You Should Have Been Nicer to My Mom, page 3
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, her thoughts chanted as if it were normal. It was almost jarring. The fear was familiar—like she was always afraid of the stairs and just hadn’t remembered until this very moment. She wondered what would happen if she did look back. What sort of consequence awaited her if she disobeyed? Audacity forming, Xiomara turned on her heel and gazed down the staircase.
There was nothing. Just a normal, if old and rickety, set of stairs.
She scoffed at her fear. Reality snapped in—she was never afraid of the stairs. What she had been afraid of was what she always felt watching her from the stairs—and from much of the house. Xiomara had forever felt something lurking in the corners and shadows and bathrooms. Something she couldn’t quite parse. Eyes coming from places a person could not always fit.
Eyes that always made her think, Maybe it wasn’t a person.
Xiomara lingered with that thought for a moment, still not moving. She wondered if it was the sound of the pounding rain, or the miasma of animosity toward her family (and Naomi’s animosity toward her), or Papi Ramon’s lingering death, but this house that had always been so welcoming now suddenly felt other.
She looked down the hallway. It mirrored the first floor—long, with several doors on each side, four to her left and three to the right. The floral wallpaper peeled intermittently, exposing wooden paneling, like wounds. She traced a finger up and down the torn edges as she trailed down the hall, wondered exactly when it had started to fall apart. She remembered what it had looked like when she pulled up in the Uber, and thought it was like the house itself was sick. Infected. A virus that was once confined to a single moment now spreading itself over the vast length of the house. Or maybe the house had always been this imperfect, and the mask could no longer be maintained.
Xiomara tried to recall the last time she was here, because she couldn’t picture the house ever looking like this. Couldn’t believe Papi Ramon would let the house look like this.
Has it been so long? Xiomara thought.
It’s been years, a voice supplied, not quite her own.
Shortly after Mami’s funeral, she remembered once again, and it took her a moment to realize she’d already been through this. It was like her memory was on a loop, and yet she let it play out anyway.
She had stayed for a week, and though Papi Ramon insisted that she stay longer, Xiomara had to get back to school. And while that was a legitimate excuse, it wasn’t the only one. Xiomara just couldn’t stay in the same place her mother had grown up. She couldn’t stomach sleeping in the same bed that Mami had slept in. It was bad enough that she saw Mami every time she looked in the mirror. She had seen pictures of her mother when she was younger—Mami was slender with a round face and a mole on her earlobe. And while Xiomara had no mole, the older she got, the more she could see that picture looking back at her, in the curves of her cheeks and the folds of her eyelids.
When Mami was still alive, she would brag to her friends about how similar Xiomara was to her, even in personality. Xiomara was well-behaved, quiet, didn’t cause trouble, and above all, always listened to her elders. Maybe that was why Papi Ramon had wanted her to stay longer. She looked and acted so much like Josefina. And Josefina was Papi Ramon’s favorite child.
If he could see her now, she was sure he would mistake her for his youngest daughter.
That brought out a bitter laugh, and the echo startled her for just a second—she hadn’t realized how quiet it was compared to the stairs. Did anyone else have these same emotions? The same sudden realizations that lent to distant memories they’d thought were long forgotten? Rafael seemed to be having a few. Aury and Marisa appeared entirely detached. And Naomi—well, Xiomara couldn’t imagine that the home aide would be struck by nostalgia, having never really left the house at all.
Grief. Xiomara settled on that word for explanation. She was grieving and feeling guilty, and the combination of the two was heightening all the wrong senses, twisting her perception of what used to be against what simply was. The truth was she loved her grandfather dearly, and was attempting to justify her absence in the last few years of his life.
The only thing wrong with Papi Ramon’s house was that he was gone.
Xiomara stopped in front of his bedroom door. Across from it had been her mom’s room. It was strange the way she felt like there was a direct line between the two. A link that kept the other’s memories alive. Through Xiomara, Mami could relive her childhood. To Papi Ramon, Xiomara was a lovely reminder of the daughter he favored.
