You Should Have Been Nicer to My Mom, page 13
Xiomara expelled air before she said, “It’s been a long day.”
Rafael’s smile faded. “Yeah. It has.” He took a sip. Silence hung between them like a tarp, thin and easily punctured. Neither had much to say. Xiomara wondered how much longer her uncle was planning on staying in the kitchen. She hoped the caffeine wouldn’t keep him so alert he’d notice her snooping through Papi Ramon’s study—
“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” Rafael muttered. Xiomara froze, emotional whiplash catching her by surprise.
“O-oh” was all she managed to say as she fumbled to put the cap back on her water bottle. Her uncle turned away. He rested his mug on the counter as his other hand ran over his face. His shoulders came up in a tense wall, then flexed as they shifted downward. Xiomara noticed how Rafael seemed to stand taller when he relaxed, shaking out the brief grip that grief had on him. He turned with a smile and a seed of shame planted itself square between Xiomara’s lungs.
She wasn’t the only one who missed Papi Ramon.
“Can I ask you something weird?” Xiomara hesitated. “What was Papi Ramon like as a pastor?” Not exorcist, just pastor. Her family made it clear what they did and didn’t remember about Papi Ramon, and Xiomara wasn’t eager to start a fight about why she was actually right.
Rather, she hoped to find something in his answer, a story about how Papi Ramon went off for days at a time, strengthened only by his Bible and bottle of anointed oil and protected by God. That was how her grandfather had made it seem, at least. He’d always made himself a triumphant hero, something between a David and Samson. Xiomara remembered his gleaming smile, the way he leaned in when he dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. She tried to think—what was it that he said? Did he say a specific prayer? Did he invoke God’s name and make the demon jump?
She grasped at the memory, but all that came was that damned question—do you want to know how your mother really died?
Rafael hacked up a laugh. His eyes glistened, staring into a distant memory before finally answering.
“He was mean.”
Xiomara was stunned.
Rafael slurped coffee. “You know, I used to be jealous of you and the others when you were little kids. Papi was always so nice to you. Made me wonder what I did wrong that he was so mean when I was a boy.” He shook his head as if answering his own question. “But that’s just how it is. You have kids and you’re hard on them, but then your kids have kids and it’s like they’re angels . . .”
He spoke like he knew from experience but the last time Xiomara checked, Yaritza was still childless.
A chuckle escaped Rafael’s lips, and he stumbled around the table, finding stability on a stool around the counter. Xiomara caught it then—a tinny scent, the kind she was used to smelling late at night when she walked across campus to her dorm and a gaggle of freshmen tried to hide their underage drinking. It was nearly hidden by the coffee, but Rafael’s clumsiness confirmed her suspicion—he wasn’t just grieving. The man was drunk. The coffee was just an attempt to sober up.
Was he drinking all day in the storage room? Xiomara frowned, wondering just how many bottles he had.
She got her answer when Rafael’s chuckle turned into a sniffle, which rolled into a barely contained sob. He’s been drinking drinking. Rafael choked back tears and coffee as Xiomara backed out of the kitchen, praying that God would be merciful and not let the damned floor creak in alert. For once, God—and the house—played nice.
Xiomara slinked past the library and to the study. She lingered right outside the door and kicked herself when she turned away from it in favor of the stairs. She was sick of the way no one ever paid her consideration back in kind. And still, and still, she climbed the steps, forcing herself forward and refusing to quiet her steps even when the house came alive with its petulant groaning and whines. She entered Mami’s room and stood right next to Yaritza until the young woman finally glanced away from her phone.
“What?” she said, in mid-text.
“Your dad is drunk, crying in the kitchen.” And also, I think he implied you were pregnant. She didn’t want to know, so she wouldn’t ask.
Yaritza scowled. “So?”
“So go talk to him,” Xiomara pleaded. Exasperation didn’t even begin to describe what she was feeling. Was it too much to ask to want a burden to be shared? Yaritza didn’t budge. Staring down at her cousin’s phone, Xiomara briefly considered chucking it out of the window.
