MY EXCITEMENT about skipping school and finding Carlita rushed into my legs, and I practically ran to the first house on the list. Yet, when I came to the house, I stopped. There must be a mistake. There were two houses, one on each side of where the house should have been, but nothing in between except a dirt lot with patches of dry grass. I ran back and forth between the two houses looking at the numbers. 1606 and 1610. Where was 1608? I kicked at the ground and stubbed my toe. “¡Mierda!”
I pulled out the map and looked to the next address from my jean short’s pocket. No time to waste. The next house was five miles away. What I wouldn’t give for a car. I looked at my watch. It was 1:00 p.m. That meant I had only a few hours to get to the next house and back to Abuela’s. I took off at a jog. This was not starting out well.
It took me an hour to get there. As soon as I hit the street, I slowed down. Cameron Street. The house number was 1414. Unlike most of the colorful houses that surrounded it, this house was grey with white shutters.
I stood in the street looking up at it. At least there was a house, which meant there might be a person there . . . that’s if Carlita didn’t have a job and was actually at home. I should have thought about that before. Great.
I walked up to the house with a cramping stomach and a sweat-drenched shirt.
Someone was yelling inside, but I couldn’t hear what they said. I didn’t have time to wonder because the door swung open, leaving only the screen door between me and what looked like a woman on the other side. Her features were indiscernible due to the darkness from inside the house and the screen door that obscured her face.
“She’s to have no visitors. She’s done with you.”
“What?” I said.
“You can’t hear? I said, leave! She’s not going to hang around you or your friends anymore.”
“I’m sorry . . . I don’t know what you are talking about.” I patted my hair down. Who did she think I was?
The woman stepped closer, and still I could not distinguish her face.
“You’re not here for my daughter? Not one of those gang members?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m just looking for Carlita Juárez.”
“Oh.” She opened the screen door. “That’s me. Well, it was me. I’m married now.”
And it was her: Carlita, the woman from church. She recognized me too. Her eyes shifted and looked behind me, like a mouse fearing a nearby hawk ready to snatch it from the ground.
Carlita regained her composure, stepped out of the house and closed the door behind her.
“Why are you here?” she whispered harshly.
I wasn’t sure why she whispered, but I responded normally. This was it. “I, um, I wanted to ask you about my mother.”
She crossed her arms. “I don’t know where she is. You need to leave. Your abuela wouldn’t want you here.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Sorry, but you must go.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t going anywhere until I got some answers. “No. Maybe you don’t know where she is, but I want . . .” I paused. You can say this. Just say it. “ . . . to know about the baby.”
Carlita’s body tensed and her face lost its color. “You know about that?”
I nodded.
“How?”
“Does it matter? I just want to know what happened. Did my mother have it or . . . give it to someone maybe?”
“Why would you say that?” Her words were sharp, and she had stopped whispering now.
Something told me not to say anything about Laura. “It’s a logical explanation. Adoption, maybe?”
She shook her head, not wanting to meet my eyes. “I can’t say. Now you must leave, please. Those things are secrets for reasons.”
“I could just ask Sofía.”
Carlita’s head whipped up. “Don’t you dare! Even if you do, you think she’ll tell you and suffer your abuela’s wrath? Go for it. Sofía isn’t as stupid as she may look.”
I didn’t know how to respond but I didn’t have to. Behind me sounded the roaring motor of a truck coming near and the lyrics of “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC. Carlita’s eyes widened. I turned around. The motor died down, and a man stepped out of the white truck. No way! It was Jorge Valdez.
“Why is he here?”
She opened her mouth but no sound came out. I felt Jorge walk up beside me a moment later.
His forehead wrinkled and then hardened. “Why are you here? No, I don’t care. You must leave,” he said.
“Leave?” My neck became hot, and my fists clenched. What the hell was going on? “Not yet. Why are you here?” The question hung in the air and was answered when he looked away. “Are you two . . .?”
Jorge didn’t respond.
I looked at Carlita. “You’re married?”
She might have answered if it wasn’t for someone coming to the door from inside the house.
“Mom, is that Dad? I . . . what the hell are you doing here?” The screen door opened and out stepped Marcela from the darkness of the house.
I looked at Marcela and then at Carlita. No. How could that be?
“Cela!” Carlita said, but Marcela ignored her.
They didn’t even look alike.
“I said, why are you here?”
Marcela’s eyes grew black as she stepped forward.
Marcela, Carlita. Marcela, Carlita. Marcela was eighteen. My mother was pregnant eighteen years ago with Jorge’s child. Jorge was married to Carlita now. Oh, shit. . . .
“No. No. Are you kidding me?” My body was tensed so tightly that my arms began to shake.
“Don’t . . . ” Jorge began to say and reached out to me.
I stepped out of his reach.
“Don’t what? Are you kidding me?” I pointed at Marcela, who now looked more confused than angry.
“What’s she talking about?” Marcela asked her parents without looking away from me.
Carlita pleaded with her eyes. Anger flushed across my chest, directly beneath my skin. I was burning up. This went beyond the scorching heat of Laredo.