Without either of them, Xiomara was an anchor without a ship, weighed down and unable to stop as she continued down the length of the hallway. As a child, the house had felt so big to her that it might as well have been the size of the whole world, with undiscovered secrets lying in wait. But right now? It felt snug. And with the rest of her extended family coming for the will reading, snug didn’t mean cozy. It meant suffocating.
Somehow she knew it was only going to get tighter.
She looked away from the doors, to the end of the hall, where a window that seemed to have been glued shut did little to let in the gray light from outside. It hadn’t always been glued shut, Xiomara remembered. Her grandmother left it cracked to keep the air from going stale—when had that changed again?
Do you want to fly?
Xiomara shuddered and turned away, rubbing that small spot behind her neck until it was soothed. Her gut told her to head back downstairs, to leave the second floor and return to the library immediately. She frowned at the impulse, not knowing where it came from. None of her memories were so bad that they validated the apprehension she felt, constantly buzzing beneath her skin. Sure, Xiomara was too afraid to venture up the steps alone—the eyes—but the rest of her childhood memories were largely positive. She stalked forward, pushing against the unknown phobia of the window while relaying the good memories in her head. Xiomara either played with Naomi in the library, watched cartoons in the dining room, or sat in Papi Ramon’s study while he regaled her of the time he’d been a pastor.
Oh, right. He used to be a pastor. How did she forget about that? It was back in DR, before Mami was born but sometime after Marisa. He was very poor as a pastor, and so he and Xiomara’s grandmother, Mami Inez, struggled. With his last thousand dollars, he decided to create his own business—A-B Millennium—and only flourished from there. It was like God had decided to reward him for all the years he’d spent guiding His sheep. There were entire hours dedicated to Papi’s experience as a pastor, while she was still small enough to fit on his lap. Mostly on Sundays, because Xiomara always got in trouble for falling asleep between the pews and Mami was so embarrassed she’d want Papi Ramon to set her straight. But each time, Papi Ramon would only chuckle and bounce his adorable (his words) granddaughter on his knee while she complained about how tedious Sunday school always was.
“What about church is so boring?” he asked.
“All we do is sit and pray.” She pouted. “Or stand and pray. Or kneel and pray. Can’t you just teach me how to do what you did?”
“Preach?” he teased.
“No! Egg-sersize!”
Xiomara blinked. The memory had hit her like a slap upside the head. Papi Ramon wasn’t just a pastor—he was an exorcist. A traveling one, if she remembered correctly. What a strange background for a successful businessman. Back then, Xiomara was too young to know anything about demons or that an exorcist had to be appointed by the Vatican.
And she was pretty sure the Vatican had never once approached Papi Ramon for such a thing. For one thing, he was Pentecostal, not Catholic. And no governing body within that denomination decided who could and couldn’t be exorcists. She’d remember if that were the case, otherwise. Except . . .
Would I?
For she was finding that memory was a tricky thing, and in the hour she had been at home, she’d already been assaulted by odd recollections she had no choice but to consider as facts, while “remembering” things that seemed like they should have been ingrained in her. Xiomara rubbed the back of her head, nearly sent into vertigo by the memory of Papi Ramon doubling over in laugher. He always thought her awkward pronunciation of the word exorcist was the cutest thing in the world.
What he didn’t find so cute was when she kept going.
“He didn’t like talking about demons,” Xiomara said out loud as if to her reflection. It moved in time with her as she dug a little deeper to why. Unpleasant thoughts suddenly jumped to the surface. When the topic came up, he couldn’t help but shift his eyes around, as if searching for something. He’d try to hide it in that laugh of his, but once Xiomara realized it, she couldn’t stop noticing it. And once she did, she would push. Most of the time, Papi Ramon made an excuse to get away, once even practically dumping her off his lap to “take a call.”
Except one time . . .
She remembered it, or “remembered” it—whichever it was didn’t matter. But in that moment, Papi held a stern facial expression. His eyes went tight and he squared his jaw, and at the time, she thought she was in trouble, like she had asked about something forbidden. Looking back, however, she didn’t read annoyance in his expression.
