Hollywood, December 1939
The Truth about My Mother
I’d heard Tía Emi threaten to kill people. I’d heard her snicker at inept thugs, highfalutin society ladies, and Mr. Edmond’s pseudo-Frenchness. I’d heard her sing, and I’d heard her laugh. Strangely, I’d only heard her cry once—that time when I told her I might take a screen test. Tía Emi was not a crier, but when I walked into Madame Isabelle’s sewing room that day in December accompanied by four little girls, I found her sobbing.
“Está muerta,” Tía Emi whispered. “They finally got her. She’s dead.”
I took a Kleenex out of my purse and handed it to her. “Who’s dead?” I asked.
Two-year-old Lexie grabbed the Kleenex with her tiny fingers and dabbed at Tía Emi’s eyes.
“Your mother!”
I stared at her. “Why are you crying now? She’s always been dead. I mean, ever since I was a baby, you’ve told me she was dead.”
“But it wasn’t true. I told you that because...” Her voice drifted off.
“Why?”
“Because it was easier.”
“Easier than what?”
Lolly and Gabi were leafing through pattern books, and Lupita was organizing spools of thread by color. Lexie was snuggling in Tía Emi’s arms.
“Than explaining things. But she wasn’t dead. She was hiding. She’s dead now, though. He killed her.”
“Who killed her? Who is...was my mother?” I was trying to keep my voice low so the children wouldn’t hear.
Tía Emi began to sing to Lexie.
“Duérmete mi niña, duérmete mi amor
duérmete pedazo de mi corazón.”
“Please, Tía Emi, tell me who she was. I have a right to know.”
“Esta niña mía que nació de noche
quiere que la lleve a pasear en coche.”
“How do you know she’s dead? Who told you?”
“Esta niña mía que nació de día
quiere que la lleve a la dulcería.”
“Did someone write to you? Can I see the letter? There must be a return address on the envelope. Let me have it.”
“Duérmete mi niña, duérmete mi amor
duérmete pedazo de mi corazón.”
Lexie had dozed off. Tía Emi closed her eyes, and for a moment, I thought she’d fallen asleep, too. But then, she suddenly exclaimed, “His brother did it! He’s been waiting for years, and he finally caught up with her. That gun-toting weasel!”
In my mind, I saw a giant weasel with enormous teeth and a revolver in its claws. Under different circumstances, it would have made me laugh.
“Who is he?” I demanded. “What’s his name?”
“As mean as a trapped crocodile.”
“What’s his name?”
But she refused to say anything more.
“Alright,” I said, trying to sound calm. “Don’t tell me his name, but at least tell me hers. I don’t even know the name of my own mother.”
But she’d clammed up.
On the way home, I felt jittery. I can’t say I felt sadness over my mother’s death. I’d thought she was dead all along, so Tía Emi’s revelation didn’t really affect me. No, it wasn’t sadness I felt, but a kind of low-grade fear lodged like a stone in my gut. All these years, Tía Emi had told me I was in danger, and I’d thought she was being ridiculous. But if someone had killed my mother, then maybe he’d come after me, too. And my little girls! I shuddered.
I debated whether to tell Gabe. I didn’t want to worry him, but on the other hand, we had no secrets from each other. And if the children really were in danger, he should know.
A day went by. Then another. Then a week. Then a month. Nothing happened. Tía Emi didn’t mention my mother again. When I asked her, she just shrugged. I began to think that maybe she’d made the whole thing up. I decided not to tell Gabe.