Felisa and Paco are going around the house collecting things and zipping them up, but I get to stay in bed. Grandma is going to the bus station with them. When they’re about to leave I get up, run to give them a hug, then go back under the covers. The cheapest, most efficient goodbye. At around twelve fifteen I’m woken by singsong cries.
“Come on, honey, it’s twelve thirty!”
“So?”
“So we’re going to the pool.”
“OK!”
I don’t mind going to the pool instead of the beach since it’s small and sterile and makes it easier to wait for our new chalet-mates to arrive. It’s two o’clock and we’re putting on dry clothes in the patio. They’ll be here in a few minutes. The best I can manage is leave my hair wild and chlorine-soaked and put on something cheerful. I pick my palm-tree skirt and a white T-shirt that says “Costa del Sol.” I lie down in bed, holding the book. It’s a nice story but I’m not in the mood for something this wholesome right now. I need blood and guts, spread legs and pussies, torture, screaming. I get nearly all my energy from forbidden things, and the only way to break the rules in this place is by peeing in the water and relishing my own lawlessness by licking ice cream when no one’s looking. My relationship with sin has improved a lot since we moved in with Domingo. If I owe him anything, it’s the fact that comics showed up in my life. Who cares if we moved out of Grandma’s house or bought a Renault 5. The main upsides are that Mom doesn’t sleep on the couch anymore, and I have access to dirty magazines. That’s all that matters. Things could be much worse. They could be just the way they are, but with all the tits under lock and key. I could be facing lean times at Grandma’s, or anywhere else for that matter. If times were lean through all this, I’d have wanted to die already. The idea of death, graphic and gruesome, traps me like a chairlift and treats me to a string of infernal images that always pop up in the same order, never-ending, unstoppable, a train of terror. Here’s the blonde in a blue dress getting raped, the head split in two, the giant walking teddy bear, the mouthful of shit, the pussy getting pounded, the splintered bone sticking out of a broken leg. Where does it come from, this train I’ve been riding for years? From comics, movies, news, smashed-up snails, or is it a mixture of everything? If I’d never seen so many disturbing images, would I ever have climbed aboard? But I’m drawn to disturbing images, just like all kids, so why do they turn on me, torturing me like this? I don’t think the images themselves are the problem. I think it’s the way my mind puts them together. As soon as I see something new it gets hitched to the back of the train. Then next time there are more cars to deal with. But all things considered, I still feel like it’s worth it. If I don’t pick one car to focus on now, the train will keep going round and round, doing laps on its usual track. I try to portion out the selection, soften the images. A blonde in blue would be just the thing right now, but I don’t want to do anything nasty to her. All I want is a couple of minutes, one minute to decide how much she should look like Kim Basinger, the other minute to set the scene. I switch her dress for a white one and give her a high ponytail. Now she’s ready. I talk to her, tell her not to be scared, that she’s going to like it. She agrees and turns around. I tie her up against the wall and strip her. Without using my hands. Some days I’ve tried to appear to her in the shape of a man, a woman, or a cartoon, but what works best is when I come to her as a force that can mold her flesh, so I can see what happens without any interference. My invisible little nine-year-old arm in a gaping, juicy pussy works as an antiseptic for the sight of my mother greeting the women in the patio with exhaustion. She and Abelina are clearly very fond of each other.
“And Marina?” she asks. It’s my turn.
“Over here!” I answer cheerfully. I remove my arm from the blonde, let go of the book, and step onto the scene, with the satisfaction of having committed the perfect crime.
We go straight to the cafeteria. Domingo casts a cynical, playful glance around the place. At the buffet he raises an eyebrow at every dish on offer, tray in hand, then picks all the worst-looking ones. Mom seems excited and happy and keeps giving me soppy looks all day. She loves the scene at the resort and the chalet. It’s nothing special, but I don’t think any of us aspire to much more. I have to admit I adore it here. First, they take a four-hour siesta while Grandma and I play cards on the patio. Then we show them around and take them to the swings and the seaside promenade. I’m a bit frustrated because the day is over and I still haven’t had a single quiet moment with Mom. But after dinner she takes my hand and we go to the beach in the dark, just the two of us, to get an ice cream.
