You Should Have Been Nicer to My Mom, page 5
And it fit perfectly.
“So sorry I’m late.” He huffed, wedging a briefcase under his arm and pulling off his aviator glasses. The drizzle had already marked them several times over in the short walk toward the door, and Mr. McClaren grabbed a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe them clean. He only succeeded in causing streaks.
Xiomara and Naomi stepped aside to allow him entrance. He came in with the smell of the rain and not much else.
“First, let me just say I’m so sorry for your loss.” He offered a hand first to Naomi, then to Xiomara. They shook quietly. “Second, you should know—”
“Who is this?” Aury shouted from down the hall. Distrust twisted her face and she narrowed her eyes as she looked him up and down. “You’re not Papi’s lawyer.”
The house went silent and thick with tension. Manuel stood up, as if ready to run the strange man out of the house. Mr. McClaren ran a hand through his wet hair, seemingly embarrassed.
“Ah. That was what I wanted to tell you next.” He paused for a moment, stealing glances at each of the family. It was clear he’d not expected such a large one. “Your father’s lawyer was Roger McClaren, I believe. Unfortunately, he was rushed to the hospital this morning after suffering a stroke.”
Manuel’s shoulders dropped.
“I am his son, Mark McClaren,” Mark said. “I’m also a lawyer—his partner, actually. Normally, we would’ve rescheduled any and all meetings, but considering this seemed to be a simple reading of the will, I didn’t want to cause an unnecessary delay and prolong your mourning period.”
From the look on everyone’s face, Xiomara knew they couldn’t contend with that—though some of them were clearly trying to find something to criticize. But the man was so logical and compassionate that it stunned them. Above all, it reminded them that this was supposed to be a difficult time for them.
Or maybe it was because he was also dealing with the bad news that his own father was in the hospital. Yet he was here, picking up his father’s work. Mark had unintentionally forced them to have some perspective, and Xiomara wondered when was the last time any of the Abreus had felt such a shift.
Xiomara was the first to find her voice. “Sorry to hear about your father. I hope he recovers well.”
Mark gave her a soft smile to mask the crack of worry in his expression. “Me too.” He cleared his throat and joined the family in the dining room. Manuel gave the man his own seat, and Mark thanked him.
“Is here fine?” he asked, placing the briefcase flat on the table and undoing the locks. “Now, I don’t want to take up too much of your time—not when there’s a storm approaching.”
As if to underscore the weather comment, thunder roared through the sky, shaking the house. Everyone looked to the windows. Foreboding clouds came with a quick flash of lightning. If rain was getting ready to beat down on the earth, it would no doubt happen in the next fifteen minutes.
Xiomara could see Mark’s breath catch in his throat before he let out a “Goodness.” Xiomara hoped that she would still be able to order an Uber—one that didn’t go too nuts with the surge pricing. Maybe she should have let Papi drive her. Because between asking her relatives for a lift and walking through pouring rain to the nearest bus stop, Xiomara was already trying to remember where the bus stop was. No doubt it was at least three miles out. On a good day, she would have to walk for at least an hour to get to it.
More thunder let her know today was not a good day.
Mark produced a large yellow envelope from the briefcase. “All right, let’s see . . .” He opened it.
The family sat up straight, eyes glancing to one another, hands flexing as though they had to quickly snatch what they were due before someone else laid claim to it.
If there was anything Xiomara actually wanted, it was something that would never make it on the will—the books in the library and the old yellow Walkman cassette player she played with when she was a child. She didn’t care about playing tapes, she just enjoyed the feel of the large rubber buttons as they clicked down under her tiny fingers. The Walkman was something she alone shared with Papi Ramon.
“Can I have this?” she’d once asked.
“When I’m done with it.” Papi Ramon had laughed.
She wished she had never left it behind and wondered if she might still find it somewhere in the house. Maybe it was in the study? Her mind was already trying to track it down when the lawyer broke into her thoughts.
