The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos (13 page)

Almost as an afterthought, he said there had been rumors of insurgents in the area, which raised another possibility: Lily
was telling the truth—Irene had strayed into the forest and had been kidnapped, in which case the parents would no doubt receive
a ransom note in due course. In the absence of clarity on the matter, with the help of the locals he attempted to drag the
lagoon with fishnets weighted with stones. The only boats available were handcrafted Pemon canoes. They searched for four
days but no body was discovered, which was not surprising in waters where the caiman patrolled the uninhabited mangrove shores
in great numbers.

Consuelo, even after painting it, had never been able to completely exorcise the heartbreaking sight of Benigno Dos Santos
holding his head in his hands, nor blot out the mind-piercing sound of Mercedes Dos Santos screaming her daughter’s name.

Before that fateful trip, Irene had qualified in the nationals, led her team to victory, accepted the first-place medal on
behalf of the team on national television, por Dios. How could she have drowned, when surely she was the stronger swimmer?
Though profoundly grateful that her own child had survived whatever had happened in the water, to Consuelo it seemed as though
Lily in the very act of surviving had conceded something, some part of her soul, to the other girl. After they returned from
Maquiritare, Lily had appeared to shrink, to become a diluted form of herself. And never, ever, would she acknowledge that
the girls had gone swimming or that Irene might be dead.

At Alejandro’s suggestion, but against Ismael’s wishes, she took Lily to a psychiatrist, who suggested drawing as a therapy.
But Lily, when encouraged to sketch her experiences at Maquirtare, had only drawn toucans and parrots, flat and cartoonish
in their rendition. When after three weeks none of the psychiatric strategies had achieved the desired effect, that of clarifying
or altering Lily’s perception of what had transpired in Maquiritare, Ismael had said it was enough, that time and patience
would be the cure. And so, for months, whenever Lily spoke of Irene in the present tense, everyone went along with it. After
a while, Lily stopped referring to Irene at all, and Consuelo, assuming the chapter finally closed, was glad of it. But, mira!
Irene has resurfaced in their lives, if only in their thoughts and imaginations, and so perhaps the cord was never really
severed. Consuelo now regrets having returned Lily’s box of childhood memories without going through it and checking for reminders
of Irene. How could she have been so careless?

As if Consuelo has spoken her mind aloud, Marta shakes her head and says, “That Irene, she’s the type to hold on even from
the grave. If you ask me, this is all happening because of her.”

“Don’t be silly, Marta,” Consuelo says, “we can hardly blame poor Irene for everything.”

“Hummph,” says Marta, throwing the black beans in a colander to rinse.

“Escúchame, mi amor,” Consuelo said on the day Lily got caught with her tongue throat-deep in the mouth of Elvis Crespo. “Maybe
it is my fault you got into this mess. I’m quite a bit older than the other mothers, and I haven’t spoken to you about relaciones
between a man and a woman. I thought you were too young. In my day, girls of thirteen had no chance to be alone with a boy,
and they certainly didn’t know how to kiss with their tongues. And don’t make big eyes, because la Señora Ramirez was adequately
graphic in her description of what you and that young man were doing in the elevator.”

Consuelo watched her daughter’s face flush with a mixture of embarrassment and the memory of how crazy-hot and breathless
the boy’s kisses had made her feel.

“And, don’t be angry with me for saying this, mi vida,” Consuelo continued with velvet ruthlessness. “I know that Irene is
your best friend and that you think the sun shines out of her culo. I know that the deranged way her family lives seems exciting
and wonderful to you. And that you think Mercedes Dos Santos is the most sophisticated creature in the world. Much as you
love your father and me, you hanker for a Dos Santos family life. But let me tell you something: Irene may teach you how to
kiss, but she knows nothing of the passion that should make your soul fly when you do it. How could she know, when there is
no one to teach her about love, pobrecita? The members of the Dos Santos family, for all their fancy modern ways, wouldn’t
know love if it jumped up and bit their faces. And love is the biggest adventure of all. When you find it, you must embrace
it with your whole being and never hold back. But until then, muchachita de mi alma, keep your panties on.”

Lily had cried and promised, and after a lukewarm resistance had adjusted well to convent school. Despite the intermediate
tragedy that had been Maquiritare, she had completed her high school education with flying colors, she had graduated from
college with honors and a degree in architecture, she had chosen an appropriate life partner, she had appeared to be in every
way a well-adjusted, wholesome, happy woman, the envy of many mothers. But even so, Consuelo knew that in the few hours of
memory that Lily was missing, something had been irrevocably altered; a shift in the structure of their family foundation,
a pillar of confidence dislodged. Minus Irene, Lily seemed in some way less confident, less radiant than she might have been.

