Read The Queen of Water Online

Authors: Laura Resau

The Queen of Water (9 page)

What is this Bible doing here? My parents pay more attention to the gods of the mountains and sun and rain than to the Christian God. Maybe a door-to-door missionary gave it to them, or maybe Matilde brought it from the house where she worked. I flip through the pages, whispery thin and edged with gold paint. And then, on the first page, marked by a red ribbon, I notice something written, lightly, in pencil, and a phone number underneath it.

Mi Hermanita
Virginia,
I do not know if you even exist anymore, but if one day you find this, call me.

Love,
Your Sister Matilde

I read the message again and again. My heart feels like it’s cracking in two.
Hermanita,
little sister. Someone loves me, someone misses me and thinks about me. I am someone’s beloved little sister. Tears stream down my face.

I tear out the page and clutch it in my hand, press it to my lips. Gently, I lay the book back down and walk out the door, into the sunshine. Who knows when Matilde wrote these magical words, or what made her write them, or how she guessed I would find them. It’s a mysterious miracle. Like a TV sound track, that flute music wells up inside me, the
indígena
music, the music I hate and love with all my soul.

*  *  *

When I was a little girl, my love for Matilde was as thorny and tangled as a blackberry bush. Somewhere in there were sweet berries, but my legs got scratched with so many spines and branches along the way. Once in a long while, buried somewhere in all the brambles, I caught glimpses of some pure, deep blackberry love—like when she helped me buy my first pair of shoes at the market. But most of the time her sweet smile and beautiful clothes and perfect skin filled me with rage. Most of the time, I wished she would go away and let me be the oldest, best-loved daughter. Most of the time, I thought I hated her.

The last memory I have of her is this.

It was nighttime, and I’d just returned from a two-week trip high into the mountains, where, at about seven years old, I was the youngest person harvesting potatoes. Mamita and Papito stayed at home, and I went with my good-natured aunt and uncle and cousin, who laughed at everything. At night we slept with dozens of other workers in a single hut, shivering and trying to get the spot closest to the hot ashes of the fire pit. During the days we dug up delicious fat purple potatoes, chatting and joking all the while. We handed most of the potatoes over to the landowner in exchange for our wages, but some we boiled into soup, which we ate every night for dinner.

The best part was that we could each gather a free sackful of potatoes to take home. I filled my sack to the brim; I could hardly budge it, so people helped me carry it, marveling over how
vivísima
I was.

After a long, bumpy, windy ride in the bed of a pickup back to Yana Urku, I was still buzzing with excitement, eager to show off the purple potatoes to Mamita. At first, it was just how I imagined. I showed her all the delicious fat potatoes and she said, “Oh, my poor little Virginia,
pobregulla,
look what you brought back all by yourself.”

I soaked up her kind words like a thirsty sponge and felt like an angel, basking in my purple-potato glory.

Then she gave the bad news: “Your sister’s visiting. You better be nice to her this time.”

The next morning, Matilde was already dressed in her nice
anacos
: two layers, cream underneath and deep blue on top. She was wearing a bright white embroidered blouse and shoes made of black velvet with square toes and a dainty string tying them to her ankles. Her skin was shining, clean and soft, almost as fair as a
mestiza
’s, as though her boss’s whiteness had magically oozed into her, as though all that fancy rice and fluffy bread had seeped into her skin.

I grew conscious of the dried mud splattered on my legs, the thick coating of dust and grime, the cracked, reddened web of skin on my cheeks from ten days out in the sun and wind. It had been more than two weeks since I’d washed myself. I tucked in my filthy blouse and tied my
faja
around my waist and ran my fingers through my tangle of hair.

Mamita was sitting next to Matilde and stroking her smooth hair in its painfully tight-looking ponytail wrapped with a ribbon. “Ah, how I missed you,” she told Matilde. “My oldest daughter, my pretty daughter.”

“Good morning, Guagua Zapalla,” Matilde said to me in her light, happy way.
Zapalla
means “pumpkin,” and it was also the name of my grumpy old grandmother, and the last thing I wanted to be called was Pumpkin Kid.

All morning, Matilde and I pastured the cows and sheep together, with Cheetah close at my side. While the animals munched on grass, we went to a
capulí
tree to see if any little fruits were ripe. All the lower branches had been picked clean, but I spotted ripe, red
capulís
higher up. Matilde was no good at climbing trees since she lived in the city. And her soft padding of fat made her slow and clumsy. Anyway, she didn’t like to get her blouse dirty or risk tearing her
anacos.

“I’ll do this,” I told her smugly. I scrambled up and picked handfuls of
capulís,
then leaned over to hand them to her, and she made a little pile of berries at the base of the tree. After a while, I noticed that as I was busy picking the
capulís,
Matilde was choosing the ripest, reddest, biggest ones from the pile and popping them into her mouth.

