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Authors: Laura Resau
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crawling under the bed and discovering my box of old clothes. What are these? he asks. Hermelinda shrugs. Mamita frowns. Once there was a girl named Virginia, she says. But she was bad and she hit her sister and stole food and always got into trouble. So we gave her away and we hope she never comes back. She is dead to us now. Manuelito grows bored playing with the clothes and starts banging on pots with Hermelinda and laughing. They forget all about the bad girl named Virginia.
My eyes open and I strain to catch a glimpse of someone in my family, but the yard remains deserted. I struggle to remember the good words— My daughter, she can do it— but they feel flimsy and light, as though they could blow away in a gust of wind. No, the other words, heavy as mountains, are the ones that stick. I’d be happy if one day you left and never came back.
The Doctorita follows my gaze. “There you have nothing. It’s filthy and there’s not enough food to eat. And it will always be that way. With us you have good food and shelter. With us you live like a civilized person.”
I try to ignore her, try to find some Quichua words to use as shields or weapons. How to say Hello! I’m home! How to secretly insult the Doctorita in Quichua— ugly mestiza, mean mestiza, mestiza whose chin jiggles! But the words stay hidden.
As we pull up the dirt driveway to Alfonso’s house, the Doctorita asks, “Virginia, do you want to leave us? We can take you back to your parents right now.”
“No,” I say softly.
The Doctorita pats my knee. “Good, Virginia.”
Niño Carlitos smiles his bland smile. “You’re making the right decision, m’hija. ”
We climb out of the truck and unload the bags. I clutch Jaimito’s hand as we walk toward Alfonso’s house. I take one last look back at my old home, the flat tin roof flashing in the afternoon sunlight, the column of smoke fading and drifting away.
The weekend passes quickly. Sunday afternoon, under clouds heavy with rain, we head back to Kunu Yaku. My parents’ house looks sad and abandoned and swallowed by the mist. As we pass it, I shiver and wrap my sweater tightly around me. I peer at the valleys and pastures and red tile roofs spread out below us, dissolving into fog, and then up at the Imbabura mountain disappearing into a stony white sky.
I tell myself that the next time I come here I will be a famous singer in a sequined dress, and these sights and sounds will mean nothing to me. I will breathe in the smells of wood smoke and cows and potato fields and there won’t be an ocean of tears in my throat and it won’t matter if my parents don’t want me, because I will be famous and loved by all and no one will ever know that I came from this place.
PART 2
chapter 10
T HREE YEARS HAVE PASSED , and I’m settled into the rhythm of life in Kunu Yaku. I’ve learned how to do all my chores perfectly. I no longer burn the rice or add too much salt or forget to sweep under the sofa. Only once in a while, when I slip up, or when the Doctorita is in a bad mood, does she beat me. And this happens only when my bodyguard, Niño Carlitos, isn’t around. Afterward, when he notices my face bruised and swollen, he whispers something sternly to the Doctorita, who hollers, “Well, why is this longa my burden?”
I understand the Doctorita better now. Even though she often treats me cruelly, I see that she is not all evil. Her students seem to like her, even joke around with her, although only to a point. She’s known for her temper and impatience and strictness, which make her students cautiously friendly with her. She works hard, waking up early to finish planning lessons and grading papers, going to bed late after squeezing in some dental exams in the evening. There’s even a playful side to her when she’s in a good mood, the side that laughs at Jaimito’s and my antics and cracks jokes with Niño Carlitos.
I understand her marriage better now, maybe from all the soap operas
My eyes open and I strain to catch a glimpse of someone in my family, but the yard remains deserted. I struggle to remember the good words— My daughter, she can do it— but they feel flimsy and light, as though they could blow away in a gust of wind. No, the other words, heavy as mountains, are the ones that stick. I’d be happy if one day you left and never came back.
The Doctorita follows my gaze. “There you have nothing. It’s filthy and there’s not enough food to eat. And it will always be that way. With us you have good food and shelter. With us you live like a civilized person.”
I try to ignore her, try to find some Quichua words to use as shields or weapons. How to say Hello! I’m home! How to secretly insult the Doctorita in Quichua— ugly mestiza, mean mestiza, mestiza whose chin jiggles! But the words stay hidden.
As we pull up the dirt driveway to Alfonso’s house, the Doctorita asks, “Virginia, do you want to leave us? We can take you back to your parents right now.”
“No,” I say softly.
The Doctorita pats my knee. “Good, Virginia.”
Niño Carlitos smiles his bland smile. “You’re making the right decision, m’hija. ”
We climb out of the truck and unload the bags. I clutch Jaimito’s hand as we walk toward Alfonso’s house. I take one last look back at my old home, the flat tin roof flashing in the afternoon sunlight, the column of smoke fading and drifting away.
The weekend passes quickly. Sunday afternoon, under clouds heavy with rain, we head back to Kunu Yaku. My parents’ house looks sad and abandoned and swallowed by the mist. As we pass it, I shiver and wrap my sweater tightly around me. I peer at the valleys and pastures and red tile roofs spread out below us, dissolving into fog, and then up at the Imbabura mountain disappearing into a stony white sky.
I tell myself that the next time I come here I will be a famous singer in a sequined dress, and these sights and sounds will mean nothing to me. I will breathe in the smells of wood smoke and cows and potato fields and there won’t be an ocean of tears in my throat and it won’t matter if my parents don’t want me, because I will be famous and loved by all and no one will ever know that I came from this place.
PART 2
chapter 10
T HREE YEARS HAVE PASSED , and I’m settled into the rhythm of life in Kunu Yaku. I’ve learned how to do all my chores perfectly. I no longer burn the rice or add too much salt or forget to sweep under the sofa. Only once in a while, when I slip up, or when the Doctorita is in a bad mood, does she beat me. And this happens only when my bodyguard, Niño Carlitos, isn’t around. Afterward, when he notices my face bruised and swollen, he whispers something sternly to the Doctorita, who hollers, “Well, why is this longa my burden?”
I understand the Doctorita better now. Even though she often treats me cruelly, I see that she is not all evil. Her students seem to like her, even joke around with her, although only to a point. She’s known for her temper and impatience and strictness, which make her students cautiously friendly with her. She works hard, waking up early to finish planning lessons and grading papers, going to bed late after squeezing in some dental exams in the evening. There’s even a playful side to her when she’s in a good mood, the side that laughs at Jaimito’s and my antics and cracks jokes with Niño Carlitos.
I understand her marriage better now, maybe from all the soap operas
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