“What do you think of Abelina?” she asks as we take our shoes off and step onto the sand.
“I like her a lot.”
“I bet you do. I knew you would. Have you seen her hair?”
“Yeah, I see it every night in the bedroom, long and white.”
“Are you cold, Marina?”
“A little bit, but it’s OK.”
She wraps her arms around me. Please don’t be dramatic, Mom. If you hold on and keep quiet, that means not all is lost.
“How come there’s so much water in the sea, Mom? How can there be room for it all?”
“What can I say, sweetie. That’s the way the world’s made.”
“And how come it doesn’t overflow?”
“Well, it overflows all the time. What do you think those waves are?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Or hadn’t you noticed?”
“Yeah.”
I hang on tight to her neck.
“Remember the flood in Seville? And the day of the earthquake?”
“Yeah, of course. There’s a book I love, I saw it in Uncle Pepe’s office.”
“Oh yeah? Which one?”
“One about massive disasters, all over the world.”
“Wow, and what’s your favorite disaster?”
“The Titanic. Well, that and the bubonic plague.”
“The plague is the best. Can you imagine? Everyone dying, and knowing it’ll be your turn any moment.”
“Jeez.”
“You know why it’s called bubonic?”
“No.”
“It’s because when you caught it, these buboes appeared on different parts of your body.”
“Buboes? Is that a real word?”
“Yep.”
“Gross.”
“They’re like gigantic boils that get full of pus, then they burst and it all oozes out.”
She tickles me. I kick and scream. The world is a cruel and unpredictable place. No one is safe. These days I’m heavy but she still carries me to the wooden walkway. We put our shoes on and go back. Even if I was blindfolded I could find her among a hundred thousand moms.
In the morning we go to the beach, and at four in the afternoon Domingo gets the idea to go for a stroll. He has a weird fondness for walking in the blazing heat. It’s already evening in the chalet and I’ve been in the double bed with Mom since we came back from lunch. I hang around her like a meek little puppy. I haven’t managed to sleep at all, I’ve just been watching the light change in the bedroom. She stirs and lets out a whimper. She’s awake.
“What’s hurting you, Mom?”
“Everything hurts, Marina, I feel like shit.” She laughs.
“I’ll give you a massage.”
“Ooh, yes.”
She lies face down and I start with her back.
“But Mom, what does it actually feel like?”
“Well, it feels like there’s a bunch of critters inside my body.”
“Critters?”
“Yeah, little critters that want to eat me.”
“I’ll get rid of them.”
“Yeah? How are you going to do that?”
I knead her with both hands and start pinching big handfuls of flesh.
“See how I’m getting rid of the critters?”
She holds her breath. I pretend to be sucking the last folds of skin with my fingertips, removing the unspeakable microorganisms that are destroying her.
“Look, Mom. I’ve got them in my hands.”
I show her my fists, shaking my hands in disgust and letting the illness fall to the floor.
“Ooh, Marina. Do it again.”
Kids aren’t any better than grown-ups, but the grown-ups like to think we are, that we’re pure and full of magic. I summon all the fantasy this version of childhood can offer and cast my spell again on that body in its black panties. When Mom turns over and shows her tits I feel a bit awkward, but this is no time for silliness. She’s getting eaten up by critters. I throw myself back into my nursing duties, remove each and every critter I can find, then shake them off me far from the bed. I pay special attention to her worn-out fingers, drawing the disease out through her nails. I keep going until the sun goes down and we have to get dressed for dinner. Mom is cheerful and relaxed. The treatment has been a success. I’ll do it again at the same time tomorrow, when she’s not expecting it. That’ll make it more effective.
