The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (49)

“I’m not mad at you,” Marimar said, trying her best to sound gentle. “Have you called the police?”

Tati’s laugh verged on hysterical. “They agree with Mike. I explained to them about how Mamá Orquídea said we needed to protect—you know—but they looked at me like I should be institutionalized. I told Mike to tell them I’m not lying, but he said he can’t remember that day because he passed out before the fire. He thinks he dreamed it. I just—Can we come visit? Please? Please, Marimar.”

“Of course, you can come here,” Marimar said. “Stay as long as you need.”



* * *



Marimar took a sip of her coffee and let out a slow breath. She tried to go through her catalog of memories. Remembered calling Rey all those years ago and asking if anything weird had happened to him. For the Montoyas, weird was their normal. She couldn’t think of anything that stood out, but if she was honest with herself, she’d stopped searching. She didn’t care about unearthing Orquídea’s past, and she didn’t care to know who her birth father was, and she just wanted to tend to her flowers and work on maintaining the valley. She’d gotten what she’d asked for, mostly. Peace. Home.

Something was coming that was going to disrupt that. She felt it in the chill of the air. The hard breeze slammed the shutters closed. Gabo screeched louder than he’d done in ages. The phone rang again.

“Tati?” she answered.

A sound broke through, but it wasn’t Tatinelly. It was white noise, the crackle of a dead radio station, a voice she’d heard once in her dream during her hibernation, and he said, “Open the door, Marimar.”





15

THE KING OF THE EARTH




The first lie Rey told himself upon returning to New York City was that he was only doing this to keep his promise to Orquídea. You can’t lie to the dead. Although Marimar insisted that Orquídea wasn’t dead dead. She was still gone, and they were still fucked.

On his first day of classes, people had stared. For once, it was nice not to wear a sensible blazer or colors that made him look like he’d fade into the muted shades of a mountain side. It was winter and he’d opted for cashmere sweaters in emerald green, the bloody red of pomegranates ripped in half. He didn’t want to be one of those New Yorkers who always wore black, mostly because he wasn’t a New Yorker. He was from Four Rivers, the product of women who were transmutable. First mortal, then divine.

Rey had told Marimar that he hated his teachers. Each one possessed an air of boredom. They walked around the studio checking in on his progress. Too slow. Too sloppy. Was that supposed to be modernism? He didn’t understand terms or categories. He was the oldest one in each of his classes filled with unkempt freshmen who smelled of marijuana and three-day-old arm pits. Once, while eating slices of pizza in the glass walkways that bridged the different buildings of Hunter College, one of the girls from his class had sat beside him. Her hair was blonde at the bottom and dark at the roots from excess oil.

“Can I touch it?” she asked.

He’d nearly choked on his pizza. “Pardon?”

“The flower.” She looked at him as if he should have known. “Is it real?”

“It’s real, and no, you can’t.”

She rolled her eyes and got to her feet like a child who’d been denied something. As he went to take another bite of his pizza, she grabbed his wrist. Tugged on a petal. He remembered the time his mother had dragged him out of school by his ear for fighting. Only it was a thousand times worse. He’d never had a piece of himself ripped out so violently.

When he screamed and people started looking, she let go. He lay on the ground for half an hour before someone checked on him, and another half an hour before one of the security guards told him he was bleeding on the floor.

He hadn’t even gotten to finish his pizza.

Hence, Rey hated going to art classes at Hunter College. He didn’t see the girl in his class anymore, but he imagined what he’d say if he did. He couldn’t very well punch a girl, even if she’d assaulted him. He couldn’t call the police or explain his rose.

Orquídea’s voice came to him in those moments. Protect your magic.

Had his grandmother really been envisioning a dirty art student when she uttered those final words?

Ever since then, Rey was more careful. He made do with those ungodly long-sleeve sweaters with the holes in the sleeve. He felt like an emo kid who’d gotten lost on the way to a My Chemical Romance music video. Or a housewife from Manhattan putting on athleisure wear. The intersection of that particular clothing item did not make Rey feel settled, but it was a necessary precaution.

He told himself he could drop out. He already had a degree. He’d already humored his grandmother. But there was a moment when he stood at his easel, when he put on his headphones, when he rolled up his sleeves, when he was alone in the studio—well, it didn’t all suck.

He didn’t stop painting. Couldn’t stop. Part of him was chasing the high he’d felt that first time when he’d locked himself in his room and worked on the portrait of Orquídea as a young girl. He was stubborn, kept to himself, and didn’t listen to his professors. He barely had a 3.0 average.

But during the end of the semester student showcase, when anyone walked past his paintings, they stopped. They looked. Some even wept. That attention was too much. Rey had been searching for a reprieve from the crowded show, and made the mistake of winding up in a small corner. He didn’t notice that someone had followed him, and he didn’t notice the guy block him in until it was too late. The stranger was in his early twenties, broad chested, and taller than Rey. His cheeks were pink from the box wine being served.