Milo
“ALGO MÁS?”
“No.” I pay the cashier and grab the burner phone and bottle of water off the convenience store counter and spin toward the exit. “Lo siento,” I mumble to the guy I stumble into while shoving out the door.
I pop the top on the water and guzzle it while making my way through the parking lot. My mouth feels less fuzzy and tastes a little better after a few chugs of H2O. I was an idiot to drink as much as I did last night. If things go according to plan, I’ll need every ounce of strength I have by the next full moon, and it’ll take me that long to recover from this hangover.
I crank the car’s AC to high and pull out onto the highway, headed somewhere secluded. The music is off because I can’t listen to anything without it reminding me of Mercy. Heading east, my head throbs with the early sunlight and I slide on my sunglasses. With the small town behind me, I find an abandoned dirt road and pull off the highway to park and punch numbers into the phone.
The ringing seems to go on forever. When I hear a click on the other end, I expect it to be voicemail but instead hear my brother’s confused, “Hello?”
I exhale in relief. “Miguel.”
“Oh my God, M—”
“Shh, don’t let anyone know it’s me.”
“Hold on.” He shuffles around, then I hear him mumble, “I’m headed out for a little bit.”
“Okay, sure. If you’re not going to be home by dinner, just call me and let me know.”
Laura. The sound of her voice soothes me even from here.
“All right.” More shuffling. “Jules.”
My eyes snap forward, and I stare blindly out the windshield as I listen to my brothers bicker back and forth about Julian keeping his hands off Miguel’s Xbox.
“I said fine!” Only a few months have passed since I left, but Julian sounds years older.
Laura chimes in. Their voices fade with the slam of a door then the rumble of a car engine.
“Milo, what’s going on? Are you okay? Where are you guys?”
I huff out a breath. With my elbow against the window, I brace my head in my hand. “I miss you guys.”
He’s silent for a couple beats. “We miss you guys too.” More silence. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, ‘manito.” I can’t tell him. He’ll only worry. “I’m just checking on you.”
“You’re lying. I can tell.”
“Nah, ese, I’m hungover.”
“Where are you? Nothing came up on the Caller ID.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
All I hear is the slight hum probably caused from his open car window.
“I just . . . I’m sorry I left like I did. Mercy was in trouble and I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Laura and Chris think you guys ran away to be together. Laura’s been a mess. She blames herself for not being more accepting of you two, ya know, as a couple or whatever.”
“It’s probably better to let her think that.” Better than her knowing the truth.
“I got your letter from Damian. I know you guys ran, but I don’t know why. Did it have something to do with her dad? No one can find the guy, so Laura’s feeling like shit about that too. Guess the dude spooked or something, took off without a word.”
I sigh long and hard. “Are you guys having a good summer?”
“Milo—”
“Julian playing baseball like he talked about?”
“Emilio! Stop bullshitting me. Tell me what the fuck is going on. Sebastian and Omar are always driving by. Is Dad in trouble? Are you back in the Saints?”
I rub my eyes, and it only intensifies the non-stop throbbing in my skull. “Esteban is fine. Sebastian and Omar are keeping an eye on you and Jules.”
“And you? Are you in? Is that why they’re lookin’ out for us?”
“I gotta go. Tell Jules I miss him.”
“Milo, wait—”
I hang up before I slip and tell him too much. My chest aches with the loss of my brothers and Mercy. This has to end. I don’t know how much longer I can carry on like this, but I’m not leaving Mexico without her.
Mercy
DAYS HAVE PASSED since I watched Papa walk out of my room with the promise to think on my proposal. In those days, I have busied myself with the same routines from years ago—reading, drawing, and daydreaming about life outside these walls. The daydreams are no longer fictional thoughts drummed up by fantasy, but rather memories from a life I have every intention of getting back to.
Each sunset brings renewed anger. Knowing these nights could’ve been spent curled up in bed with Milo rather than alone and worrying about him has left me desperate and begging for sunrise. With each new day comes more resolution, and although I don’t yet know how I’ll accomplish it, I’m certain it’s my destiny to end what was started here.