Mom is reading a magazine under her beach umbrella, and Domingo is reading a book. Grandma stands with her eyes fixed on the horizon. Abelina sits in a deck chair, legs crossed and arms stretched out. All four are smoking. The sun has been baking my pile of dirt for a while, and I’ve surrounded it with damp, packed sand from the shore. We’re here early, for a change, and it’s still a calm day at the beach. I’m really tanned, almost dark brown. My sandy legs glisten. The heat is smothering me. Maybe it’s time for the first morning dip. I look up and make out a lone, slim creature skipping among the sparkling waves. I think it’s a girl but I can’t be sure from here. She has short, blonde hair and isn’t wearing a bikini top, despite being taller than me. I stare at her, dazzled, short-sighted and squinting. I’m roasting so I go in the water and rinse my legs off. I’m not sure, but I think she wants to play with me. I get a bit closer, just in case. The wind carries her laughter over, and when a wave knocks me down, I send my own laughter back her way. Soon I’m as far out as she is, and together we leap over the same ripples of foam, with no need to say anything for a while. We dry off in the sun, smiling and panting as we watch each other. It’s two o’clock, our families say hi and head for the cafeteria together. Her name is Inma and she’s ten; she has an older brother, a younger brother, a dad with a moustache, and a blonde mom. I wonder how long it’ll take them to notice that we’re a bit weird, but they make such a tight, hard knot that there’s no room for them to pay attention to other people. At lunch, they talk among themselves, flooding the space around them with information about their own lives. I guess they love each other, that they like being together and filling every gap with the scent of their flock. I don’t talk much and pay special attention to how men and boys, women and girls, interact with each other when they’re at ease. Big families are fascinating.
After lunch, Inma and I run off to talk about how we both like the liquid on top of lemon yogurt. She got here on Monday but we’ve only just met. We want to show each other our favorite spots in the resort and see how they look when we’re there as a pair. We skip from one place to another, striking different poses against different backgrounds. We’re both curious about the roundest chalet with the biggest lawn. I tell her about my two main kitty sightings. There’s the lone Siamese cat’s hiding place and the corner of the hedge where no one can see you. She shows me a bar with gigantic windows and sea views I haven’t been to before, and a hole in a white fence you can fit your whole arm through. Before long we’re on the subject of the Mama Chicho showgirls, and then we hit the key spots on the map all over again, singing and dancing and wearing our T-shirts like triangle bikinis, a fancy-dress trick Inma teaches me.
“Who’s your favorite Sailor Moon warrior?” I ask as we pass the corner of the hedge for the third time. I think we know each other well enough by now for me to broach such a personal subject.
“Bunny,” she answers, and I know right away that she gets bad grades and is confident, open, honest, and I’d even say popular. I admit that I’m drawn to Rei, Sailor Mars, but that I’m actually nothing like her and in fact I’m just like Ami, the shy nerd who knows how to wield the power of water. She says she understands, she knew it the moment she saw me. I ask her how.
“Because of your glasses.”
Of course. I’d also had a feeling I was dealing with a classic Bunny. We take the news calmly, reasoning that though Ami and Bunny seem really different, they’re the first two to make friends in the series. I’d like to identify with Sailor Moon or Sailor Venus, since I also like them, but they’re out of my league. I belong with the brunettes, and not because they’re brunettes, but because they seem fiercer. Ami is really fierce, it’s just that she carries it all inside her. Once we’re allowed to go swimming again with no risk of stomach cramps, we run back to the beach, our T-shirts in our hands. We don’t talk much, but play in a physical, frenzied way, something I really need right now.
By nighttime I’m exhausted but the excitement of having been able to hang out with another girl keeps my heart racing. Three days ago I felt like an old lady. This week I have a mom, a friend, a Siamese cat that lets me stroke it, and I’ve just finished chapter six.
