I must have been five or six when it happened. I remember my mom calling me with her sweet sounding honey-dew voice, "Diana."
I remember, and yet it seems like a distant dream. The room was dark and there were people sitting down; their soft chatter barely audible, some clutching rosary beads and whispering prayers, while others remained silent—perhaps, remembering days passed like embers of smoke dissipated with time. I was among those that were standing, yet being one of the youngest, I was alone in my uncertainty. There was row after row of foldable metal grey chairs lining the room. Everything seemed silent and still.
And then I saw her among them—my mother. She was holding a tissue in her hand. She must have been because she was raising her delicate hand toward her flustered face. And at that moment, I think I heard her crying, or maybe I just thought I did. I really don't remember. What I do remember is turning around, my back facing the grown-ups; staring in wonderment at what was in front of me; my innocent little mind not fully grasping the severity of the situation. I had, of course, never really experienced being at a vigil before.
But there he was—or what was left of him; perfectly still and handsomely dressed in a pressed black suit with a white collared shirt underneath complete with a silver-colored tie, as if he were attending a formal affair filled with champagne and dancing, save for the hands resting at his chest.
I remember looking up at his face and seeing the strange texture of his skin. It looked like a mask; cakey and off somehow. He almost appeared to be sleeping, but I knew that he wasn't. I glanced back at my mother, who was wiping her eyes as she silently wept at my uncle—her brother's wake. As I stood near his casket, my curiosity to understand what was going on stronger than any expected fear one would expect a child to perceive, peaked in me questions such as: Why does he look like that? Why is mommy crying? Is there anyone there? But of course, no one even thought to explain it to me; and I was too unsure to even ask. Or at least I don't recall asking anyone. But that was a long time ago. Now, I am alone.
I recall very little of my uncle John, with the exception that he taught me how to play cards. I must have been about four years old. We would sit at the kitchen table playing war—a simple enough game—while we waited for my mom to come home from work. I remember the beige ceramic bowl of sliced red apples next to the deck of cards, and the smell of garlic on his shirt (he worked at a pizza parlor). I don't remember if I ever managed to beat him, but I remember laughing, and pretending to be upset when he captured my aces. He always saw through my façade.
As a single parent, my mom was sometimes too busy to spend any time with me. We lived in my Grandmother Irma's house. My mother grew up there, and after separating from my dad when I was only three months old, she returned. All I have of him are pictures. My aunts always said that I was like him. I never knew what they meant by that.
My uncle John was the youngest of my mother's siblings, and she had three older half sisters: Carol, Sylvia, and Beatrice. She never really got along with them. I think it was because they didn't really grow up together. My aunts were raised by my grandfather and his new wife. He claimed that my grandmother was "not suitable to raise children." It is common enough in Central America to be raised by relatives, if one is not capable. And my grandmother, well, she was not ready to grow up yet, and deal with the responsibility of parenthood. But this isn't San Jose, Costa Rica this is Brooklyn, New York. And who could have predicted that a few years later, all of us would be living under the same roof.
Four years later, I was sitting in my room holding a picture in my hand of my mother and I when I was three. A warm feeling in my chest began to envelop me. I almost felt a tear stir in my right eye. I think of how sad and alone I felt, even though I had an older sister, Clarissa—she was two years older than me. I didn't know that at the time until one day, my mother told me.
I was sitting in the living room, when she came in. She had a strange look on her face. I knew at the age of seven, that there was something she wasn't telling me. At this point, we were no longer living at Grandmother Irma's. We had our own apartment on Fulton Street—not the most ideal neighborhood, but it was all we could afford at the time.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing's wrong," she replied. But there was a pause, before she continued, "There is something I need to talk to you about." Her medium wavy brown hair, gently brushed the sides of her face.
She was holding some papers in her trembling hands. I didn't know what they were. I didn't ask. She smiled at me; her eyebrows wrinkling in consternation, perhaps.
"You know, how you always said you wanted an older brother or sister?"
I looked at her, but before I was able to nod my head, she answered for me.
"Well, you do...and she's coming tomorrow night!" The look of worry melted into a huge smile; her upturned lips startled me for a moment, but then I returned her smile.
I was not expecting this. She never mentioned that I had a sister. How could this be?
I didn't know what to say. She looked away from my face and stared at her hands as she clutched really tight to the white papers, almost as if she needed something to hold onto.
After my initial shock, I became anxious to know what my sister was like. I had a sister!
I wanted to ask her so many things. What was life like in Costa Rica? Who was she with? Did she have any friends? I wanted to share my dolls with her. I was excited and anxious. I couldn't wait. That night, I couldn't sleep.
I remember meeting her for the first time. I wore my favorite dress, an orange-checkered frilled skirt with a faux buttoned top, and black Mary Jane shoes. I was excited—maybe, I wouldn't feel so alone anymore.