“Wait . . .” Xiomara squinted and snatched the phone. “Are you talking to a journalist about our family?”
“Hey!” Yaritza launched herself off the bed. She all but tackled Xiomara, taking the both of them down.
Xiomara’s ass smacked the floor, a flat and dull pain marking the point of contact, and she rolled onto her side to keep away from Yaritza’s clawing hands. Yaritza chained her arms around Xiomara’s waist and let gravity deliver a second blow. Xiomara spilled onto her side and sprawled on her stomach. She felt the full weight of Yaritza’s knee in her back, and she screeched in pain.
“Get off!” She bucked. Unbalanced, her cousin thunked down next to her.
“Give it back!” Yaritza struck her shoulder with the soft underside of her fist. The pain was manageable and light. Xiomara maneuvered to bring her foot against Yaritza’s torso and push her away. She held the phone far away in one hand while forcing Yaritza farther with the other. Yaritza, in turn, clawed at Xiomara’s shirt and cardigan, stretching it until stitches popped. Her nails were sharp enough that they dug into her skin, leaving a trailing burn down Xiomara’s side. Xiomara’s arms weakened, and Yaritza gained the advantage. She yanked Xiomara’s hair hard, wrenching a scream from her lips.
“What are you two doing?!”
The door flew open. Manuel’s red glare made the room grow ten degrees chillier. Though Xiomara froze, Yaritza made for the phone and jumped to her feet.
“What are you doing?” the man snapped once more. “Don’t you have any shame, acting like this in your grandfather’s house?”
Yaritza and Xiomara shared a look from across the room. A quick calculation being done—if Xiomara revealed that Yaritza was talking to a journalist about the family’s scandals, how angry would Manuel be? The answer was neither wanted to find out. Xiomara forced a pout, feigning remorse until their uncle would leave.
“People are trying to sleep!” Manuel continued. “If you’re going to fight, take it outside.”
And the outside, in response, roared dramatically with thunder.
Manuel turned on his way out, slamming the door behind him.
The silence that followed was as fragile as a cobweb. Not knowing where to start, Xiomara sucked in a deep breath, hoping to collect her thoughts, but before she was able to exhale, Yaritza pounced her with a plea.
“Please don’t say anything.”
Xiomara looked at her in shock. “Why? You’re literally the one spreading everyone’s business.”
Yaritza quickly shook her head. “No, I’m not! I promise, I had no idea about Manuel or Chico or even Aury. Please, you have to believe me.”
“Who else could it be?” Xiomara said. “You’re the only one who thinks all of this is funny.”
“Because it is funny,” her cousin said. “Don’t act like you don’t think it is.”
Xiomara bristled, feeling a tickle of truth in there. It climbed up her spine and pulled on the corners of her lips.
“Ha!” Yaritza threw a pointed finger at Xiomara. “I saw that smile.”
With ironclad will, Xiomara pressed her mouth into a line.
“Sex trafficking isn’t my idea of a joke.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” her cousin said. “Seriously, I would not have kept this a secret if I’d actually known what they were doing.”
Yaritza’s eyes glistened with desperation. It was unnerving to see her like that. Xiomara thought about the situation from all angles. Even if she wanted to snitch, telling anyone in the family that Yaritza was talking to journalists would not end well. Marisa would tell Aury, making her promise not to get mad first. Aury would promise—and then immediately break her promise.
Manuel and Henry would hear her screams and join in. It would likely get violent. Xiomara did not want to be responsible for that. More importantly, she couldn’t see Yaritza being the one that had sold their family out. If she had, why bother showing up to the will reading at all?
“Fine,” Xiomara agreed.
Relieved, Yaritza flopped back on the bed. “Thank you!”
“But you still shouldn’t be talking to a journalist about it.” Xiomara tutted. Maybe Marisa was right—they needed media training. “They’ll twist your words around on you.”
“I can handle it.”
Sensing the conversation was over, Xiomara went to the door. An aura of pain spread through her lower back, and she winced as her fingers softly prodded the edge.
“You didn’t need to press your knee into my back.”
“And you didn’t need to take my phone.” Yaritza smirked.