The next morning Inma’s family don’t show up for breakfast in the cafeteria. I’m told not to make a big deal of it but can’t think about anything else, I woke up really wanting to hang out with her again. But I’m happy anyway, she’s bound to show up sooner or later, and I’ll still be able to talk to her. Our time at the beach drags on. I’m getting impatient. The only thing that soothes me is being near Abelina. I watch her movements. Sometimes she makes a sweet but insightful comment about the magazine she’s reading, or shows you a picture of a pretty dress. She keeps me anesthetized until lunchtime. I can never remember Abelina’s connection to my family, and I’ve asked so many times I feel bad for forgetting again. I guess she’s another friend from Grandma’s senior citizens’ social club. I went with her a bunch of times when I was little. It’s kind of a saucy old-timers’ club, though most of the women prefer not to mix with men anymore and just want to drink coffee and anisette and dance with each other. I also met Grandma’s boyfriend back then, another Paco. He used to come over a lot and sit on the couch. He was tanned, with white hair. He was nice but I knew he would’ve preferred me to get out of the way. If there was something good on TV I ignored the hint; if not, I went off to the bedroom or the patio. His visits got more frequent, then fell off until he stopped coming. One night I asked Grandma what had become of Paco. She told me he’d wanted to sleep with her and she wasn’t interested. Simple as that. He wanted more from her and she wasn’t going to agree, so it fizzled out. I pictured old people fucking that day, and when I understood their two perspectives – wanting and not wanting – it made me sad.
Inma is at a table in the cafeteria with her parents and brothers. She lifts her right arm to wave and I see that it’s in a cast. Everyone in her family starts telling the story at once. She likes being rough with her little brother, and this morning, while they were playing in bed, she did a somersault, crashed into the wall, and sprained her wrist. It happened just a few hours ago and the plaster cast is already covered in drawings and messages. Her life must be so much fun.
“What are you going to do now? Will you be able to swim?”
“I don’t know, not much.”
“The cast really suits you.”
“Suits me how?”
I think it looks good on her. It’s flattering and makes an interesting accessory, but I get that my opinion won’t be too well received so I say it’s because of the drawings, which is also true.
“Want to come to the pool with me? I’ll be able to swim better there.”
“Sure. Are you a bit sad?”
“Well, it makes me mad, but it’s OK. Tomorrow I’m having a birthday party at the bar I showed you. You should come.”
“Really? Tomorrow’s your birthday?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you turning eleven already?”
“Yeah.”
The age difference makes me feel dizzy and proud at once. But I can’t miss Mom’s afternoon massage. We go our separate ways. Domingo heads to the pool with Inma’s family and the old ladies. Mom and I go to bed. When I get to the room, I look for a way to keep track of time and decide I won’t leave her until the shadow on the patio reaches the sixth tile from the sunny wall, and only if she’s asleep by then. This mental contract includes the clause that if she falls asleep before then, I’ll keep on with the treatment until the time’s up. In fact, I prefer it that way since everything’s easier when she’s unconscious. She lets out one of her whimpers and then starts snoring.
Inma is waiting in the pool but she seems down. I guess it’s hard for her to have a good time if she can’t run free like she usually does. She quickly gets bored of talking and playing quietly. I feel guilty that I can’t offer anything more, but then I get an idea so obvious that I’m mad I didn’t think of it sooner.
“Do you still like playing with dolls?” I ask with the meekness my nine years owe to her almost eleven.
“Yeah, sometimes. It depends which dolls.”
“They’re Chabel dolls.”
“Don’t you have any Barbies?”
“No.”
“I prefer Barbies, but I guess I don’t really care. As long as they’re not Nenucos.”
“I don’t like baby dolls anymore either.”
“All right then.”
I hope it’s this easy to arrange a fuck when I’m older. Inma has made it clear in this exchange that she needs her games to be sensual not to get bored. She’s about to suck on the last candy of childhood and step into puberty. I understand her and can tell things are about to change, that the bubble of fantasy around us is waiting to burst and spray soap in our eyes. But what makes me mad is that she looks down her nose at the past, like she’s forgotten she was just as much of a person two summers ago. It bothers me how quick people are to trample those who were their equals just as soon as they climb up a notch. They build up all this unjustified hatred and then take it out on newbies who never did anything to them. It’s vindictive. The worst part is I’ve probably done it myself and don’t even remember. I can’t choose my memories no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I want to capture what goes on in my mind and around me. Not to mention all the things that escape me precisely when I’m trying to pile up so much information.