I’m curled on my side, staring blindly at the shelves of books I’ve memorized from cover to cover. The words, stories, and images meant for me to study, I now see them for what they really are—instruments of influence used solely for my brainwashing.
I don’t flinch when one by one, the locks on the door click to release, and I don’t spare a glance for the girl who steps inside, carrying a tray of food. She shuffles to the table, places my meal there like she does three times a day, and she doesn’t speak.
“Thank you,” I say and sit up to eat even though my appetite is non-existent.
She bows and backs away toward the door.
“Wait.” I turn to look at her, and she stops moving but won’t meet my gaze. “Would you mind sharing this meal with me?”
She shakes her head and scoots closer to the door.
“Please.” I move toward the meal to see, just like the others since I’ve been back, is much heartier than when I was younger. “There’s enough for two.”
Her eyes shift nervously. “I cannot—”
“I’m lonely, please. I’ll tell Papa I made you. I’ll tell him I threatened to hurt you if you left.”
Her quick intake of air tells me that she sees me as more powerful than I really am. Looks as if I’m not the only one Papa has brainwashed.
“Please, forgive me . . .” For what I am forced to do.
She steps closer. “Maybe just a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.”
She rearranges some things on my dressing table while I sit down to a meal of fried ham and eggs, tortillas, and orange slices. She keeps her back toward me while removing and rehanging my gowns and robes.
“How long have you been here?” I nibble on a tortilla.
Her hands freeze on a white ceremony robe before she starts back up. “A long time.” She keeps her voice soft, and I wonder if Papa has instructed her not to communicate with me.
“Do you remember how old you were—”
“Please.” Her chin drops to her chest so far her head practically disappears from my view. “I’ve already said too much.”
“Hm.” I chew and swallow a couple bites of eggs before I take a different tactic. “I don’t remember coming here. I believe I was raised here from infancy.” I take another bite, hoping it comes across as casual while my insides are jumping with nerves. “I left for just over a year.”
What I said captures her attention, and she peeks at me from the corner of her eye.
“I was just wondering if you’d ever been outside.”
She nods. “I have been outside.” She hangs a robe. “But not very often.”
“I can see that.” I nod at her pasty white arm. “You’re starting to look like me.”
She doesn’t smile.
“Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“I couldn’t take food meant for you.” With nothing else to rearrange, she moves to the bookshelf, keeping her back toward me.
“Do you like to read?”
“I don’t read. I’ve never learned.”
The factual way she speaks about how she’s been treated, being deprived of any sort of an education when I was at least given that, sends guilt through my chest. I watch her closely as she moves around the room. Her faded green dress is shapeless on her slender frame, and her heels hang off the backs of worn-out slippers. Her brown hair is long and stringy and looks as though it could use a wash, and her skin looks as though it should be naturally darker than it is. All the times I thought back to this place, feeling as though I’d been abused, and I only now realize there were others here who were treated much worse. I push my food away, choking on the weight of my shame.
“Finished?” She keeps her head bowed.
I no longer desire the company. “Yes, thank you.” She scurries to remove the tray of food, and when her thin fingers grip the edges, I ask, “What is your name?”
Her eyes finally meet mine, and they look dead on the inside. “Everyone calls me girl.”
The lump in my throat thickens—not with sadness but with fury. “You’re so much more than just a girl.”
Her face lights up as if she’d never been given a compliment. I realize I’m not an angel, that I have no supernatural powers, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make a difference in a person’s life.
I push out from my chair, and she recoils. I approach her slowly to keep from scaring her. I lean in to get a closer look at her face. Her lips are full but dry, her cheeks sunken in, and her eyes are the color of dull chocolate but lack the sparkle of a life well lived.
“May I show you something?”
Her gaze darts to the door, and rather than give her time to answer, I move to the bookshelf. I pull down the appropriate book and flip through the pages as I walk back to the table.
I find what I’m looking for easily enough and splay open the pages to point at the image. “You look just like St. Philomena.”
The girl peers over to study the page, her feet absently bring her closer.
“She was young and very beautiful, just like you.”
A flash of color rises in the girl’s cheeks.
