The Queen of Water (11 page)

chapter 17

I
UNDERSTAND
, more or less, how flowers reproduce—with fruit and seeds and pollen—but the sexual parts of the human body baffle me. I study the diagrams of naked people in
Understanding Our Universe,
all pink and red and yellow, networks of tubes and veins and arteries and organs. The words are long and hard to pronounce, like
fal-lo-pi-an tubes.
I can’t figure out how these pictures correspond to what’s inside me.

And the diagrams leave important things out. They don’t show ugly dark hairs under ladies’ arms. Or blood trickling between their legs.

One day I’m chopping carrots, when suddenly I feel like I’m peeing. I drop the carrots and run to the bathroom. There’s a big red spot on my underwear. A terrible, sinking feeling comes over me. Sometimes, washing the Doctorita’s huge, stretched-out underwear, I’ve noticed bloodstains, which I soak in soapy water with my nose wrinkled in disgust and horror. I never let myself think it would actually happen to me.

Oh, Dios, I’m turning into her. First the ugly hairs and now this.

I stay in the bathroom, wrapped up in panic. I suspect this blood has something to do with becoming a woman.

Oh, Dios, I don’t want to become a woman. Why can’t I be a man instead?

I wipe away the blood with toilet paper and pray it won’t come back, but it keeps coming, and for days I’m running to the bathroom to wipe more away. After a few days, thankfully, it stops, as though my wish has come true.

But then, just when I’ve nearly put it behind me, a month later, the blood comes back.

Of course, I can’t tell the Doctorita. Even thinking about it turns my face hot with shame. Once, a few months ago, I was cleaning the waiting room of her dental office and discovered a small comic book that had fallen behind the chair. A patient must have left it behind. I opened it and saw drawings of naked ladies with gigantic breasts and legs spread wide and I got a funny feeling. I put down my broom and sat on the chair and flipped through the book, curious and excited, sensing this was something very forbidden.

I was so absorbed in the book, I didn’t notice the Doctorita until she was standing above me. “What are you looking at?”

I jumped and shut the book fast, tucking it under my arm. “Nothing.”

She snatched it from me.

My face burned.

She smacked me with the book. “Dirty
longa,
dirty girl!” She smacked me again. “I never want to catch you with this trash again, understand?”

And now, if I tell her about this blood, she’ll somehow find a way to blame me, make it my fault, make me feel like a dirty
longa.

One day, after a few episodes of this bleeding that comes for four or five days, then disappears for a month, the Doctorita’s mother, Anita, comes to visit.

“Oh, my,” she says. “You’ve grown, Virginia! You get prettier by the day. You look so lovely now that you gained some weight back, dear.”

I give a weak smile. I don’t feel pretty—I feel stained by all the blood, always anxious it might soak through my skirt.

Later that day, I’m dusting the Baby Jesus doll, when I feel liquid trickling out of me, wetting my underwear. My tears come; I can’t help it.

At that moment, Anita breezes into the room. She throws her arms around me, as though I’m her granddaughter. “What’s wrong, Virginia? Did my daughter hit you? Did she yell at you?”

I shake my head and let the truth stammer out. “It’s just that … I’m bleeding … between my legs … and—and … I don’t understand why it’s happening and I don’t want it to happen.” I bury my face in her shoulder. “I don’t want it to happen.”

She smooths my hair. “Oh, Virginia, dear, that’s normal. You’re turning into a woman. It’s all right, Virginia.”

For a long time, I sob into her shoulder. She doesn’t seem to care that her pink blouse is damp with tears and snot. Once I calm down, she moves a few wet strands of hair from my cheeks. “Do you mean to tell me Romelia hasn’t told you anything about this?”

I shake my head.

“When did you first start bleeding, dear?”

“A few months ago.”

“And what have you been using?”

“Toilet paper. Lots and lots of toilet paper.”

“Oh, my poor, dear girl.”