The walk to the bungalow where my dolls are relaxing involves a certain amount of sexual tension. I usually say chalet since I think that’s closer to what they are, but according to Inma they’re actually bungalows and she won’t let me keep using the wrong word. I had to check the spelling in one of the brochures in the reception. I wasn’t sure if it was bungalou or bungalot. My money was on bungalot, which seemed vaguely related to the T in chalet. We’ve arrived.
“Where shall we sit?” I ask.
“Is anyone here?” she wants to know, coming in with her cast held to her chest.
“My mom, she’s asleep.”
“I think the patio’s best. Bring everything out here.”
I pick up my little stash and carry it over, not making a sound. I’m about to give this girl an imaginary smooch. I don’t know what kind it’ll be. She’s eighteen months older than me, has two siblings, is on Team Barbie, has one arm in a cast, and categorically rejects Nenuco baby dolls. These signs of her wildness do not disappoint. She picks the blonde. She grabs the boy with the other hand and without further delay starts rubbing their heads together. She couldn’t care less about the plot or their outfits, all that matters to her is smooshing one bit of plastic into another. I’ve never seen anyone play this rough, not even the kids in preschool. She almost seems a bit angry, and the plaster cast doesn’t hold her back from inflicting gratuitous violence. The dolls don’t speak or get dressed or go anywhere. When I try to straighten one out, she just charges on. Her injury doesn’t slow anything down. She’s raping them.
“Hey, Inma, wait.”
“What?”
“You’re really messing up their hair.”
“But they’re better with messy hair.”
“No, they’re not better with messy hair.”
“What do you mean they’re not?”
“I’m telling you they’re not.”
“I’m going now. My birthday, Saturday at six at the bar! Bye!”
“OK, bye!”
She bolts. Like a golden lioness in her prime, unable to rein in her own energy. Sometimes kids communicate in the most unexpected ways. Her weird goodbye doesn’t bother me at all. It was as practical and appropriate as can be. I sit on the hot floor, comb the dolls’ hair and put their hats on them, the best fix for brutalized bangs. Mom appears in the bungalow doorway in a swimsuit.
“Hi, Marina.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Did Inma come and play with you?”
“Yeah.”
“And how was it?”
“Good.”
“What does good mean?”
“It means good, more or less.”
“Why?”
“Because she was really mean to my dolls.”
“You don’t like that one bit, huh?” she laughs at me. She has a sassy kind of charm when she’s just woken up that’s hard to resist.
“No, Mom, I really don’t like it.”
“Not even a teeny bit, eh?”
“Not even a teeny bit.”
“Sweet Jesus, how did I end up with such a fussy little girl.”
“Well, that’s how it is.”
“It’s OK, sweetie, it’s good to take care of your things. What I don’t get is why you’re such a mess when it comes to everything else.”
“Enough already.”
“And do you want to go to her birthday party?”
“I think she only invited me to make up the numbers.”
“And what does that mean?”
“OK, all right, I want to go.”
It wasn’t a big deal but I can’t help feeling sad and let down. I grab the pirate-stone book, sit on the floor, and arrange the dolls next to me with their hats pulled over their heads. Life is full of crude twists and turns. I leave it all behind for the other world, where every night I sink deeper roots, and feel relieved right away. I can’t tear myself away from the book even to go to the patio and eat the fish Grandma just fried for dinner.
