Hermanas
by Lindsay Quintanilla
Mandy Cano Villalobos, Left: Solemnis I, tea-stained paper and milk paint, 17 x 9 inches, 2020. Right: Solemnis II, tea-stained paper and imitation gold leaf, 12 x 7 inches. 2020. Courtesy of the artist.
Hermanas
Lindsay Quintanilla | Aug 2022 | Issue 17
May 11, 1987
The scent of dusty chicken feathers, roasted coffee beans, and stale breath always reminded her of bitter goodbyes. Carina De León immediately recognized the smell as she stepped inside a congested bus on route to San Rafael Las Flores. The driver wore a straw hat. He sang along to a marimba song in a raspy voice, “Guatemala linda y feliz!” A security guard stood with his arms crossed next to the driver, an assault rifle strapped across his chest. That’s new. Carina was careful not to bump into him. She found a seat next to a teenager with a seafoam-colored Mohawk, and a businessman speaking rapidly on the phone took the opportunity to squeeze next to them. People walked through the aisle singing along, and selling sliced mangoes and sweet bread. The walls inside the bus were covered in a mural of Jesus Christ extending his arms out to Guatemala.
As the bus made its way up the half-paved road, Carina stared out the oily, dirt-streaked window to the capital city: tall skyscrapers, sleek shopping centers were nestled within the volcanic mountains. Pollo Campero, Burger King, and McDonalds had replaced most plantain stands she remembered. A cloud of pollution smeared the skyline, and the ground vibrated in syncopation to the jalopy cars racing in and out of pot holes.
Guatemala City diminished behind them. They would soon arrive in San Rafael las Flores. The temperature dropped, and fresh air seeped in. Carina relaxed in her seat. San Rafael las Flores was resistant to change. Family-owned stores made of wood lined the side of the dirt road. Ceiba trees, multiple coffee plantations, and cilantro farms flashed by. The driver honked at a red 1980 Toyota pickup truck, filled with indigenous women, to move aside. She remembered running up the street in their only good pair of Mary Janes with Manuela after school trying to beat the traffic on the main road. They ran through the main square, cutting through the park in order to get to Doña Eugenia’s convenience store which operated out of a small window from the front of her house. There was an awning over the window with the colors of the Guatemalan flag. They bought orange soda in a plastic bag with a yellow straw.
It had been eight years since she last saw her sister Manuela, eight years since she stepped onto her childhood soil. The day Mamá died, Carina was picking out the red onions from Mrs. Steven’s Burrata Salad in Beverly Hills. She answered the phone through a whisper when she saw the number. She wondered if the wire transfer she sent on Monday went through. When Manuela told her the news, she forgot how to stand. Her arms went numb. The only sound in the room was from the record player playing Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake for the twentieth time. Mrs. Stevens said it reminded her of the old days when she danced for the Los Angeles Ballet. At the crescendo, Mr. Heathcliff the cat, jumped on the record player and onto the ballerina lamp, causing it to tip over and Mrs. Stevens yelled through the TV room if Mr. Heathcliff was hurt.
All Carina could do was stand in the middle of Mrs. Stevens' kitchen in Beverly Hills, remembering the last time she saw Mamá and how she lied to her. Mamá sat on her rocking chair as Carina packed her only bag with a couple of shirts, shoes and all her underwear. She kissed Mamá’s forehead and told her she was only going to Guatemala City for a few days, but would be back. Manuela said it would be easier if they didn’t tell her the truth. Manuela didn’t want her to go, but she agreed after Carina asked her where the money was going to come from? Mamá’s arthritis medicine was expensive and San Rafael did not grow money on trees. Carina decided to go after she came home one day from playing basketball, and Mamá trembled on the bed from the pain while Manuela placed a hot towel over her. The rain pattered against the roof. She couldn’t take care of Mamá the way Manuela always did.
After she found out about Mamá’s death, Carina couldn’t even cry out loud because she had to finish her shift and Mrs. Stevens disliked when the house murmured anything other than Tchaikovsky. She went home to a pile of laundry. Her three roommates were out drinking at a bar in Boyle Heights. Instead of using her washing machine, Carina washed her clothes in the sink like she used to with Mamá. The TV went on about possible amnesty under the Reagan Administration and that’s when she sobbed into the wet laundry. She couldn’t leave to attend her own mother’s funeral because she wasn’t a citizen. All of this was for Mamá and yet, she couldn’t be there to hold her hand and say everything and nothing at once.
The bus slowed down as they passed the town’s welcome sign: “Bienvenidos a San Rafael las Flores.” The same chill was in the air as the day she left. Her eyes were red rimmed and her feet were swollen from all the free peanut packages she asked for on the plane. She pulled a mirror from her new bag and reapplied her favorite coral lipstick. Her upper lip twitched. She knew things would not be the same with Manuela. After their mother’s death, she picked up Manuela’s calls less frequently. What was there left to say? She left and Mamá died. The last memory she had of Manuela was through a rain-streaked window. Manuela stood on the curb of calle cinco. The scent of roasted coffee beans burned her nostrils, and the dust from the chicken a man carried next to her stayed in the back of her throat until she reached the U.S.
After the Reagan Administration enacted the Immigration Reform Act, she begged Mrs. Stevens to write her a sponsor letter. She knew she’d have to keep pretending she adored ugly Mr. Heathcliff, but she didn’t care if it meant being a citizen. Mrs. Stevens surprisingly agreed. Mrs. Stevens' veiny hand trembled as she signed the sponsor letter with a bullet point pen.
I can attest Carina is a hard worker. She is integrous. I want to keep Carina De León as my housekeeper.