“Huh.” Mark stared at the page. He flipped it to the other side and, finding it blank, flipped it again. “Uh . . . okay, this is . . . hm.”
It was not that the will itself was empty. Xiomara could see that there was absolutely something written on it. Not a lot, but something.
Manuel and Henry leaned over the man’s shoulder.
“Can someone say something?” Marisa snapped from the other side of the table. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“What the hell . . . ?” Henry breathed. “Is this a joke?” He looked to his father for answers.
Mark explained. “I am so sorry, it appears there’s been an update I was not aware of.”
“This is ridiculous!” Manuel yelled as he paced up and down the dining room. Xiomara stepped out of his way, anxiety spiking. Very few things made Manuel move with such fervor. If he was this energized, it was not a good thing.
Aury slammed her hand on the table, stealing everyone’s attention. “Hello? Mr. Lawyer, can you just read the damn thing?”
Mark cleared his throat again before reading, “‘If you’re reading this, one of you is a demon, el bacà, who I made a deal with many years ago when I was young and desperate. I thought I was being careful. I thought I could give you all a better life this way. But demons are crafty. They can even play with your memory if it’s long enough ago. You will only have twelve hours after this is read and its presence is exposed to the world. If you do not find and get rid of the demon within twelve hours, you will all be damned. Stab it in its chest, then call it by its name and declare you are ending the bloodline covenant. The name cannot be written—but you will find it in my hiding places. Do not make the same mistake I did. He will not make it easy; he will plant distractions, but do not fall for them. He will tempt you as well, but remember that there is no satisfaction in dealing with the devil, only damnation. If you need a guide, take the first step. I pray I do not find you where I’m going . . . Hugs and kisses.’”
Silence filled the room. The only sound heard was the placement of the paper on the table, and the screech of a moving chair as Aury jumped up to snatch it. Marisa, Yaritza, and Wanda huddled closely together with her, quickly scanning the page. Clearly, there wasn’t much to scan, because soon enough, they looked back to Mark.
“This is a joke, right?” Yaritza asked, echoing Henry from earlier.
Mark scratched the back of his head, removed his glasses, and wiped them again. Anxious energy flowed through the entire room. Wanda went straight to her father and whispered into his ear.
“There has to be another version,” Rafael said. “Isn’t there? Like a previous version we can refer back to?”
Xiomara almost forgot he was there. She held her breath, trying not to let air escape her lungs. Twelve hours. That only gave them until a little after 3 a.m. If I’m taking it seriously.
Would she?
“Under the circumstances, you would be correct.” Mark let out a careful breath.
That sounds like there’s a but coming, Xiomara thought, crossing her arms.
“But I don’t have it with me. If one exists, it’s probably back at the office.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“So you have to go get it?” Aury’s voice was not only loud but now several octaves higher. Sudden shock had that effect on her.
“What? No.” Mark stood up, cell phone already in hand. “I’ll just call someone there. Give me ten minutes. I’m sure we can get this figured out quickly.”
As Mark maneuvered around Xiomara to get farther down the hall, she came close to the table. Aury threw down the document with a look of disgust.
“I cannot believe this. When did he have time to change it?”
“What if he never did change it?” Marisa asked. “The lawyer said ‘if one exists’—what if one doesn’t exist?”
“One does exist.” Manuel crossed his arms. “Wanda was with Papi when he first wrote it, and it said nothing like that.”
Every pair of eyes darted to Wanda. She shrank back, trying to find solace in her father’s shadow.
Yaritza’s eyes widened with excitement. “Wait, so do you know what was on the original document, Wanda?” She waved her over. “Come on, tell us! What were each of us getting?”
Aury was quicker, rounding the table and throwing a friendly arm on Wanda’s shoulders. “What are you doing all the way over there? We’re your family. Come closer.”
Oh, now we’re family?
Xiomara bit her tongue.
“I . . . don’t remember.” Wanda squared her shoulders. The movement bucked Aury’s arms off. “It was years ago.”
