I’m usually happy on Thursday afternoons, since what’s left of the week from then on is all a walk in the park. The siesta is over and the neighborhood starts to come back to life. I stand on tiptoe and peer into the inner patio. Tamara and her little brother Alberto are playing below. They live at their grandparents’ house, don’t know their dad, and their mom hasn’t called in months. Their patio is really small. They have a toy market stand and a ball. Alberto has scattered his plastic soldiers all over the ground. I often dream about this inner patio. About falling out of the window and doing a tightrope act along the washing lines with all the clothes hanging off them. I let out a little sound, Tamara looks up, and we exchange a sad but cheerful look I’ve never been able to share with anyone else. She’s a year older than me. Blonde, stocky, freckled, and harmless. She goes to a different school. She nearly always wears a pink sweatsuit and an orange headband that’s a perfect match for her lips. We usually stay like this a good while, staring at each other with expressions to match the circumstances.
“You coming?” I say.
“Yeah, OK.”
She puts her white sneakers on, leaves her brother sitting on the ground, and disappears into the kitchen. I picture her running through the building up to the third floor and try to guess exactly when she’ll knock on the door. I guess right, but only because I can hear her steps. I open the door and we go to my room without speaking. There are often long silences between us. We spend most of our time arranging my toys into warm and comforting scenes, observing the result in detail and saying how nice it looks. Our favorite thing is setting up the Chabel store. Then we arrange the dolls and sit back, legs in the air, to enjoy the narcotic effect. Our friendship is steady and practical, we’re like a pair of junkies who meet to shoot up together and let go of all our worries. There’s no room for boredom between us, or for enthusiasm. We’re good at hanging out for a while and that’s all. She’s definitely one of my least problematic friends. Her brother traded me the last Dragon Ball card I was missing. He’d spent ages searching for one I happened to have, and I’d already gotten it twenty times. We were both ecstatic that the miracle occurred in our own building. Card trading can be a dirty business, some kids really drive a hard bargain. At dusk it cools down and we figure it must be dinner time. Tamara leaves calmly. Passing the kitchen, she says goodbye to Mom, who’s boiling some eggs. I can’t help being happy that Mom’s at home more, now she’s on sick leave. She used to work a bunch before, even at night.
“See you later, Marina!” Tamara waves goodbye and disappears down the stairs.
On Friday morning my mind is all over the place and the teacher scolds me for messy handwriting during dictation. I spend recess running around alone in parts of the courtyard where I don’t usually go. I pass little clusters of boys I know and act like the girls Dash Kappei chases around in the manga. I wish they’d lift up my skirt, but they’re not interested. In the end I go find Natalia, who looks at me with a shrug like she’s wondering where I’ve been. I sit down on a step to eat my sandwich with her.
“It’s chorizo,” I tell her.
“Can I try it? Mine’s mortadella.”
“Yeah. Can I try yours?”
“Yeah. Here you go.”
We trade sandwiches, keen to taste the culinary customs of each other’s houses. We take three bites each, then pass the sandwiches back.
“Did you see Bulma’s outfit yesterday?” Natalia asks out of nowhere.
“Yeah! That hair is the best.”
The bell rings as soon as we take our last bites. It’s been a pretty pointless recess. It’s time for art class and we get lost in the pleasant peace brought on by certain satisfying handicrafts. We barely speak until two. Color, cut, paste, see how it looks, paint a frame for it, cover it in little bobbles, scrape the shit out from under your nails.
Mom picks me up from school and we speed over to Grandma’s house in the car. Mom leaves me in the living room, Grandma waves hello, Mom blows me a kiss, and through a window I see her pass by with her head held high. I run to the other window but don’t make it in time. I listen to her steps fade as she hurries down the street. My stomach is churning.
“Come on, honey, sit down and eat. Your food’s so cold you’ll catch your death.”
Lunch is good, as usual. I gulp it down steadily, watching TV. I was a bit sassy on the way here and now the silence is weighing on me. Sometimes I’m really hard on my mom for her bad jokes and her clumsy attempts at closeness. Then if she gets mad and curses me out I fall apart. And I don’t know if I’m just slow to catch on, or if I’m being asked to be up to speed on too many things. I’m anxious. Mom gets a new kind of pill every two weeks. The drugs change colors and sizes but the look on her face when she tosses them all in her mouth at once is the same. For her it’s an act of faith and resistance. For me, it sums up all the things we don’t talk about. There’s hope. Hold on. So I keep hoping and I hold on.
