You Should Have Been Nicer to My Mom, page 10
Bet she regrets saying that now. Aury and Manuel would be stuck under the same roof for an entire night. Seeing each other would be unavoidable, especially for dinner. Wanda was still in the kitchen, working on the sancocho. The house was pleasantly filled with the smell of a savory stew that made Xiomara’s stomach rumble. The meat alone made her mouth water.
But imagine eating right between Manuel and Aury. Her stomach would curdle from the tension.
Xiomara’s cell phone buzzed again. She took one look at the caller ID and frowned.
She decided to pick up and cut him off. “Marcus? Is something wrong?”
“Did you see the news?”
Xiomara clenched her teeth. All at once, she realized what it was about Marcus that really irritated her. She’d experienced bits and pieces of the issue during their relationship—Marcus’s propensity for being helpful. To the point of overstepping. Marcus was a self-proclaimed “problem solver,” and no matter what the issue, whether it was Xiomara’s fraught relationship with her family or her struggling grades, he was determined to help her fix it.
Or pretend it was also his problem.
It was patronizing, was what it was. One could only be sympathetic to a point. After that, it felt like he was hijacking her situation.
Worse was when he made assumptions about what she knew or felt. If Marcus ever wanted to ask a question, he would spend at least ten minutes giving context instead of getting straight to the point. He couldn’t just start a conversation; he had to make sure she was sufficiently knowledgeable about the topic first. It wasn’t so much mansplaining as it was showing off just how kind and supportive he could be.
Like he was doing now. Calling to make sure she knew that he knew about her family and that he was available as a shoulder to cry on. He expected Xiomara to be deeply affected and entirely emotional. He wanted to help Xiomara, because if she was sad, then he would be sad on her behalf.
Marcus could be very annoying.
Annoying, Xiomara thought. Not malicious. She tried to forgive him and uncurled her fingers. Thank goodness he couldn’t see her. He’d find a way to turn her obvious anger into evidence for sorrow.
“Yes. I saw the news,” she said. “What about it?”
Marcus went quiet, unsure how to follow up with that. Deciding that she must not really know, he broached the subject again. “So you know about your cousin . . . ?”
“And my uncle, yes.” Xiomara pinched the bridge of her nose. “Did you want to talk about it or something?” She flipped it on him. It would take someone truly dense to mistake proximity to a situation for ownership. Whatever was going on with Xiomara’s family was Xiomara’s business. Well, technically, anyone with internet access would know what Henry and Manuel had done, but that did not give everyone the right to pry even further.
She hoped that Marcus would understand that.
Seconds passed. Xiomara wondered what was going through his head. Perhaps it had dawned on him that she was not as distraught as he’d expected her to be. Maybe if it was the only thing going on today, she would be. But considering Papi Ramon’s message-slash-will, she had to compartmentalize if she was going to make it through the night.
“I thought you might want to,” Marcus said quietly.
“I don’t,” Xiomara admitted. What was there to even say? Her cousin was a criminal, her uncle was a hypocrite and a thief, and she regretted having shown up at all. Why couldn’t they have done the reading of the will over Zoom? She still would have had to deal with Papi Ramon’s message, but at least she would have been at home.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
What kind of question was that? Xiomara stopped herself from asking that out loud. Annoying, not malicious, she repeated, like a mantra to keep calm. She closed her eyes and pretended to go into a half-meditative state.
“I’m fine,” she answered. Would that be all? Was he going to finally leave her alone—
“Are you safe?” Xiomara’s eyes snapped open. She resisted the urge to ask him what he was going to do if she wasn’t. Doubtless, he would make an unnecessary promise to rescue her from her family. While she would welcome that from her father, an ex-boyfriend was not someone she wanted to hear that from.
“Perfectly safe,” she confirmed. The line went quiet again. Yaritza stared at her from the bed, eyebrows raised in interest. Great, now her cousin was going to start prying too—except it would be about her relationship, not the family. She would have to end the call sooner rather than later.
