“You scared the girls real bad. You were in some sort of trance, spoke in Nahuatl and started your period.” She looked between her legs at the hand towel blotched in red. “Sorry, I had to improvise.”
Without making an expression or sound she buried her head between my armpit and breast to cry, bringing her legs closer to mine. The sobs shook her entire body.
I wasn’t sure how to react. The moment to act was over and now shock had settled in. I had only a small sense of belief in the supernatural, which came from a basic human desire to know what else was out there. Since the age of eleven I had walked in and out of Pentecostal and Baptist churches because my stepfather was Baptist. Saw my mother “saved” as I sat in the front pew of a church that could seat about a hundred people. She wore a white cotton robe as the preacher dunked her in a pool of warm water behind the pulpit. A declaration that Jesus ruled her heart. Reluctantly, I went ahead with the same ceremony at twelve to stop her pestering me about my salvation. Nothing changed inside of me when I emerged from the water.
Voices cried out, bodies swayed, bands played in jubilation to conjure the descending dove, the power of God. Despite the noise and great sense of belief surrounding me, I still felt nothing; only once was there enough guilt for me to think about tossing out my Danzig CD with the black demon on the front that made me think about sex.
“Purity in mind and purity in heart! You are for your husband and Christ and no one else,” was the preacher’s mantra. Every Wednesday. Every fucking Wednesday—who goes to church on a Wednesday?—I watched my mother who couldn’t carry a note sing happily in the church choir because her man was happy she bounced around up there. I glowered at the sight and sound. It seemed so inauthentic. I stroked Fernanda’s hair as she continued to sob.
There had to be a logical explanation like Pauline said. I squeezed my eyes shut to remember every moment that had led up to this point. No way did I see what I saw. No, I would push it all down. Think, Lourdes. THINK! I knew Fernanda worried endlessly about how her parents would afford all the extras of university over four years. She had to be the second to graduate in the family. Was this some sort of breakdown before college with all the pressure she felt to succeed? When you come from a family of immigrants, showing your validity, possessing papers, was essential. In some ways I felt lucky no one expected anything of me. The only one who cared if I was a failure or not was myself.
I had to cheer her up.
“Hey, this was a Saturday night you will never forget. Don’t worry. Remember the time when we were at the water park at thirteen and I started my period? My legs were pink, and I blamed it on melted raspa. All those boys were there . . . Come on, we need to get you home before breakfast so your mom doesn’t freak out. And you need something for that.”
I managed to make her laugh as she wiped her tears, but something was whispering behind her eyes. Her pupils still trembled. She appeared confused as she looked around the hallway to find the bathroom, even though we’d spent hours together hanging out at my house.
“Fernanda, it’s just to the right and tampons in the bottom cabinet.”
“Thanks. I’m fine. Just dizzy from being hungry. I hardly ate yesterday filling out all these work study applications. Maybe some food after—a bean and cheese breakfast taco or a honey chicken biscuit from Whataburger.”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you need.”
She closed the bathroom door, and I sent the girls a message.
Everything will be ok. Fernanda is up and hungry!
I grabbed my bag and shoes to leave. We drove in silence to the 24-hour Taco Cabana to get her food and then straight to her home. The tacos aren’t the best, but they’ll do when you are in a bind. She ate next to me without saying a word, chewing slowly. Fernanda usually gobbled junk food, as her mother despised the stuff.
When we arrived at her house, I told Fernanda to call me later. Before she stepped out of the car, she opened her mouth to speak with eyes that were her own, puffy from crying. They reminded me of an unsettled sky holding the heaviness of rain that refused to fall. “Thanks.”
I didn’t want to upset her before seeing her mother, so I didn’t push. She never called that day.
“Can you please stop checking your phone and help me?” my mother asked, exasperated with dark circles beneath her eyes, the creases around her mouth and eyes sagging downward in a permanent frown. I wanted to scream, “If you are not happy, say something dammit!” But we are not allowed to say those things in the event that we sound ungrateful.
My stepfather would leave for days at a time with the railroad, leaving the burden of housework and child rearing to us. When he was around, his time was spent cutting the expansive lawn or clearing dead wood from the trees. I looked at two piles of laundry that needed folding and back to the groceries my mother had already hauled onto the kitchen floor. My sisters attacked the contents like gremlins eating past midnight. Where would I begin? I shooed the little ones away to put away the cold contents. My only day off would be filled with more work.
“What are you making for lunch?” my sister Rosalie asked. I huffed and gave her a weak smile.
“Whatever you want as long as it’s grilled cheese.”
My mother walked in, kicking the door closed behind her as she carried in the last paper bags of
