Say Anything

Madari Pendas

CONTENT WARNING: THIS STORY INCLUDES SCENES OF VIOLENCE AND ABUSE THAT SOME READERS MAY FIND DISTURBING. 

You chase your cousins, Miraflor and Tony, around the royal poinciana until you're dizzy and stumbling over your own light-up sneakers. The ground’s covered in mushy, wrinkled red leaves. Some stick to your ankles and look like fresh cuts. The cousins taunt you, sticking their tongues out.  

"Na-na-na-na," Miraflor yells, her hand hovering above home base, a pink lawn flamingo. 

"Slow-poke," Tony adds. "Can’t catch us!"  

You cross your arms and huff over. "I wanna play something else!"

"Loser!" Miraflor says. She's probably thinking this is a tactic, like when you pretended you twisted your ankle and then pounced when she checked on you. Sometimes you wonder if this teaches them to be less caring and kind. 

You, Tony, and Miraflor are slumped on the grass like lawn gnomes, catching your breath. The sun burns your neck and bare shoulders. You touch your head, and it feels like a skillet. 

Tony studies the carpenter ants marching from the high, itchy grass onto the pavement in a single file line. 

He picks one up and raises it to eye level. He’s holding it by the mid-section, and it wriggles between his fingers, trying to escape. None of the other ants stop or seem to notice that one of their own has been taken. They keep walking, almost like they're ignoring what could also happen to them.  

"What are you doing?" Miraflor asks. 

Tony says nothing. He's disappeared into his thoughts. 

"Tony! Tony!" you say, "What are we playing next?"

"You think they feel pain?" Tony asks. 

"Duh," Miraflor says. "They're not robots."

"I don't think so."

You're still patting your head, trying to create shade with your hands. 

"No. They're too small," Tony says.  

Miraflor shifts and frowns. Sometimes, she disappears, too. But it's different from Tony. She seems so far away, like there’s no yelling that could bring her back.  

Tony rips one of the ant’s legs off. 

"Tony!" you call. 

He rips off another. 

Miraflor rushes towards him and tries to pull the ant out of his fingers. She's on top of him and they're rolling around on the grass. 

She grabs the ant's head, and accidentally decapitates the little thing.

"You guys are babies!" you shout. 

You drag Miraflor off Tony. 

She kicks and struggles in your arms, then thrashes her head into your nose. Your eyes instantly water and you check for blood.

Miraflor jumps back on Tony. They roll around until you grip Miraflor’s braid and pull. "Stop it!" you demand.

"He started it," Miraflor says, touching the top of her braid. Some hairs come loose. 

"I was doing an experiment!" Tony yells, "It's just ants."

"Shhh," you say. "If we make too much noise we'll have to go inside."

Inside is no fun. It's just grownups at the kitchen table with their bitter cafecitos and loud Bebo Valdés mambos.

Miraflor gets quiet. She looks at her scuffed white tennis shoes. Those used to be yours, but Mami made you give them to her. You hate seeing your things on her body. It’s not fair. She’s never given you anything. 

"Let's play on the boat," Tony suggests. He stands and wipes the dirt from his knees. "Come on!" He runs towards his stepfather's boat parked in the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust. 

Rolo, their stepfather, had recently bought the boat at a police auction. He tells everyone that he can’t work in an office. He’s too creative, he says. 

A siren wails in the distance. You get nervous. You always feel like you're on the verge of being punished, like you're always in trouble. But the screeching slowly fades. It’s for someone else.

Tony is already climbing the ladder onto the boat's deck. Miraflor hangs back, kicking a branch and pulling at her Dragon Tales shirt. "I don't wanna."

You're annoyed and ask, "Why?"

She shrugs. 

"Come on."

"We'll get in trouble." She looks at her house, at the kitchen window, then back down at her feet. 

"So?"

Usually when you get in trouble, Mami gets the chancleta, her foamy plastic one, and gives you a few whacks on the culo. It's not that bad, especially if you put some paper towels into your shorts before the pow-pow. 

"Fine. Stay here alone."