“Marcus, I have to go, so if there’s anything important you want to say,” she said, emphatically, “you can just text me. Okay?”
“Okay, I just—”
Xiomara hung up. Not a minute later did her phone buzz with a new text.
Let me know if anything changes
He was persistent, Xiomara could give him that. She answered with a thumbs-up emoji. Less of a promise and more of an acknowledgment of the text.
“So . . . who was that?” Yaritza casually fell on her side. Her elbow dug into the pillow, and Xiomara did her best not to wince. At least the girl had the decency to kick off her shoes before putting her feet on the bed.
“Just an old friend.” Xiomara put her phone away. If she acted with extreme nonchalance, Yaritza might just lose interest.
“Uh-huh. An old friend named Marcus?”
Xiomara mentally kicked herself. She shouldn’t have said his name at all.
“Yup.” She nodded, stepping to the window. Outside, the weather was raging, and the backyard looked more like a swamp than it did part of a suburban landscape. “Has anyone gotten in touch with the lawyer?”
Yaritza snorted. “Are you kidding me? If anyone had, we’d all be out of here. Hell, I’d be walking out, storm or no storm. I don’t want to be stuck inside with Henry.”
Neither did Xiomara.
“Wish the storm would let up . . .” she mumbled, still staring out of the window. She met her reflection with a sour expression, massaging the back of her neck with both hands. As temporary as it was, it soothed her, and she rubbed in small circles up into her roots—
Xiomara’s eyes snapped open. What is this . . . ? Her fingers went over it again: a hairless dent that curved through her skin. She turned into the window, pulled at her skin until she could confirm with her eyes what her hands felt. “Is this a fucking scar?”
“Huh?”
In three wide steps, Xiomara was crouching in front of her cousin. “This.” She pointed. “I can’t see it, but I can feel it. There’s a wide split here, right? Is it a scar?”
“Oh, shit,” Yaritza said, pressing a finger into Xiomara’s skin. She ran the length of it, ending at the nape of her neck. “Yeah, no, that’s a scar for sure. How’d you get that?”
“I don’t know!” Xiomara cried, alarmed by its sudden appearance. It was a suspicious place for a scar to be—a vulnerable place. She would not forget an injury so severe that it killed the roots of her hair. When would it have happened?
Was I really young? That was the only explanation. Pulling out her phone, Xiomara started dialing. Papi would know—he was her father; of course he would have an answer. The call immediately went to voicemail, but Xiomara didn’t leave it there. She sent a quick text, a question about the origins of the scar.
“Jesus, calm down.” Yaritza snorted.
How could she? This wasn’t even the first of the long line of memories obscured, omitted, or altered. First, Xiomara thought—no, she knew—that Papi was an exorcist. Maybe he exaggerated the details, but she knew that it was a large part of his life. Then she knew that the window at the end of the hall used to be open. It was glued shut now, and the story of why was escaping her. (Was there even a story?) And now this scar had appeared on her body, seemingly out of nowhere.
The demon can even mess with your memories if it’s from long ago enough. That was what the will had said, right? Was this what it felt like?
No, Papi Ramon was just sick. Old. There was no way he’d made a deal with a demon. He was an exorcist—okay, even if he wasn’t, his loyalties were to God first, and everything else second.
Xiomara glanced at her cell phone. Still no response from her father. Great. Now she was going to be anxiously awaiting an answer all night. Xiomara pulled away from the bed and sat on the floor with her back against the wall. She had a perfect view of the underside of the bed from there, and while it was empty of all but dust bunnies, her core was still tight with questions.
She thought about Papi Ramon and the time she’d spent with him. Sitting on his lap, listening intently as he described the way a demon hissed and spoke in a garbled language that set his teeth on end. The way they contorted the human body, pressing bones against the skin until the protrusion risked puncturing. She had nothing to compare that pain to, so she often didn’t linger too much on the description—only how Papi Ramon had fought valiantly against the creature and eventually expelled it from the victim it possessed.
