Doll of Mine (A Dia de los Muertos Story)

Text Copyright ©2014, by Lila Felix and Rebel Writer Productions, LLC. Doll of Mine, the characters, names, and related indicia are trademarked and © by Lila Felix/

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Doll of Mine

Lila Felix

ONE

“Why do you insist on doing this
mija
? Too many things could go badly. That place is trouble.”

Three weeks Alma had endured the constant questioning from her mother. Within the last few days the questions had turned into begging. She sighed and rolled her dark eyes while facing the bag she was packing. Never would she let her mother see the gesture of disrespect.

“Mamá, please, I have to. I can’t go to school anymore—I’ve had this planned for months with my friend. I keep my promises. ”

Her mother, a plump, traditional woman, believed in every superstition—in every urban legend from
La Llorona
to the
Chupacabra
and everything in between. Precautions for avoiding such things that bumped in the night, and some during the day, ranged from not going out under the full moon to not cutting her hair during the new moon. She was told to close the windows before a storm, not shower when she was sick and even had to touch her right foot to the floor first in the morning.

Some of them were ridiculous sounding to the young woman. But at eighteen with a bright future ahead of her, she followed all of them to a T, more fearful of the consequences than the rituals themselves. Her plan was simple. She had always intended to become a teacher. After all, it was in the classroom where one’s circumstances no longer shone brighter than one’s talents. Hard work equaled good results. There was no questioning or relying on outside forces to pull you through—like her mother’s superstitions.

She followed the essential ones simply to keep the peace.

Except this time—this time she followed her gut.

The place where the girl had chosen to travel was cursed in the eyes of her mother.

But it called to her, beckoned her like a Siren in the sea.

“
Por favor
, take care and whatever you do…”

Exasperated, she stuffed the last piece of clothing into the leather saddlebag and turned to her mother. She wasn’t staying long, but still wanted to be prepared in case.

“I won’t
Mamá
, I promise. We are going, taking the tour, and them coming back for the visit to the cemetery. That’s all. I wouldn’t miss it. Now, let me help you finish cooking before I have to go get our order of
dulces
.”

Carmelita, Alma’s mother, cut discriminating eyes at her daughter, letting her know that though she’d attempted to dismiss the issue, Carmelita’s attempts to stop her daughter from going wouldn’t cease until it was too late.

The mother and daughter stirred pots of savory beans and rice, while the fresh tamales steamed in Alma’s grandmother’s traditional clay pot. Her mother had spent the morning knee-deep in sweet dough, forming and shaping the bread into shapes of bones before baking them and dusting them with powdered sugar. There was still much to do. Food and decorations had to be ready to pay homage to their dead loved ones in the form of food and a welcoming shrine. The people of Mexico put their best dishes out to appease and attract the dead once a year. This was their chance to honor the lives of those they’d loved and they did so with all their hearts.

Alma thought of her American counterparts, as she’d learned in school, who spent the night, the last night of October, dressed up as spooks and haunts, begging for candy from strangers. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as pride welled in her chest at the long-standing traditions of her ancestors.

The holiday had become even more special after the passing of her father.

She looked at the spread of gifts already taking shape before her. All of her father’s favorite foods would be presented at the altar in their home in addition to his grave, inviting him to visit them. He was especially fond of her mother’s mole. She added a bit of spice to it that was still kept a very intimate secret.

They didn’t have much money anymore—not that they’d been rich by any stretch of the imagination before. They’d scraped by. Now, with her father, who was a decently paid bus driver, gone, they barely hung on for dear life. Pinches of pesos here and there were stashed in a tiny handmade wooden box that was once used for her father’s tobacco, were now used for the only day of the year where their loved ones were supposed to come for a visit.

Santiago Sanchez had taken one last shot of tequila at Alma’s
Quinceañera
and never woken up again, suffering from a stroke that choked him in his drunken sleep.

Putting all the pots on low to simmer, Carmelita glanced at the clock, hung on the rust-colored stucco wall and slapped her hands on her hips. “
Mija, es hora
!” It was time for Alma to get going. Orders for
dulces
, sugar skulls and other sweets had to be picked up from the
dulcero
promptly during the
Dias de los Muertos.

Tearing the apron from around her waist and shoving it into her mother’s waiting hands, Alma dried her hands and prepared to leave the only place she’d ever called home, but not before placing a loving peck on her mother’s cheek.

“Be careful
mija
. There are spirits, pure and evil, everywhere.”

“I will,
Mamá
.”

After striding down the dirt road lined with rows of miniscule shacks, she hopped on a bus and transferred onto two
peceras
that would take her to her destination. At last she reached
Xochimilco
. Alma stopped and took in the sights and sounds of the city on the cusp of the biggest celebration of the year. A sweet aroma of freshly baked dough filled her lungs. She could taste the vanilla on her tongue and hear the laughter from the patrons. Shrill cries of salesmen calling out for customers pierced her ears. Along the outskirts of the city, the trees swayed with the wind, a little cooler than Alma expected at that time of year.

“I have to hurry.” She told herself, speeding her pace and bee-lining for the booth marked
Dulces de Diego
. The candymaker had been her father’s friend since they were children and though he knew Alma, he wouldn’t hesitate to sell her order to the next hungry patron had she failed to be there on time.

“
Señor Diego
!” Alma announced her arrival, causing the man behind the counter to leave his post and give her a quick squeeze around her shoulders accompanied by a wink.

