“Isn’t he your friend?” he asked. “Don’t you want to see him?”
The lie came to me, and it was too close to the truth. “I do, but … I took his story last night. I think maybe he needs a little space from me.”
Papá nodded while smiling. “You’re so considerate, mija.”
He kissed me on the top of my head.
His love had never hurt me so badly.
How was I going to keep this up? How long could I last when his words were like knives in my heart?
I was initially thankful when Ofelia came rushing up to el mercadito just after Papá went inside. It gave me a chance to think about something else. “Is he busy?” she asked, and she pushed her long hair out of her face.
“Papá is in there. They might take a while.”
She examined me. “We haven’t spoken in nearly a year,” she stated, her eyes crinkled up. “Do you have time?”
The relief was gone. “For a story?” I said, my voice hesitant.
“Por supuesto. I have no other need to talk to you.”
Well, at least she was honest. I couldn’t say that for myself, though, and another bout of panic ripped through me. What would happen if I took another story? I couldn’t give hers back; wouldn’t Lito’s follow it? The immensity of what I’d done was undeniable. I had no idea what the ramifications of this choice would be.
“Right now?” I said hesitantly.
“Do you have anything better to do?”
She had a point, and it made me dislike Ofelia even more. I didn’t want to do anything for her or make my situation more complicated.
But what choice did I have? I could deny her request, and it would be only a matter of time before people became suspicious. If I accepted and then returned her story, I would lose Lito’s in the process. Was I really supposed to give up what I had learned?
Perhaps. But I couldn’t do that. I just couldn’t.
I took her story, Solís. She told me the truth about her interaction with Lito the day prior. Her older sibling had cut off contact with her, believing that Ofelia had objected to their imminent marriage. Ofelia believed that she had to attend the wedding. She had not apologized for calling her sibling’s partner ugly and unworthy of their love, but Ofelia was just being honest. Why couldn’t they see that? So every day she went to Lito’s, and every day, there was not an invitation waiting for her. “I hate them,” she told me. “I hope their wedding day is ruined.”
She left me to drown in her ire. As I gasped for air, I looked up, saw Ofelia roll her eyes at me. “Do you have to be so dramatic about this? You’ll give the story back, and we’ll all be fine.”
As she walked away, I thought her shadow was a little bit longer than it had been, a little bit more alive. She disappeared behind a home to the east.
Solís, how often did mi gente do this to me? How often did they tell me their stories, only to be completely oblivious to what they had done wrong? Had people lied to me in their stories before? How could I even know? I always forgot them when I returned them to You.
I stood up from the ground and dusted my breeches off, and Ofelia’s anger brushed up against my own. What if this wasn’t the first time someone had treated me like a solution to their problems? How would I ever have known that when You took my memories from me each time?
Papá came out to find me panting and sweating profusely. Ofelia was gone, but he knew what had happened; he’d seen me in this state before. “Already?” he said. “I was gone only a quarter hour.”
“She was quick,” I said, but added nothing more. My parents knew better than to ask me about the stories, and so Papá guided me home, his hand on my back, full of love for me. But would he still love me if he knew the truth? If he knew how I really felt? If he knew what I had done?
I lied. Again. I told Papá that I needed to return Ofelia’s story sooner rather than later. I wanted to visit the mesquite patch, to drown myself in those beautiful poemas, so I set out to the east.
I couldn’t make it. My heart was beating too fast; sweat poured down my temples. I normally thrived in the early morning heat, but right then, I was convinced it was punishing me. I stopped and caught my breath under the shade of a paloverde, then headed home.
They bought the lie I told them, Solís. They didn’t question what I had done at all.
I tried to fill myself up on carne frita and cebollitas that afternoon. But the two stories inside me had destroyed my appetite. I pushed my food around my plate, ate what I could, and then told my family that I needed to sleep more. They all understood. None of them questioned me. This was how it was after the ritual, wasn’t it?
When I woke up the next morning, the guilt was gone. I lay on my roll, the sounds of the others sleeping all around me, and the warmth of the morning sun inching into the doorway.
I was still alive. Unpunished. The world had not fallen apart, had not been razed by fire.
Maybe I hadn’t made a terrible mistake.
The day oozed by, slow like the sap of the aloe vera, and nothing happened.
No fire from up above.
No damnation from You.
Nothing happened.
But as Your heat swept over the earth, the threat loomed.
Something is coming.
I couldn’t talk to Manolito about it. If I went to el mercadito, he would know the truth about his story. He had trusted me.
But would he have told me a terrible secret if I weren’t our cuentista? Even if it had lessened his own burden?
Did anyone actually trust