And yet . . . the how was still missing from her memories. The more Xiomara thought about it, the fuzzier the memories became. How had Papi Ramon exorcised demons? Was it with a rosary? Had he just yelled Bible verses? Had he used holy water? Had he even told her?
Xiomara frowned. Something about that didn’t feel right. It was like a good-natured adult was playing got your nose! Except Xiomara wasn’t a child and the nose was that memory. She still had it, could recall every other part of the moment and almost feel the slope of her grandfather’s legs against her bottom. But that bit of information? It snuck away from her.
I just need to jog my memory. Yes, she could do that. Find something that put her thoughts and feelings into context. If she was going to be stuck in this house all night, the least she could do was not feel like she was fighting it.
Xiomara glanced between Yaritza and the door. Her cousin had a hand pressed to her mouth as she let out a long yawn.
“God, I wish Wanda would hurry up with that sancocho,” she whined. “I want to eat before I sleep.”
“I’ll check in on her,” Xiomara announced as she crossed the room. Unease grew at the thought of leaving Yaritza alone—but what was the girl in danger of? Nothing. The room was empty of everything except mothballs and dust. Xiomara stomped down on the childish fear as she left—all while ignoring the prickling feeling of being watched.
Once outside the door, she took a moment to listen carefully. Across the hall, she could hear footsteps behind the door of Papi Ramon’s old room, Henry or Manuel—or both—pacing back and forth, as well as a set of hushed voices conversing secretly. It was too difficult to make out what they were saying. Xiomara took a half step toward the door when the floor creaked loudly, giving away her position. The talking hushed, and Xiomara quickly darted down the hall.
The next room over was Marisa and Aury’s room. Xiomara could hear the older aunt much more clearly. A flurry of Spanish spilled into the hallway, as well as high-pitched laughter that felt like nails on a chalkboard.
“You’re being too loud!” Aury complained, like the pot to the kettle. At least Xiomara knew where most of her family was. As she descended the stairs, movement in the kitchen confirmed that Wanda was still working on the stew. And Naomi was likely in the library. That left the storage room, the dining room, and Papi Ramon’s study completely free.
Assuming Rafael wasn’t still searching for whatever he was looking for. Xiomara hoped she wouldn’t come across him now.
Her hand landed on the knob to Papi Ramon’s study. Breathe in, breathe out. There was no reason to be nervous. This was her grandfather’s study, and it wouldn’t be the first time she was inside. No one would fault her for it, or interrogate her. Xiomara wasn’t there to steal company secrets.
Yet her joints locked in place, becoming as rigid as iron. Like the library, Xiomara feared a permanent change behind the door, a difference in appearance so big there was a gaping chasm between before and after. At least if she never went in, she could pretend that everything was in its place—and by extension, Papi Ramon was in his place. And his place was not in a casket, six feet underground. Xiomara squeezed her eyes shut, willing away tears.
The doorknob clicked and released the bolt, allowing the door to swing open. Xiomara stood in the doorway with her breath caught in her throat.
There was something to be said about how certain senses awakened the feelings of memories rather than actual memories. For example, sight. Looking into the study, she remembered the exact placement of every bit of furniture in the room. The large bookcase that stretched to the ceiling, looming over her like a tower. The wide mahogany desk that took up the length of the room in front of a leather chair that squeaked with every movement. The double windows, and long curtains flowing down like a waterfall. The plaques and framed awards on the wall to the right, mimicking eyes in the way they watched her.
Xiomara remembered the feeling the furniture gave her. It was the same as the rest of the house—it made her feel small. A creature the size of a bug exploring a large cavern. There was always more to see, secrets to unearth, the need to map out every square inch of the room even if it was, well, just a room. It was the feeling of endless discovery, for a child like Xiomara.
Then there was smell. That Polo EDT—tobacco and pine and leather—unlocked further memories of Xiomara hanging around his neck as he spun her around, the feel of being carried to the car in a sleepy daze, the sound of the glass bottle being spritzed on her wrist when she decided she wanted to try it on for once. The scent was too mature for her but dazzling nonetheless. It was like Papi Ramon had never left.