“Look, it’s the ad for my perfume.”
Grandma points with her brown, gnarled finger whenever she sees it. A blonde woman in a floaty white dress emerges into a huge garden and sees a swan gliding across a moonlit lake. I wonder what kind of fit of passion drives so many women to come flying out of their houses in these ads. Frankly I like them all, no matter how tacky, corny, and cheap they are. At least they’re way prettier that the rest of the stuff on TV, so I watch closely even though I know the commercial by heart.
“Gloria Vanderbilt,” Grandma says, lighting her first cigarette of the afternoon. “They’ve had the same ad all these years…”
“It’s not the same one, they remade it almost the same. They just changed the clothes a bit.”
“Really? Is that so.”
We have this conversation often. What I like best about Grandma’s perfume is that about once a year we take the bus to El Corte Inglés to buy a new bottle. The window displays glisten and I’m amazed by the variety of products for sale. The perfume itself is nasty and cloying, but it’s familiar and somehow makes sense.
“Want to try something on, honey?”
“Try what on?”
“That palm-tree skirt. I’ve got it threaded and maybe I can finish it in time for you to take to Marbella.”
I get up dutifully and go look for it in the closet full of half-made clothes. I find the patterned fabric. On the way back I stop in the bathroom to pee and strip down to my panties. From then on I act like a mannequin and keep watching TV with my arms held up while she works at sticking in a couple of pins.
“This is pretty much done, eh?”
“Really?”
“Run along to the mirror and see how it’s looking on you.”
I go to her room and check myself out. I flash my panties at the mirror, my only lover, then go back to Grandma with a skip and a jump.
“It’s so pretty! I love it!”
“Of course, of course you do, see how talented I am? Come on, take it off and make sure the pins stay in place. And now do me a favor and thread the needle, cause the cotton slipped out and I’m as blind as a bat.”
She’ll definitely have enough time. Between this skirt and my Minnie Mouse pinafore there won’t be much I can’t handle. I love how it doesn’t matter a bit that I’m in my panties with Grandma. It’s the same for her. Ours is a comfortable scene, far from any kind of competition or violence. I don’t want to leave this private little corral, but on the other hand I can’t wait to grow up and see if I end up looking like one of the girls in the commercials, see if one day I’ll escape from some awfully dull mansion at midnight and breathe in the pure woodland air. Sometimes I think nothing interesting will ever happen to me, that there’s something wrong with me and the reason I have trouble making friends is that you can see it in me from the outside, no matter how hard I try to hide it. I remember Jesús, the first boy I liked in preschool. I thought he was my boyfriend just because I wanted him to be, a really convenient arrangement. I sat in the first row with the good little girls while he spent all day standing in front of us by the blackboard as a punishment. We never spoke, we never touched. I made sure I only got up a couple of times a day to sharpen my pencil over the trash can, brushing up against his clothes on my way past. I would crank the grinder and watch his little hands hanging down sadly. To tell the truth I can’t remember a single thing he did wrong, but the fact is he ended up standing there over and over, quiet and still, black hair flopping over his listless eyes. I can’t remember his voice either. The mood at preschool was pretty tense. We were so little, it was hard to understand who we were or what we were doing there. Come to think of it, I still haven’t figured it out. Right when you start getting the hang of school, they pull out the multiplication tables and it just gets more complicated. At first, doing the work was satisfying, but it’s getting boring now, and the rewards are fewer and fewer. And this is just the beginning. Growing up seems like a drag, you have to study so much. Whatever happens, I won’t be allowed to get bad grades. I’d like to skip the mandatory training process and go straight to the part where I escape from the mansion, my hair blowing in the wind, fed up with stinking of white flowers. The closest I can get is looking at my hole in the wardrobe mirror. Grandma’s still rooted to her chair. She spends all day there running the ship, and I know very well that she’s not completely asleep, she’s just dozing with one foot still firmly in this world. I get up quietly and tiptoe toward the bedroom. I drop my panties, open my legs, part the flaps with both hands, and muffle a giggle. Sometimes this simple act gives me a real boost. When I did it for the first time not long ago and saw the folds of skin open, covered in dark little hairs, my legs were shaky for the next two hours. Should I be thrown in jail for what I’m doing? This forbidden hole is my swan, my castle, a snare of trouble and delight. To tell the truth I don’t know exactly where the hole itself is, so far all I’ve done is open the flaps, I still haven’t worked up to sticking a finger in, and I don’t know if it’ll work like it’s supposed to, but just getting a sense of the hollow in there is thrilling. As soon as I could talk, Mom