When the Doctorita comes home from work, Anita doesn’t greet her. She just says, “
¡Grosera!
How can you not think about this girl? How can you ignore her like this?”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s been having her period for months and she’s scared to death about it.”

The Doctorita looks at me, annoyed. “
Longa tonta,
stupid
longa,
why didn’t you tell me?”

Anita puts her arm around my shoulders. “Don’t talk to Virginia like that.”

The Doctorita is quiet. She opens her change purse and dumps out a few coins. “Go buy some pads at the pharmacy.”

That evening, Anita shows me how to put the pads on my underwear. I hate using them. They feel like diapers. I can’t forget they’re there, while I’m walking and talking and cleaning and reading.

Later, the next time we go to Santa Rosa, José shows me a diagram in one of his doctor books. He explains the fallopian tubes and ovaries and follicles and uterine lining. Now the diagram in
Understanding Our Universe
makes more sense.

“This is a nice, special thing,” José says. “You’re a woman now. It’s nice.”

It is not nice. “I wish I were a man,” I say.

He smiles. “Now, Virginia, you have to be careful because this means you could become a mother, and you’re not ready for that yet. So if boys want to touch you, don’t let them. All right?”

I nod, blushing.

“Any more questions, Virginia?” he asks, shutting his book. “Anything else?”

I shake my head. But there is something else, something I can’t bring myself to tell him, or anyone. I’m starting to suspect that the danger will come not from boys but from someone else.

chapter 18

T
HEY SAY THAT
on the Day of the Dead, the veil between the living and dead is lifted, and the spirits of dead relatives come back to Earth for a night. This is not my favorite holiday. Back in Yana Urku, on the Day of the Dead, we all went to the graveyard and my mother got drunk and cried about her dead babies and then everyone started yelling and punching each other. At least, that’s how I remember it.

On my last Day of the Dead in Yana Urku, everyone gathered in the cemetery, as they did every year, among lopsided, blue wooden crosses on dirt mounds, where the dead people slept. The noon sun beat down on us as Mamita spread a cloth over the tiny hill of my dead baby brothers and sister. On the cloth altar, she arranged baskets of food—quinoa and cheese and hard-boiled eggs, and as a special treat for the most recently dead baby, chocolate ice cream and a bottle of Inca Kola. The ice cream melted quickly, and Mamita said, “My poor little son. Look how thirsty he was.”

In a brief moment of sympathy, I thought,
Yes, these poor dead babies. They must be thirsty.
Then I thought how thirsty
I
was, and how
I
wanted a bottle of Inca Kola and chocolate ice cream.

Mamita looked sad, and I guessed she was worried that the babies were still
yumbo
—savage creatures in the darkness—since they’d never been baptized. Whenever Mamita was drunk, she moaned about her poor, wild,
yumbo
babies.

My mouth watered at the food spread out on their graves. It had been forever since I’d eaten anything besides beans, corn, and potatoes. Mamita knew my thoughts. “Don’t even think about eating this, Virginia,” she said through her teeth, and then went back to her mourning.

Some of the food was for the dead babies, some to exchange with other families, and some to give to the
rezadores
—the people who prayed. The
rezadores
walked solemnly to Mamita and asked if they could pray for any dead relatives of hers. She nodded and thanked them, and they prayed and prayed in their singsong voices as I drooled over the food. Finally, they stopped and she offered them cheese and eggs, my favorite. Every fiber of my body wanted that creamy cheese and those eggs and the ice cream that had already melted.
I am alive,
I wanted to scream.
I am alive and the babies are dead. Give
me
the food.

Later that day, once all the grown-ups were drunk on
puro,
Papito started accusing Mamita of sleeping with the pig man. At first Mamita rolled her eyes, but then he clenched his fist and punched her in the face. That was the night he dragged her home by her hair through the cornfield, her face bouncing and bashing against rocks and dirt.

He beat her because of me, because he thought I was the daughter of the fat, ugly pig man.

No wonder Mamita couldn’t love me. I was the cause of so much hatred.