“She was a Greek princess who took a vow of celibacy, a promise to God to remain pure for her entire life.” I stop talking and watch as she studies the page, her hands still firmly gripping the tray of food as her eyes move rapidly over the words even though she can’t comprehend what they say.
“She is nothing . . .” She clears her throat, and sadness drips from her every word. “Nothing like me.”
I gaze at the pages, barely able to make out the words from this distance, but it doesn’t matter. I remember the tragic story. I read it many times while being confined in this room, and its disturbing details stuck with me. “She was thirteen when a Roman emperor fell in love with her.”
Those dead eyes of hers stay fixed on the book.
“She refused him, and because of that, he had her tortured.”
“Tortured?” she whispers.
“She was whipped, shot with arrows, even had an anchor tied to her and was drowned, but after each attack, angels came to her aid and healed her.”
“So she lived?”
“No. Finally the emperor had her decapitated.”
Her face scrunches up, and she takes a few steps back. “That’s a terrible story.”
I run my hand along the soft, worn pages, thinking of the many times I read the same stories over and over, all of them about strength and sacrifice and honor. They brought me peace until I was able to find my own. “Philomena showed unwavering strength in the face of unfathomable evil. She could’ve easily broken her vows and had them spare her life, but she remained steadfast.” I fix my eyes on her. “One day you’ll be free of all this, Philomena.”
She shudders at my calling her that name, but her shoulders straighten and she becomes taller.
“You are brave, you will persevere, and your reward will be your freedom.”
“And if I don’t? If I die instead, like the woman in the story?”
“Then you die with honor, and still, in death you get your freedo—”
The door swings open and startles Philomena so much she drops the tray of food, following quickly behind it to clean up.
“What is going on in here?” Papa’s voice is harsh and full of reprimand.
I close the book as the girl stumbles all over herself in apology. I bend down and help to gather the pieces of my mostly uneaten meal.
“I’m sorry, sir. I was just here to gather the dishes. I was leaving.” Her hands move frantically and are hidden from Papa’s eyes.
I grab one and hold it firmly then whisper, “Strength, my sister.”
She sucks in a shaky breath and seems to calm before standing tall and bustling out the door.
“Girl!”
I cringe at the way he says her name as if she’s an object and not a breathing human being of worth.
“Give me your keys.”
She rearranges the tray in her arms to hand him the keys then slides past him and out the door. He closes it and turns toward me.
“Forgive me, Papa.” I drop my chin, kneel, and bow my head until my forehead hovers over the floor, although it takes all my strength to do so. “I was lonely. I just wanted someone to talk to.”
He doesn’t answer me, but the thump of his footsteps grows closer. I think about Philomena and pray I demonstrate her strength. The scrape of chair legs on tile sounds just before wood creaks, signaling he’s taken the seat close to the table.
“I’ve thought about your offer, and I’ve decided to extend your privileges as long as you agree to willingly work with me.”
I could cry with the rush of excitement and victory that floods my veins, but instead I sink lower at his feet. “Thank you, Papa.”
“You’re still forbidden from going outside and your door will remain locked, but I’ll allow you to eat your meals in the dining room.”
“I would like company for my meals.”
“Excuse me?” He’s not asking a real question. Offense weighs heavy in his tone.
I push on anyway because I must. “The girl. May I share meals with her?”
“No, absolutely not.”
I rise to my knees and think of how to word my next sentence gently and respectfully. “I will go crazy without interaction, and for healings, I need to be calm and in control.” When he doesn’t comment, I continue. “It would be in the best interest of our mutual goals if I were not constantly walking the edge of sanity.”
“Fine,” he growls. “But only one meal a day, and not if she’s in the middle of her duties.”
What kind of duties?
He stands quickly and walks toward the door. I assume he’s leaving until he waves for me to follow. “Come on. I’ll show you the dining room.”
As calmly as I can, I rise to my feet. The small victory might seem insignificant, but if I managed to use my leverage to convince Papa of this, it’s possible I might be able to convince him of more.
I’m coming home to you, Milo. Eventually, we’ll be together again.