started warning me about the dangers of this cave. She told me some men are crazy about touching little girls down there, and other places too, that you never know who’s going to be into it, that they hide their intentions really well because they know it’s bad, and that sometimes they’ll coax you gently, then once you let down your guard they destroy you. She said I shouldn’t trust any of them, just in case, that I should stay on the alert, and that if I ever got scared I should go to a woman for help, not a policeman, since a woman would definitely keep me safe, but with cops you never know. Even now she tells me over and over not to talk to strangers, not to open the door if I’m ever alone, and of course not to get into anyone’s car no matter how many candies or toys they offer me. She wants me to take this seriously and makes it clear that if I get into a car with a stranger I’ll most likely end up dead. People have been talking about those poor girls from Alcácer for months, and the grown-ups are always bringing them up so we’ll stay scared. I think of my corpse showing up in an estuary, how upset Mom would be. I know I have to be careful with my hole. People lose their minds trying to get inside it. I’ve seen it in the movies, in comics, and on the TV news. These men like to fantasize, just like me, but some of them do more and actually go out to torture and kill. We kids are the juiciest prey. I want to get out of the danger zone, it’s all too much. I get down on my hands and knees and look at my reflection in the mirror. I let my hair down and shake it a bit. Illegal pornography, for my eyes only. I’ve hoarded plenty of riches from this private black market. I need to stockpile material in case I end up at boarding school. I’d be cleaned out there; though if I can find a little mirror, I figure I can shine a light for myself. Things are definitely strict at the convent. I wonder why. I wonder if my future classmates are really bad girls, and if the whole thing might even be good for me since I’ll get used to being around people. I’ll have to make friends somehow. I’m sure I’ll get visitors. They might even bring me gifts from time to time. I’ll climb into their laps for comfort. Nothing’s as consoling as collapsing into a welcoming lap. So, no, maybe it won’t all be bad. I love the uniforms, and without Mom and Grandma watching maybe I can hitch my skirt up short, like other girls. And I’ll get to play with the yellow wardrobe. Mom says they really take care of the toys they keep at the convent, all the dolls’ tiny outfits are new and kept nice and tidy. And the mirror in the dolls’ wardrobe was perfect, I could use it to look at my hole. And I’ll take my own things along too, and they’ll make the other girls happy. I go back to Grandma’s living room, take out my colored pens, and draw three girls walking down the street in the convent’s navy and gray uniform. The one with long, blonde hair carries a folder, the brunette with a ponytail has a backpack, and the dark one has her hair in a shoulder-length bob like the Chabel Cleopatra doll. All three are in profile. I’ve made them too snub-nosed, but I think the brunette looks a bit like me. I lean over the table, rest my head on my arms, and fall asleep like Grandma. The radio is tuned to Antenna 3 and wakes us both with a start.
“Fuck, is it five thirty already?”
“Yeah,” I say, stretching.
“Well I have to go buy a zipper to match your skirt. Are you coming?”
“OK.”
The fabric store is just around the corner. It’s as boring as it is enticing. It’s packed with metal shelves up to the ceiling forming narrow aisles full of products in cardboard boxes. I know the contents of all the aisles by heart and scan them for any new arrivals, paying special attention to the lingerie section. The customers take turns asking for what they want, with two assistants helping them from behind a long counter. There’s always a big line. I don’t get why the place is so mobbed at all hours. Or maybe the wait isn’t as long as I think? Grown-ups tend to laugh and tease me when I get impatient, like my sense of time isn’t legitimate. Every kid I know thinks it’s a nightmare to wait five minutes. In the end I focus on deciding which knee-patch I’d want if I happened to need one, and that’s how I pass the time. I don’t get through enough knee-patches for this to be any fun. Why am I such a scaredy-cat, I wonder? There’s a ton of nice patches to choose from. We stop at the bakery on the way back and I pick out a Bollycao bar, which is the main reason I came along. Our little plaza is more like an alleyway that you get to through a gap between two stores, a shoe store on the left and a fruit stand on the right. We pass under the shoe store’s awning and I raise my hand, brushing the fringe with my fingertips. At one point I was obsessed with touching that awning, like reaching a certain height was going to save me from some kind of ghastly horror. It’s true that I felt more powerful the first time I stood on tiptoe and touched it. “The worst is over now,” I thought. It was really tough not to understand so many things. It was hard to get used to. At least now I’ve got an excellent triceratops sticker, and I know all the tricks for getting it out of the wrapper without smearing chocolate on it.