“Stop!” I shouted.

“What’s wrong, Guagua Zapalla?” She smiled sweetly.

“I worked for those
capulís
!” I shrieked. “They’re mine. You can’t take the best ones!”

She plunked another big red one on her tongue. “Be quiet, crybaby.” She chewed contentedly.

I barely restrained myself from pouncing on her and slapping and clawing at her. Last time she’d stolen fruit from me, that was exactly what I did, and I got a beating from Mamita as a result.

Matilde popped another
capulí
in her mouth, grinning. To her, the world was one happy joke. She smiled at everything. I’d bet she could fall off a cliff and then, bleeding and broken, still laugh about it. It was always like this with her. I was the one who did all the work; I was the one who had to put up with Papito’s beatings and Mamita’s harsh words, while Matilde just breezed in and out of our lives like a plump, pretty princess, always getting the best of everything.

Back at the house, at lunch, things got worse when Mamita was about to serve the purple potato soup.

“I got these potatoes,” I reminded Mamita. “I brought them for everybody, but I don’t want you to give Matilde the biggest ones. Those are for me.”

Mamita looked at me like I was a rat that she wanted to hit with a broom. She turned her head away so I could only see the angry whites of her eyes. Papito didn’t say anything, just sat on the stool, staring at the hot coals with his stony expression.

Matilde laughed, a tinkling bell sound. Her cheeks were pink and merry from our walk, her lips stained red from the
capulís
she had stolen from me.

My voice rose to a piercing pitch. “Mamita! Don’t give her the biggest potatoes. Give
me
the biggest ones.”

Mamita’s mouth formed a tense, thin line. “Your sister only comes from Quito once in a while. Treat her well.”

“But I worked for these potatoes. They’re mine.”

“You’re a selfish brat,” Mamita said. “You don’t deserve any potatoes.”

“Yes, I do!”

Mamita gave me a long, cold look. “Know what? I’d be happy if one day you left and never came back.”

Her words froze my insides.
Fine,
I said to myself.
I will leave, and after I’m gone you will cry and cry and cry over me.

When the soup was ready, Mamita served the biggest, best potato to Matilde.

I glared at Matilde across the ashes, my skin prickling with rage.
If I never see you again,
I silently told her,
I’ll be very happy.

*  *  *

Have you noticed that if you really want something, you can make it happen? But you need to be sure it’s what you really want, because sometimes, when it comes true, you realize too late that it’s not what you wanted.

Not at all.

chapter 14

B
ACK IN KUNU YAKU
, I keep the paper under my mattress. Every night, I take it out and read the word
Hermanita.
Little sister. A cozy word, like sweet, warm bread. I imagine Matilde and me giggling over our crushes like Marina and Marlenny do. I imagine telling her about the volcano I made, and eating popcorn and dressing up and pretending to be famous singers together.

The phone number she wrote has an area code from Quito, the capital, just a few hours away. It’s bewildering to know that if I call her, she could be here within hours.

We don’t have a phone in the house, so I can’t call her easily. I could go to a phone booth at one of the nearby stores, but all the store owners know the Doctorita and are prone to gossiping. And what would I tell Matilde anyway? To come visit me? To take me away from these people? And then what would I do? Where would I live? I’m afraid if I call her without a plan, she might try to convince me to go back to our parents’ little shack. For the moment, I decide to just hold on to the paper while I think of a plan, and let its kindness ooze into me.

For the past week, the Doctorita has been in a bad mood. It started the day after we got back from Yana Urku, when we ran into Niño Carlitos’s slim, pretty ex-girlfriend on our evening walk. He was quiet the rest of the evening, and then, the next day, when the Doctorita criticized him for spending too much time building tiny spaceship models, he accused her of being fat and lazy.
“¡Plastona!”
he said. “Stuck to the couch all the time!” She yelled back, “Well, who’s the breadwinner in this house? Who has two jobs? Who deserves to relax at the end of the day?” He grumbled under his breath that he should have married the ex-girlfriend instead of the Doctorita. When she heard that, for days she lay in bed crying and knitting dresses for her Baby Jesus doll.

After a few days, Niño Carlitos apologized and bought her an aerobics book full of photos of thin, fair women in shiny leotards and leg warmers. She used the book once, gasping and sweating for ten minutes, then stuck it angrily on the bookshelf and flopped on the sofa.

She hasn’t touched the book since. She’s barely talked to Niño Carlitos all week. Instead, she’s been taking her rage out on me.

I’m on the roof in the glaring sunshine, cleaning the Doctorita’s dental instruments with soapy water in the cement washbasin. With my fingernail, I scrape at the dried blood and bits of crushed tooth and gum stuck to the metal. This is my least favorite task, almost as disgusting as washing diapers. Once all the gunk is off, I carry the tools down two flights of stairs in a plastic bin, to the Doctorita’s dentist office, just off the entrance hallway that serves as a waiting room. I plunk the tools into the sterilizing machine, which will kill the germs so the tools will be ready to use on the next patient.