It’s Saturday. I got here a while ago. I was expecting a gang of ten or twelve friendly teenagers, but there are about forty people at the bar – big brutish men, big brutish teenagers, and moms with squawking babies. I came by myself and it’s like I’m a ghost. Almost no one knows me, no one speaks to me, and no one sees me, but I’m trapped here body and soul until the party’s over. I sit down in one chair, lean in a corner, order a soda, drink it in a different chair, then finish it in the same corner as before. We sit by the windows with Inma at the head of the table and sing. I hold a balloon and wave it around. Her family turns amber as the sun sets over the sea and a booming “Happy Birthday” makes the windowpanes shake. Inma’s dad takes out an enormous camera and aims it at her as she blows out the candles. I smile at the lens, posing stock-still so I don’t mess up the photo. Inma puffs, lifting her cast in the air in triumph. Then I realize the contraption’s a video camera and when they watch the movie at home they’ll see how retarded I look. I’ve never even seen a video camera, how was I to know what it was? I’m glad I came anyway, even though I wish it would end. I’m curious about normal families and how they mix in this shallow way with people, so often and with so much ease. Are they always this frivolous or are they especially happy today? This much sheer joy must be pretty rare. I think they’ll remember today with a sweet kind of sadness. They’re on vacation in a nice place, one of their puppies is getting over an injury, there’s a cool breeze and a beautiful sky. I don’t mind being part of this memory. I’m feeling relaxed. I gave Mom her massage before I came over, and I have a dark tan that makes me look healthy and sturdy even though I haven’t touched my slice of cake. I’d rather drown than let a spoonful of custard pass my lips. They’ll understand when they see the video. Retarded ghosts don’t eat custard.
I still wasn’t sure about the party when the time came, so I said they should pick me up at around eight, just in case. Sometimes other parents won’t let you leave unless they can hand you over to a designated adult. Not today. They brought the cake out at seven and I’ve been waiting for half an hour, watching the sun disappear over the sea. Domingo appears. I can tell it’s him by the way he walks when it’s hot.
“How goes, Partner?”
“Good, but it’s really loud and the cake was a bit of a letdown.”
“Was it disgusting?”
“Yeah, pretty disgusting.”
“Disgusting how?”
“Like, slimy-disgusting.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“The more you talk to me, the weirder everyone thinks I am. It’s driving me crazy.”
“What can you do? People are quick to judge.”
“Yeah, true. How’ve you guys been?”
“Good, nothing new, just that your grandma gave me an earful for taking a book from her nightstand.”
“Well, that’s fair enough.”
“It isn’t either, goddamn it. At this stage you’d think the old lady wouldn’t begrudge me something like that.”
“But if she lets you take her books you end up messing them up or losing them.”
Domingo laughs. “Yeah. Maybe she’s got a point.”
“I don’t get why you go out of your way to annoy her. She likes lending you books, she just wants you to take care of them and give them back.”
“I don’t know, I think it livens us both up a bit.”
“Livens you up?”
“Yeah, doesn’t it? It’s funny when she gets mad, and it’s probably good for her health. Rejuvenating.”
“Come on, you don’t even like her books.”
“They’re nearly all total garbage, that’s what makes them so great.”
“They make you laugh, right?”
“A whole lot.”
“No wonder she gets mad.”
“But you sort of understand my perspective, right?”
“Yeah, and I understand hers too.”
“Well then. Truce.”
We march back at a military pace. I tell people Domingo is like my dad, who I don’t miss at all, but that’s not true. It’s just so I can look strong, so my family won’t seem weird, so I can give the impression that Mom’s done a great job and everything’s fine. But though Domingo’s nothing like a dad to me, I know he’s an improvement on most of the dads I’ve seen, starting with mine. Maybe if I’d spent more time getting to know my dad it would’ve been different. Maybe other kids have a sense of belonging in the lap of a stable, nuclear family, and that makes up for their dads not being perfect. Domingo and I are already as close as we could be, we’ve both made an effort to find ways to be friends, but at the same time something always keeps us apart and we end up hitting a wall. We might be on the same team, but we’re vying for attention from the same coach – my mom. Obviously, he’d rather live alone with her; I’m just an interesting nuisance that was part of a package deal. It’s the same for me. But it’s naive to think this couldn’t happen in other homes. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Parents who hate each other, rifts between them and their kids, breakups, punishments, stupid demands, a total lack of understanding. But when you fantasize you picture the best-case scenario, that’s the whole point of fantasies. When I see families in the movies I get sad, especially anything to do with dads, siblings, or grandpas. I can’t accept that I’ll never have them, I’m always choking back the frustration. I guess everyone has stuff they have to come to grips with in life. I mean, a lot of families don’t let animals in the house, and if they do, sometimes they’re not allowed on the couch or the bed, and you can’t give them a kiss, and if they break something they get a beating. There must be kids who turn green with envy when they see cute dogs on TV, and that never happens to me. But when I see dads, siblings, or grandpas, but mostly dads, I feel a void in the pit of my stomach, that hollow kind of hunger that won’t go away no matter how many ice creams you eat. It happens to me with snow, on a smaller scale. A Christmas scene on TV, the family all bundled up, the twinkly lights, the snowmen with carrot noses. Sure, it looks perfect, but Domingo is right: you can’t let the movies hypnotize you, no matter how pretty things look. They’re just peddling a cheap dream. Snow can be fun all right, he says, but then you realize it’s freezing and dirty and the cold cuts right through your hands. I’ve never sat on my dad’s lap, just like I’ve never seen snow, but I know people who live in the north fantasize about southern summers like it’s all an oasis of palm trees and happiness, when at the end of the day it isn’t much more than a dried-up puddle filled with poor frogs dying of thirst.