When we get home it’s time for Baywatch. Two days of full relaxation await me before the letdown of Monday. I give myself over body and soul to my passion for Shauni, relishing every second she’s on screen. Then we watch the Telecupón raffle even though we don’t have a ticket. It’s cool to see where the numbers fall, and Carmen Sevilla leaves me feeling warm inside, like spending all summer at a country house. We kids like doing impressions of her, though the gag is starting to get a bit old. It’s not her fault, we’re just really annoying. She’s gorgeous no matter what, like Concha Velasco, who I once saw a photo of, naked, holding an apple. Sometimes you see them in old movies from back when they were young. If the movie is black-and-white they’re polite and demure, but as soon as it’s in color they start getting saucy. Carmen Sevilla at my mom’s age with reddish hair and false eyelashes. Old Spanish movies don’t do it for me, but the actresses do. They’re wild, and they’ve always been so beautiful. They’re irresistible. My weakness for them also means I can keep up with Grandma when she goes into a rhapsody about how talented they are. She lights her cigarettes like Sara Montiel. She’s a great admirer of Juanita Reina, Estrellita Castro, Marifé de Triana, Imperio Argentina. Imagine calling yourself Imperio. And Argentina for a last name.
After dinner the neighborhood’s quiet and we go to bed. Grandma takes her dress and petticoat off over her head and hangs them from the top corner of the mirror. I unfasten her bra and girdle – thick, hard, and flesh-colored. I crouch on the floor and roll down her knee-high summer stockings. She feels so comfy when I take them off that she always lights a cigarette to celebrate. She rests it in an ashtray and puts on her white polka-dot nightgown. I’m wearing a white nightie with a mouse on it.
“I started smoking at fifty because they said it helped you lose weight. Can you believe that?”
“Uh-uh.”
“What they didn’t tell me is that if you try to give up you get fat again.”
“Why?”
“You get really hungry. You’re desperate to shove something in your mouth. And you shove food in there instead of cigarettes. But my problem is that I also like to smoke.”
“How can you like it?”
“I don’t know, honey, I like to light them and stub them out, and there’s something classy about the smoke. Ahhh!” she exclaims with a deep sigh and turns on the radio. Grandma listens to the same phone-in show every night. There are regulars, and she’s hooked on hearing how their stories evolve, what new topics come up, who’s calling for the first time, and who never calls again. It’s a lot like watching TV, but somehow it’s friendlier. Also more boring. Grandma provides a running commentary, but my mind wanders. I feel safe in this house, but I’m really lonely too. It’s my own fault. If no one forces me to interact with other people, I prefer to avoid them, and then I complain. Grandma notices I’m kind of distant and reminds me between her last few yawns that it’s not long until vacation, my baptism will be over soon, and she loves me very much. Then she lets out a fart and laughs and I laugh too and stick my butt out, but I don’t have any gas. We say good night. She’s already asleep and the radio is still on. I keep listening carefully to people’s stories in the dark. Through the open window I can hear at least three other people breathing, including Tata and the disabled boy, but I think I’m the only one awake. The radio beeps twice and a show comes on that I’ve never heard before. I don’t get what it’s about, I just know that it’s dark, grown-up material. What’s the main subject? Anxiety? I guess it’s not a bad idea to talk about heavy stuff this late at night and help tormented, sleepless folks all over the country feel less alone. But what I don’t get is why it’s mixed up with creepy stuff about ghosts. Why talk about so many possible kinds of worry at once? It’s mean to rub salt in the wound like that. The callers take turns and get all worked up unloading their problems. The goodbyes are really awkward, no one wants to hang up, they’re all miserable and need way more support and comfort than the host can give them. I wish I could lean over my enormous grandma and turn off the radio but now I’m addicted. Also, I’m terrified of silence. I hear the two-thirty beep. The host tells a tragic story about two sick girls in the hospital. Then someone calls in to say they can feel their mom’s spirit in the house. I cover my eyes. I can’t get to sleep until the early morning news starts. Grandma rolls over when she hears it and turns the radio off with a smack. When I’m finally about to embrace the sweetness of sleep, she asks if I want to have churros at around eleven. I say yes, happy to drift off at last.
