I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter Read online

  Tía takes me to the storage room where Mamá Jacinta keeps her extra dry food. There are sacks of flour, beans, and dry corn scattered on the floor. I lie on a small cot, and once I get comfortable, tía Fermina makes little crosses all over my body with an egg, beginning with my head and working her way down to my feet. The cool shell against my skin feels comforting. When I was little, I was confused about the process of this spiritual cleansing. All I knew was that it involved an egg, so I imagined they used a cooked one—likely fried—which left the recipient greasy and smeared with yolk. Boy, was I stupid, but I figured it out when I saw them do it to my cousin Vanessa after she was almost hit by a car. The raw egg traps all the rotten crap clogging up your soul.

  Tía Fermina whispers the prayers so faintly I can’t understand them. After she makes dozens of crosses all over my body, she says it’s time to see inside the egg, to understand what’s been stewing inside of me. Tía cracks the egg into a glass of water and holds it up to the light. The water turns thick and cloudy, and when we look closer, we see a dot of dark blood in the center of the yolk.

  “Dios mío, mija,” tía gasps. “What’s going on with you?”

  —

  I have to go back home because Mamá Jacinta is afraid the narcos will continue killing each other. After a year and a half of relative peace, Los Ojos has erupted into violence again. She tells me I need to take the bus to the airport because it’s much less likely that the narcos will pull us over. It’s especially dangerous for tío Chucho to drive, since the cartel has been after Andrés for years.

  “Why did tío Chucho give that man an envelope?” I ask Mamá Jacinta before bed. “At Paulina’s party.”

  She sighs. “It’s a bribe, so they’ll leave Andrés alone. They want him to work for them, and they come around every once in a while. Can you imagine working for those animals? Ni Dios lo mande. Those men have no soul, forcing a man with no money to pay them like that. Your tío is a humble truck driver who does his best to provide for his family, what’s left of it. Ay, Dios mío, my little town has turned to garbage.” Mamá Jacinta presses her palms to her eyes. “Please stop worrying about what happened, and try to get some rest. You’ll be home soon. I didn’t know this would happen, mija. I’m sorry. I thought the fighting was over. Nothing like this has happened in a long time.” She makes the sign of the cross and gives me a kiss goodnight.

  “It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” I say. Part of me wants to tell her I know what happened to Amá. It beats inside me like another heart, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say it out loud.

  —

  Esteban says he’ll miss me, and I tell him that he won’t. How could he? He hardly knows me. He just laughs, though. He laughs at nearly everything I say, even when I’m not trying to be funny.

  “Maybe I’ll see you on the other side,” he tells me at the square. “I might be crossing soon. I can’t work at the fruit store forever. There’s nothing for me here. I’m sick of this place.” He looks around, disgusted, and kicks a rock toward the empty fountain.

  “Be careful. Please. The border…The fucking border.” I feel a wildness spreading through me. “It’s nothing but a giant wound, a big gash between the two countries. Why does it have to be like that? I don’t understand. It’s just some random, stupid line. How can anyone tell people where they can and can’t go?”

  “I don’t understand, either.” Esteban takes off his cowboy hat and looks toward the mountains. “All I know is that I’ve had enough of this life.”

  “It’s bullshit, utter bullshit.” I clench my fists and close my eyes.

  Esteban cradles my face in his hands and pulls me toward him. The whole town will probably find out within the hour, but I don’t even care.

  —

  I cry quietly on the bus after I say goodbye to my family. I don’t look outside, because if I see Mamá Jacinta standing there staring at me, which I’m certain she is, I’ll probably start wailing. After she gave me la bendición, she handed me Apá’s drawing and said she trusted me to take care of my mother. “You are a beautiful young woman. You will do amazing things. Please just make sure you look after my daughter.” I never imagined I would have to protect and care for my mother—I didn’t know that was my job—but I said, “Yes, of course.” How could I not?