At that moment, Jaimito bursts in the room, his eyes wide and excited. “Virginia! Come outside! I found a dead snake!”

I run out the door after him, reminding myself I’ll have to return to arrange the tools and press the Start button, but soon I’m caught up in examining the snake’s shiny skin and entrails. I wish I had a lab notebook to write my observations in, the kind with graph paper like the
colegio
students have. This is like a dissection, seeing the inside parts that let the snake eat and breathe and make energy and waste. I explain to Jaimito that snakes are cold-blooded reptiles, that they need the sun to warm them, which is why sometimes you come across them sunbathing on rocks. He listens and asks question after question, and most of them I can answer scientifically. I hope he won’t tell the Doctorita what I’ve told him, or she might suspect I’ve been reading
Understanding Our Universe.

The next day, Niño Carlitos is out playing basketball with a friend and I’m in the living room making Play-Doh monsters with the boys. The Doctorita is with a patient in her office, and I’m not expecting her to be done for an hour or so. But after a few minutes, she storms into the room and, without warning, punches me in the face.

Jaimito screams. Andrecito cries. And the Doctorita beats me with a handful of wire hangers from the hall closet. “
¡Longa tonta!
You fool! You didn’t sterilize my tools! One simple task, and you mess it up.
¡Longa estúpida!

I cover my face with my hands, clutching my nose. Sticky liquid spreads over my face, my hands. Blood drips to the tile floor. The hangers cut into my arms, sting my shoulders and back. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jaimito kicking his mother, trying to pull her away from me. “Stop, Mamá,” he cries. “Stop! Leave her alone!”

Finally, the Doctorita pushes me toward the bathroom. “Clean yourself up.”

I rinse the blood from my face, but more keeps pouring out, like water from a broken faucet. I give up and go back to the living room with blood still trickling from my nose. The Doctorita throws a kitchen rag at me. “Hold your nose and put your head back.”

I do what she says, sitting cross-legged on the floor. It’s been a while since she’s beaten me this badly in front of the children. This has shaken them up as much as me, maybe more. Andrecito hugs me and Jaimito snuggles against me, stroking my hair. “It’s all right, Virginia,” he whispers. “We love you.” For once, he is quiet. He holds me fiercely, like a little lion cub, so tightly that I have to loosen his grip.

When I notice he’s crying, I wipe his tears and rock him, one hand holding him, the other at my nose, and say, “It’s all right,
mi amor,
it’s all right.” He’s so sensitive, he probably won’t be able to sleep tonight; he’ll call for me to stroke his head and sing to him.

When Niño Carlitos comes home and sees the bloody rag at my nose and my puffy, tear-streaked face, he kneels down beside me. “What happened,
m’hija
?” His voice is hoarse and tender, as it always is in the aftermath of the Doctorita’s beatings. And this one is especially bad. The bleeding won’t stop, no matter how hard I press the rag against my nose.

I don’t say anything, only glance at the Doctorita, who is shuffling through school papers at the table. By now Andrecito has gotten distracted with a wooden Bugs Bunny puzzle, but Jaimito has not left my side. He points a little finger at his mother.

Niño Carlitos turns to her, his eyes hard. “What happened to la Virginia?”

“Nothing,” the Doctorita says defensively.

“Then why is her nose bleeding?” He’s yelling now. He hardly ever yells. “After the last time, you said you’d be easier on her.”

At the sound of his father’s raised voice, Andrecito drops the puzzle pieces and runs over to me, burying his face in my shoulder.

The Doctorita slams down her pen. “She didn’t sterilize the instruments. And a patient came and I had nothing to use. She humiliated me.”

Niño Carlitos’s lip curls in disgust. “My God, Romelia, she’s a child. The Baby Jesus incident nearly put her in the hospital.”

He’s talking about the time I was dusting her Baby Jesus doll, when I dropped Him and His arm broke. I tried to hide the damage under His crocheted green dress, but when the Doctorita discovered it, she erupted in a rage. Luckily the boys didn’t witness that beating—they would have had nightmares for weeks.

The Doctorita glares at me, then says, “Don’t make me out to be the bad guy again, Carlos.”

He clenches his fists at his sides. “This has got to stop. You’d better not hurt her again. Not under my roof.”

“Not under my roof,” echo Jaimito and then Andrecito, their arms loyally around my shoulders.

It feels good that Niño Carlitos cares about me and protects me like a father. I have not told you much about my father yet. I would like to say it’s because he wasn’t around much. It’s true he was often working for weeks at a time on construction projects in Quito. And when he was home, he was usually in the fields all day with Alfonso’s oxen, plowing or planting or harvesting. In the evenings, he went out to drink
puro
with other men. When Papito was with us, he was mostly silent and stony-faced, communicating through grunts and orders.