She read absolute terror.
He forced his eyes straight ahead, as if avoiding the gaze of some creature as he leaned over and whispered into her ear. She listened now for those words . . .
And found she couldn’t hear anything. What did he say? Why couldn’t she remember? Bits and pieces of information slipped in between blinks, but nothing she could latch onto until, suddenly, the tangential answer appeared in her mind: that of her wetting the bed for weeks. Of Josefina getting sick of washing the sheets daily. He’d said something unpleasant—so horrific that it had scarred her as a child. But where was that scar now?
What the hell did Papi Ramon say to me?
“Demons are . . .” She struggled to find the word, find the memory. Her mouth felt like a broken record, skipping back to the start of the sentence but never finishing it. “Demons are . . . demons are . . .” Xiomara watched her reflection in a daze when it finally answered for her.
“Crafty.”
“¡Hola, Manito!”
Aury’s voice shot through the floorboards, jolting Xiomara out of her thoughts. God, that woman had a set of lungs on her. She lacked both an inside voice and tact, determined to announce arrivals to everyone in a ten-mile radius. Xiomara glanced down the hall and then back to the window. Her reflection seemed to have grown more transparent. Xiomara rubbed her eyes with a vigor that felt motivated by unique fear.
Get away, get away, get away, GETAWAY—she could not fend off the sudden distress until she looked again to confirm that her reflection remained transparent. Of course it did. Window reflections were always transparent, unlike mirror reflections. And she wasn’t in front of a mirror, was she? Xiomara took in a deep breath and shed the uncertainty that clung like a second skin. A fog rested over her mind as she turned her attention back to the family that arrived.
If Tío Manuel is here, then Henry and Wanda probably are too.
She wasn’t any more excited about that prospect than anything else happening in this house today. Xiomara’s cousins were respectively nine and five years older than her, and acted as though they lived on another planet altogether. Wanda had adopted her father’s Pentecostal holier-than-thou attitude, which made it difficult for anyone to carry on a conversation with her if it wasn’t about the Bible. And Henry made brand names a personality trait. If he wasn’t decked out in Louis Vuitton, it was Burberry, or Gucci, or some other luxury apparel.
Personally, Xiomara couldn’t understand it. When Mami had spoken about Papi Ramon’s hardship as a pastor, she’d mentioned that the family had been so impoverished that all of the kids had had to learn to share pairs of shoes. Yet, Manuel was also a pastor, and he was on his way to building a second megachurch. Maybe their styles in sermons were different. Not that she’d ever find out—she had no intention of ever stepping into one of Manuel’s buildings.
Xiomara descended the steps slowly and carefully.
Once upon a time, she’d read an article that outlined the mark of a wealthy person. It went beyond the usual clues, like clothing and cars, and instead focused on the subtle politics of scent. What was a better symbol of status and leisure than a temporary sensation? After reading that, Xiomara couldn’t stop noticing it among her older relatives. Aury liked to pile on sweet fragrances until it burned nostrils, Marisa preferred the smell of vanilla bean (believing it classy), Rafael’s cologne was a kind of bergamot blend.
Even Papi, who didn’t truly experience upward mobility until he married into the family, had begun wearing Aēsop Rōzu EDP after Mami gifted it to him for their anniversary. Naomi barely smelled like anything other than the soap used to shower and household cleaning products. Scent was a tried-and-true method of distinguishing the upper class from the lower.
And what would Manuel’s scent be? Xiomara could guess. For a man who’d become a pastor just like his father had been, while still attending the family business just like his father had, who was his father’s first child and therefore had had a special connection with his father—for a man like that, Xiomara could only imagine that he’d find his way along to a specific Ralph Lauren brand.
She stopped at the bottom of the steps. Manuel was already developing gray hair and crow’s feet, but his wrinkled hands still looked strong and steady. He peeled off his light jacket and handed it to Naomi, who pursed her lips tight in response. Force of habit had made her open the door, and now it was force of habit that shoved her back into the role of housekeeper.