"No! Wait!"

She extends her hand. It’s wet and sticky and smells like red Kool-Aid, but you don’t let go. 

You walk towards the boat, but Miraflor stops. She’s looking at an ant hill, foaming with insects. Miraflor puts her gold chain in her mouth and chews. "Tony said little things don't feel pain. Is that true?"

"Tony's dumb. Come on."

You yank her arm. The metal wind chimes on the patio clink as you climb the boat's side ladder. The day gets cooler, and clouds blanket the sun. 

On the deck, Miraflor sits quietly on the blue and white cooler in the corner.  There are brown stains on the floor, fish scales in the corners, tangled fishing lines, and a rusted silver bucket that smells like rotting meat. A tackle box is open. Some of the lures glimmer in the sunlight.

"Look!" Tony shouts. His sneakers squeak on the deck as he rushes to you and Miraflor, "There's an underground." He points to a below-deck room. 

"We should go back," Miraflor says. "I wanna do Red Rover."

"We just got here," Tony says. "Let's explore."

You nod. "Yeah, let’s explore."

You head down, then stop. It feels as though someone is watching you. You shake the feeling off and continue. 

Miraflor comes after the two of you and takes your hand once you reach the room. It's dark and cramped, like the inside of a mouth. 

"It's like a secret lair!" Tony says. "This could be my room. I can put my TV there and my bed over here."

There are no windows. The only light shining is from the door near the stairs. In the corner is a bare mattress and yellow pillow. The walls are hot, and your bangs stick to your forehead. It feels like you’ve been swallowed.  

"I wanna go," Miraflor says, tugging your hand. "There. We saw it."

"I bet this is where Rolo sleeps when he's out fishing," Tony says. "He’s going to take me next time."

You notice a stain on the center of the mattress. It's a faded brown, and jagged like a puzzle piece. You wonder what made that? Does Rolo eat the fish down here? Something about it draws you to it. Is it blood?

Tony pushes you out of the way and bounces on the mattress, hopping from edge to edge, then spinning to show off his karate kicks. 

You jump on the mattress too. Your foot lands on the brown spot. After that happens you fall over, and the room starts to spin.

Miraflor comes over to you. "It’s bad," she whispers. "This room is bad." 

Then you hear footsteps on the deck. You think this is perfect timing and that your mom is coming to take you home. She can give you a Motrin or let you sleep across her lap while giving you back scratches with her fancy acrylics.

But something's not right. 

The steps are heavy and slow. It can't be your mom. She always makes a lot of noise when entering a room. Whoever is above is trying to be quiet.  

"Get up," Miraflor says. "Let's leave."

Tony continues doing roundhouse kicks and throwing punches. 

You get up and look at Miraflor. She looks a lot like you. Same brown skin, same messy hair braided from the skull down, and a wash of freckles across her nose and cheeks. 

You're holding hands and rushing towards the steps that lead back up to the deck when you hit something. You both fall over. 

"Rolo!" Tony cheers. "Look! Look!" Tony jabs, ducks, and kicks. "Did you see? Watch!" He repeats the cycle, catching his breath with his hands on his knees afterward.

"Wow," Rolo says. "You're getting good at karate, Papo."

"Yeah, I know."

Miraflor looks away. She grips your hand so hard her nails dig into your palm. She’s going to make you bleed. 

You try to pull away, but she’s got you. Everything in your body is telling you to run away. RUN! But Rolo blocks the doorway. 

"Why don't you show your mom those moves?" Rolo says. 

"Okay!" Tony bounces a few more times before darting out of the room.

The dizziness changes. It's no longer just a headache, but you think you can see an image before your eyes, something you’ve never seen before, like a projection: a leg, a squeal, a hand over a mouth. 

You move back. 

"What are you girls doing?" Rolo asks. 

"Nothing," you mumble.  

You try to go towards the exit, but his hand blocks your chest and then it relaxes and traces the path from your chin to your stomach. He lifts your shirt and makes circles with his fingernail inside your belly button.

"Can I go?" you ask.

