she listening for? Could she hear the stars in her womb? Were they whispering now? Just then, Orquídea Divina’s hand grew a single white rosebud in the fleshy web where her index finger met her thumb. The old woman took a deep breath and a deeper drink of bourbon.

“A girl. Good. Be good to her,” Orquídea Divina said. “Let her run free.”

“Thank you, Gran,” Tatinelly said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to visit more. I always meant to and then things just got in the way.”

But the old woman dispelled the apology with a wave of her hand and the blooming rose that had grown so quickly, withered into dust seconds later.