Fernanda opened the door as quietly as she could. Her mother slept light. She slipped off her flats while closing the door and held the handle until it locked without the click.
Taking her steps from heel to the ball of her foot she crept into her room, closing the door soundlessly. She had no energy for anything except crawling into bed. There was a ringing in her head, a spinning like the first time she got drunk with Lourdes. As she lay there with her eyes closed the spinning continued, like a vortex of water draining loudly until that sound morphed into a woman’s voice speaking a language she didn’t comprehend. The languages continued to change, like her brain was flipping between radio stations. Some of the languages she recognized, until it was clear.
Fernanda. Can you understand me now?
Fernanda’s eyes snapped open. Who or what was talking within her head? She whispered, “yes.”
I have traveled a long way. I am here after being drawn to your collective anger and strength, each different in spirit but the same in their power to reverberate.
“I can’t remember what happened tonight. Just a nightmare. Am I going crazy?” Tears streamed from the corners of Fernanda’s eyes. The feeling of having no control over her mind, the source of her pride, made her want to punch and kick the walls of her room. Hearing voices? Was she on the verge of losing it?
You’re not crazy. I will show you many things, if you want me to.
“You are real? No way. If I’m not crazy, show yourself in the flesh. Not like the saints my mother prays to. What are you?” Fernanda sat upright in bed looking around in a panic, hoping to see something. It was hard to believe she wasn’t going insane.
I am very real. I am female, just like you. Look in your mirror.
Fernanda scooted to the edge of her bed, realizing the dizziness from before had vanished.
She slowly bent her body to the left to look into her armoire mirror. She saw her own reflection. Fernanda stepped off the bed and walked closer to her image. Morning light filtered into her room. She blinked. As she drew closer to the mirror, she could see her eyes were not her own.
“Oh my god. Oh my god! What happened to me?” Fernanda stood gripped in terror seeing the terrible transformation of her eyes into black narrow slits. They now resembled those of a creature.
Shhhh. Don’t worry. Look closer and inside you will see me.
Fernanda leaned so close her nose nearly touched the mirror. There, in the center of her pupils, a woman glowed like a firefly. Beautiful. Maybe a fairy? No, that wasn’t right. The voice was stronger than that. This was no Tinkerbell. Fernanda’s fear turned to fascination.
“Why are you inside of me?”
For many reasons. I have always had an affinity for humans, for your bodies, and this world needs hope. The ages of building great pyramids, like in my adopted home of Mexico, have long been over. I want to rebuild something new that can be carried in your hand, but as everlasting as those structures.
“I want to do great things, too. It feels overwhelming at times. I don’t know what to expect or if I am even good enough.”
You are good enough. In all cultures there are those that work as conduits, healers, shaman, witches . . . so many names. Some are more tolerant of those reaching to the other side while others believe it is an act of evil. As if they alone possess such absolute knowledge, something they can hoard and deal out as they see fit. I am a goddess and you a mortal female with much to learn about life and about yourself. However, these are the very attributes that will allow me to thrive without harming you. At first it will be like you experienced before; I will need control for a time as we test our compatibility. Perhaps we can do great things together?
Fernanda continued to stare in wonder at her own eyes. “I like that idea.”
When I went to check on Fernanda on my way to work the following morning, she sat outside in her mother’s flower bed of prized roses, now wilted from the heat. Fernanda’s hair lay limp, parted in the center against her face and shoulders. Her lips, usually bare, were slicked with black lipstick and her eyes were heavily outlined, winged at the sides like I taught her, the way my mother hated because it made me look like a Pachuca. But the makeup was just the first of the oddities. She wore only white cotton panties and a cotton T-shirt. She squatted in a birthing position in the dirt, crimson stains between her legs in full view. Her mother kneeled before her, red-faced and sweating, strands of wet hair curled around her neck. She pleaded in Spanish for her to come into the house. Cars slowed down as they passed. Fernanda mumbled to herself in Nahuatl, not even glancing in my direction when I approached.
Mrs. Garcia whipped her head towards me with a look that could have been a lashing from a cat-o’-nine-tails.
“What have you girls been teaching my daughter? Is she on the drugs? The alcohol? I know you probably have secret boyfriends. There is no one to control you in that mess you call a family!”
I wanted to curse her out on the spot, slap her hard. But it wouldn’t help Fernanda. “Nothing! She isn’t on anything. We only played a game.”
Mrs. Garcia gasped, placing one hand over her mouth and the other over the crucifix around her neck. “El Diablo! You have been