Xiomara felt loved. Until she realized the person who’d made her feel that way was no longer around.
She stepped inside and closed the door. She almost reached a hand out to the light switch but thought better of it. The whole point of this excursion was to be discreet. She whipped out her cell phone and turned on the flashlight app. A circle of light appeared in front of her feet, and she used it to search the room more carefully.
To her left was the same looming bookcase—though it no longer felt like a tower. Her own head was halfway to the ceiling.
Xiomara searched the rows of the bookshelf—they were entirely empty. Her hands came away with dust. The pit in her stomach hardened. For the bookcase to have collected dust so quickly, it had to have been empty for a while.
Okay, there’s nothing here. That’s fine, she told herself. It had to be fine, because she was okay with her library turning into a mountain of boxes and her memories of this home turning sinister—why couldn’t she be okay with this too? Her shoulders ticked up, lungs swelling with air. Things changed, people died, it was all fine! Well, maybe not fine, but it was natural. A normal thing to expect. Xiomara just had to suck it up and brave it.
She went to the other wall. Despite the surprising desperation moving about in her body, she carefully removed and flipped over each plaque. She undid the frames, sliding the award out from between the wood or golden edges and held each one up in the dim sunlight, hoping to find something written along the backs.
There was nothing. Each time, each plaque, each frame—there was nothing written on the backs or etched in the wood, nothing sticking out from the corners or beckoning her attention. What was she even looking for? More hidden messages from Papi Ramon? Her body seemed to move on its own, less muscle memory and more like she was simply imitating something she had seen once, from someone she greatly admired. She imagined him bringing his finger up to his lips, tightly drawn together, like he was holding back a secret.
Remember my hiding places.
Xiomara’s skin rippled, a deep displeasure taking root beneath her newly discovered scar. Wrong. She gritted her teeth, jolt of nerves taking her by surprise. Something was wrong, truly wrong, and she might not have known what it was, but that did not mean it couldn’t set her off, wave after wave of profound terror, she would be fine if she could just get her skin off—
Xiomara’s hands shook as she held a frame high, eager to launch it clear across the room.
She stopped herself in time. A subtle rotten smell wafted through the room, melting her silent breakdown. She regained control of her lungs, a sensation she hadn’t realized she’d lost in the first place, and focused on the scent.
Eggs? No, it was much more pungent. Was it sulfur? Xiomara put down the frame and tried to follow the smell with her nose. With every breath, it became less faint, nearly out of grasp, and she wondered if there was a strange gas leak or she was having a stroke. The smell brought her back to the empty bookcase. It was strongest toward the bottom, and she knelt down far enough for her temple to kiss the floor.
There. Underneath the bookcase, something remained. A strip of white that illuminated with her handheld light. Xiomara reached out to grab it, surprised to feel leathery skin enclosing something with definite weight.
A book. Gold cursive was etched into the cover. Xiomara shined her light on it.
The Holy Bible.
It was hard to tell how she was feeling. Relief? Exasperation? Definitely confusion somewhere in that mix. What was the Bible doing underneath the bookcase?
“. . . I’m telling you, there’s nothing to worry about,” a voice came from outside the door.
Startled, Xiomara turned off her light, shoved the Bible back under the bookcase, and jumped behind Papi Ramon’s desk. The doorknob turned, and Aury hurried inside, closing the door behind her. Xiomara held her breath and waited for the lights to be flicked on. The floor was still littered with his awards, and Xiomara worried that Aury would see dusty handprints all over the bookcase.
Years passed. Glass cracked. The light never came on.
“Mierda,” Aury grumbled to someone on the phone. “Yeah, I’m still here. No, I just stepped on some glass.”
Xiomara slowly let out a breath. Though she wasn’t in any danger of being found out, her heart seemed to miss the memo. Aury’s voice appeared to move about the room, but came no closer. Perhaps the frames were her saving grace.
