Read Online Monstress by Lysley Tenorio - Free Book Online Page A

good enough answer for now.
    B ack at the hotel, Papa Felix was sitting on a chair in the bathroom staring at the mirror, a paper cup in his hands and a bottle of Cutty Sark by his feet. “You forgot me,” he said. “I’ve been waiting.” He was wearing a white trash bag like a poncho, and a box of hair dye was on the edge of the sink. At home, I colored his hair twice a month; here, once a week. “A good healer should look ageless,” he always said, “like Jesus or Dick Clark.”
    I hung my windbreaker and backpack in the closet, stepped into the bathroom. “Long lines at the bank.”
    â€œCut in line next time. Receipt?”
    From my pocket I pulled out an ATM receipt I’d found on the sidewalk a week before. He squinted at the small paper, as though his old eyes could actually make out the tiny numbers. “Good work, good money,” he said. “And just think: What did we come with? Nothing. Now look at us.” He finished his whiskey, poured another. “Maybe we’ll come back another year. New York next time. Maybe Canada. Where are the Filipinos in Canada?” He named other countries and continents we might visit; the way he talked, the whole planet was full of ailing Filipinos far from home, waiting for us to heal them.
    â€œSomeday,” I said, “maybe.” In the mirror, there was an odd, faraway look in Papa Felix’s eyes, like he was trying to remember something long forgotten. I realized he was watching me. I reached for the box of dye and tore it open, pulled out the bottle and latex gloves, and I found him still watching, like he was studying my face for a twitch or new expression I’d adopted, some clue to who I really was and what I was planning to do.
    â€œWhen we’re home,” he finally said, “you’re on your own.”
    â€œMy own.” I didn’t understand.
    â€œYou’re nineteen now. A man. Your father was sixteen when he first extracted on his own. It’s your time.” He emptied and refilled his drink, then set a paper cup on the counter and poured one for me. “Two of us working, side by side. Double Felix Starro, double business.” He lifted his cup, toasting a future that would never happen.
    There was only one thing to do. I took the whiskey, drank it in a single gulp. I felt its warmth, then its sting.
    He nodded, drank his whiskey, poured another. He settled back in his chair and looked at his reflection almost admiringly, then pointed to his roots. “All this silver,” he said, “make it black.”
    F our cups of whiskey made Papa Felix drowsy. I poured a fifth that put him to sleep. It was barely eight o’clock when I tucked him into bed, but he snored thunderously—someone from the next room pounded on the wall, as if that could quiet him down. “Are you awake?” I whispered. I crossed the room and spoke again. “Can you hear me? Wake up!” But his snoring only grew louder, and I knew it was safe.
    I went into the closet, unlocked my suitcase and opened it, unzipped the lining. The money was there, paper-clipped in flimsy stacks. It was almost a disappointment, how little twenty-five thousand American dollars could look; it seemed mathematically impossible that so small an amount could guarantee my next life. But back home, it could keep a family stable for several generations, or get an entire village through a difficult year. Half asleep on the plane from home to here, I’d dreamed that I’d refunded every person Papa Felix had ever touched; in that same dream my father told me, Go, go .
    I took two stacks of cash and put them in my backpack for my second visit to Flora Ramirez. I locked my suitcase, closed the closet.
    I went into the bathroom to prepare for the next day. I made the blood first—I poured corn syrup into a plastic jug, mixed in water, then thirty drops of red dye. But the lid to the jug was missing,