I rarely miss a sunrise.
The truth, of course, is far less glamorous: Ma says I must have inherited a genetic mutation in my father’s bloodline.
One time, she brought home dark brown contacts for me to try, and I was convinced my life was finally about to begin. But when I popped them in, the five points of my star-shaped silver pupils were still there, and the yellow glow of my eyes shone through the filter of dark brown like radioactive material.
It’s all sunglasses all the time for me now … Until I can afford the surgery that will change everything.
Ma brought us to Miami because of the Bascom Palmer Eye Institute. It’s the top-ranked eye hospital in the country and my only hope for normalcy. Once our papers come through, Ma says we can get photo IDs, and then we can sign up for healthcare to help cover the costs.
If the eye institute can fix me, I won’t have to worry about being linked to my father and his shady past.
I’ll be free.
While Ma’s at work, I clean the apartment, wash our bedding, and tidy up my books so Ma will quit hassling me about them. The largest stack is my outer space collection, which I’ve been studying since I learned how to read. I think I was born wanting to see the stars.
I reheat the milanesas for lunch and eat them while watching Perla’s favorite telenovela, but it’s not the same without her running commentary. After washing the dishes, I warm up some soup and knock softly before opening the door to her room.
The shades are drawn, and the air is dark as night, but my eyes cut through the dim lighting. Her favorite fragrance hangs in the air, a Spanish perfume with a zesty lemon accent. She told me it’s been her scent her whole life.
“Perla,” I murmur. “¿Tenés hambre?”
She rolls onto her back and shuffles up on her pillow. I place the tray on her thighs and perch next to her.
“Gracias, Ojazos.” That’s her nickname for me. It means a pair of eyes that are large or striking.
Perla has something called macular degeneration, and by now she’s lost about 90 percent of her vision—but according to her, she can still see my eyes. I sit with her as she blows on the soup and brings the spoon to her mouth.
My framed fairy tale still sits on her nightstand. Stuck into the corners of the mirror on her dresser are black-and-white photographs of her family, dating back to before World War II.
There are no photos of Ma or me anywhere in the apartment. Ma says it’s for our own protection—and I can’t be sure if she means from ICE or my father’s people. I wish I had a picture of him, but Ma says their relationship was so secretive, they couldn’t risk any evidence.
Sometimes I hate him for pursuing Ma when he knew his love would place a lifelong target on her back. Then again, if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here. Most of the time, though, I just wish I could have known him.
From the few things Ma’s told me, he sounds more like a fictional character than a real person. I wish I’d had the chance to make my own judgment.
I once asked her why she dated Dad if being with him was so dangerous—was he really worth risking it all? I must have been twelve or thirteen at the time, but the pitying look she gave me made me feel about a decade younger. Then she said, “You might as well ask Juliet why she gave up everything for Romeo.”
“¿Cómo va la lectura?”
Perla’s rattly voice pops my thought bubble. “Great,” I say as she brings another spoonful to her mouth. “I’ll be done with the book today.”
“Cuando lo termines quiero que escribas un ensayo.” We often have conversations like these, where she asks in Spanish and I answer in English. “Una exploración del uso de realismo mágico para transmitir la subjetividad de la realidad.”
An essay exploring the use of magical realism to convey the subjectivity of reality … I translate the words in my head but still don’t have a clue. “I have no idea what that means.”
“Then I’ll be sure to get you a Spanish-to-English dictionary for your birthday.” Whenever she feels provoked, Perla switches to English. “Or you can try cracking the one in your brain.”
“The subjectivity of reality…” I frown. “Does that mean how each character sees the world differently?”
“Go on.”
I stretch out at the foot of her bed and hinge my elbow to prop my head in my hand. But I’m less interested in her assignment than I am in the conversation we started this morning. “How come magical realism is such a big part of our literature?”
“Not just literature.” I stare at her quizzically as she takes another sip of soup. “We use magical realism in our daily lives too. Consider our superstitions. We are always willing magic into reality—that’s our way.”
“But why?”
She swallows another spoonful before answering. “There are horrors in this world that defy explanation. Márquez’s own hometown experienced a massacre much like the one in Macondo … Sometimes reality strays so far from what’s rational that we can only explain it through fantasy.”
She falls silent and focuses on finishing her soup, and I don’t ask more questions. Perla doesn’t like to talk about her past because it’s too painful, but this apartment is too small for secrets. Once I overheard her telling Ma what happened.
Perla lived at home with her parents in Argentina until her late thirties, when she finally met her match. She married Federico Sanchez a few years before the Guerra Sucia broke out, a violent military dictatorship that disappeared people overnight, ripped children from their parents, and killed anyone who spoke out against the regime … including Federico.
Perla had an aunt living in Miami who helped her get a visa, and as soon as she was able, she left Argentina forever. She’s never even returned to visit.
“That law we were talking about at breakfast,” I venture. “It’s connected to that story you used to tell me about seventh children?”
She sets the spoon down in the now-empty bowl. “I used an existing superstition to make up a story so you’d feel better.”
“But there was a rhyme, wasn’t there?” I frown, searching my memory for the words. Something about thunder and the full moon. I used to repeat it to myself to fall asleep, only it’s been so long …
“Los lobizones le cantan a la luna llena,
las brujas bailan cuando el cielo truena.
Si te cruzas con uno, no dejes que te inquiete:
El secreto está en sus ojos y el número siete.”
Perla recites it softly, with none of her usual dramatic flair. Her hushed tone makes it sound more like a religious passage than a silly rhyme. The werewolves sing at the full moon, the witches dance when the sky thunders. If you come across one, let it not upset you: The secret is in their eyes and the number seven.
Boy wolves and girl witches. “Is the werewolf versus witch thing based on sex or gender identification?” I blurt. “Because you told me that in 2012 Argentina passed a Gender Identity Law that says a person can choose their own gender—”
“Oh, Ojazos, you’re too enlightened for me,” she says with a groan, pushing the tray away. “You’ll have to write the president and find out. Ahora dejame dormir un poquito.”