“So this . . . she’s it? The truth?” I asked.
Carlita didn’t nod. Carlita didn’t say yes or no, but the lines of her face, even the smallest movement of her eyes spoke volumes. Sí, yes. It didn’t matter what language it was. It was the truth.
I turned, ran off the porch and down the street in the direction I had come. Neither Carlita nor Jorge tried to stop me. They wanted me to run, away from them, away from Marcela so I wouldn’t continue speaking.
Yet, footsteps sounded behind me.
“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
I kept running, just a few seconds more, until I felt a push from behind. I stumbled but caught myself, stopped and turned to look at Marcela. Couldn’t she just leave it alone? I was saving her from the truth, trying to run from it myself. Couldn’t she see that? I was trying to save her! But if this was how she wanted it, well then, that’s how it would be. But before I knew it, I was sent flying backwards and slammed into the concrete ground.
For one second, I didn’t hear anything, didn’t feel anything, only saw Marcela’s face close to mine, her teeth bared, that black fire burning in her eyes, lips pulled back in a snarl like some wild animal attacking its prey. And then she hit me. I felt that.
The blow to my face sent more than just pain. I felt my skin burn and the center of my chest ignite with fire. She had used her don. The fire spread out through my body directly beneath my skin. It was my dream . . . the dream I had had the first time after I had seen Marcela, my first night in Laredo. I was burning alive in her black flames.
I couldn’t let that stop me. After she hit me, she tried to grab my throat with both hands. If I didn’t fight I would turn to ash. Through the pain, I clawed at her arms and grabbed the left one, yanking it so that she fell off me for just a moment. I scrambled to her and swung my right hand, balling it into a fist at the last moment. It hit her on the side of her head. After that, we were a mess of kicks and slaps and punches, and I didn’t feel any of them because my skin burned. I think I was screaming but I can’t be too sure. I can’t even tell you if she screamed or yelled.
I wasn’t able to have a clear thought, except one: Make her hurt. And so I did. I opened the gates and let the water run. I found the spot deep within my chest and sent my don out through my hands, the force of which sent us flying apart, me skidding across the concrete a few feet away. The fire stopped, and now all I felt was the skin on my arm ripped open by the concrete and aching with pain from Marcela’s kicks and punches.
Forgotten were Abuela’s words: “Never use your don to harm.” It was no different from healing a patient—direct my don at the disease—and send my power.
I looked up. Marcela was moving to sit up.
“Leave it alone, Marcela!” I yelled through gritted teeth.
Carlita and Jorge jogged toward us. What they hoped to stop was already well beyond their control.
“You bitch,” she groaned.
I didn’t give a damn anymore about the right or wrong thing to do. I wanted Marcela to hurt just as badly as I did in that moment, and it would take more than a physical or spiritual battle to do that.
I pointed at Carlita, who was only a few yards behind Marcela and coming closer by the second. “That woman? Your mom? Think again. She’s a liar.”
Marcela didn’t respond, but she didn’t have to. She pushed back her hair as she struggled to stand. I followed slowly. There was a flash of pain in my right ankle when I put pressure on it.
“That woman isn’t your mother,” I said, hopping up on my left foot.
“Shut up, you lying whore.” Marcela held her ribs with one hand.
“Ask her.” This was not who I was . . . an insensitive brat who wished pain on others. But my hate and anger consumed me beyond the point of caring.
Marcela didn’t speak, just breathed heavily, trying to catch her breath. We stared at each other, and then Marcela turned around and looked at Carlita. I couldn’t see Marcela’s face but I could see Carlita’s, and there was no way that Marcela could deny the truth now.
“Carlita is just the lady that my mother dumped you with.” There. I had said it. She got what she wanted.
Carlita and Jorge had stopped running and now stood ten feet from Marcela, obviously not sure what to do. Carlita was crying, and Jorge looked like a man who had lost everything—pain and sorrow etched into his face. I couldn’t see Marcela’s face . . . but I saw something else. Marcela’s don. She had used it on me moments earlier and it was growing around her, dark purple and blue mixing to form a smoky source of energy.
I had seen this in Abuela when she healed, the growing of power before it was sent out into the patient, so I knew Marcela was about to throw her don toward me at full force. She didn’t need to touch me to hurt me. She could do it at a distance. This wasn’t the school yard fight we had been engaging in a few moments ago. This was her using a mystical knife that would pierce deep into my gut.
I don’t know why I didn’t stop it. I think I could have. I was bewitched by Marcela’s power, how mad she was, how hurt she was . . . . She was dying inside.
When her power hit me, I didn’t feel anything. Nothing. I was nothing. I was nowhere. It was peaceful . . . for just one tiny second. And then it was all there; it was everywhere. Her power was fire and it was burning. I felt every vein, every skin cell, every organ burning away.
My vision blurred until Marcela became only a dark human-like shape.
I felt the flames lick my legs, singe my arms and wrap me in their embrace. I was burning in her anger, burning in her pain, burning in the knowledge that she was my sister.
That was when the screaming began.