The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (55)

“I would?” She asked.

Rey winked. “Admit it, you missed us.”

She did. She missed his laugh. Tatinelly’s calming presence. Even the others. The twins signing and trying to burn everything in sight. The way Caleb Jr. and Ernesta competed with their knowledge of useless trivia.

“I don’t know.” Marimar crossed the room and stood at the window. Seven years. She’d lived a quiet, good life. Now three of her family members were dead and two were being followed around by a figure only the two of them could see. She didn’t want this. She didn’t ask for this. But neither had they. She thought of something happening to Rey and it made her feel weak. She’d worked too hard to have this life and she’d do everything she could to hang on to it.

“Orquídea always said that bad things keep on coming when you’re a Montoya.”

“I thought it was bad things come in threes,” Rey said.

Tati traced the edges of her mug with her index finger, her eyes fixed to where her daughter ran around the valley like a wild thing, and said, “I’ve always accepted that I’m ordinary and plain, you know. But I can’t ignore this feeling right here. It’s never been there before. It’s telling me that something is coming for us.”

“Baby, you’re anything but plain,” Rey assured her. He almost wished he hadn’t said anything, because she broke down crying.

Protect your magic. Those were their grandmother’s collective parting words. Instructions. But how were they supposed to protect something they didn’t know how to wield? How were they supposed to fight a man whose face they hadn’t seen?

“I’ve tried talking to the tree,” Marimar said. “And raising her ghost. Where else do you keep secrets?”

Rey shrugged. “What’s the last place your family would think to look?”

“I keep them in a butter cookie tin and then I get sad when I open the tin and there aren’t any cookies inside,” Tati said.

Rey choked on his coffee and for a ludicrous, delirious moment, they had a good laugh. They laughed so hard it hurt, so hard it cycled back to tears and then crying again. Manic, cathartic sort of laughter.

When they were done, Marimar was drawn by Jameson’s crow. Several cars were making the way down the packed-dirt road she’d had fixed. Marimar filled the kettle and then went to greet everyone.

There were two caskets—one for Florecida, one for Penny. A bereaved Aunt Reina carried the silver urn that held Félix’s ashes. Marimar, Rey, Juan Luis, and Gastón dug the graves. In Four Rivers, which wasn’t considered a town on its own anymore, most families kept their own plots on their land. Marimar hadn’t considered that they’d have to add more bodies so soon.

The spring dirt was soft, giving way to their shovels. Marimar felt every strike shoot up her arms. Insects gathered, but it wasn’t like before. They simply waited for their dinner. She hit roots, and realized that the hole wasn’t big enough. She cursed, then apologized even though she wasn’t sorry. She just knew she wasn’t supposed to swear in front of the dead. She hit and hit the ground, trying to dig through the tangle of roots in the way. Rey hit a wall and slumped to the ground.

Then, a set of hands took the shovel from her. She followed the calloused hands all the way to Enrique’s face. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes looked like spiderwebs. His jade eyes were rimmed red. Dressed in a simple sweater and jeans that hung off his slender figure, he began to dig.

Marimar opened her mouth to protest. Didn’t he remember what he’d said to her? What he’d said to all of them?

“Please, Marimar,” he pleaded. “Let me.”

And so, she let him dig, and dig, and dig.

When it was all over, they sat down to eat the catering she’d ordered from Uncle Nino’s restaurant. Unlike the day of Orquídea’s passing, there was no cooking, no music, no ghosts. The Montoyas wept in silence and listened to the sounds of the night.

Marimar could feel their fear. It vibrated from them and into her bones. She had to do something. She had to get answers.

“Mamá Orquídea is crying too,” Rhiannon said after a while.

They were in the sitting room, which had once been the old parlor. The other Montoyas, who hadn’t truly noticed the fairy child among them, stared curiously.

“You can hear her?” Enrique asked.

Rhiannon nodded. “She said you’re supposed to play music to celebrate the dead. Rey knows the songs.”

“Ask her if she has anything actually helpful to contribute,” Rey said, slurring his words and ignoring his aunts glaring at him.

But Rhiannon relayed the comment through her faint connection to Orquídea’s tree. To everyone it just looked like the fairy child was listening to a distant sound. “She’s far away, I think. She said she can’t help.”

Rey shook his head, but said, “As expected.”

“Wait!” Rhiannon chirped. “She said you forgot everything she told you.”

Tatinelly pulled Rhiannon closer. “What did we forget?”

“The laurel leaves,” Enrique answered, his voice like the scratch of a record. “You never replaced them.”

Marimar walked out of the room and out the front porch. She took in her house, the labor she’d put into finishing it after so many starts and stops. She could see the silhouettes of her family members in the sitting room. She’d never been afraid of the dark before, not out here. But on that night, moonless, cold, with grave dirt still packed under her fingernails, Marimar Montoya was afraid.