But I must force myself to shine a flashlight into the darkest places, to admit the real reason I’ve avoided mentioning Papito. You see, Papito ignited worse than fire. If someone—man, woman, or child—provoked him, the cold, quiet man disappeared and the fire inside him flared up like a rag doused with kerosene, all flames and flying fists.

There are so many moments I’ve tried to forget.

There was the moment Papito discovered that the dogs had snuck into a hole in our house’s clay wall and stolen the meat. He blamed it on me, strung me up to the rafters by a rope looped around my neck. As I dangled there, gagging, he beat me with a dried leather whip until my hands stopped struggling to pull the rope from my neck, and I could no longer breathe, and blackness swallowed the world. Then he released me and I fell to the ground in a gasping heap of snot and tears and blood.

There was the moment when, at a drunken party, Papito accused Mamita of sleeping with the man who bought pigs door-to-door. I watched him punch and kick her unconscious and then drag her home by her hair, her face scraping and bouncing over the rocks. The next morning, I watched her wince as she spread a bright green herbal remedy on her face, which had been bruised to black, one eye swollen shut.

There were the moments when Papito beat Mamita, even though her belly was big with a baby inside. There were the moments she lost her babies. I was a little girl, and vague on the details of pregnancy and miscarriage, but I remember that for a long time after the last baby died, Mamita cried and screamed and told me to leave her alone. “I wish I’d given you away, brat.” But this only made me plead for more attention, to whine at a higher pitch, to beg extra hard to work in the fields with her. The more I pleaded, the more she seemed to hate me.

The worst was that Papito kept beating her, and as he did, he glared at me with beady eyes, reddened and drooping from liquor, and yelled in her face, “That brat is the pig trader’s daughter, admit it. Admit you lay down with him.” Which was not true, because when Papito was gone, Mamita worked in the fields and fed the animals and sold pigs, always with Jaimito strapped to her back. She was never alone, ever, especially not with a man, and especially not lying down. Anyway, the pig man was fat and ugly, and I didn’t look anything like him. And Papito and I had the same feet, with extra-long toes, proof that I was his daughter. As a little girl, despite everything, I wanted Papito to want me, to feel proud I was his daughter.

*  *  *

Now I’ve found a kind of father in Niño Carlitos. He calls me daughter, and defends me, and says he’s proud of me, and calls me pretty and smart—all the things I always wanted to hear from my own father. How can I leave Niño Carlitos? And how can I leave the boys, who love me more than anything? But my nose is throbbing, and as much as I love Niño Carlitos and the boys, I hate the Doctorita.

Hours later, I’m in my room, nursing my wounds and clutching the paper with my sister’s number. Niño Carlitos and the boys have left to pasture the cow, and the Doctorita has sterilized the tools and is now filling the patient’s cavity. I stare at Matilde’s message, the neat, round letters and numbers that I already know by heart. And then, quickly, before I can change my mind, I take some coins from the Doctorita’s purse and walk to the shop with a phone booth. My face is hot and angry, my nose pulsing, my head aching. The fabric of my shirt rubs at the raw scratches all over my torso. I walk like an old lady, every step painful.

When I reach Don Luciano’s store, I hesitate outside. A sick feeling spreads out from my stomach. I can guess what will happen next. Don Luciano will have me write the number on his notepad, then he’ll dial, and when someone answers, he’ll tell me to pick up the phone in the booth, and then he’ll hang up. He’ll eavesdrop on my conversation through the thin wood door, and within an hour, word will spread all over town that I’ve called my sister because I can’t stand living with the Doctorita anymore. What will she do to me then?

I think of the elementary school diploma the Doctorita promised. How can I throw that away? And what if my parents don’t even want me back? Or what if they do, and I never see Jaimito and Andrecito and Niño Carlitos again? What if my parents force me to live in their dirty house without rice or meat or books or a TV? What if Papito still beats my mother? What if he tries to beat me? He’s much stronger than the Doctorita. I look at the scars on my legs from when Papito whipped me as I dangled from the rafters. The scars have faded a little, but I doubt they’ll ever disappear.

I take one last look at the phone booth through the window of Don Luciano’s store. My nose isn’t throbbing as much now, and the swelling will probably go down in a few days, and the welts from the hangers will fade in a week—a small price to pay for a diploma and a house full of books and weekly
MacGyver
access. I fold the worn paper with Matilde’s phone number on it, turn away from the shop, and trudge home.

A scene flashes in my head: MacGyver telling the slaves, “Go! You’re free!” and the slaves just standing and staring. I understand why. Fear feels familiar. And freedom feels terrifying.

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