"Why? I thought you wanted to play down here." 

He smiles. Miraflor releases your hand and runs to the other side of the room. There, she curls up like a fist. 

She’s rocking back and forth, looking away. What happens in this room? Why is it bad? 

"What game were y'all playing?"

"Just running," you say, looking at the exit.

You try again, but he grabs the crook of your lower back. Your body shivers. Something horrible is about to happen to you. You want to scream or call your mom, but you're not sure if she'll hear you. And you've been taught to be a nice, polite, agreeable girl. And good girls don’t shout. 

When he falls over you, Miraflor hums. Your hand touches the brown spot, and you enter another world. You see flashes of memories that are not your own: Tony being born; Christmas in New Port Richie; swimming at the YMCA; riding the Revenge of the Mummy in Orlando. You're not sure why you can see this or how, but you're glad you're being kept elsewhere. 

You're in a memory of a family visit to Matanzas when you're ripped back to the present, back to the room. 

You look around, uncertain of what happened. Miraflor is still in her fetal position, eyes shut, and Rolo is standing over you, zipping his pants up. 

When you look at him, he smirks. He brings his bony finger to his lips. "Shhh."

In the bathroom at home you touch your inner thighs. There's blood. Then you're in another one of Miraflor's memories. 

This time you're in the Everglades on Eco Pond trail, staring at the brackish water on the other side of the bridge. You think you see an alligator's head skidding across the surface. There’s chirping and leaves rustling. You spot an iguana at the end of the bridge, sunning. You swat at mosquitoes on your neck and ankles. It feels like you're really there. You can even feel a cool breeze. It lifts your bangs. 

As soon as you try to touch the wood railing over the water, you're back in the present.  

In the room that you share with Mami, you try to find a sitting position that doesn't hurt. Finally, you lay on your stomach and think about the day. 

What happened back on the boat? Can Miraflor also see your memories? Can you make good memories for Miraflor, in case she needs them?

You roll over slowly until you're on your back, but the position makes your heart pound. You sit up, and its slow tempo returns. The memories of what happened in the room return as well. Maybe the places you went to were to keep you safe in the moment, but not forever. You remember, now, his heavy, stale breath on your cheek and the low grunts. You pull the privacy curtain that divides your side of the room from your mom’s. You don’t want her to see you crying.

You look at the green stars your dad glued onto the ceiling roof before he got sick. He put the stars up because he wanted you to go to sleep looking at something magical. The stars glow and you wonder if Miraflor can see this or will one day be able to see your memories. Maybe she’ll also see Dad’s face, and him craning his neck at the stars and flicking the lights on and off. Maybe she'll feel the magic too. 

You plan: Tomorrow you'll tell Mami what happened, what Rolo did. She'll know what to do. Everything will get better.  

You try the next day and the next day and the next day, but Mami is always busy. She's either too tired after her shift at Mercy Hospital or too tired from the housework that you don't help enough with. 

You wait two more days burning up with all that happened, afraid you'll forget some vital details. One day you'll remember this thought and laugh because you'll never be able to forget what happened, even when you want to, even when you need to. 

Saturday comes. 

Mami’s tanning on the balcony on a white foldable chair in her thin two-piece bikini with the U.S. flag on it. She's wearing her oversized shades, listening to Joan Manuel Serrat, and tapping out a beat with her big toe. 

"Mami?"

She sighs. 

You can come back later. Sunday could be better, the Lord's Day. Maybe God will help you find the right words. But you've built up all this courage. You promised yourself you’d be brave.

"At Rolo's house–"

She slides the shades down the bridge of her nose and narrows her eyes. "No, don't start. He called yesterday and said buttons near the helm were broken. Now he wants to charge me $150 for it." She shifts in your direction. She smells like sunscreen and onions. Mami grabs your wrist and pulls you down so you’re at eye level. "You couldn't keep your hands to yourself, could you?"

"That's not true!" 

Rage takes over her body. You can see her tensing and cocking back her shoulders. She grips the plastic chair's arm and flares her nostrils as if you're something disgusting to look at. She won’t hit you in public. You look across the balcony’s edge and see neighbors and cars pulling into the guest lot—strangers are the only thing keeping you safe right now.

