THE TURNING TIDE

by

Donna G. Munch

Chapter 1

I scatter marigold petals along the path to my house and then burst through the front door, searching for Mamá. She’s bending over, placing a bowl of spicy bean soup with corn tortillas onto a homemade altar in the living room.
“Tía María’s favorite, huh?” I ask, stroking a photo of a striking young woman with jet-black hair. “Mamá, what was she like? What was her favorite color? Did she have a boyfriend?”
Mamá glances up from arranging an embroidered cloth, splashed with bright colors, around the bowl of soup. Her mouth forms a straight line, and her eyes harden. “Gaby, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But, why Mamá, why? Every time I ask about your family, you clam up. I want to know everything about them; they’re my family, too.”
“Gabriela,” she says in a low voice. “They are all dead, ashes scattered in the wind, and I don’t care to discuss them.” She hurries into the kitchen, and I shake my head in frustration.
I mutter under my breath, “That dreadful fire turned their bodies into ashes, but their memories still live on.” I clench my hands into fists. Why wouldn’t Mamá want their memories to live on?
The doorbell chimes and my friend, Kayla, rushes in, breathless. “Cool, I’m here just in time.” She grabs my hand. “C’mon, show me everything and tell me what it all means.”
I lead her toward the altar where a sugar skull, draped in Mamá’s black see-through scarf, lies propped on a small round table. Candles surround the altar and emit a soft yellow glow, illuminating photos of my dead relatives. I catch a whiff of sweetness when we brush past colorful mums and azaleas strewn about.
“Gaby,” whispers Kayla. “This totally rocks.”
“Hush!” I place a finger on my lips while arranging offerings of sweet breads and favorite foods of my dead relatives.
She tugs on my sleeve. “Why do you sprinkle petals on your walkway?”
“Marigold petals help souls find their way home during Día de los Muertos, Day of the Dead. We celebrate a centuries-old Mexican tradition.”
I carefully arrange my grandfather Abuelo Dominguez’s tamales; grandmother Abuela Dominguez's chile peppers; and other favorites of the poor Dominguez family, who all perished in a fire in Chiapas, Mexico, before I was born.
Kayla stares at the altar. “Tell me more.”
I stroke Tía María’s photo wistfully, wondering about this lovely woman with the mysterious green eyes.
“Well,” I sigh. “The idea behind the altars is that spirits return home to visit their families during the holiday. By having their favorite foods and things, we tempt them into making the long journey from the after-life.”
Kayla’s eyes widen as they roam from the photos to the food, back to my face again.
“Last year Mamá even stuck a wash basin and a hand towel on the altar, for visiting souls to freshen up before the celebration.”
“Wow! Clean souls, huh?” Kayla giggles and then bites her lower lip. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sound disrespectful.”
“That’s okay, no offense taken. When I’m dead, they’ll have to have a stall shower at the altar.”
Kayla bursts into laughter. “Right. You’ll spend your entire time showering, instead of eating and visiting.”
I scoff. “I take only three showers a day. I like being clean, unlike some people I know!”
“Ha!” She elbows me. “Let’s not get personal. I don’t want to be angry in such a sacred place. Mustn’t tick off your relatives.”
Mamá enters the room. “Hija, daughter, get ready for supper. Papá will be home at any moment. Kayla, would you like to stay? We’re having tacos.”
Mamá radiated that quiet, understated beauty. When she walked into a room, all eyes gravitated toward her. People say I look exactly like her, but I don't believe them. She's beautiful, and I consider myself, well, average-looking. Her ancestors came from Spain and fled to Mexico during the Spanish Inquisition. And all I knew about her family was that they died in a terrible fire, every one of them, after she and Papá came to America. They’re forbidden territory, and I don’t understand why. Papá's family, Maya Indians, quit talking to him when he left Mexico sixteen years ago. He sends them money monthly, but they don’t speak.
What was my family like? I only had Mamá and Papá, and longed to know more about my other relatives. Who were they? Would they like me? I guess I'll never know. I snap back to the present to hear Kayla’s reply to Mamá’s supper invitation.
“Sure, Mrs. Soto. I just love your tacos and want to learn more about this dead day you guys celebrate.”
I shake my head and tousle her hair playfully. “That’s Day of the Dead, moron!”
We race up the stairs two at a time to my bedroom. I glance at our reflections in my dresser mirror, exhaling slowly. Oh, what I’d give to look like her. “You’re a hottie,” I gush, “even if you’re not the cleanest person on earth.” Kayla looks like my opposite. My hair's the color of coal, while a golden halo frames her face.
She waves a dainty hand. “Oh, stop, Gab! You’re hot, too. You kinda look like Snow White, with your fair skin surrounded by that dark mane.” She pushes my long, straight hair off my shoulders. “And those eyes, almond shaped and exotic looking, the darkest brown I’ve ever seen. Why, I can’t even make out your pupils. They just blend in with those black eyes and mile-long black lashes. Oh, I almost forgot that heart-shaped face. Your face and silky hair must come from your Spanish ancestry.”
“Yeah, right. Everyone in El Paso has brown hair and eyes. But, you with your English and Scottish blood; you look different. How I envy your hair and those awesome cornflower blue eyes!”
