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

so instead of shaking the jug to make the mix, I rolled up my sleeve and stirred it with my hand. Long ago, Papa Felix made it the same way; because my hands were small, my job was to squirt the liquid into tiny bags and knot them up. We’d stay up all night, diligent and silent, as though our work was truly blessed and holy.
    I finished making the bags of blood and liver, tied them shut and stashed them in the foam cooler beneath the sink. There were streaks of blood along the counter and faucet, red fingerprints on the doorknob and toilet seat. Our nightly crime scene, but not for long, not for me. I cleaned up fast, then showered, and under near-scalding water I scratched dried blood from my wrists and fingers, the backs of my hands, my knuckles and the skin in between.
    Back in the room, Papa Felix was still snoring. I walked over, sat on the edge of my bed, an arm’s reach away. The Cutty Sark was on the nightstand, so I unscrewed the cap and drank from the bottle, thinking of the note I told Charma I’d leave behind, all the things that could be said—a quick apology maybe, the hope he would understand, a promise that we would both be okay. The more I drank, the more the note went on—it would have been pages, had I truly written it. But then the pounding on the wall started again, so I pounded back and told whoever it was to let my grandfather sleep.
    W e performed twelve Extractions the next day. Most who came were elderly, complaining of arthritis, swollen joints, unending fatigue. But the last patient, a woman named Maribel, was just thirty-two years old. She’d come with her little boy, who sat on a pillow in the corner. Despite his video game, he watched us the whole time, the fear plain on his round face.
    After, as Maribel got to her feet and buttoned up her blouse, I noticed that her right breast was gone. She caught me looking. “If only you’d come sooner,” she said, blinking back tears. She gave me the money, and I took it.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said, and then I heard giggling. I turned and saw Papa Felix sitting on the edge of his bed, entertaining the boy with a vanishing coin trick. He’d done the same with me when I was that age, making random objects disappear and reappear in his hands—a spool of thread, a mango pit, even a newborn chick. Then he would say, “Tell me how I did that,” his voice heavy and grave, as though sleight of hand could save a life instead of deceive one. But I couldn’t explain it; all I could think about was the time and space between the vanish and return, where a small thing went in its moment of absence—I pictured some dead, barren planet without weather or sound, and I’d lie awake at night, determined not to dream of it.
    I took the boy’s hand, pulled him gently toward his mother, and saw them out. Then I gathered the day’s cash, grabbed my things. Papa Felix was about to say something—I heard him call my name—but I left without saying goodbye: it was the best way, I decided, to go.
    I arrived at Buhay Bulaklak at 6 P.M. exactly. I was about to step in when a family stepped out, a Filipino couple and their baby. They looked tremendously pleased; even the baby seemed to smile. I moved aside to let them pass, watched them until they turned the corner.
    Inside, Flora Ramirez was alone. She was sitting at the table behind the cash register, a thick, long-stemmed tropical flower in each hand, staring at a vase. “Birds-of-paradise,” she said. “Beautiful, eh?” I nodded, but I felt anxious, thinking about the family I saw and the ways she might have helped them.
    â€œI have the money.” I could feel my heart speeding up. “I want to stay here and I have the money.”
    She put down her flowers. She pulled a wooden stool from beneath the table and told me to sit. I joined her at the table, handed her the envelope of cash. She slipped it into the pocket of