Nothing has happened.
There was a muted sense of dread deep within me, but as I kept myself busy, I was able to ignore it. I emptied our pot of waste in a hole behind our home near the old jardín and covered it up. Then I lit la estufa while the others still slept. I brewed nettle-and-rosemary tea for mi mamá, and then I made a large desayuno for myself—huevos from the chickens that María kept, leftover frijoles and tortillas with fresh green pimientos fritos Papá had grown. Sometimes they were shriveled from the heat, but they still stung my tongue with their bite.
Mamá was the first to rise, and as I gave her tea and el desayuno, she told me about los viajeros, where they had come from, and where they were headed to next. She said that they had given our nightly celebration a much-needed burst of joy. “I almost forgot Julio was even here,” she admitted, sipping at her tea. As I stood there, watching her braids swing back and forth as she spoke, the mention of Julio’s name brought all the panic right back.
They know they know they know she knows she knows SHE KNOWS.
I told mi mamá that I wanted to get a head start on some other chores before it got too hot out. As I finished dressing, I caught her staring at me. Her gaze lingered on me longer than I wanted.
I left quickly and hunted water again, brought back another bucketful a couple of hours later. I focused on every dig with la pala, every squeeze of water into the bucket. It was a necessary distraction.
The vials.
The shipment.
La cuentista among us.
What was I going to do with this? What could I do? I couldn’t confront Julio by myself, not about his plans or his secrets. And I couldn’t tell my family. How would they react?
Would they still love me if they found out I had defied Solís? That I might have doomed us all?
But the story from Manolito haunted me. I tried so hard not to think of it, but it was too easy for all his emotions to come rushing back to the surface.
So when Papá asked me to accompany him to Manolito’s once I got home, I nearly broke. It was hard enough keeping this secret from those I knew and loved, even from random aldeanos. But from Lito himself?
I sputtered a response. Papá tilted his head to the side, and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
If I didn’t go with him, he’d become suspicious. He already was, wasn’t he?
I had to keep the lie going. Just a little bit longer, I told myself.
Until what, though?
You burned me. The sun felt so specifically targeted on my skin that I started to convince myself that You were about to destroy me. When we got to el mercadito, I asked Papá if I could stay outside while he negotiated for some new tools.
“Isn’t he your friend?” he asked. “Don’t you want to see him?”
The lie came to me, and it was too close to the truth. “I do, but … I took his story last night. I think maybe he needs a little space from me.”
Papá nodded while smiling. “You’re so considerate, mija.”
He kissed me on the top of my head.
His love had never hurt me so badly.
How was I going to keep this up? How long could I last when his words were like knives in my heart?
I was initially thankful when Ofelia came rushing up to el mercadito just after Papá went inside. It gave me a chance to think about something else. “Is he busy?” she asked, and she pushed her long hair out of her face.
“Papá is in there. They might take a while.”
She examined me. “We haven’t spoken in nearly a year,” she stated, her eyes crinkled up. “Do you have time?”
The relief was gone. “For a story?” I said, my voice hesitant.
“Por supuesto. I have no other need to talk to you.”
Well, at least she was honest. I couldn’t say that for myself, though, and another bout of panic ripped through me. What would happen if I took another story? I couldn’t give hers back; wouldn’t Lito’s follow it? The immensity of what I’d done was undeniable. I had no idea what the ramifications of this choice would be.
“Right now?” I said hesitantly.
“Do you have anything better to do?”
She had a point, and it made me dislike Ofelia even more. I didn’t want to do anything for her or make my situation more complicated.
But what choice did I have? I could deny her request, and it would be only a matter of time before people became suspicious. If I accepted and then returned her story, I would lose Lito’s in the process. Was I really supposed to give up what I had learned?
Perhaps. But I couldn’t do that. I just couldn’t.
I took her story, Solís. She told me the truth about her interaction with Lito the day prior. Her older sibling had cut off contact with her, believing that Ofelia had objected to their imminent marriage. Ofelia believed that she had to attend the wedding. She had not apologized for calling her sibling’s partner ugly and unworthy of their love, but Ofelia was just being honest. Why couldn’t they see that? So every day she went to Lito’s, and every day, there was not an invitation waiting for her. “I hate them,” she told me. “I hope their wedding day is ruined.”
She left me to drown in her ire. As I gasped for air, I looked up, saw Ofelia roll her eyes at me. “Do you have to be so dramatic about this? You’ll give the story back, and we’ll all be fine.”
As she walked away, I thought her shadow was a little bit longer than it had been, a little bit more alive. She disappeared behind a home to the east.
Solís, how often did mi gente do this to me? How often did they tell me their stories, only to be completely oblivious to what they had done wrong? Had people lied to me in their stories before? How could I even know? I always forgot them when I returned them to You.
I stood up from the ground and dusted my breeches off, and Ofelia’s anger brushed up against my own. What if this wasn’t the first time someone had treated me like a solution to their problems? How would I ever have known that when You took my memories from me each time?
Papá came out to find me panting and sweating profusely. Ofelia was gone, but he knew what had happened; he’d seen me in this state before. “Already?” he said. “I was gone only a quarter hour.”
“She was quick,” I said, but added nothing more. My parents knew better than to ask me about the stories, and so Papá guided me home, his hand on my back, full of love for me. But would he still love me if he knew the truth? If he knew how I really felt? If he knew what I had done?
I lied. Again. I told Papá that I needed to return Ofelia’s story sooner rather than later. I wanted to visit the mesquite patch, to drown myself in those beautiful poemas, so I set out to the east.
I couldn’t make it. My heart was beating too fast; sweat poured down my temples. I normally thrived in the early morning heat, but right then, I was convinced it was punishing me. I stopped and caught my breath under the shade of a paloverde, then headed home.
They bought the lie I told them, Solís. They didn’t question what I had done at all.
I tried to fill myself up on carne frita and cebollitas that afternoon. But the two stories inside me had destroyed my appetite. I pushed my food around my plate, ate what I could, and then told my family that I needed to sleep more. They all understood. None of them questioned me. This was how it was after the ritual, wasn’t it?