"Lying is a sin. You know that. Tell me you know that." She pinches your shoulder.

"I know that but–"

She breaks the skin. A thin line of blood runs down your arm and blots the floor. Seeing this, Mami stops, as if shocked by what she’s done, what she's capable of doing. "Tell the truth."

You're trying. Maybe you were in the wrong for sneaking onto the boat, playing where you weren’t supposed to. 

Maybe you deserve this. 

"Do you know how embarrassed I felt?"

"Mami, listen…"

She pulls the shades off and shifts to face the sun. The skin on her chest is wet and pink, a sunburn that'll later brown.

"This is the one day I have. Let me just have Saturday, okay? Every other day I'm your mom, but on Saturday…" She takes a breath. "I need me-time, shit."

She makes a get-out motion with her hand, and you walk back inside, holding your arm. This will be the last time you try to say anything. 

For the next five years you get more flashes of Miraflor's life: Her Little Mermaid-themed birthday party at Tropical Park; her spelling bees; her body darting across the lawn in the relay race during field day; winning a stuffed Charmander toy from a Y2K contest; dancing to Brittney Spears with a yellow kitchen broom; one of her paintings (a portrait of an iguana) winning a ribbon at the Miami Youth Fair and Expo; graduating from middle school and dancing in her silk papery blue gown. 

You get the flashes when you're anxious and scared. It feels like you're both living parts of each other's lives. Linked forever. 

You're still not sure if she can see your memories. You don't call or talk, and you haven't visited in years. 

There are some things you've done that you hope your cousin can never see. 

You'd like to send her one of your favorite memories: going to the Pokémon movie premiere at Ocean Bank. They had toys in the lobby, and you had enough saved to buy a Pikachu plushie. 

If Miraflor needs it, the memory is there. 

Mami never explains why you stopped going to Rolo's house. Sometimes she says it's because he stiffed her on money he owed for his immigration attorney. Sometimes she says it's because she doesn't want to drive all the way to West Kendall, and other times she says she doesn't need to explain herself to anyone, especially not her kid.

You wonder whether she knows what he did. Did he do something in front of her? Did she catch his eye following a schoolgirl’s path? 

Or spot a bruise on Miraflor's leg? 

In high school, you notice that the flashes of Miraflor's life have begun looping and repeating. It's the same moments you've seen before: the little kid parties, Disney On-Ice, and that old trip to Matanzas to see her grandparents.

Why aren't the memories evolving? Has she not made any good memories since? 

You saw her Everglades trip last week when you were working on your FAFSA application. The breeze was still cool, and the trees loomed over you, casting shadows and shade over your body. 

You plan to attend the University of Florida next year—eight hours away from Miami and Mami. She makes a face whenever you mention your scholarship. Sometimes you think she doesn’t want you to have a better life than her, like it's a competition. 

Whenever she calls you stupid, you retreat into one of Miraflor's memories, hiding out there for as long as you can. 

You get home from school, exhausted — senioritis has infected you. You've even begun sleeping through AP bio. 

"Hey," you say to Mami as you absentmindedly pass the living room. Channel 7 news is on, but muted. Police lights on the screen blink and then the camera pans to a cracked bedroom window. 

Mami's on the phone in the kitchen, speaking in a low, scattered voice. You can't make out what she's saying. Normally she's loud, dominating the conversation, but she seems to just be listening, reacting.

In your room, you lay on your back, resting. 

The privacy curtain undulates as an outside breeze sweeps through the room. The stars above your head have all fallen off, but you can still see the glue outlines of where they had been. Real stars fall out of the sky too.

As your eyes close you see a flash of Miraflor's life. You recognize the dicot bushes around her home, the jacaranda tree, and the little schnauzer pup darting across the driveway greeting, her after school, licking her cheeks. She's happy, you can feel her lips curling upwards as if they were your own. 

But this is a new memory. 

Across the chain-link fence, you see a police car.