We moved into this apartment only a few months after my uncle's funeral. After he was gone, my mother's sisters treated her worse; whispering obscenities behind her back. They called her a slut because she wasn't married. My mom saved just enough money to move. Maybe she didn't want to bring my sister to the United States under the conditions we were in. She caught one of her sisters red-handed stealing some of the hard earned money she kept under the mattress she made from working at a deli in the city all day. She told grandmother about it, but Granny Irma never liked taking sides—at least that's what she said at the time. A week later, we moved out.
While my mom was at work, a nice Puerto Rican lady named Annie, who lived on the second floor, used to babysit me. Even though, there were rats as big as cats, I suppose it could have been worse.
I was in the living room watching TV when my mother walked through the door. There she was.
I remember that blank look on her face. She was slightly taller than me. Her chestnut colored straight hair was shorter than my medium length wavy locks. She was also wearing a dress which was a dull dark shade of brown. It made me think of playing in dirt on a cool autumn eve. But what I remembered the most were her large dark eyes; they pierced right through me like daggers. She appeared shy and distant; mainly sitting by herself. I didn't think to ask at that moment, how it must have felt to be without a mom. In retrospect, maybe she thought I didn't care.
She didn't say much to me, when I showed her my dolls with their perfectly combed golden hair. I asked her if she wanted to play (in Spanish). She just shook her head. As it turned out, she did speak English. My grandmother on my dad's side of the family made sure of it by hiring a tutor, knowing that she would need to speak the language one day—she was right.
That night, we slept in the same room. I lay there for what seemed like over an hour just staring at the blotchy, pock-marked ceiling, before nodding off.
The next morning, I got up, and noticed my favorite doll, Kristy Curl, wasn't on my bed. That's strange, I thought.
I looked for her all over my room—which wasn't a daunting task considering how small it was.
And then I remembered my sister, Clarissa. She wasn't sleeping in my room, anymore.
I found her in the kitchen. She grinned at me in the most peculiar way.
"Mom is in the shower," she said, as though she had revealed to me the meaning of life; an enigma no more.
I ignored her seemingly happy smile, and sat by the worn wooden coffee table; there was a slight crack on the corner of it—I traced my finger along the jagged ridge, and shrugged. The kitchen and living room opened into one another so I could see the back of Clarissa's brown hair as she opened the fridge door.
Maybe it's just in my head, I thought. She couldn't have taken my doll—could she?
"Did you—"
"Take the last of the Cocoa Puff?"
I was going to say 'my doll', but changed my mind at the last minute. Maybe, I did just misplace her.
"Uh, no, never mind. I am not that hungry, anyway," I sighed.
I walked back into my bedroom and sat on my bed, feeling the soft cotton lavender sheets underneath. I need to give her a chance. Maybe she's mad at me for being with mommy, this whole time.
Then a thought occurred to me—my deck of cards. I kept them in my sock dresser drawer. Whenever I felt lonely or sad they always cheered me up.
I walked over to my light oak colored dresser, pulled the handle, and dug inside as if uncovering my most precious buried treasure in La Islamorada. I wrapped my small fingers around the rectangular packet, which was—in addition to some mismatched socks—half-covered by old scattered pictures I never bothered to put into albums.
I don't know why I decided to play. I could have gone to my mom (even though she was in the shower, she always kept the door unlocked) and complained. But I didn't.
Maybe, it was the memories of playing with my uncle all those afternoons ago that brought me some sort of comfort like a fleece blanket on a snowy winter's night. I wanted to experience comfort again, though, I wasn't aware of this at the time.
I pulled out the cards from the familiar red and white colored container with my thin fingers, feeling the smooth individual, glossy cardboard cards, with rounded corners.
I went back to the living room, and placed the deck on the wooden coffee table.
Just then, my mother opened the bathroom door—opposite the living room, wrapped in a blue towel, she smiled. She looked at the cards on the table and smiled.
"I'm glad you girls are getting along." She patted me on the head, and headed off to her bedroom, which was just beyond mine. The apartment was like living in a long tunnel.
Clarissa was still in the kitchen finishing up her orange juice.
I headed toward the kitchen, to get a glass of water. It was then that I noticed a plastic shoe, sticking out of the grey colored trash can. Kristy's hair and face was dirty with yesterday's partially eaten dinner and plastic Oreo cookie wrappers.
I could feel my cheeks burning hot red like a furnace. I swallowed a hard lump.
"Did you throw my doll in the trash?"
She looked at me in mock innocence. "I don't know how it got there."
Of course, I didn't believe her.
She was lying.
"What's going on out there?" My mother's tender yet concerned tone reminded me to take a deep breath.
"Listen, I don't want to fight," I said. "I don't know why you're doing this. I haven't done anything to you."
She snorted. "I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't touch your stupid doll."
I sighed.
I don't want to upset mommy, I thought. Most little kids would probably complain to their parent, but at this point, I was around seven or eight years old, and witness to my mom's mistreatment by her siblings. We escaped that. I didn't want her getting upset again. So I tried my best to forget about it. I pulled my doll out of the trash and cleaned her up as best as I could.