After a week of nonstop translation, there was a shift. The more stories Fernanda told, the fewer spells she had as the goddess. Fernanda told me she had no memory of the stories, only the conversations she had with the voice in her head.
It was getting closer to when Fernanda was due to start school. Her mother made excuses for her missing orientation.
It was at this time that Perla began her translations into Spanish. New books, our books. The four of us women sat in a circle: Fernanda reciting to Dr. Camacho while I made sense of the stories in English, which I then passed to Perla to translate to Spanish. When Fernanda was not the goddess, she did what she needed to do to prepare for school. We were doing all we could to help her make that deadline. It was good to laugh with our friend again, see her talk about nonsense. Her confidence seemed to soar.
One day, Dr. Camacho surprised me with a question.
“Lourdes. What do you want to do? What are your plans?”
I couldn’t remember the last time an adult had asked me that.
“I don’t know. I can’t do much.”
“Mentirosa,” Perla casually shot out.
“I’m not a liar. I don’t have enough money to do anything.”
“Mira, what are you doing now? Remember freshman year when you had to read out that poem in English?”
I remembered. That was why I kept my words away from people I knew. The room went silent, and I felt like an utter fool for thinking the oil and water inside of me made any sense.
“Yeah, no one said a word because I’m an ignorant talentless shit bag.”
“Hey, don’t talk like that. No one said anything because we were all shocked. I mean it was heavy stuff. Beautiful. Scary as shit. Even if we’d said we liked it you wouldn’t have believed any of us. Am I right?”
My face felt hot.
“I hope you are still writing.”
I nodded my head, noticing the three of them were looking straight at me. I still did not mention I had a closet full of notebooks. There was probably the same amount of ink on those pages as blood and tears in my body.
Dr. Camacho broke the circle on the table. She handed me an envelope addressed to UTSA.
“Lourdes, when you leave today please put this in the mailbox outside.”
It was also this day when, as I drove Fernanda home, she confided in me. With all the windows rolled down, we had to talk loudly.
“Remember you asked me about Ruben?”
I glanced at her and then back at the road. “Yes. You ready to confess?” I joked.
“I’ve had a crush on him for a long time. At graduation we kissed but it wasn’t until the goddess came into my life that I allowed myself to stop thinking that it was sinful and began being less afraid of the future. When I pleasured myself, loved myself as it turns out, those things seemed to matter less and less.”
I smiled, happy she could confide in me again.
“And Ruben?”
“I have been sneaking out to see him.”
I glanced at her again. “We are women now and we should enjoy what that means to us. It is good to have you back.”
Fernanda nodded as the warm wind blew through her hair. Everything felt promising and on the cusp of changing.
When not fulfilling his church obligations, Father Moreno watched. He watched them with the same fascination as those first statues of La Virgen he was given as a child.
Lourdes was easy because if not at work, she would be at Fernanda’s home or at the house of a woman who lived alone. This was advantageous because there would be no man to object to him. The tricky part would be getting Fernanda to the church for the videotaped exorcism. When he took possession of her, she couldn’t be that demon that had tried to suck out his soul; it was far too powerful for him and might succeed this time. He needed her to be the accommodating young woman who trusted his authority, or at least whose mother did. Her mother would be the way in. When she was securely tied to a chair, he would draw the thing out, focusing on those unnatural eyes. Letting God’s glory shine for all those doubting Thomases.
This had to work because he could no longer sleep. He lay in bed shivering from the cold that would grip him even with all the windows open to let in the sultry night air. Two thick blankets covered his nude body for extra insulation. He slept nude because everything he owned left his skin feeling like it was covered by the bites of a million bees. No matter what he did, the tundra remained. By morning his sheets were soaked with sweat. Perhaps the demon was tormenting him, knowing its days were numbered. However, he had felt this before—right after he laid Martha to rest in the freezer.
As he approached the home of Mrs. Garcia, he straightened his collar, which was strangling him. The doorbell rang inside the house, and it wasn’t long before he could hear the inside lock click. He lifted the bag of pan dulce for her to see.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Garcia. Do you have time for a coffee and something sweet?” The weariness and deep purple shadows beneath her eyes told him she would let him in.
“Oh, yes. Come in. Fernanda is resting. I would love some company.” She unhooked the screen door.
Fernanda left her bedroom door ajar so she could hear her mother’s conversation with the priest. Only parts were audible, so she stepped out in the hallway.
“But Father, she is getting better! It is a miracle. The spirit is going.”
Fernanda took another step to hear more. She wanted to know what this priest was thinking and why he was back. The goddess had said that he couldn’t be trusted and something about him made her feel this, too. He was speaking