No wonder, not long after that, she gave me away to the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos.

On this year’s Day of the Dead, I’m staring at myself in a full-length mirror and trying not to think about the terrible graveyard celebrations of my childhood. I’m all dressed up in a new hand-me-down outfit—a rosebud-embroidered skirt and a cream blouse with little plastic pearl buttons. This gold-edged mirror is hanging in the guest room of the home of Don Joaquim, a friend of Niño Carlitos and the Doctorita’s. He has invited them to this big, echoey house in Riobamba, a city famous for its festivities and dances. And they’ve brought me along to watch the boys at the fiesta tonight.

Don Joaquim is the friend who is supposedly helping them get transferred to the school system in Ibarra, where the Doctorita wants to live, more desperately by the day. Almost daily, she continues to harp on this idea of moving to civilization, and I continue to doubt it will ever happen, just like I doubt she’ll ever get me that primary school diploma she promised.

I put on a pair of earrings, tiny gold hoops that Anita gave me for Christmas last year. I smile at my reflection, vaguely wishing that the mole near my lip would disappear. But overall, I like how I look, although I wouldn’t mind if my calves were a little more slender and my belly a little flatter. I do aerobics, but just a few times a week now, and I let myself eat until I’m full, and don’t worry so much about getting fat. José was right—I feel stronger and better and clearheaded now that I’m eating again.

I glance eagerly at the clock. Nine-thirty p.m. The fiesta starts around ten, and I’m giddy with the thrill of being in a different place, a place where something exciting might happen. Andrecito and Jaimito run down the hall toward the room, their little feet pounding like wild-horse hooves. They’ve been wound up for hours, dashing around the house, thrilled to be awake so late.

I poke my head out the door. “How do I look, boys?”

They skid to a stop. Jaimito grins shyly. “Prettier than a TV star,” he says, touching the plastic pearls. Then he launches into a million questions about where pearls come from.

I tell him all about pearls and oysters. I actually know about them from a magazine article I read in the Doctorita’s waiting room. I was dusting when I saw the picture: a rough shell holding slippery, slimy innards and, right in the middle, a perfect, iridescent white pearl. I stared at it for a while, in love with the idea that something so ugly could be hiding something so beautiful in its center. It took me all day to read the article, a few sentences at a time, dashing up and down stairs to do more chores in between.

Ten minutes later, on the way out the door, Jaimito is still asking me questions about oysters, when Niño Carlitos looks me over from head to toe, and says, “Virginia stays in the house.”

“Why?” the Doctorita says, impatient. “She needs to watch the boys at the fiesta so we can enjoy ourselves. That’s the whole reason we brought her along.”

Don Joaquim and his wife are outside, waiting for us in a pool of streetlight. Jaimito and Andrecito run to them, their chubby legs and arms flailing.

“I’ll keep an eye on the boys,” Niño Carlitos says. “Virginia stays here.”

“No, Carlos.” She’s growing exasperated. “You’ll be wanting to drink, so we need her to watch the boys.”

“But there will be guys there, and they’ll—they’ll be looking at her.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. What’s going to happen to her? We’ll be there.” She gazes at me, almost fondly. “When I was fourteen, I loved going out at night. It’s a treat at her age.”

Unbelievable. For once the Doctorita is taking my side, sticking up for me. For once I’m glad she can be so stubborn and bossy. She tugs on his arm.

He doesn’t budge. “I want her to stay here.” The look in his eyes is bordering on crazy. I glance nervously at the others waiting for us outside.

“Why are you being like this, Carlos? Virginia is coming with us. And that’s that.”

He looks at his feet and his face hardens. But he doesn’t stop me as I breeze past him out the door.

We walk in the darkness, only a few streetlamps lighting the way. When we reach downtown, people dressed in black are parading solemnly through the streets: nuns carrying crosses; men and women holding candles, the tiny flames lighting up their faces eerily. We follow the procession to the cemetery, which glows with thousands of candles and smells of dripping beeswax. I shiver, and keep glancing behind me into the shadows, as though my mother and father are trailing me like ghosts. I wonder if I feel dead to them, too. I wonder if Mamita went to the graveyard today and left Inca Kola and melting ice cream for me along with her other dead children.

