Eventually, Pao was referred to a child psychiatrist—one her mom would never have been able to afford. Pao was midway through fourth grade by then, and even at that age, she noticed the dark circles under her mom’s eyes from being awakened so often, the wrinkles that appeared on her forehead every time the doctor suggested a new treatment or a test their insurance didn’t cover.
So Pao had stopped running to her mom. She pretended that the dreams had gone away on their own. Over time, they became just another strange part of her life, one she hardly thought about beyond the first few terrifying minutes after she woke up.
But she’d never dreamed of a disembodied hand before. And definitely not one wearing Emma’s ring…
When her pulse had returned to its normal resting rate (more or less), Pao shook herself mentally, cursing her mom for telling her scary stories at such a young age.
There’s no such thing as ghosts, she told her reflection in the window as she kicked off her shoes, even though she looked a little like a spirit herself, pale in the warped glass.
Hypothermia, cold pockets, submerged branches, invisible currents. Pao recited the true dangers of the river like a mantra. They were a mile away, no threat to her in this quiet apartment. Hypothermia, cold pockets…
The hallway was empty, the apartment quiet as Pao headed for the kitchen. Her mom always left for her waitressing job at eight thirty, and she didn’t come home until closing time, around two a.m. If anyone asked, Pao was supposed to say that Dante’s abuela watched her at night, and she had for a while. But when she turned ten, Pao petitioned to be allowed to sleep in her own bed, tired of the stiff, uncomfortable sofa at Dante’s.
Her mom, so concerned with supernatural threats, had been less concerned with real-world things like home invasions and electrical fires and Child Protective Services, and Pao had gotten her wish.
Strange as her mom’s priorities were, Pao knew she was grown-up enough to keep herself safe. As if to prove the point, she walked through the living room, checking all the incense burners and candle glasses to make sure everything had been extinguished. Tonight, she noted gratefully, they had. Her mom had even remembered to lock the door behind her, though Pao wasn’t sure why. She was pretty sure La Llorona wouldn’t be deterred by anything as pedestrian as a dead bolt.
Pao didn’t let herself think of the ghostly hand from her dream. Or the wailing. The memories were already starting to fade.
“If we had a dog, we wouldn’t need to worry about monsters and ghosts,” Pao grumbled, even though there was no one around to hear her perfectly sound argument.
The Moscow watchdog was widely considered the best breed for home protection, but their large size made them impractical for apartments. Staffordshire terriers were more sensible size-wise, but apartment managers didn’t love their resemblance to the pit bull. There was a perfect breed out there somewhere, Pao knew. She just had to keep looking.
In the kitchen, she planned to eat cereal from the box until her stomach quieted down, but she found a plate covered by a pot lid. It held two of the three cheese tamales and a note:
In case you get worried about El Cuco. I love you.
This time Pao made a conscious decision not to compare the note, or the cold chewy tamales, to what was probably happening at Emma’s house. But even so, disappointment in her own life took up more space in her stomach than the food.
Pao woke up for the day at ten, her body adjusting to summer vacation much faster than it had ever adjusted to the school-year schedule.
No more dreams, she noted, satisfied by her brain’s return to reason.
Her mom would still be asleep, and Pao probably had an hour before Mrs. Chavez showed up for her weekly remedio. Mrs. Chavez had arthritis, and she paid Pao’s mom to ease her pain with tea and salves made from the herbs on the patio.
The mystery of how her mom always got up on time without a clock was one Pao had accepted she would never solve with science.
Pao was under strict orders not to be on the premises during tarot readings or curos, which her mom did for extra money. Her mom never said it directly, but Pao knew she was supposed to stay away because her skepticism “interfered with the vibe.” Like she was a microwave oven and not a twelve-year-old who got sick of wandering the neighborhood in record-breaking heat while her mom pretended to do magic.
Hopefully, Mom will get real money this time, Pao thought. Sometimes she let clients pay with books or eggs or massages—or, worst of all, IOUs. The refrigerator door was plastered with blue Post-it Notes from Mrs. Jacobs, who always brought one with a dollar sign on it in lieu of cash.
Pao’s mom never turned anyone away. She said healing was a “calling.”
On the kitchen table was a plate with two pieces of cold pizza from the bar where her mom worked, along with another note:
If we had a dog, you would have been up four hours ago to walk him. Plus, he would have eaten your breakfast. See you after the curo. XO Mom
“It would be so worth it,” Pao told the neighborhood cat, Charlie, who was prowling around on the patio. Pao ate the first piece of pizza in two bites, slid open the door, and tossed the crust to him. He sniffed it suspiciously before deciding it was a prize worth carrying away.
Pao was (obviously) a dog person, and you’d never catch her cuddling a cat. But the Riverside Palace had its own ecosystem, and Pao had a grudging respect for Charlie and the other wild cats for keeping roof rats and scorpions away.
After a quick shower and the daily hunt for her notebook and pen (in case of any brilliant ideas, obviously), Pao barely made it out of the house before her mom woke up. She heard her door open just as the front door was closing. It was a dance they’d been doing all summer—avoiding each other as their differences became too big for their tiny space to hold.
The heat outside was oppressive even at eleven, and though she’d planned to spend the day doing scientific research on the library computer with occasional breaks to look up dog breeds her mom couldn’t possibly refuse (Maybe a hypoallergenic breed like the West Highland white terrier? Or a Border collie, which rescued people from natural disasters?) Pao calculated her personal temperature-to-distance-to-motivation ratio and muttered, “Forget it,” to the Riverside Palace’s resident sprawling, dusty cactus.
Sighing, she turned up the stairs to Dante’s apartment instead and knocked, barely waiting for Señora Mata’s “¡Adelante!” before walking in.
“Good morning, señora,” Pao said to Dante’s abuela, who was sitting in front of what had to be the third broadcast of the morning news. “Okay if I hide out here again today? My mom has a client.”
Señora Mata muttered something in Spanish before crossing herself. When she looked back up at Pao, there was pity in her eyes. Pao knew it meant she was welcome, as always, but that Pao’s mom could use some assistance from heaven.
“Well, I’ll just be in Dante’s room,” Pao said, loud enough for him to hear in case he was doing any weird boy stuff in there. Even so, she waited outside the door for as long as she could stand before knocking.
Dante answered looking normal, though—his hair sticking up at weird angles, no styling gel in sight. As usual, his room smelled like dirty socks and his abuela’s Florida Water, which she used for cleaning despite its distinct lack of antibacterial properties. Pao’s mom was obsessed with the stuff, too. It was one of the many things the two of them had in common, including devotional candles and questionable taste in tamale fillings.