The Paper Swan(85)

“My mama, of course.” She seemed surprised by the question.

Damian knew kids were allowed in Valdemoros with their mothers, up to a certain age. He hadn’t realized that they let them out for school.

“When does your mama get out?”

“Soon.”

She seemed to be taking it all in stride, but it explained why she stopped by Casa Paloma. It was a brief respite before she headed back to the grimness of Valdemoros.

“I have to go now,” she said, reclaiming the swan on the counter and tucking it into her pocket.

Damian watched her collect the green canvas school bag she’d left by the door.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he said.

“Sierra. My name is Sierra.” She turned around, walking in reverse towards the gates.



Damian had just gotten off the phone with Rafael when he saw Sierra again. He damn near dropped the glass panel he was installing in the cabinets.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Lice,” she replied.

Her long, dark locks had been reduced to a buzz cut and she looked like she had shrunk overnight. It was probably because her big, doe eyes swallowed all of her face now, but Damian felt a tugging of his heart strings. Valdemoros was no place for a kid. Lice was the least of the horrors that she faced. If he had been younger when they took MaMaLu to prison, he could have been this kid. He could have been Sierra.

“Hey, you want to do something fun today?”

She dropped her bag on the floor and took up the stool that was quickly becoming her spot. “What?”

“Have you ever been on a boat?”

Sierra’s eyes lit up.

It was the beginning of many adventures, both on the water, and off. Damian taught Sierra how to bait a fishing hook, how to steer, how to read the sky. She tried to trick him into doing her math until he started answering every question wrong, earning him permanent banishment from homework duty. He tried to show her how to make paper swans, but it needed focus and discipline, and how could she when there were banisters to slide down, and ladybugs to catch, and ice cream to eat before she headed back? Her swans were sloppy and messy and fell over on their faces, beak down.

Damian and Sierra fought and argued and laughed for the two hours she was there after school. A week went by, and then two, and then three. Slowly, Damian started healing. His nights were still filled with a deep sense of longing for Skye, but he had something to look forward to on the days Sierra came around. When Rafael came to visit, he picked up on the subtle change.

“Damn. This place looks fantastic.” He walked around, from room to room. “But you.” He slapped Damian on the back. “You look better.”

Damian had lost the pallor that came with years of confinement. He had kept fit in prison, but now he had the sturdiness of a man with roots. Casa Paloma was home, and Damian was not just restoring the structure, he was re-learning happiness, re-wiring himself, re-seeing the world through Sierra.

“So, am I going to meet this little girl?” asked Rafael, putting away the business documents that needed Damian’s attention.

“Not today. It’s Dia de Los Muertos.”

Day of the Dead was a Mexican festival that was celebrated over two days: Dia de los Angelitos, dedicated to souls of children who had passed away, and Dia de Los Muertos, celebrated the following day, to honor the spirits of deceased adults. Day of the Dead was a remembrance of loved ones that had passed on, and a celebration of the continuity of life. It was an important day for Damian because he had finally got a new tombstone for MaMaLu, a completed one that was fit to honor her memory. It had taken him weeks to have it custom made and he had received a call that morning, that it was now installed.

“You all set?” asked Rafael.

“I am,” said Damian.

They drove to Paza del Mar, noting the new developments that were now lining either side of the road—modest little homes, interspersed with lavish mansions, hotels, shops, and restaurants. The area had gone through two distinct phases: before El Charro and after El Charro. What had once been a small fishing village that had served as an outpost for the drug lord’s dealings had bloomed after his death. Crime rates dropped and tourists began to trickle in, opening up jobs and commerce. The presence of foreigners deterred the cartel from trying to re-establish its hold over Paza del Mar. A tourist caught in the crossfire was bad news. It inevitably attracted international attention, and the capos preferred to stay out of the limelight. The shadow of fear slowly lifted off the sleepy little village. It transformed into a charming, laid back getaway, its residents never knowing of the two boys who had made it happen, the two boys who as men now, were parked outside Camila’s.