Now people are trickling out of the graveyard and moving to the streets. We turn a corner and suddenly the atmosphere changes. Bright lights illuminate the street like a stage. Smells of roasted guinea pig and potatoes and chicken and corn fill the air. Food stands line the street, with blue and orange awnings and wooden stools and plastic chairs and heaps of salads and steaming meats on display. Music blasts from giant speakers—my favorite
cumbias
—and soon a crowd is dancing in the street.

It’s amazing how around the corner, the world can change so drastically. I wish my life would turn a corner. With Andrecito on one side of me and Jaimito on the other, we sit in a section of chairs at the street’s edge and watch women and men swirl and dip and spin and move to the rhythms. The women’s faces are radiant, their jewelry flashing, hair flowing. I smooth my skirt and wonder how it would feel if someone was spinning me around, how the silky fabric would fly out around me.

And then a boy who looks about fifteen or sixteen comes up to me and holds out his hand and shyly asks, “Excuse me, señorita. Will you dance with me?”

My heart flutters. He’s handsome, wearing polished black shoes and a neat orange button-down shirt tucked into his ironed pants. Tiny beads of sweat glisten on his upper lip. I look at the Doctorita hopefully. She smiles and nods, a wistful look in her eyes, as though she is reliving her first dance through me. “Go ahead. I’ll watch the boys for a while. Enjoy yourself.”

I want to laugh from pure happiness, but I bite my lip and offer the boy my hand. He pulls me into the crowd and we dance a
cumbia
with plenty of spinning, just like the students at the
colegio
do during school dances. I let the melody carry me and move my feet and sway my body. I love how his hand feels in my hand, warm and damp, and how his other hand feels resting on my hip. My face grows moist and my ponytail swings and my skirt billows out. I am flying and floating, light as a petal.

At the end of the song, the boy says, “Thank you, señorita.”

“Thank you,” I say, hoping he’ll ask me to dance the next song. He’s still holding my hand when I hear my name.

“Virginia!” Niño Carlitos cries out. “Virginia!” With drunken, angry gestures, he motions for me to come.

I smile an apology at the boy, then reluctantly pull my hand away and walk to Niño Carlitos.

Up close, his face is red, the vein on his forehead popping out. “No more dancing for you,” he says.

The Doctorita rolls her eyes. “That’s silly, Carlos. We’re all here watching her. Nothing can happen.”

“No. Look at all these guys. They only have one thing on their mind.”

As they argue, Niño Carlitos’s face grows redder, nearly purple, and his voice louder and angrier.

I sit on the plastic chair and watch everyone else laughing and dancing. My eyes narrow and my jaw sticks out. I do not play with Jaimito or Andrecito or smile or joke or say one word. Meanwhile, the Doctorita gossips with her friend and Niño Carlitos drinks liquor with his friend, his eyes glued to me. He does not leave me for a second. He refuses to dance with the Doctorita. When I stand up to stretch my legs and get my sweater out of the bag, he follows me, reeking of liquor.

More boys ask me to dance, but before I can answer, Niño Carlitos barks, “No.” And then the Doctorita says how silly he’s being and then he yells at her and she says he’s embarrassing her and they argue some more.

Under Niño Carlitos’s gaze, I fume. This is my life: waiting and watching other people have fun and go to school and dance together. Always watching, but never allowed to join in. Reading and dancing in secret, alone in the house, living a life in dreams and fantasies. Around me, the music and lights and colors whirl and pulse. Inside me, dark shadows gather, like the somber procession of the dead.

I’ve heard that some fathers can be overprotective, that this is how they show love. Is this Niño Carlitos’s idea of fatherly love? But there’s something more, a crazy intensity to his gaze. Something like jealousy.