Mrs. Lucy Stevens
Former Los Angeles Ballet Dancer
When Carina was sworn in as a citizen, she immediately called Manuela through a pay phone outside the convention center on South Figueroa Street. A Metro bus came to a halt in front of her and dropped off passengers still in their work uniforms. A man with a black apron tapped his foot behind her in line. She tried calling again. Manuela didn’t congratulate Carina on the news, she said she was busy setting up for Dia de Todos los Santos. They were coming up on her three-year anniversary of her death and no one was there to help clean Mamá’s grave. It was the guilt that pushed Carina to ask for two weeks off.
The bus came to a jerky halt in front of The Mercado Central. She stuffed the mirror back into her Kate Spade bag and pushed her way outside. Her makeup was half-melted and her hair stuck to the back of her neck. The Mercado Central was crowded with the townspeople preparing for the night’s festivities.
A woman swaddling a baby inside a rebozo wrap asked her, “Chiles con dolor oh sin dolor?” After all these years, they still sold the spice level the same way. She wanted to warn the tourist couple next to her to say, “sin dolor.” Unless they wanted to feel the burning sensation all night on the toilet. She walked through the market. Fruit was piled in heaps on colorful carpets. Women hauled baskets filled with rice, beans, and plantains on top of their heads. Vendors sold chicharrones and fresh tortillas. She repeated Manuela’s directions for their meeting spot. Walk straight to the church we used to play in as kids.
Carina almost tripped on the uneven payment when she saw Manuela. Her sister sucked on a piece of sugar cane as she sat on the steps of the cathedral. A fabric bag filled with onions sat on her worn sandals, and her floral shirt was too big for her. Her skin was oily in some areas, and her once shiny chocolate hair was limp and as dry as the bottom of an old broom. Manuela reminded her of Mamá right before she left. If Carina hadn’t left maybe life wouldn’t have worn on her sister.
Carina ran across a Tuk-tuk bolting down the cobblestoned road. “Manuela!”
Manuela power-walked to her, carrying the bag of onions in her left hand. “Hola vos.” They hugged. Manuela smelled of peppermint oil, and for an instant, Carina almost believed nothing had changed between them. The mint tingled her nose just like it did when they were young girls with smelly armpits and Mamá came home with the cheapest bar soap from Doña Eugenia’s convenience store. Mamá cut the bar of soap into three pieces. She made it clear if they didn’t conserve their piece, they would end up going to school smelling like a chucho muerto—a dead dog.
Manuela’s eyes were the same shade of hazel as Carina’s, but now, they were surrounded with sun spots. She no longer wore the pale blossom lipstick mamá gave her on one of her birthdays, but instead, her lips were chapped.
Manuela caressed Carina’s flat ironed hair and broke the silence. “You look so elegant, so American.” She pointed with her mouth.
“Hopefully I improved,” Carina said, touching her hair.
“You look like a gabacha.” Manuela said.
“Well, at least, your honesty hasn’t changed.” Carina tensed thinking about how she used to call foreigners gabachos. A man wearing a turquoise-colored hat stood next to the cheese stand. He watched Carina’s bag fall to the crook of her elbow. He offered them fabric pens, and when they said no, the man suddenly lunged at her bag.
Carina pulled the bag back. “Who do you think you are!”
Manuela grabbed one of her onions and threw it. Multiple locals joined in. A woman with a braid down her back hit him with a cilantro bunch. Another woman grabbed his hair. In one conjoined effort, they pinned him to the floor. A man eating a tortilla knocked over the bucket he sat on and ran to the police.
The police strolled in, their mouths peppered with bread crumbs. “What is this cabrón doing?” one of them said, still chewing. They pulled the man away from them to question him and pinned him to the ground.
“You like stealing from foreigners? Let’s go, cabrón, to see how you like your new life in jail.” They pushed him into a station wagon.
“Are you okay?” one of the ladies asked Carina in English.
“I’m fine. I’m from here,” Carina said in Spanish. She smoothed out her dress. In the tussle, her acrylic nail had come off.
The onions were scattered around them. Manuela stared at her. “Not anymore.”
Lindsay Quintanilla is a writer from Las Vegas, Nevada. Lindsay is currently working on her first novel. She’s been invited to participate in ZYZZYVA Workshops and The Breadloaf Writers’ Conference. Lindsay’s work has appeared in PALABRITAS. She holds an MFA from The University of San Francisco. She is currently living in Houston, Texas where she spends her days trying to perfect gluten free pastries and find the perfect walking trail.
Mandy Cano Villalobos is an interdisciplinary artist whose work spans installation, 2D, performance, and sculpture. Her projects explore ideas of home, memory and cultural identity. Cano Villalobos has exhibited in venues including Bridge Projects (Los Angeles, CA), POSITIONS Art Fair (Berlin, DE), Proyecto T (Mexico City, DF), the Ruth and Elmer Wellin Museum (Clinton, NY), Maryland Institute College of Art (Baltimore, MD), the Ukrainian Institute of Modern Art, (Chicago), The Museum of New Art (Detroit, MI), Hillyer Art Space (Washington, DC), Gray Contemporary (Houston, TX) and La Casa Pauly (Puerto Montt, Chile). Her work has been reviewed in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Sculpture Magazine, Hyperallergic, and The Chicago Reader, among others. She is the recipient of a Virginia Center for Creative Arts Fellowship, and has been awarded grants from multiple organizations including the Gottlieb, Puffin, Frey, and Chenven Foundations, and the Foundation for Contemporary Arts. Cano Villalobos is represented by Mu Gallery in Chicago and drj art projects in Berlin. She works in Grand Rapids, MI and Brooklyn, NY.