  I try to sleep when the bus finally pulls away, but the man in front of me is snoring so loudly he wakes himself up every few minutes. His snores are so deep it sounds as if he’s being suffocated by his own flesh. I stare out the window and study the brown and brittle land. The worst drought in ten years, they say. Every few miles, I see a bright desert flower or white crosses with plastic roses on the side of the road. I wonder why so many people die here.

  The sun begins to set as we finally approach the city. The colors are so beautiful they’re almost violent. I feel a pang in my chest and remember a line from a poem I read a long time ago about terror being the beginning of beauty. Or something like that. I don’t quite remember.

  There’s a dead donkey in a field behind a barbwire fence. Its legs are bent and stiff, and its mouth is open, as if it had been smiling when it died. Two vultures circle above it.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Amá takes me to a restaurant in Chinatown after she picks me up from the airport. I can hardly believe it because I honestly don’t remember the last time we ate at a restaurant together. The tables are sticky, and it smells like old carpet, but I’m glad I’m there with her. Plus, she said her coworker told her it was good. Maybe I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, for once in my life.

  We sit by the window because I tell Amá I want to look outside. Chicago is finally beginning to thaw—most of the snow has melted, except for a few dirty patches—and everyone looks brighter, more alive. A red fish with a mean face swims in a tank near the register. Amá laughs when I tell her that I think he’s giving us dirty looks.

  “Your grandma tells me you helped her so much,” Amá says, smiling.

  “It was nice. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed her.”

  “See? I told you it would make you feel better.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. The shooting was scary, though.” I take a deep breath.

  “I’m so sorry about that, mija. They told me it was calm when I sent you. Nothing like that had happened in over a year. You know I wouldn’t have let you go if I had known.”

  “I’m fine. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

  “Your teacher called me last week,” Amá says, and slurps her tea.

  “Which one?”

  “Mr. Ingman.”

  “But he’s not even my teacher anymore. Why would he call you? What did he say?”

  “He heard you were out of school for a few weeks. He was worried. I told him you were in Mexico because of a family matter, and he said that it was very important that you come back so you can graduate and go to college. He kept telling me you were the best student he’s ever had, that you’re an amazing writer. I didn’t even know. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  It’s always been hard for me to explain these things to Amá. “I tried,” I say. “I really did.”

  “You know, I hardly went to school. I had to drop out to work and help take care of my family when I was only thirteen. I’m ignorant, mija. Can’t you see that? There are so many things I don’t know. I wish things were different. I know you hate me, but I love you with all my heart. I always have, ever since I knew I was pregnant with you. I just don’t want anything to ever happen to you. I worry and worry all the time. It eats away at me like you can’t believe. All I do is think of ways to protect you.” Amá begins to cry. She dabs her eyes with the corner of her napkin.

  “I don’t hate you, Amá. I don’t hate you at all. Please don’t say that.” The waitress brings us our food. I love sweet and sour chicken—it normally makes me salivate like a Saint Bernard—but I’m not hungry anymore. Amá, of course, has ordered a plate of steamed vegetables. I look up at the ceiling
, trying to keep myself from crying, but it’s no use. Everyone can watch us if they want.

  “I know I’m not the best mother sometimes. You’re just so different, Julia. I’ve never known how to deal with you, and then after your sister died, I had no idea what I was doing. When I found out you were having sex, I was so scared you’d end up like your cousin Vanessa, alone and with a baby. I don’t want you to have that kind of life. I want you to have a good job and get married.” Amá takes a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to the priest lately. He’s been helping me understand all of this better.” She puts her hand over mine. “I’m sorry. I really am. And…and…I know what happened to your sister was not your fault. I never should have said that. I’m just trying to put myself back together, but it’s so hard, mija.”

  I can’t look at Amá without thinking about the border. I keep picturing her screaming on the ground, Apá with a gun to his head. I don’t think I can ever tell her that I know. But how do we live with these secrets locked within us? How do we tie our shoes, brush our hair, drink coffee, wash the dishes, and go to sleep, pretending everything is fine? How do we laugh and feel happiness despite the buried things growing inside? How can we do that day after day?