Resting a hand on the doorknob, she was hesitant to ask one final question. “Hey. What do you think about what Papi Ramon said in the will? About there being a demon among us?”
With her back to Yaritza, Xiomara waited. She didn’t want to turn around. There was that feeling again—the feeling of the walls reaching out to her, the floor closing in. She wondered why Yaritza didn’t feel anything of the sort. Maybe she did and she was just better at ignoring it.
“Why not?” She tossed the answer at Xiomara with the same kind of tone someone would use to order a pizza. “If we’re being real, it’s not like we don’t have worse people in our family.”
* * *
Xiomara trudged back to the library in a haze. Listlessness was setting in. It was beginning to feel pointless, following vaguely connected clues. Everyone else seemed to be more worried about the scandals and ignored the urgent request in Papi Ramon’s will. Worse than that, they couldn’t even agree not to fight with one another. Xiomara couldn’t argue with her cousin—Yaritza was right, after all. Even if there was a demon in the family, that still meant everyone else was horrible and human. What was their excuse?
I wish Papi Ramon were still here, Xiomara thought miserably. She wanted to leave the demon stuff to him. What was he thinking when he wrote the will? Ironically, only God knew.
Or Naomi. Xiomara had already asked the home aide what Papi Ramon was like in the last days. As a housekeeper and home aide, Naomi had spent more time with Papi Ramon in the last couple of years than anyone else in the family. After Josefina’s death, he was near inconsolable. Even Xiomara didn’t want to visit for more than a few hours.
But Naomi was always there. Xiomara could ask again, maybe ask different questions, beg and plead for Naomi to tell her something she missed, some odd statements Papi Ramon made when he thought he was alone or a strange new routine he had taken up in his old age. She was exhausted and desperate for something more than just vague hints and flimsy clues.
The library door creaked open, and with her eyes already adjusted to the dark, she searched for Naomi’s sleeping figure.
“Hey, Naomi?” Xiomara whispered. The bundle of blankets fooled her into sinking her hand well into the folds. She pulled and flapped the blanket, finding no one underneath it. Xiomara stood up just as the door creaked again.
“What are you doing?” Naomi asked, closing the door behind her. Compared to Xiomara’s whispers, there was an accusatory tone in her question. If the lights were on, Naomi might have even glared at her.
“I was looking for you,” Xiomara said. “I need to ask you something. About Papi Ramon.”
“Oh.” There was a frown in her voice. An awkward pause that made it seem like Naomi was now a little self-conscious. Her silhouette wrapped its arms around itself in a hug and leaned against the door frame.
Xiomara softened, all at once realizing that the topic might have actually just been difficult for Naomi to discuss. I’m not the only one who misses him. Sure, the home aide worked for him, but wasn’t that a kindness in itself? Instead of abandoning her after the loss of Julia, the job was a lifeline to help the freshly turned eighteen-year-old avoid homelessness. What other man would do that?
“What about him?”
“I was wondering if—”
A shriek sounded through the house, carving through the air like a rusted knife. Xiomara and Naomi just about collided trying to open the door and went skidding out into the hall. Rafael nearly crashed into them from behind.
“What was that?” Xiomara asked her uncle. Despite his being previously drunk, he seemed to have sobered up fast and maneuvered around them. He ignored her question, instead sprinting to the end of the hall and stopping at the door of the study. Light spilled out, illuminating Rafael’s bloodshot eyes and confused expression.
“Aury?” His voice came out like a mewling cat’s, soft and small and vulnerable. Xiomara could easily imagine him as a young boy, fidgeting with the end of his shirt, eyes as wide as the sun.
Something scrambled inside the room, and a figure suddenly emerged from the light, angular in form and scraping against the floor as it crawled out. Tears, fat and inky, streamed down Aury’s face as Rafael tried to help her up. She wouldn’t have it, though. She pushed against him just as much as she pulled upward to get to her feet.
“No! Get off me!” Her eyes were wild and darted around, unfocused.
“Stop! It’s me!” Rafael tried to soften her blows. But the moment she was on her feet again, she barreled straight through him and jumped up the stairs.