“You have to remember something.” Marisa came to Wanda’s other side, cornering her. The young Christian woman sent a pleading glance to her father, who sighed and pulled her away from her overbearing aunts.
“Don’t hog her to yourself just because you’re her father!”
He put up a defensive hand. “She says she doesn’t remember. What do you want her to do?”
“But how can she not remember? It’s not like she was five and just sitting on his lap while he wrote it down.” Again, everyone looked to Wanda, waiting for confirmation.
“It wasn’t that long ago!” she shrieked.
“Aha! See?”
“But it was still years ago. I think right after . . .” Her voice trailed off and her stare found Xiomara. “After your mom . . .”
Xiomara felt herself go cold. Papi Ramon wrote up a will right after Josefina died? When was that? Xiomara had stayed with Papi Ramon, and she didn’t remember Wanda ever making an appearance.
Did he write it after I left? Xiomara felt like she was turning to stone. First Papi Ramon’s daughter died, and then his granddaughter refused to help fill an empty house. He was so heartbroken, he thought he would die.
To avoid everyone’s stare, Xiomara picked up the will. The A-B Millennium logo sat at the top left corner. A golden medallion with the letters AB printed in stylized gothic font. A little gaudy, in Xiomara’s opinion, but Papi Ramon thought it made the company look dignified.
Underneath the logo were the same words Mark had read out loud. Xiomara’s eyes traced each word and then hung on the last word. It wasn’t going. The last word was two uppercase letters pressed right against the last period. Anyone else looking at it would misunderstand its meaning.
XO
In English, most people would think it meant hugs and kisses. That’s what Mark had read aloud. But to place it at the end of the will was too bizarre, even for Papi Ramon.
No, it wasn’t hugs and kisses. It was Xiomara’s nickname: Xo. Pronounced like “Zo.” Except no one in the family called her Xo—not anyone sitting around the table now. No one but Papi Ramon and her mother would even know about it. When Xiomara was in middle school, she complained that her teachers would always mispronounce her name. Forget the rolling of Rs; the white teachers wouldn’t know how to overcome the hurdle of the Xio part. Their tongues leaned on the X hard, pronouncing it like a Z. But “Zio” sounded too close to “Zero,” and Xiomara didn’t want the backhanded nickname to stick. So Josefina had recommended Xo. It was cute, short, and easy enough for a teacher to call on in class without adding a sorry if I’m butchering your name disclaimer.
Xo. Xiomara.
This wasn’t a will at all. It was a last message, a plea from her grandfather to suss out the demon and remove it from the family—or else they would all be damned.
The only question was this: How was she supposed to find the demon?
No, the question was—what was Papi Ramon thinking?
Xiomara let the paper fall to the table. This was too strange, too ridiculous, too . . . impossible? Did Xiomara even believe in demons anymore? It had been years since she’d gone to a church for anything other than a wake or funeral. Xiomara still had yet to hear her own uncle giving a sermon at his rapidly growing megachurch. And with any luck, she would die before that ever happened.
The family continued to argue, voices rising over one another like crashing waves. Her head felt like it would split the way something pressed on the inside of her temples. The thing about growing up in one religion was that even after you left it, it took a very long time to stop believing in it. They were right when they said faith was like a mustard seed. It only took a tiny amount to keep you in a choke hold of long-held beliefs.
Xiomara felt choked right now, suffocated in the same way she’d felt upstairs not too long ago.
Demons don’t exist, she told herself. But her gut believed something different. Because once more she could sense a strange and dangerous presence with its eyes set on her. This time, though, Xiomara couldn’t shake the feeling no matter how much she wanted to. She leaned down, holding her head in her hands while an echo of Papi Ramon’s voice sounded across her skull.
“Demons are crafty,” Papi Ramon had whispered. There had been an edge to it, an impatient tone that was trying to cut through all the red tape and get to the point. It sounded like he couldn’t talk fast enough. “I know you think you can fight them, mija, but it takes years and years of—”
A hand fell on her shoulder. Xiomara jumped up, ragged breath caught in her throat.