 Miraflor takes the dog in her arms. Her smile expands, the dog licks her forearms, and there’s muffled screaming in the distance. Is this supposed to be a happy memory? What’s going on? 

Miraflor walks towards the parked Crown Vic, someone’s inside, thrashing. Before you can see inside, you’re pulled back to the present. 

Mami bursts into the room and plops down on her bed. She rubs her head and pulls her hair out of her face. She smells like rain and violets. The scent fills the room and for a brief instant, you feel like you’re outside. 

Another wind passes through the room until Mami closes the window.    

"Oye."

"What?" 

Mami's still holding the portable house phone. She sits back on the bed. You wait for her to say "what" isn't the appropriate response when an elder speaks. She wishes you'd say “mande” instead. 

"Something happened," Mami begins. "I…well…I'm just going to say it. Rolo's been arrested."

You sit up. "For what?"

Mami keeps her eyes low. She's fidgeting with the phone, tracing the buttons, and looks unsteady.

"He…" Her voice cracks. She swallows and looks away, chewing on the edge of her tongue. Something's wrong. You remember someone in the family telling you Rolo had been arrested for selling drugs in the ‘80s, possibly connected with the cocaine cowboys. Maybe he sold more drugs. Or some actions caught up to him. 

Mami takes a slow breath in and a slow breath out. "He impregnated Miraflor."

Every one of her memories flashes before your eyes in a flurry. You see it all now and why she was burying herself in the good moments of her life, although few.  

It never stopped happening. Rolo never stopped happening. Never. 

You clutch your chest. It’s pounding. You can’t breathe. Your throat tightens. A pain pulses at the back of your eyes.   

Mami sighs. "Maybe it didn't happen, who knows… Kids make things up."

"Who would make this up?" You raise your voice. You expect her to tell you to shut the fuck up and to not speak to your mother like that, but she’s quiet, ashamed almost.

"But," Mami continues. "Maybe it’s not true. Maybe, I don’t know…maybe someone — maybe it was a boy at school, some boyfriend. Not Rolo."

You dig your nails into your palms, almost the way Miraflor did that day. Hearing Mami deny what happened to Miraflor, and by proxy to you, launches you across the chasm of the beds. 

You're hitting her jaw and face with your open palm, wrestling until you're both on the floor and the privacy curtain dividing the room snaps, falling on both of you like a muleta. 

Mami escapes out of your reach and moves towards the door. "What's gotten into you?"

"I tried to tell you!" you scream. You don't care anymore. You're going to be gone in a few months. "You never listen! You make everything about you, and I never got the chance—"

"Chance for what?" Mami glares at you. 

You realize this may be the only moment where she's open to reproach. Now. You need to do it now. 

But the words don't come. 

You have no practice. You've never told anyone and you're not sure how exactly to say it. Your mouth’s dry and your skin burns. Are you making things about you when they need to be about Miraflor? 

Why won’t the words come out? 

Why?

"Never mind," you say, falling into yourself. You press your head against the cold ceramic floor tiles. It brings some relief. "Forget it."

"Did you know something?" Mami asks. Her voice is soft, curious. "Did he…?"

Your throat is too tight for a response. Even now, almost an adult, you’re still a coward.

"I didn't know what to say."

"Wow." Mami clicks her tongue. Without having to look, you can tell she’s shaking her head.

You were a kid. She should realize that. You want to argue that point—no, you want her to argue that point. 

You keep waiting for her to lift the privacy curtain off your back and wipe your tears away. You keep waiting for her to tell you it’s not your fault. 

You keep waiting. 
                                                                               

You've come back to Miami for summer break. From Mami, you learn that Rolo will be in on trial Tuesday. 

You can't sit in the courtroom. Or bring yourself to enter the front doors of the downtown building. 

You wait in the satellite lot across from the courthouse. 

You wonder, while the sun is bearing down on you, freckling your shoulders and face, what happened to the baby? You feel horrible for wanting to know this. But your mind races. Was she able to go to a doctor? Did she find out too late? 