When I get home on Sunday they force me to take a bath. I am not a fan of change. I’ve been taught to be ashamed since the day I was born and it’s torture. I don’t just mean I die of embarrassment whenever I think of showing my coochie for real. There are other things I find more disturbing. For one, as far as I can tell, there’s something screwed up about the way we talk, me and lots of other kids. It’s weird to feel like I can’t say the word coochie in front of anyone. The other day I nearly had a heart attack when I said fuck out loud by mistake. Sometimes I whisper it, or speak through my dolls, but why can’t I be free to say whatever I want? Where’s the harm in words? Do you start out cursing and end up dead in a ditch? There’s so much fear swirling around about me getting corrupted, I can hardly take a step without shitting myself. But I’m not sure how much of it has to do with the outside world. Until recently, I even thought mother was a dirty word. It made me uncomfortable just to think it. Mom was fine, but mother seemed totally out of place – enormous, filthy, and somehow unspeakable. I got over it, but I remember that phase well. Back then Mom and I were still bathing together. It was ages ago and doesn’t count anymore. Mom started getting stricter and more demanding. I don’t think it had to do with Domingo, and I don’t think it was out of shame either. Her expression changed after she got her hair cut, like she suddenly got older and felt the weight of all of her problems coming down on her. She tries to hide how worried she is. When someone says hi in the street, she’s immediately on her guard. Sometimes these people look surprised to see me. Anyway, once I’m in the bath I don’t want to get out again. I want to add more hot water and stay here to live in the bubbles, washing my plastic ponies and eating a snack with my raisiny hands. So I throw the same fit about getting out as I did about getting in. Now I’m in the kitchen, hair wet, arms folded across my chest. The clock on the wall has been stopped since last fall but I’d say maybe it’s eight in the evening. Mom wants me to eat a strawberry.
“No!”
“Try it, for fuck’s sake. See how delicious it looks?”
“No, I don’t care.”
“But you’ll like it.”
“I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Look at this little red chunk, look how tiny it is.”
To be fair, it does look good. I take it. I sniff it. It’s fresh. It doesn’t seem as gross as it did. It’s pretty small. I have a nibble. It’s good. I’m embarrassed about having changed my mind, but the joy of discovering a new pleasure is stronger.
“It’s good!”
“See?”
“Yeah. More please.”
Between the two of us we finish them off. How am I supposed to know who I am if I’m always changing? I soon feel tired and confused. It still isn’t dark when I have my omelet on the couch and go to bed holding back tears.
It’s Monday and I’m so nervous about getting baptized this afternoon that every little thing makes me jump. School is suddenly over, just like that. Mom came during recess and we went to the principal’s office. This is my first time meeting the principal but she seems more up to date on my business than I am. She probably is. She was sorry to see me go. It’s weird not to have said a proper goodbye to anyone. I thought the plan wasn’t that firm, thought I was just going on vacation. Not leaving the school, not for good.
For some reason finishing early doesn’t make me happy, much less finishing like this. I’d rather be the same as everyone else – I’d rather my life didn’t have such an unpredictable, hectic pace. I’d like to have Mary Poppins as a nanny, not as a mom. Thousands of details get away from me, but my mom isn’t like other moms. She’s fascinating, like a fairy whose wings have been burned. There are bewildering gaps in her stories. There isn’t a single photo of her from between sixteen and twenty-seven. Why not? Where did she come from? What’s going to happen? What does it all mean? I can’t keep waiting. It’s unbearable.
“Mom.”
“What.”
“Are you sending me to boarding school with the nuns?”
“I don’t know, sweetie, let’s hope not.”
“OK.”
“Don’t you worry about it.”
The smile she gives me is as loving as it is sad. We’re approaching a newsstand and I devour the covers of the dirty magazines on the fly. This gives me a burst of energy.
