The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (97)

She extended her palm and offered his ring back. When she’d separated the ring from the finger, Jameson had been there to rid the valley of any traces of Bolívar Londo?o. “This belongs to you.”

“I thank you,” Lázaro said, slipping the ring back on his pale hand. “I did not let myself believe I would ever be free of him. But I would endure this, just to have known you even for a moment, Marimar.”

She licked her cracked lips and found the courage to hold her father’s hand. “Where will you go?”

He smiled, and she found they had the same wry grin. He simply looked up.



* * *



As the hours passed, and Orquídea began to fade, Lázaro and Marimar rejoined the family. The Living Star and Orquídea Divina faced each other after so many years apart. There were not enough words that could be spoken. They were entangled deeper than roots and always would be, and that was enough. Sometimes silence said enough.

The moment they faded into prisms of light, thousands of shooting stars filled the sky.

Others outside of the valley, who had not witnessed the miracles of that night, would call it an omen, government conspiracy, the end of times, a blessing from the gods.

For Marimar, it was simply a goodbye.





34

NOW




Marimar wrote everything down like she’d always wanted to. First, the trickle of a few lines in a notebook. Then, her words became ocean again.

In the first few months following the meteor shower, the Montoyas moved back home. Marimar didn’t mind, even if Rey forgot to replace the wine he consumed from the cellar, and even if Juan Luis and Gastón preferred to write their songs in the middle of the night when not even the valley’s animals howled.

Tía Silvia and Enrique were usually in the kitchen. He wanted to learn all of his mother’s old recipes. He wanted to learn the things he’d never gotten a chance to. There would never be the curse of silence in the valley again, not if they could help it.

Once a month, every month during the third quarter moon, everyone came to dinner. Even the ghosts, even Orquídea. They announced themselves with Gabo’s howl. After Bolívar’s demise, the ceiba tree came alive, the wound down its center grafting back together with scarred skin. But the faithful blue rooster that had protected the Montoyas and their valley, had followed Orquídea into the afterlife, and after dying a final time and being resurrected as a spirit, Orquídea changed his name back. Gabo’s ghost was always the first to return, announcing the others.

Penny’s spirit would hide the twins’ guitar picks. Uncle Félix drifted around the ceiling with Pena, while Parcha might smoke the cigars left out on the altar with Martin. But Orquídea was only ever found in an upholstered chair in front of the fire, sipping an offering of whiskey as Rhiannon played with Pedrito at her feet.

Rhiannon’s rose never stopped changing and she never stopped talking to the dragonflies that returned, the birds and deer that trailed after her. Mike’s parents eventually called to check up on their granddaughter, but it was Marimar who adopted her. Marimar who told her the same stories their mothers grew up hearing. It was Rey who taught her how to paint, how to curse, how to find hidden doors. Enrique who taught her how to apologize. Caleb Jr. who taught her about the science of plants. Ernesta, how to classify the species of fish that should not exist in their valley, but the Montoyas had a habit of ignoring what should be possible.

When the house was full that way, Marimar wondered if it could have been like this always. But that was the way of missing people. You wished for them, you longed for them, you forgot them. Then you wished for them again.

“Do you think they’re really here?” Rey asked, as he set the table. There was paint on his cheek. Sometimes Marimar wondered if there was more paint on her cousin than on actual canvas, but he was the expert.

“I don’t know. I don’t think it matters.” She touched the orchid petals at her throat. She didn’t know the species, but he was still making her way through the pictures of the four thousand types of orchids that grew in Ecuador. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever find it, if the bloom was made especially for her. The petals were pitch black rimmed in red, with a shimmering white heart. Tiny green thorns sprouted along the bones of her clavicles.

“?A comer!” Tía Silvia shouted from the halls.

The dining table Enrique and Caleb Jr. had built was long enough for all the Montoyas, past, present, and future. A crackling pernil was placed at the center, bowls of rice, lentils, red onion, and tomato salsa. Golden coins of plantains and a bowl of French fries for Rhiannon.

Marimar looked across the table at Orquídea and watched her grandmother hold court. She knew it wouldn’t always be like this. She knew they would fight and leave and return again. She knew they would always be a little bit afraid of the dark and silence and loneliness, but the valley adapted with them.

Sometimes Marimar needed to leave, too. She tested the limits of her father’s gift. She thought of the things she was made of—flesh and bone, thorns and salt, bruises and promises, the sigh of the universe.

Marimar Montoya flew into the unknown, but she always, always knew how to find her way back.





35

THEN




Orquídea Divina stepped inside. She walked into every room, down every hall. Then, she found her way back to the living room. She took a seat in front of the fireplace. She wished for a spark, an ember, and it flew from her palm and into the dry logs. She’d need more. Music, laughter, safety. But for now, on her first day in Four Rivers, she toed off the shoes from her aching feet. She basked in that feeling, that certainty that this was the perfect place to put down her roots.