You sit under a trimmed banyan tree. If someone tells you to move, you will. But so far no one has. Maybe the people passing by think you're homeless or a vagrant. 

Lawyers pass. Families pass. Cops pass. You're almost asleep when you see someone familiar walking up the court’s steps. 

You wait around for a while, hoping to see Miraflor. After an hour, you leave.  

You meander around downtown and look at the nice business folks with their nice lives. The city feels like an organ, the people the cells pulsing through the veins and arteries of a roving body. Near Freedom Tower, you see a young mother jogging with a stroller in front of her. She’s probably trying to hold on to her life, to prove to herself that the baby will not take anything from her. 

You take the Metromover and sit on a bench in Bayfront Park. You look out and see cabin cruisers mooring and shoving off; the pulsing waves and squawking seagulls relax you. You notice one of the vessels bobbing in the water looks like Rolo’s boat. 

In your eleventh-grade AP literature class, you read that bringing women on boats was considered bad luck. Women would bring ruin, some said, or anger the gods. In that same book, there was a story about a captain who let his men plunder a convent and allowed his crew to bring the nuns aboard. When the waves beat upon the ship and lightning forked the air, they threw all the women overboard, blaming them for the storm. 

You must have been cursed. The moment you stepped on the deck, you must have angered some old god.

While at Government Center Station, you dawdle. You're tired and haven't eaten. You sit near the turnstiles. You wonder what it would mean if you stopped seeing Miraflor's memories?

Would that mean she died?

Would death sever the connection?

Maybe you'll still see her. She could have shown up late to the courthouse. Perhaps the times were staggered so Miraflor wouldn't have to run into Rolo. Your head throbs as you contemplate all possible scenarios.

What if she did die? Or took her own life?

The memory you never wanted to have shared was of your own suicide attempt—that time in tenth grade when you couldn't stop feeling Rolo's body against yours and climbed to the top of the apartment building and tried to bring yourself to jump. You couldn't do it.  

You want to apologize. If you had said something, anything, you could have saved Miraflor. If you had said something, she would have avoided those years with Rolo. It's all your fault, you think. 

You're a little woozy when a young woman offers you money.   

You look up. 

It's her. It has to be her. 

"Wait!" you call out. "Wait!"

She turns. 

She has a soft, round face with a little mole near her nose. Did Miraflor have a birthmark there? You can’t remember, but she seems familiar. Her eyes are patient and intellectual. She doesn't seem scared. She squats to meet you at your level. 

"Is it you?" you ask. You're not sure what adult Miraflor looks like. Is this who she grew into?

"Who are you looking for?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I never said anything. I tried. I tried to tell my mom, but she…"

Your voice is hoarse. You realize how little you speak—not in class or to your suitemates or to anyone on campus if you can help it. Why should you speak now, when you couldn't speak before to help someone else? 

You continue. "I can't imagine what it must have been like to live with him…when bad things happen to me… I think it's good, you know? I deserve it. For what I did or didn't do...."

The woman tilts her head. 

A shaft of peaty light pours over her brown hair. The train thunders in the distance. The automated voice announces the next stop, Brickell Station.

 "I have to go," the woman says, checking her watch. "But, here."

She curls a ten-dollar bill in your hand. Her skin is soft and perfumed. She smells like chamomile. It's been so long since someone has touched you gently. You don't want this, but she closes your fingers around the bill, and smiles.

"Good luck."

You close your eyes.

Rolo didn't ruin her. 

Miraflor has a good life now. She's a professional, pretty, and generous. She was able to speak and stop Rolo. All by herself. She's stronger than you thought — the memories she sent weren't for her benefit, but for yours. 

As you lean against the token machine, one of Miraflor's memories flashes: the two of you were running up a hill at Tropical Park, your legs pumping into the earth to propel yourselves upward, the wind at your backs giving you strength. At the top of the hill you both looked down at the sweeping green landscape, flat but flush with life as far as the horizon. Everything felt possible. The adults, those who ran your lives, looked like ants. She squeezed your hand as you both trudged down, making sure neither of you fell.