“Wait. What were you going to tell me?”
I wasn’t sure if I should tell Ana Mrs. Garcia’s secret before I knew more about Fernanda’s condition, plus finding a solution was more important. I wanted to get home and start searching.
“Mrs. Garcia apologized. Look, I am going home now. Let’s both look and see where we get.”
I sped home, my adrenaline surging. I rushed past my mother and stepfather watching TV and into the room where we had the one computer. I spent the rest of the night trying to find someone local who spoke Nahuatl. UTSA is one of the universities in San Antonio. The answer could be a scholar. Who else would know, besides someone in Mexico?
I hadn’t given my dream a second thought; only part of me wanted to believe in the power of dreams and visions. I’m Mexican—how could I not remember the stories of the campesino, Juan Diego and his vision of La Virgen appearing to him, calling to him to build a shrine and gifting him with her image on his cloak? I’ve been to the church in Mexico where it is said this happened.
A vision is only as powerful as the will behind it. All else had failed to this point, why not believe a dream? Juan Diego held fast to that dream that became a place of purpose and faith.
I looked up the faculty at UTSA. A professor of Mexican and pre-Columbian history caught my attention, Dr. Camacho. Her office hours were listed as 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. That I had relied on the internet instead of going straight to a real source of information made me feel idiotic and inadequate, not that I needed help in that department. My brain was always tuned to doing things alone, taking charge without help. To ask for help I’d have to brave potential rejection and ridicule.
I would go to her office first thing in the morning. She would be my priest and curandera.
I walked down the mostly empty hall of history department offices. A woman not much older than myself mopped the floor at the very end and looked up at the sound of my footsteps. She had the same look as I did behind the till at Sonic. The smell of Pine-Sol burned strong. Something inside of me ached. I wondered what it would be like in a crowd of students, going from class to class. Every room a doorway to an entire universe of knowledge, different subjects with millions of pages written about each one. A hope beyond hope to one day be counted as part of this community.
Footfalls disturbed my thoughts. A woman in her sixties walked down the hall with a large canvas bag slung over her shoulder, her hair a mixture of jet black and white in a single braid down her back. She wore an Emiliano Zapata T-shirt with Mi Tierra printed on the top, jeans, and worn cowboy boots that made a sharp sound that echoed in the hallway. Upon seeing me, she gave me a warm smile, like I was one of her students that she couldn’t quite place.
“Hi there. Are you waiting for me?”
“Hello, my name is Lourdes. I’m not a student, but my friend is experiencing something that I don’t completely understand. I thought you might since your bio says you speak multiple indigenous languages. I know she wants to communicate with me, however, I just don’t have the knowledge. Would you be willing to come see her?”
Her face loosened at this vague request dropped at her feet.
“What do you mean by experiencing if it is a language issue?”
I opened my mouth to speak and then closed it again. How could I adequately explain the story without sounding batshit crazy? How would she react to me saying my friend is possessed?
“I’m not trying to sound fresh, but I think it is better if you see for yourself. Please . . . you’re our Obi-Wan Kenobi . . . our only hope.” My muscles ached with the tension and fear. I hoped she could see the desperation in my eyes. I was not one for begging, but I was not above begging now if I had to.
She now looked at me with concern. “I suppose I could stop by later.”
I almost jumped out of my shoes. “Thank you so very much.”
I gave her the address and made my way straight to Fernanda’s house to inform Mrs. Garcia of my plan. I was nervous to see Fernanda after Mrs. Garcia’s confession. I never thought I’d see the day when Mrs. Garcia had no fight inside of her.
When the professor arrived, Fernanda was sitting in the backyard just as she had done every day before. Lately, she’d been lying in her mother’s flower beds to masturbate and then fall asleep. If this happened when I was present, I would cover her with a sheet so she might release whatever was inside of her. As her mother and father retreated to the house and turned the TV on loud, I would walk away happy that she was getting some pleasure because it was usually after orgasming and sleep that she was closest to being Fernanda again. Hell, I always felt I could tolerate the world a little more after loving myself.
Earth clung to her hair and between her toes, the dirt between her legs blood-soaked. Her mother hadn’t managed to get her to wear a pad that day. The professor sat next to Fernanda, studied her in silence, and then began to speak in Nahuatl. Fernanda’s head slowly rolled to the side—part of me almost feared it would turn 360 degrees by the tightening of her mouth into a wide grin. A glimmer of hope and a smile crossed her face, the first in ten days. She opened her mouth and spoke, clear as she would in English or Spanish. The language rolled off her tongue in such a natural way. Every glottal stop, long vowel,