“Hey, Naomi. You’re looking good.” Henry acknowledged her with a sweep of his eyes. Naomi tightened her grip on their coats as she stepped away, stoic expression souring into revulsion. Her reaction prompted a cheeky laugh from him.
“Hi, Tía.” Wanda waddled over to Aury with a kiss. Her ankle-length jean skirt made her strides short and slow. Henry had to match her gait as he followed. What Henry lacked in height, he made up for in broad shoulders. The stocky young man had never been able to hide his playful nature, earning the nickname “Chico” when he was a youth. Now he picked up Aury in one sweeping hug and spun her around, showing off his strength.
“Chico, put me down!” Aury laughed. He did, and then picked up Marisa right after.
“When did he get so strong?” Marisa swatted his arm with just as big a grin.
“Aury, Marisa, ¿cómo están? Where’s Rafael?” Manuel asked. Henry’s father was stoic as ever, preferring to keep a respectful distance from his siblings. It was like he didn’t want their sin rubbing off on him.
Upon hearing his name, Rafael’s head poked out of the storage room. “Manito! ¿Qué lo que?”
“I’d be better if you stopped calling me that,” Manuel complained, crossing his arms. “I’m older than all of you, you know.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t show.” The youngest sibling gave him a hard pat on the back, nearly shoving him forward. Rafael was a beanpole compared to him. He stood over his older brother with inches to spare.
“Uh-huh. Is everyone here already?” Manuel searched the rest of the hall with his eyes—and immediately caught sight of Xiomara. She stilled for what seemed like years while the family continued on between them.
“Everyone but Yaritza and the lawyer.” Aury sighed. “What was his name? McClaren?”
“You would think lawyers would be more punctual,” Marisa complained.
“He’s not supposed to be here until three—give him time,” Rafael said. “Besides, I don’t think he’s been here before.”
Henry asked, “Didn’t he have to visit Papi Ramon at least once? Naomi, you’ve met him, right?”
Xiomara wasn’t sure what Naomi’s response was—the voices blurred and melted into the background. Xiomara’s feet took her to Manuel, and her arms wrapped around his waist, moving as a puppet led by strings and certainly not affection. It was simply obligation. And when he kissed her on the cheek, she could feel the obligation in that greeting as well. No warmth or kindness; the two might as well have been strangers.
If only.
To twist the knife, when Xiomara breathed, she recognized Papi Ramon’s scent easily. Polo EDT—a mature blend of pine, leather, and tobacco.
Papi Ramon’s favorite.
It played on his natural smell differently, so it didn’t exactly smell like Papi Ramon, but it was close enough that Xiomara nearly closed her eyes and imagined she was hugging her grandfather.
“You’ve gotten so big, Xiomara,” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. “You look so much like your mother. I hope you’re making better decisions than her.”
And there it was—the reason she usually kept her distance. She didn’t respond. Instead, Xiomara held her breath. If she so much as exhaled, it would be with a string of curses. This was his greatest sin, in Xiomara’s opinion: this ludicrous sense of superiority. People made the mistake of believing him to be a humble person of integrity because he didn’t flaunt his wealth or gossip behind anyone’s back. As a pastor, he had to be above all that. And she supposed he was—on the surface. Manuel was too good for the dirt, so he had to float above the clouds.
That was why it was difficult to breathe around him. He smelled insecurity like a shark smelled blood. Xiomara understood why his ex-wife had left him.
Still engrossed in their own conversations, the family moved into the dining room and sat around the long oval table, each in the chair they always seemed to gravitate toward. Xiomara hung back, falling in step with Naomi.
“Full house,” Naomi remarked. Xiomara hummed a quiet “Mm-hm,” then said, “I remember thinking the house was so big when I was younger.”
Naomi nodded. “You and me both.”
Xiomara mentally stalled, wishing she had more to say. There was a familiarity to this moment, a recognition of the pattern. Xiomara and Naomi would be talking, idly chatting among themselves about books or cartoons or about Papi’s stories, until the conversation fizzled to nothingness. Xiomara would get the impression that she had to say something—anything—but the longer they passed in silence, the less equipped she felt to disrupt it.