Kayla laughs, washes in my bathroom, and we start down to supper.
“Hello, mi hija,” Papá shouts from the kitchen. “How was school today?”
“Fine.” I sprint into the kitchen to plant a kiss on his leathery brown cheeks. Oh, my Papá, how I adore him! He’s my hero, and I’ll always be his niña, his baby.
He glances up and spots Kayla strolling into the room. “Ah, my favorite gringa, ” he teases.
She laughs. “And my favorite Mexicano, Mr. Soto.”
I help Mamá set the table and place heaping plates of tacos and guacamole in front of Kayla and Papá. Mamá opens the kitchen screen door and lets in Chiquita, our five-year-old Chihuahua.
“Chiquita,” Mamá scolds, “you’ve tracked in mud!”
The tiny dog squirms and whimpers as I wipe off her dirty paws with a dampened dishcloth. “Hold still!” I set down her food dish, and she pounces on it like a lion attacking its prey, within seconds devouring every morsel.
We flop down and begin eating the sizzling cooked beef smothered with onions and chile peppers, oozing with Colby and cheddar cheese.
“Mrs. Soto,” says Kayla. “You’re the best cook in the world. Just don’t tell my mom I said so.” Everyone laughs. “Now, tell me more about your dead relatives coming to visit. It’s so fascinating to learn about a different culture. Thanks for inviting me.” A strand of cheese dangles from the corner of her mouth as her tongue darts out to retrieve it.
“Papá,” I say with a full mouth. “Tell her about the pan de muertos.”
“The what?” Kayla wrinkles her pert nose.
“We call it the bread of the dead,” explains Papá. “I baked it yesterday and displayed it in my bakery window.”
“Yeah, it’s that round bread with the curlicues on top.” I sip my iced tea and reach down to pet Chiquita, who stands on her hind legs begging for food.
Papá smiles. “Those curlicues represent bones.” He turns to Kayla. “I also fill my window with skeletons, sugar skulls, candy coffins with almond paste figures, and miniature altars.”
“Sounds just like Halloween. Tell me about your family, Mr. Soto.” Kayla flashes him a dazzling smile. “Gaby tells me they’re Indians. How cool!”
“Yes, my family’s Maya Indian, people who live very poor in Chiapas, Mexico. I’m from San Juan, Chamula. Spanish-Mexicans consider the Indians low class, but they’re colorful people with a rich heritage. My family makes their living selling woven goods to tourists. They beat wool from sheep clippings and weave them into fabric.”
Kayla’s eyes widen. “So, which ones are dead? The ones you’re expecting?”
“My papá, Juan, died years ago, but Mamá and my brother and sister still live. I haven’t seen or spoken to them in a very long time.” Papá’s voice quivers and he stares down at his long, brown fingers. “They became very angry when I came to America. In the Mexican tradition, the eldest son bears responsibility for his family, once the papá dies. But I wanted a better life for my Elena María and me.” He smiles warmly at Mamá. “So we ran off in the dark of night. We paid a man to smuggle us into the States.”
“How romantic!” says Kayla, batting her eyelashes.
He dips a tortilla chip into salsa and then continues, “Chiapas is plagued by violence. A group of farmers, called the Zapatistas, battle the government for human rights.”
Kayla turns toward Mamá. “And your family all died in a fire? How horrible!”
Mamá’s face pales and she rises to clear the table, not looking up. “Yes. Now, would anyone care for dessert?” she asks, changing the subject.
Kayla turns pink, and I feel embarrassed for her. “No thank you, Mamá,” I say, while sliding out of my chair. “No dessert for me.” I really do want dessert. I never refuse it, but I need to get Kayla away from Mamá.
“Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Soto,” she mutters, taking the hint from me. We tear out of the kitchen to my bedroom.
Kayla flops onto the bed, still flushed. “Gab, that’s weird. I’m so sorry I brought it up. I forgot your mother never talks about her family. I have a big mouth. Hope I didn’t make her sad.” She studies her chipped fingernails.
“Don’t worry. I get the same reaction every time I ask about them. I know it’s really terrible, losing one’s whole family and all. But you’d think after all these years, she’d want to talk about them.” I stare straight ahead. “It would make her feel better, remembering. Good times, memories . . . .I’d like to know about my roots, too!” I sigh. “Sometimes I think she’s selfish when she refuses to share. She’s stopping me from learning about my identity.” My chin juts forward and I squint.
“Maybe it’s just too painful. Even after all these years.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I have a feeling she’s holding back. Like there’s some dark secret she doesn’t want me to know.”
“Well, your father’s open about his family, so that’s cool.”
“ Only they don’t speak. So it doesn’t help much. I have no family, other than Mamá and Papá. All the Mexican-American families around here have huge broods with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I feel so . . .different.”
“I don’t have a big family, either,” Kayla says, twirling a golden strand of hair around her pinkie.
“It’s bigger than mine. And you have two brothers.”
She laughs. “Anytime you want them, I’ll send them over. Those geeks are nothing but aggravation. Their job in life is torturing me!” A crease forms between her eyes, and she grows serious. “You really think your mom has a secret she’s keeping from you?”
Our eyes lock. “I really do.”