“Xiomara?”
The family stopped their arguing and looked to her. Naomi retracted her hand.
“Sorry,” she breathed. “I just . . .”
Xiomara turned away from the dining room. She suddenly needed some privacy. The chatter of her relatives and the rest of the world fell away. She could barely feel the floor under her feet. She was down the hall in seconds. There was a bathroom right next to the staircase, and she made a beeline for it, hoping that Mark McClaren hadn’t taken it for his phone call.
Thankfully, the bathroom was empty. The door clicked shut behind her. Xiomara leaned against the wall, feeling the cool yellow tiles wake her senses. The only sound she heard was the house shaking under howling winds.
One of you is a demon.
The phrasing worried her. If Papi Ramon meant it metaphorically, then she would say most of her relatives were demons. Aury the gossip, Marisa the proud romantic, Manuel the self-righteous snob. Each of her cousins had their own unique flaws that Xiomara could neither forgive nor forget. And Rafael was okay . . . to a point.
Xiomara’s stomach clenched, knowing that Papi’s message wasn’t a metaphor. The brand of Pentecostalism he’d grown up in held a very deep belief in the literal message of the Bible. Nothing could not be evaluated in its historical and socioeconomic context, because “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever” (Hebrews 13:8). The strict adherence to the letter of the law and not the spirit of the word meant they also believed in the existence of demons—and that many were still possessing people to this day. Most other denominations moved on to believe demons were simply an analogy for troubling mental health—or at least that they were less active now than before. Not Pentecostals.
And not Papi Ramon. No, he meant exactly what he said. Someone in the family was an actual demon. But she had known them all her life—how was she expected to figure out who the demon was?
How was anyone supposed to find out who was a demon in hiding?
She approached the mirror and stared at her reflection. It was a lot more solid than the reflection in the windows upstairs, and her lips parted as she panted, attempting to regulate her breathing. She focused on the dark of her eyes. Large, black eyes that sucked in all light and gave nothing in return. She’d heard once that her stare made people uncomfortable, that she had a cold calculation about her that scared them. Was that why Papi Ramon thought he could trust her to do this? Did he think she was holding back some special talent that could help? Use her observational skills to drag the demonic presence from the family?
Xiomara couldn’t. She literally couldn’t. The smallest part of her might still have been holding on to old beliefs, but that didn’t mean there was some great task ahead of her. What did he expect her to really do? It was stupid, what he was asking of her—she’d never say it to his face, but Xiomara felt the stupidity like a coat. Like something she chose. And if she chose to believe Papi Ramon, then she was choosing to feel stupid if it didn’t go like she thought it would.
Going upstairs probably just spooked me. Xiomara decided not to consider it. It was easier to believe Papi Ramon entered a senile age before she knew it than to reckon with the idea of her hero of a grandfather making a deal with a demon.
After splashing her face with water a few times, Xiomara turned and opened the door.
Yaritza stood right there, a fist half raised as if to knock. She blinked.
“Oh, sorry. You’re done, right?”
“Yeah.” Xiomara gave up the bathroom.
“Wait, don’t go nowhere, I want to talk to you!” Yaritza waved at her to stay close even as she was shutting the door in her face.
About what? Xiomara wanted to ask, but the door was already closed. She heard the slight smack of the toilet cover hitting the tank and decided to stay put out of mild curiosity. Maybe Yaritza already knew who the demon was. Xiomara would laugh if that was the case.
Minutes later, after a suspiciously short rinse at the sink, Yaritza was back at the door, her phone in her hand.
“Okay, so I was thinking about the demon—”
Xiomara raised an eyebrow. Does she really think there’s a demon? Color her surprised.
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t think a demon can, like, procreate with humans, right? I mean, there’s a whole story in the Bible where angels couldn’t and if angels can’t then why would demons be any different?” She spoke as fast as her fingers moved across the screen. “Demons are supposed to be fallen angels, so technically it makes sense and—”