“Want some candy?” she asks.
“All right, a strawberry gummy, but I’ll save it for later.”
“Eat it now or it’ll melt.”
“I said no.”
I want to save the candy for a special occasion and I squeeze it as we walk home. We pass a man on the street who makes a disgusting hacking noise and spits at my feet. The fright makes me drop the gummy, which lands smack in his gob of saliva. Mom speeds up and makes a sour face.
“Ew, that was gross, Mom.”
“That’ll teach you. You can’t save everything in life for later or it’ll get spoiled.”
“But wasn’t that gross?”
“Very.”
“So then why are you blaming me? Don’t you feel bad for me?”
“Yeah, but I feel worse that you’re such a klutz.”
“Jesus.”
“And the next time you say Jesus I’ll rearrange your face.”
“But Mom, I want another gummy.”
“For fuck’s sake, no. And stop making that face, you look like your father.”
It makes me mad that she blames me for looking like him when it’s more her fault than mine, and even madder that I can’t see him in myself, that I don’t know I look like him, since I can’t even remember his face. I stay quiet until the next newsstand. Mom takes a coin from her pocket and buys another gummy in silence.
“Come on, let me see you eat it.”
I scarf it down in three bites. First the green part. Then the fattest part. Then the bottom.
“Was it good?”
“Delicious.”
“What do you say?”
“Thank you.”
“Good girl.”
People wonder how Mom gets me to be so well behaved. She’s tough on me as a daughter, and as a person too. I don’t think it’s fair that she expects me to have so much figured out already. Five minutes later we’re home. We have an early lunch. I have to get baptized in a few hours. Time for a twee outfit. They put a white headband on me to keep the hair out of my face and load me into the un-air-conditioned Renault 5. I also take my suitcase because tonight I’m staying with Grandma and tomorrow we leave for our vacation in Marbella. It’s going to be a rollercoaster. Luckily we’ll get the worst part over with first, and it won’t last long. The only thing I’m looking forward to about the baptism is that Uncle Pepe and Aunt Amparo are going to be my godparents. The whole family is proud of Pepe because he’s a successful pediatrician. I’ve been told this approximately eight hundred times, and on the drive over the subject comes up again:
“You know what, sweetie? When I got pregnant I was on the fence about keeping it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But then I went and talked to Uncle Pepe about it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He told me that if I decided to have you, he’d help me out with everything.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And he meant it.” I pay no attention but she looks at me lovingly anyway. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, sweetie.”
“I know that already!”
“All riiiiiiight, don’t get your panties in a twist. My point is, Uncle Pepe has always been really good to us.”
“Yeah, I know that already too.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you know.”
“Know what?”
“Everything, right? Don’t you know absolutely everything?”
“Come on, for fuck’s sake, don’t make the kid nervous,” Domingo interjects.
“All right. Are you nervous, Marina?”
“No.”
This time it’s true. What I am is dying of embarrassment. There’s a reason no one remembers their baptism. You get it over with when you’re unconscious, only just born. At least there aren’t any guests. I don’t want anyone to see me make a fool of myself. Domingo tries to give me some moral support.
“We’re going to a really old church.”
“Yeah.”
“A seventeenth-century temple. In honor of whom?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Come on, kid, make an effort.”
“But I don’t care.”
“In honor of San Hermenegildo, the Visigoth king.”
“Well, here’s your gold star.”
Domingo isn’t the first boyfriend of Mom’s I’ve known. Before him there were Juan and Pedro. Juan was a young widower with two kids, and all three of them were pretty adorable. The five of us only got together once. It was a long time ago. We kids were as quiet as mice. Juan stared at Mom like she was his only salvation, and looked at me like I was just another cute problem to solve. I even felt hopeful, so when I stopped seeing them around I asked how the story had ended.
“They were too normal, Marina,” Mom told me. “They weren’t our kind of people.”
I laughed, but at the same time it made me mad.
“But why not? Why can’t we be a normal family?”
“What can I say, he was looking for a mother for his children, the poor guy had no idea what to do with them. He was nice enough to me, but he looked at you like you were a sack of rocks, you know what I mean?”
“A sack of rocks? But Mom!”