  “I’m sorry, too,” I finally say. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I wanted to die.”

  —

  Amá returns my phone to me when I get home, so I decide to call Connor. Now I miss both him and Esteban. “Love,” or whatever—I don’t even know what I feel—is confusing. I wonder if it’s normal to have feelings for two people.

  When I turn the phone on, I see that I have fifteen texts and eleven voice mails, and they’re all from Connor. Most of them are the same: “I hope you’re okay. I miss you. Please call me back.”

  I can hardly breathe as I wait for him to pick up the phone. I almost hang up when he answers.

  “Oh my God, it’s you,” he says.

  I’m so nervous my voice cracks. “How are you?”

  “I called you a million times. Why didn’t you ever answer? I was hoping you had your phone back.”

  “I was in Mexico.”

  “What? Mexico? What were you doing there?”

  “It’s kind of a long story. I’ll have to explain in person. It’s too complicated to tell you over the phone.”

  “I thought you hated me.”

  “I don’t. Not at all.”

  “I still want to help you with your sister’s laptop, you know?”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that, but, well, that’s something else I’d rather explain in person.”

  “Listen, I missed you. I’m sorry about before.”

  “It’s okay. It was mostly my fault. I should have let you finish. I shouldn’t have hung up. And I missed you, too. I have so many stories for you. One involves two married horses.”

  Connor laughs. “That sounds pretty crazy.”

  “Man, you have no idea. Meet me at the bookstore tomorrow at five-thirty? We can sniff books together.” I don’t even know if Amá will let me go, but I have to find a way to see Connor again.

  When we hang up, I walk to Amá at the kitchen table. She’s staring at a pile of bills.

  “Amá,” I say quietly. “Can I please go out with Lorena tomorrow?” There’s no way I’d ever tell her about Connor, so I have no choice but to lie. I hold my breath, waiting for her to say no.

  Amá rubs her temples. “Where?”

  “I don’t know, downtown or something. The park. Somewhere not here. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

  Amá is silent for a while. She looks like she’s thinking hard, holding her fingers to her forehead.

  “Ay, Dios,” she finally says.

  “Please.”

  “Fine, but you have to be back before it’s dark.” Amá looks like it pains her to say it.

  —

  Because Amá is making such an effort to be a better mother, I’ve decided to be a better daughter, so I agree to attend a prayer group at our church that night. It’s in the same basement as my quinceañera, and when we walk down the stairs, I get flashbacks of that horrible night. I hope Amá isn’t thinking about it, but I’m nearly certain she is. How could she not?

  The most exciting thing about the church group is the free coffee and cookies, which I run to immediately. There are few things better than vanilla wafers dunked in milky coffee.

  The leader of the group is a middle-aged woman named Adelita. She’s wearing a very unfashionable fleece vest, and her hair is cut short like a lot of women’s when they get older. (I really don’t understand why that’s a requirement once you reach middle age.) Adelita begins with an Our Father, then adds her own prayer at the end. “I hope that everyone here finds the love and understanding they’re looking for. God lives in each and every one of you,” she says.

  Adelita tells us about her ten-year-old son, who died after a long, painful battle with leukemia. Even though it’s been fifteen years, his death haunts her every day of her life, she says. When she begins describing his amputated leg, a tear trickles down my face against my will.

  “Are you okay, mija?” Amá whispers, placing her hand on my knee.

  I nod.

  Next is a man named Gonzalo, who is wearing blue work pants and a Bugs Bunny T-shirt that’s probably from the nineties, which depresses me like few things can. He tells the group that his son is gay and he doesn’t know how to forgive him.

  “Forgive him for what?” I ask when he’s finished.

  “Julia, be quiet,” Amá says. I’m already embarrassing her, like always.

  “It’s okay for her to ask questions,” says Adelita.

  “I just don’t understand,” I go on. “Being gay isn’t a choice. Don’t you know that?”

  “What do you mean, you don’t understand? What he’s doing is a sin!” Gonzalo is all worked up now, his fists clenched and his face flushed.