When we get back, Abelina is packing her suitcase on the bed. I don’t want her to leave. I go over and tell her this, channeling all the afternoon’s nerves into the sheer fabric of her dress. She lets out a tuneful bleat and presses my face to her belly. Grandma’s in the bathroom but we can hear her gushing about the sweet Siamese cat prowling around outside. I recognize the smell of the product she’s using and the sound as she pats it onto the areas in need, reaching beneath her boobs, into the folds of her armpits, and between her thighs. I’m wearing my Minnie Mouse pinafore and my hair is loose. Mom’s just showered and put on a white dress. She takes my hand and we leave again.
“I’ll bet you didn’t like the cake and you’re starving.”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, let’s go get an ice cream.”
“OK.”
She has a camera in her purse and suggests we stop at the swings, where there usually aren’t many people. This makes me happy. Until now only Grandma has taken my picture, and each one seems to capture a different girl. The version Mom sees is much more charming. If she does end up dying, these portraits will help me remember who I was. I pose in the little wooden house, on the swing, and on top of the slide. My mouth is covered in chocolate and I give her a toothy smile. There’s something indecent, hilarious, and pathetic about my smile. Last year I broke my left front tooth playing statues in Tamara’s living room. I realized I was about to beat her little brother and felt triumphant, drunk on my own success. Tamara counted to three and turned around looking passive and subdued. I leapt forward with so much force that I slipped and saw the floor rise up to meet me. Two bloody chunks of tooth bounced across the tiles. Tamara’s brother picked them up and we ran to the bathroom mirror to inspect the damage. None of us really got what was going on, we just knew it was weird for a tooth to bleed. I shrugged and they walked me to the door. Alberto handed me two clean pieces before I left.
“Here, I’ve got the pieces, in case they can stick them back in.”
“Thanks, Alberto.”
Tamara and Alberto’s grandparents never found out what had happened. I trudged up the stairs to the third floor. It was a Saturday morning and Mom opened the door and gasped.
“Marina, sweetie, how could you split your lip again?”
“I don’t know, Mom, I got overexcited playing statues.”
“But what happened, why don’t you ever protect your head with your hands?”
“I don’t know, I always forget!”
“Let’s see, show me.”
I opened my mouth as far as it would go and looked at the ceiling.
“Jesus, does it still hurt?”
“A little.”
“I’m calling the dentist.”