Chapter 2

My hands tremble as I raise my voice. “But, Mamá, I’m not a baby! I’ll be fifteen-years-old in seven months. All the girls in my ninth-grade class pluck their eyebrows and shave their legs, for God’s sake!”
“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, Gabriela Soto!” Mamá says with a reddened face, waving a clenched fist. “If all those girls jumped off a bridge, would you?”
“Mamá, I’m not talking about bridges; I’m talking about plucking and shaving. I’m growing and so is my hair. With my unibrow I’m beginning to look like Frida Kahlo. The other girls tease me.”
“At age sixteen, you too can do those things.”
“Sixteen!” I holler. “Why, that’s almost two years away. What’s so magical about that age? My hair is long and dark now!”
“Gabriela, I refuse to get into a shouting match. I am the mamá and I say no. Also, remember what I told you about making that twisted face.”
“I know. My face will freeze that way, and I’ll get wrinkles before I’m sixteen.” I sigh. “What difference does it make? Wrinkles? Unibrow? Hairy legs? I’m a freak, anyway you look at it.”
Mamá’s lips form a straight line. “My daughter, the drama queen.”
I lower my voice, cross my fingers, and attempt another tactic. “Mamá, please?”
“Absolutely not, I forbid it!”
“Mamá,” I say between clenched teeth. “This is El Paso, Texas, not Chiapas, Mexico. We live in civilization, not a jungle.” I feel my anger rise. Venom spews from my lips. “It’s 1996, the twentieth century!” I can’t help myself. She’s totally unfair! Totally old-fashioned!
Papá rushes into the room. “Gabriela! Are you being disrespectful to Mamá? What’s all this yelling I hear?”
“Papá, my legs look like a forest. Mamá won’t let me shave till I’m sixteen! Sixteen! By then I’ll need a lawnmower.”
Papá hides a smile. “Ay, mi hija, you’re growing up. But you need to listen to your mamá. She knows what’s best.”
“What’s best? To be laughed at by my entire ninth-grade class? That’s best?” I rub my eyes and dash off to my room.
I pounce onto my bed and punch the pillow. As I grumble under my breath, Papá peeks in.
“Gaby, mí amor, my love, may I come in?”
I sit up and nod
He stoops down and hands me a small black velvet box. “Ssh,” he whispers. “Don’t tell your mamá.”
Mamá charges through the door like a speeding bullet, hands on hips. “Don’t tell your mama what?”
My heart drops to my feet, and Papá’s face flushes pink.
“What is it she shouldn’t tell me, Pablo?” Mamá’s face twists into a scowl, her eyes afire.
“Ay, Elena . . .” He rises and kisses her on the neck, and she shoves him onto the bed.
“Don’t patronize me!”
Papá glances at me with a sheepish grin. “I just bought her a little present. It’s nothing, really. Gaby, open the box and show your mamá.”
I flip open the velvet lid to find tiny pearl earrings, the light capturing the smooth, luminescent sheen of blues and pinks.
I gasp, “Papá, thank you!”
Mamá’s face flashes crimson. “Papá, thank you,” she mimics. “What have I told you about spoiling her? It isn’t her birthday or a holiday. Those earrings are not cheap.” She folds her arms. “You reward her for being disrespectful to her mamá.” She turns and stomps out of the room.
Papá shakes his head, following.
Glancing at my reflection in the dresser mirror, I stick the pearls in my ears, admiring the lustrous gems. Bursting with excitement, I preen and fluff my hair.