“Look, we had tea with him a few times, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he ever speak to you? Apart from hello and goodbye?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well I’m telling you he didn’t, not even once. Do you remember anything he said to you?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t either! All he could talk about was how to fix up his house and how much he needed a wife.”
“Yeah. Well, OK.”
“You understand, right?”
“Yes.”
“It’s OK, sweetie.”
“Yeah.”
A year later she introduced me to Pedro, a gentleman with money and a white beard. We went to his house in the country for a weekend and I spent most of the time in the kennel with a Doberman ten times bigger than me. It was an old kennel made of stone. Apparently they were searching for me for hours. I remember how good it felt to be in that cave, hiding out with the guard dog, who sometimes left and then came back to snuggle with me in the dark. I wasn’t scared of anything, or cold, or hungry, or thirsty. Deep down I hoped they would never find me, that they’d give me up for gone and the Doberman would keep me safe. I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded sharing his food with me. It’s not that I turned my nose up at Pedro, but the dog was going to be my real dad.
I’m standing next to the altar, wanting the ceremony to be over, trying to hide the fact that I’m flustered and overwhelmed. The church is dark and cool. The light has an orange hue, and the scorching afternoon seeps in through the windows. In addition to my twee outfit, I’m wearing a brand-new poker face.
The priest is short, bald, and chubby. Luckily the ritual is designed for unconscious babies, there are only five people here, and I don’t have to say anything. I tell myself it’ll be over soon. Black holes slip into my train of thought, caused by my regret about being a bit sassy today. I should be more patient with the things I hate. I never learn. I stare at a stained-glass window at the far end of the church. Will it be beautiful when the water flows over me, or will it be more of a humiliating dunking? What does each option depend on? I hope my hair won’t get wet. We’ll definitely go to a cake shop afterward. Maybe they’ll have ice cream. The priest holds out his hand, and picks up a silver ball on a stick with the other. Time to go up to the font. I tilt my head. A camera flash startles me. I have zero interest in seeing that photo, ever. The water comes in a sudden spurt. I can’t tell if it looks nice but I don’t care anymore. I stand up straight, overcome with an epic sense of relief. I turn around to face my godparents, who’ve also been my official guardians since last winter, responsible for me in the eyes of God and the law. Frankly, I think all these solutions are a complete load of garbage. I’m not feeling remotely calm. I put up a good front to keep people happy, but it’s obvious that if Mom dies everything will go to shit. Uncle Pepe looks calm and reliable and smells a bit like his office, which I love to visit. He’s not really my uncle, he’s Grandma’s nephew. He went to her wedding as a kid, in 1940. That’s when he met her in her village, at twenty, smooth-skinned and lithe and always singing, colorfully dressed, and with a house full of dogs, cats, and birds. They gaze at me with affection, hug and kiss me, and give me a little medallion with an engraving of the Child Virgin and today’s date. The smell of my loved ones makes me feel safe. I’ll definitely never wear the medallion. Oh well. What matters is that I’ve gone from victim to sweetheart. That’s the secret of religion. They scare the hell out of you then give you a pat on the back. The church door gets closer and closer. Dear Lord, allow this newly Catholic servant of yours not to face the altar again, because this will mean Mom has survived. You have to understand, Lord. You know that with her by my side I need no other gods.
Today, for the first time in my four years, I’ve come to the Cine Delicias with my dad. I’ve been here before with Mom. We saw Snow White here, just the two of us. All I remember about it is the old skeleton of a prisoner who died of thirst, which went straight to the engine of my train of terror. There was also 101 Dalmatians, which was sweet but confusing, and Beetlejuice, which was just a desert full of worms. I’m quite a scaredy-cat and find dark movies disturbing – though it’s true that no matter how much light there is, I already make it my business to find darkness in the cracks where you’d least expect it.
This time it’s different. I’m restless, cheerful, and extremely excited. I was at Grandma’s for a visit and Mom let him see me because it’s so close. I’ve never been alone with my dad before. He’s wearing a white shirt, brown pants, and some hideously shiny tasseled shoes. He’s affectionate but doesn’t know me at all. It’s weird to be four and have your dad not know you at all. Not that I know him either. I’m surprised by how big he is, the color of his hair, his voice. On the way, he sweeps me up off the ground and lifts me over his head.
“No!” I scream in terror. I don’t like getting thrown around or being startled. Maybe other kids do, but he doesn’t know me.