These are Consuelo’s thoughts as she watches her daughter dozing on the daybed, oblivious to Marta’s clashing of pots and
pans in the kitchen. Lily tosses and turns, moaning softly. When Consuelo takes her hand in an attempt to comfort her, Lily
cries out in her sleep, shakes her hand loose, defensively covers her belly. Carlos Alberto runs in to see what is wrong,
sees that Lily is sleeping and that Consuelo and Luz are with her, returns to his relentless pacing on the terrace. Ismael
is quietly writing verses at the kitchen table, respecting the void of silence and longing between them. Consuelo feels her
throat constrict.

What if love is not enough?

The phone rings. It is Amparo returning their call. She will arrive from Miami tomorrow. She will bring a nurse.

Pending Amparo’s arrival, Dr. Ricardo Uzoátegui has come each evening without fail. He examines Lily, takes her blood pressure,
studies the output and color of her urine, which has been kept for his inspection in a jam jar. To the relief of everyone
in the room, especially Carlos Alberto, he announces that over the past three days, her kidney functions appear to have returned
to normal. Even so, he says, bed rest and observation are still recommended. Consuelo finds it maddening the way he uses the
passive voice when making his recommendations, as though they come from some unknown but incontrovertible source, as though
they come from God. But, at the same time, her heart goes out to him for coming all the way to check on Lily every day. He
doesn’t have to; it is not his job. She believes his intentions are pure, that he is only manifesting the symptoms of a rigid
medical training. She can afford to be gracious because here in her daughter’s house he is both overpowered and outnumbered;
he can express but not impose his views.

“Maria Lionza, be praised,” Marta mumbles, attributing the good news to the power of the Novena.

Luz, an unusual color high on her cheeks, offers Ricardo a glass of passion fruit juice from a tray, which he accepts gratefully
and gulps down before appealing one last time to Carlos Alberto. Even under the best of circumstances, he says, delivery by
a midwife is ill-advised in this day and age. The words make Carlos Alberto grow a shade paler, but he says nothing in response,
merely nods, pulls out his wallet.

“How much do I owe you, Ricardo?” he says. But Ricardo Uzoátegui waves his hand dismissively.

Consuelo’s heart hurts for Carlos Alberto, for the way he is ready to suppress everything he has learned, all his instinct
to control the situation, in order to support Lily’s desire to have Amparo deliver their baby. Consuelo could not have wished
a better partner for her child.

“She’s a very modern midwife, Ricardo,” says Lily.

Ricardo Uzoátegui shrugs his shoulders, picks up his bag.

“In case you need to reach me,” he says to Luz, who is nearest, handing her his card. Then, shaking his head, he turns toward
the door. Luz hurries to open it for him.

“I think the handsome doctor likes you,” Consuelo whispers to Luz after he is gone. “Did you notice how he blushed when you
approached him with the tray?”

“¡Tonterías! You are imagining things.”

“Did I imagine that the beverage you chose to offer him was passion fruit juice?”

“As if I believe in love potions. You are confusing me with my mother,” Luz scoffs, but she is smiling.

Consuelo is glad because Luz has mourned the end of her failed marriage long enough. She hopes for Luz what she hopes for
Lily, what she has had in abundance herself, someone with whom to share both the pleasures and pains of life. And god knows
Ricardo could use a woman like Luz to bring him down from his high horse.

The previous night, Marta had announced that everyone needed to be better educated on the subject of Maria Lionza. So, instead
of a happy memory, after the rosary she had recounted the legend of Yara, Maria Lionza’s first incarnation. It had been, Marta
said, Luz’s favorite bedtime story “until she got too big for her boots.” Luz had sighed and rolled her eyes. But while Marta
was telling the story of Yara, Consuelo had observed Luz perched on the edge of her seat, captivated, as if she were hearing
it for the first time, her mouth open in wonder like a child. Perhaps, thought Consuelo, their nightly storytelling time together
would prove to be as good for Luz as it was for Lily.

On this third night of the Novena, Marta begins by threatening San Antonio with kicks and blows because, according to her,
he likes rough talk. It is, she says, the job of San Antonio to mediate with the goddess on behalf of anything that is lost,
including lost souls, and it is best to have him on your side.

After seven decades of the rosary, Marta concludes with an exhortation to the goddess of the mountain to “inundate their minds
with a river of happy memories.” Then she says, “And who will tell today’s story?”

There is a broad smile upon her face. Plainly, Consuelo observes, she is deriving immense enjoyment from her role as the mistress
of ceremonies.

“I will,” offers Consuelo.

“Make it a long one, Mami,” says Lily. “I’m not sleepy at all, and neither is the baby, from the way he or she is punching
and kicking.”

“San Antonio had better sit up and take notice,” says Ismael.

And then Consuelo tells of how it took Lily over nine years to come into the world.