Oh, how I adore my papá! I love how he spoils me, always surprising me with treats and presents. It drives Mamá to the moon. She says I’m not learning responsibility or the value of money. But Papá always laughs and says he wants me to have the things he never had, growing up as a kid in Mexico.
My eyes narrow. After all, I don’t have grandparents to spoil me, or aunts or uncles, for that matter. But does she think of that? Nooo—she continues keeping secrets from me. I sigh, stroking the pearl studs in my ears, and head down for supper.
The school day races by, and I can’t wait to visit Papá at work. After school, I dash down to Delizias Mexican Bakery. Flinging my backpack onto the counter, I breathe aromas of freshly baked breads and Mexican pastries. Yum!
Papá ambles through the swinging double doors, grinning. “Whoa, hija. Slow down. Is a pack of ferocious wolves chasing you?”
Out of breath, I gush, “Papá, I’ve been picked as a finalist for the flamenco dance competition.”
“Gaby, what an honor!” He pats my shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.”
The doorbell jangles as a customer enters the store. “Buenas tardes, Mrs. García,” says Papá, wiping his flour-coated hands on his white apron. “What a pleasure to see you.”
“Thank you, Pablo. I’ll take some pan dulce, sweet bread. Hmm, and also two slices of your tres leches cake.”
My mouth waters. Papá’s tres leches cakes, made with three kinds of milk, taste delicious. I lick my lips, imagining the creamy layers of whipped cream caressing my tongue and swirling around in my mouth.
Papá’s partner, Mr. Vela, walks in and touches my shoulder. “Gaby, como está? How are you? How was school today?”
“Fine, Mr. Vela. I got a hundred on my algebra test.”
“Muy bien, very good.”
Papá bids Mrs. García goodbye and turns to Mr. Vela, beaming. “And, my Gaby has been named a finalist in the flamenco dance competition.”
“Gaby, how wonderful. Congratulations! You dance so well.”
Papá agrees. “She’s been dancing since the age of four. Takes after my Elena María.” He turns to me. “When and where will the competition take place? Will your mamá have time to sew you a new dress?’
I grab a butter cookie and shove it into my mouth, nodding. “Yep. In one month, at the Chamizal.”
I close my eyes and imagine the hot stage lights bathing my face. For dance performances, Mamá allows me to wear makeup—foundation, eye shadow, and lipstick. I can hear the guitar tempo soar as I sway and move to the music, clicking my castanets and twirling around and around, lifting my multi-layered, colored skirts from side to side. When I dance, the music takes me to faraway places. I’m unaware of my audience. All my troubles melt away. No school, no arguing with Mamá . . .no secrets.
My mind returns to the room, and Papá changes the subject. “Now, don’t forget. This weekend we’ll find a banquet hall for your quinceañera.”
I grin and puff out my chest. How exciting—a big bash for my fifteenth birthday! In the Mexican culture, a girl’s fifteenth birthday marks her coming of age. I’d officially be a woman, no longer a little girl. There’d be lots of food and dancing, and boys, with me wearing a beautiful long, white dress. I’d even get my hair done in an updo, swept high upon my head. I thrust out my lower lip. Maybe then Mamá will treat me like a grownup. Maybe then she’ll share the real story behind her family secrets.

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