  Whatever compassion I had for him and his Bugs Bunny T-shirt has quickly evaporated. “I’m sure that your son would do anything to stop being gay to avoid dealing with you. Besides, didn’t Jesus preach that you should love everyone? Isn’t that what Christianity is all about? Or did I miss something?”

  If I keep going, I think Gonzalo might punch me in the face, so I stop. I can feel Amá’s anger quivering beside me, but she doesn’t say anything. By the time it’s her turn, we’ve heard about affairs, deaths, abused gay children, bankruptcy, and deportations. My soul is a puddle at my feet.

  “As you know, I lost Olga almost two years ago. I think about her always. There’s not a moment that passes that I don’t feel her absence. She was my companion, my friend. I don’t know when I’ll feel like myself again. It’s like I’ve been cut in half. And Julia here, my beautiful daughter, I love her so much, but she is so, so different. I know she’s a special kind of person. I know she’s smart and strong, but we don’t always understand each other. Olga, for example, always wanted to be at home with us, loved to be close to her family, and Julia can’t ever sit still.” Amá blows her nose. “Where I grew up, women were supposed to stay at home and take care of their families. The way women live in this country, having relations with cualquier fulano and living on their own, I just don’t understand it. Maybe my morals are too different for this place. I don’t know.” Amá looks at the crumpled tissue in her hand. She has no idea who Olga was, but how do I tell her that? Do I even have the right?

  “That’s not how I want to live, Amá.” I’m not sure if I’m supposed to speak, but I can’t help it. “I’m sorry that I’m not Olga and I never will be. I love you, but I want a different life for myself. I don’t want to stay home. I don’t even know if I ever want to get married or have kids. I want to go to school. I want to see the world. I want so many things sometimes I can’t even stand it. I feel like I’m going to explode.”

  Amá doesn’t say anything. We all sit in silence until Adelita tells us to hold hands for the closing prayer.

  —

  Once my parent
s are asleep, I use my extra key to go back into Olga’s room to see if I can finish reading her emails. It turns out I did leave her computer unlocked, which is a huge relief. The neighbor’s Internet is slow, but at least it works. This time I read the newest emails first. I don’t have the patience to go in order. Most of the emails are the same—planning when to meet, Olga complaining about his wife, Olga asking when he’s going to leave her, him promising that he will. Sometimes he begs for forgiveness, sometimes he doesn’t. They repeat with little variation. They never use each other’s names or specific locations. I assume what they keep referring to as the C is the Continental. From what I can tell, it sounds like his children are probably in high school, which means they are almost Olga’s age, and I’m certain he’s been married for twenty years, since he tells Olga that over and over, as if somehow that justifies anything.

  How could she have put up with it for such a long time? What did she think was really going to happen? This is a side of Olga I never saw: desperate, clingy, and delusional. Here I thought she was virginal, passive, and complacent, letting the world pass her by, when, in fact, she was letting the world pass her by while having sex with an old married dude, hoping he would one day leave his wife. She wasted four whole years with him—from the age of eighteen, when she started working at the office, to the day she died. What was she thinking? No wonder she was static. No wonder she never wanted to leave and go to school. She was waiting, and she would have been waiting forever. Then it strikes me. I think to check the sent box. Maybe she sent an email he never answered.

  [email protected]

  5:05 p.m. (September 5, 2013)

  The ultrasound was yesterday. Why didn’t you show up? I left the picture in your desk, if you even care to look at it.

  My dead sister was going to have a baby.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I call the hotel where Angie works and hang up when I hear her voice. I’m in front of her building two trains later. The hotel is luxurious and full of men in suits and perfectly groomed women in high heels. Everything is shiny to an oppressive degree; I can practically see my reflection in the marble floor. A middle-aged lady with a pointy nose and expensive trench coat scowls at me when I enter the lobby, like I don’t belong there, like my existence offends her sensibilities or something. I smile and wave at her, hoping she can detect my irony.