“You silly goose, I’m giving you a piggyback ride.”
“No, please! No! Put me down!”
He doesn’t know I’m shy and reserved, that it takes me forever to trust anyone. I almost feel like he’s kidnapping me.
“It’s OK, kid. You’re going to like it, you’ll see.”
“No, no, I’m not. Put me down.”
He doesn’t get it. I’ve thrown him off his game. He just wanted to act like we were close, and most kids love getting a piggyback. But I hate fairground rides, getting dunked in water, going over bumps. I have enough to deal with already. I’m up by his neck, kicking and screaming and about to burst into tears, pleading with him to stop it and put me down already. He’s become an enemy within five minutes, the kind who doesn’t respect my wishes, who wants to force me to be like everyone else. He can’t get it into his head, he won’t give up. He insists I’m going to like it. Maybe he’s right, but I’m desperate and when he tries to lift me again the vertigo scrambles my nerves and I kick him in the face. This time he does put me down. I’m sweaty and overwhelmed, standing in the street with a stranger I call Dad. He’s completely miffed.
“What’s the matter with you, Marina, eh?”
That’s hard to answer. I feel like I’m hiding inside myself, all hurt and shy. I hang my head low and respond in a tiny voice.
“I don’t like it. I told you already.”
“But it’s OK, nothing bad’ll happen.”
“I know that already, Daddy, but I don’t like it.”
“But why not?”
“How should I know? Not everyone likes the same things.”
“But if you try it, you might like it.”
“I don’t care, don’t do it again.”
“All right, all right. Fine.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, of course.”
We’re both bewildered. He holds out his hand and I take it. I’m still pleased that he’s come to see me, that he’s taken me out. The rest of the walk he asks simple questions and I cheer up. I watch him from down below and try to store up the details. I always forget what he’s like between visits. We arrive. There’s only one movie showing and it’s for grown-ups. He buys me a bag of gummy worms and we go into the half-empty theater. We sit down. My dad and me alone in the dark. This is completely new. I’m practically climbing up the wall. I want to bounce up and down on the seats, crawl into his lap, let out hysterical little shrieks, whisper the word Daddy over and over, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. The movie begins. I have no idea what we’re seeing. The opening credits roll. Some anemones tremble on the seabed.
“Daddy.”
“Shhh, what’s the matter?”
“Daddy, is this one scary?”
“No, settle down.”
“But it looks scary, Daddy.”
“No, no, Marina, don’t worry.”
“But it’s making me scared.”
“What is?”
“The music and the bottom of the sea.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really scared. I’m going to hide so the ocean can’t see me.”
I drop to the floor and stick my feet under the seat in front, gripping my bag of gummy worms.
“Marina, come back up here.”
“No, Daddy, you come down here.”
I peek out of my hiding place, grab him by the collar, and pull. I don’t want the anemones to catch him and take him away. I want to protect him, want him to stay forever.
“Come on, Daddy, hide down here with me.”
“Oh, no, Marina.”
“But it’s more fun this way, who cares about the movie, it looks boring.”
“Come out of there and sit properly, we’re going to watch it.”
I don’t know him any more than he knows me, and I don’t understand him. It seems like he’s into heights and I’m into hiding places. I’d like to keep pushing until he gives in but I suddenly don’t have it in me and feel really sad. I do what I’m told. I chew my gummy worms and can’t focus on the screen for more than five seconds. I look at him, hoping he’ll look back at me in approval just like Mom usually does, that we’ll somehow connect after all this time. It doesn’t happen. He actually wants to see the movie, as if anyone could give a shit. As soon as it’s over he takes me home and says goodbye in a hurry. I’m standing in the living room, clinging to Mom’s purple skirt as she brushes my mussed hair out of my face.
“How was it, Marina, did you have a good time?”
“Yeah. Well, yeah.”
“Uh-huh. If you don’t want to see him anymore, you just have to tell me.”
“No. Well, no. It’s OK.”
“It’s up to you.”
Grandma was looking dead serious when I came in but now she claps her hands and gets up.
“Well! Who fancies some fried eggplant?”
Mom and I look at each other. Canica wags her tail.
“Me!” Mom exclaims.
“Me too!” I squeal. Mom picks me up, plants one of her loud, wet kisses on my forehead, and all three of us head into the kitchen.