“Your order is right here, Alma. And I included some special ones just for Chago.”

Chago was the name her father’s friends called him by. Her mother never had. She had always called him Santiago.

She clapped in praise of the attention the order received by the candy maker and her father’s friend. After paying for the order and looking around the city more, Alma decided to pick up more
papel picado
, paper of all bright colors with sugar skulls, marigolds and hearts lovingly cut by local women who only sold them during the festival days. While paying for her lot, someone knocked into her back almost causing her to destroy the lovely displayed papers.

“
Ladrón
!” A man yelled as he followed the path of the boy with a machete in hand waving it around. Several men and some women joined in the pursuit of the thief, but Alma stood still watching it all. In the
colonias
, most crimes were taken care of by the citizens. A thief or a murderer prayed that the police got to them before the people. The people delivered far worse punishments than prison or hard labor—their punishments dated back to the old days, sometimes even so far as biblical times.

The people had no mercy and held on tightly to old fashioned punishment means.

“There are thieves all around. Even the most innocent of characters have a heart filled with thoughts of taking what is not theirs.”

A gasp broke from Alma’s mouth. Looking toward the owner of the male voice’s owner. His face could not be seen, but from the tautness of his skin and the lack of wrinkles on the outstretched hand where he held a fragile piece of paper, she could tell that he was young—maybe not much older than she was. Despite the heat of the day, he wore a hooded dark jacket that, along with his away-turned face, hid all of his other features.

His voice set off all the alarms in her, a nightmarish shudder that couldn’t be denied. The man smelled as if he was made of her favorite cake, pineapple-filled and topped with every fruit imaginable.

How did he smell so wonderful?

“It must be terrible to want to celebrate your loved ones and not be able to afford the right things.”

His shoulders jumped as he shrugged at her response. A warmth reverberated from his presence and called to her. Everything about him called to her. Wild thoughts ran through her mind unbidden of he and she entangled in an embrace.

I don’t understand this feeling of comfort and fear wrapped up in a stranger’s appearance.

“Wanting something bad enough doesn’t make it morally correct. Sin is sin, stealing is stealing.”

His words were carried on an icy voice that made her spine tingle and tremble at once. The voice was from another time—another place. His accent was thick with an accent that reminded Alma of her grandmother. Suddenly her entire body was shivered from head to toe despite the warm Mexico air around her. Every sensation around her became amplified—the vibrant laughter of the women in the booth, the pounding of feet of the patrons around them, the sloshing of pungent tequila being poured into a glass somewhere in close distance.

She agreed with him, of course. Every sin deserved a punishment.

But she also believed that every person deserved a second chance.

“You’re right. Sin is sin, regardless of the circumstances.”

Turning slightly toward her, he glanced at Alma from the corner of his eye. The olive tone of his skin seemed to be washed with a sheen of ash, as though he’d come through a cloud of smoke and it still clung to him. His eyes, were glassy and bright. When she tried to move in to determine the color, he turned suddenly, determined not to give too much away. She grasped onto the table beside her, put on edge by the cool river of his tone. There was something sticky sweet about it—like he forced it to sound that way so that it poured like warm honey.

“They should be punished regardless, don’t you think. Just like lying to someone to protect them—it’s still lying.”

“Yes, you’re right. Every crime deserves a just punishment.”

He nodded once. Alma turned away from him, fully intending to make her exit from the man whose voice and demeanor wove into her skin like worms through a body.

The man set her on the edge of eeriness, yet something about him called forth an attraction, a desire to learn more about him—to be near him. Against her heart, she obliged her fear laced with magnetism for the stranger.

“I must go. My mother is…” When she turned to make her goodbyes, the man was gone. She scanned the crowds in every direction, his vanished presence terrorizing and intriguing her at once.

“He’s gone!” She directed the point at one of the women tending the booth.

The woman with a traditional Mexican garb, covering caramel colored skin replied, “Who is gone,
niña?
”

“The man—he was right here.”

She looked to the spot, her braids falling over her shoulders. “
Lo siento
. I didn’t see anyone.”

Though she couldn’t see him, she felt a presence following her all the way home. It clung to her like oil to a warm
sopapilla
, coating her skin and holding on tight. Walking on the dirt road that led to her home, over and over again she looked over her shoulder, convinced he was right behind her.

Reaching her front door, Alma gave a silent appreciation for her mother’s superstitions as she never had before. A line of salt on the ground was freshly poured every morning, stopping any evil or mal-intentioned spirits from entering their home.

The man at the market had made her uneasy enough to be grateful for her mother’s rituals. Her mind became alight with an image of the man from before stopping cold at the salty line and being frustrated at his inability to cross.

She chastised herself for believing he was anything more than just a man.

     “
Almita
, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.
Estás bien?

“
Si, Mamá
. I’m fine. I was just walking pretty fast. It winded me.”

Alma’s mother took the box full of candies from her daughter and set them down on their modest dining table. In Alma’s absence, an altar had been arranged at the center of the wall right in front of their living room—where a television might reside if they owned one.

Center stage was a poster sized picture of her father. Her mother had it printed months ago before the rush of holiday business. He was a handsome man, smiling in the picture, cropped from one of their wedding photos. A moustache she hadn’t ever seen on him sat upon his smile. His eyes carried the joy and happiness she did remember—it was enough to bring the beginning of many tears to be had to her eyes.