easily germinate and take root and push its tender new leaves toward the sun and begin the marvelous process of photosynthesis. When I think about it, the seed has been inside me for years—the idea of leaving the Doctorita. Every time she yells at me or hits me or reminds me of my place as a lowly longa maid, she’s watering the seed. And now Mariana’s offer is like cow manure, fertilizing it, nourishing it, reminding me of my power, my options.
But Quito is not where I’ll go. I’ll go home to my family.
Sunlight shines on the green cornstalks and makes my eyes scrunch up. The corn is taller than me, a forest of leaves whispering along with the breeze. Corncobs poke out everywhere, ripe and wrapped in green, ready to be picked and opened up and grilled. It’s late Sunday morning, and everyone has gone to Otavalo except me and the other maids, who are pasturing the cows in the valley. They were supposed to keep an eye on me, but I insisted I had a headache and wanted to stay behind to rest.
I walk along the cornfield, toward my family’s house, framed by mountains. I squint into the sun, looking at the house, trying to tell if my mother or father is in the yard. No one. Strangely relieved, I walk closer and closer, my eyes glued to the house, spots from the sun swimming in my vision. Still no one. My heart’s racing now, and I slip inside a row of corn. Here in the cool shadows I feel protected, as though I’m undercover in the jungle, a secret agent, spying on my own family.
As I walk, I remember the Doctorita’s words from the last time she brought me here. If you go back to your family, they’ll give you to another family, a family that won’t treat you as well. And my mother’s words. I’d be happy if one day you left forever.
I creep around the house, sticking close to the shadows of the corn. There’s my father’s soga hanging on the wall, his farm tools, my mother’s broom, the eucalyptus stick she smacked me with when I misbehaved. Two huge pigs are asleep in their pen, and two sheep are rooting around in the weeds by the tree where they’re tied. Chickens peck at corn kernels scattered across the dirt. No Cheetah the goat. She’s probably been eaten by now.
I take a deep breath, then run across the clearing to the house, ducking a little, as though at any moment someone could open fire. Instead of bullets, dogs skid around the corner of the house and descend on me—a whole new set of scrawny, half-starved dogs, barking and growling. From my pocket I tear my weapon—a plastic bag of stale bread I thought to bring at the last minute—and hurl pieces at the dogs like hand grenades.
After that, they follow me eagerly, wagging their tails, drooling. I make it to the wooden door and knock softly.
No answer.
I knock harder.
Still no answer. I push at the door. It’s open. I slip inside and close the door behind me.
Inside it’s quiet and heavy and dark, and my eyes take a moment to adjust. A thousand memories press on me all at once, nearly suffocating me. There’s the lingering odor of kerosene, woodsmoke, dirt, guinea pigs, wool. I wander around the room, opening drawers, poking in cardboard boxes, peering at the guinea pigs huddled in a corner, feeling the thick fabric of my mother’s anacos, sitting for a moment on the bed and touching the woven grass mat that serves as a mattress, patting the musty pillow stuffed with rags and hay, picking up a wooden spoon, running my hand over a blackened iron pot. I kneel at the fire pit, hold my hand over the ashes still warm from breakfast. Nina —fire. Uchufa —ash. Chushac —empty. My family must have been here earlier this morning. Maybe they left to spend the day in Otavalo.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it will burst through my chest. I’m praying no one will come home and find me spying. And I am spying. This is not my house. This is the house—no, the run-down shack—of poor people, Indian people. It’s dirty and
But Quito is not where I’ll go. I’ll go home to my family.
Sunlight shines on the green cornstalks and makes my eyes scrunch up. The corn is taller than me, a forest of leaves whispering along with the breeze. Corncobs poke out everywhere, ripe and wrapped in green, ready to be picked and opened up and grilled. It’s late Sunday morning, and everyone has gone to Otavalo except me and the other maids, who are pasturing the cows in the valley. They were supposed to keep an eye on me, but I insisted I had a headache and wanted to stay behind to rest.
I walk along the cornfield, toward my family’s house, framed by mountains. I squint into the sun, looking at the house, trying to tell if my mother or father is in the yard. No one. Strangely relieved, I walk closer and closer, my eyes glued to the house, spots from the sun swimming in my vision. Still no one. My heart’s racing now, and I slip inside a row of corn. Here in the cool shadows I feel protected, as though I’m undercover in the jungle, a secret agent, spying on my own family.
As I walk, I remember the Doctorita’s words from the last time she brought me here. If you go back to your family, they’ll give you to another family, a family that won’t treat you as well. And my mother’s words. I’d be happy if one day you left forever.
I creep around the house, sticking close to the shadows of the corn. There’s my father’s soga hanging on the wall, his farm tools, my mother’s broom, the eucalyptus stick she smacked me with when I misbehaved. Two huge pigs are asleep in their pen, and two sheep are rooting around in the weeds by the tree where they’re tied. Chickens peck at corn kernels scattered across the dirt. No Cheetah the goat. She’s probably been eaten by now.
I take a deep breath, then run across the clearing to the house, ducking a little, as though at any moment someone could open fire. Instead of bullets, dogs skid around the corner of the house and descend on me—a whole new set of scrawny, half-starved dogs, barking and growling. From my pocket I tear my weapon—a plastic bag of stale bread I thought to bring at the last minute—and hurl pieces at the dogs like hand grenades.
After that, they follow me eagerly, wagging their tails, drooling. I make it to the wooden door and knock softly.
No answer.
I knock harder.
Still no answer. I push at the door. It’s open. I slip inside and close the door behind me.
Inside it’s quiet and heavy and dark, and my eyes take a moment to adjust. A thousand memories press on me all at once, nearly suffocating me. There’s the lingering odor of kerosene, woodsmoke, dirt, guinea pigs, wool. I wander around the room, opening drawers, poking in cardboard boxes, peering at the guinea pigs huddled in a corner, feeling the thick fabric of my mother’s anacos, sitting for a moment on the bed and touching the woven grass mat that serves as a mattress, patting the musty pillow stuffed with rags and hay, picking up a wooden spoon, running my hand over a blackened iron pot. I kneel at the fire pit, hold my hand over the ashes still warm from breakfast. Nina —fire. Uchufa —ash. Chushac —empty. My family must have been here earlier this morning. Maybe they left to spend the day in Otavalo.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it will burst through my chest. I’m praying no one will come home and find me spying. And I am spying. This is not my house. This is the house—no, the run-down shack—of poor people, Indian people. It’s dirty and
Similar Books