Putting my hands out to break my fall and protect my face has never been my forte. But that day, I felt especially cursed. The sight of a smashed-up mouth is always a turnoff, and this was already my second scare. First I’d messed up my milk teeth; now I’d broken one of the most important permanent ones. The first time, I was five. It was nine fifteen in the morning and I was late for school. There were no kids left in the courtyard and I was dashing to class with a knapsack on my back, a chocolate doughnut in my left hand, and in my right hand a drawing I wanted to show my teacher. There were two steps up to my classroom, the perfect number for me to trip on the first and split my gums on the sharp concrete of the second. I remember weighing up my options as I fell, I remember my hands in the air, I remember deciding not to squash my breakfast – even though I knew that brand of doughnuts tasted like Play-Doh – and not to ruin my work of art, but to sacrifice my little face instead, mainly because I thought nothing in the world could be less important than my face. A tiny but powerful section of my mind was secretly curious, and didn’t want to intervene but passively accept the course of events. It compelled me to injure myself, not out of some perverse inclination but out of a strong thirst for knowledge and experience. It all happened so quickly. There was no mirror that time, just a lot of blood, then pain that came over me little by little and spread nonstop. I was terrified the agony would only get worse. I picked myself up with my precious, blood-stained objects, and struck out alone across the courtyard, perfectly poised and dripping with red. I walked down the corridor, opened the classroom door, and tried to speak, but my mouth didn’t work. The other kids got up and came over, eyes popping out of their sockets, reaching toward me like I was some harmless ghost. The teacher flew into a panic and led me to the faucet where we washed our hands and got water for crafts, telling me over and over not to swallow the blood and trying to shoo my little classmates away from the scene. They called Mom at work. Tensions ran high and as class began I was still spitting blood into the sink. The kids stared as I bent over, hiding my suffering, and the teacher’s voice quavered like a custard tart. Forty minutes later Mom showed up, screamed blue murder, dragged me out of the classroom, and cursed the people in charge for not calling an ambulance. I wonder how I looked at the time, no one let me see, not even the doctors. I had no idea until they showed me some X-rays at the hospital. They handled it well, laughing at how you could see two rows of teeth through the split upper gum instead of one – the milk teeth hanging down, and the permanent set peeking through the gaping flesh. They told me I looked like a shark, which made me less scared. When I showed them how brave I was they seemed proud of me. Nothing makes me feel better than that. I like doctors. I like them so much that when they examine me and patch me up, their gentle, soothing attention makes up for all the pain. I hate the world enough to not want to stick around, enough that the idea of getting deathly ill and living out my final days in the harsh, cold surroundings of a hospital actually sounds pretty good. Physical pain is the only pain that counts, so part of me is always happy to hurt myself; I’ve already been wounded by the world, so why shouldn’t someone who knows the body inside and out get paid to give me comfort, ease the affliction gnawing away at me? But I never fake feeling sick, not even on Sunday nights, and when I’m sad I put on a brave face and try to look strong. My smile is taking forever to heal. In photos of me there’s always a weird, bright-pink patch, crisscrossed with taut and lumpy scars. They took me to the dentist and gave me veneers that lasted just a few months, until I bit into a really crispy fried potato and they fell off. Just like with my dad being gone, I don’t really care about the gap, but I can’t quite stop caring about it either.
I try to look sweet and obliging on the swings, though some people think it’s uncool to do what your mother wants. It doesn’t matter, barely anyone’s looking. We’re about to leave, and we’re both consumed by this sappy longing that’s hard to put into words. She’s going away tomorrow and I don’t know where she’ll be or what they’re going to do to her, but they’re going to try to make her better again and she doesn’t want to let on that it’s necessary. She doesn’t want me to see her unwell, or go to the hospital. I wish she could understand that I’m not remotely afraid of hospitals, but it’s like when other moms say their kids can’t watch a French kiss on TV. There’s nothing to be done. But the thing is, you can see a French kiss lots of other places, whereas I’m not going to the hospital because no one’ll take me and that’s the end of it.
The film runs out with the daylight and we go to dinner. We stop by the squat little bungalow to pick up the rest of the gang, and the place seems prettier to me than ever. The table-soccer kids have been replaced a few times over, but they’re all as bad as each other and I know they’re pointing at me, saying I’m the biggest freak they’ve ever seen. It makes sense, they saw me reading on the beach this morning, now they’re seeing me reading at dinner, and on top of that I can’t stop kissing my mom on the cheek. Hate me as much as you want, it’s all the same to me. Now I have only two goals. The first is to finish the book before we get back to Seville. The second is to find the right time to give Mom her last massage, so she can leave with seven instead of six. I doubt it’ll change anything, but that’s how I want it to be. The kids pass by our table and look down their noses at me behind the grown-ups’ backs. What’s your deal, tough kids? Too old for a Minnie Mouse pinafore?