“Aury!” Rafael yelled after her. “Aury, ¡espera!”
“What the hell . . . ?” Naomi muttered, frozen. Xiomara listened to the thumping feet upstairs eventually end with the slam of the door. Rafael knocked persistently, begging to be let in.
Xiomara cut through the hall to the study. Her eyes winced with pricks of pain as they adjusted to the harsh light. It was so bright that she swore she could feel it.
But even stronger was the smell. Pungent copper mixed with burnt wood. The undertone of sulfur. Xiomara stepped into the study for the second time that night to discover large claw marks on Papi Ramon’s desk.
And they dripped red.
8:32 p.m.
Twenty minutes later, the family coalesced in Marisa and Aury’s shared old room. The same size as Josefina’s room, made even smaller by two twin-sized beds pressed against opposite walls, and with all the extra bodies, Xiomara might as well have been sitting in a sauna. Warmth swaddled her even as she tried to keep space between her, Yaritza, and Naomi. And it didn’t help that the older adults were so much more tense than the younger ones. There was a quiet understanding that if someone spoke out of turn, it would only lead to a major fight.
Aury sat on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest, sniffling intermittently while we waited for her to calm down. Marisa rubbed circles into her back, cooing soft words of consolation. Sitting on the opposite bed, Xiomara’s knee jiggled with anxiety, knowing that she had to approach this delicately.
What were you doing in Papi Ramon’s study? No, that sounded like an accusation.
What happened? Too broad, but it was a starting point.
What did you see? The what possibly being a demon. Xiomara didn’t want to bring it up again so soon, but they had to see reason now.
“Everything is going to be okay,” Marisa murmured. Aury leaned into the crook of her sister’s neck, staring blankly at Rafael’s feet. Despondent.
Rafael shifted from foot to foot impatiently.
“Can I ask now?” Rafael huffed, throwing a hand up as if waiting for something to fall into it. An answer, perhaps. Marisa sneered at him even as she spoke to Aury.
“You talk when you’re ready,” she said. Rafael scoffed and turned away. Both Manuel and Henry remained right at the door frame, lingering like a bad cold. Their faces were neutral, but Xiomara caught the way their eyes darted to Aury every single time she so much as hiccupped; they were only feigning disinterest. Despite treating the open door like an invisible barrier, curiosity still got the better of them. Aury’s crocodile tears were nowhere to be found. She was truly and utterly shaken, and—worst of all—refusing to speak. The only sound she made was a sharp nasal inhale that forced her snot up into its cavity, rippling like a buzz saw cutting through the room.
From behind, Yaritza leaned over Xiomara’s shoulder and whispered, “Is she ever going to say anything or . . . ?”
“Shh!” Marisa hushed her. “If you’re just here to gossip, go somewhere else!”
There was that word again—and that accusation. Marisa may have sent a sharp look to Yaritza first, but then it dashed to Xiomara just for a moment before dissipating completely.
Manuel could not hold it in anymore. “This is ridiculous!” he yelled. When Marisa shushed him, he spat back, “No! Why are we all here if she’s not going to talk?”
“Then go back to your room, Manuel!” Marisa’s voice cracked. Her feet came down on the floor with a loud thud, and she planted both hands on Manuel’s chest, pushing him away. “No one asked you to come over here! All of you—get out! All you’re doing is stressing her out!” She turned to grab Naomi first and then Yaritza. The two protested against being dragged out.
“I’m not even doing anything!” Yaritza whined.
“I can walk!” Naomi said.
The men grumbled with each other outside the door, and when Xiomara looked back to Aury, she could have sworn she saw her lips move.
And this time she heard something.
“You too, Xiomara!” Marisa’s hand circled Xiomara’s wrist. She had begun dragging Xiomara out when Xiomara saw Aury’s lips move.
“. . . saw it . . .”
“Wait!” Xiomara wrung her hand from Marisa’s. “She’s saying something.”
Everyone returned to the room. Aury’s shuddering breath felt amplified in the silence of the family.
“I . . . saw it . . .”
