The Daughter
by Heidi Evans

Our church only has the one wall, pulpit side. The slanted roof is supported strategically between five beams that can’t quite pass as columns, and though the wind finds its way to us on occasion, it is not enough to cool the effects from the sweltering day. My dress, which should have been passed to my sister a year ago, clings tightly to my wet skin. I feel a drop of sweat form at my throat and make its journey down between my breasts before offering itself to the tide pool already gathered there. My concentration is broken then by my mother, who elbows me with indignation in reference to my slouch, but my body refuses to lift itself into any sort of graceful position in this lazy heat. I try to forget my discomfort and listen to the priest, but his dull godly voice only makes me feel naked. Which makes me think of her.

Of lying side by side in her bed, our hot skin cooling under the open window. Her gentle fingers caressing themselves with my hair. I could only stare at the waving moonlight on the ceiling. My breathing fast and shaky. I try to make it last. Trying to slow myself into…into what? Into a pocket of time where we could lay like that and not feel guilty.

“…and so we must quell these sinful desires. We must look to God, who knows all, and ask him to help us fight the evil inside us, temptation…” My stomach turns then, and even though I am hungry I know that has nothing to do with it. He gives the signal to stand. My mother has somehow memorized all the hymns we ever sing and between her and my father, I stare at the songbook and mouth the words, conscious of my sleeves digging in under my arms. I glance over at my sisters and envy them the seeming joy on their faces. They sing loudly, as always, paying no attention to harmony.

But Eva has a beautiful voice. Light and full of hills and valleys. When she sings, I close my eyes and allow her to take me on that journey, like flying through the air on a swing, the blood rushing up to my face and then down to my toes, up and down. But when she is done, I only smile at her and tease her not to quit her day job.

After church, we eat at my aunt’s house. It is a tradition that I have come to dread each weekend I am home. The house full of relatives makes me uneasy, for I know the questions they will ask. The ones I have answers for but can never tell them.

“Isabel, help me in the kitchen, eh?” Tia Paz gestures to me from the swinging door, her gold bracelets jangling in emphasis. “Give your auntie a kiss first. Gracias. Good, now could you slice the mangoes for me please?”

I grab the first one and feel its weight in my hand before stripping away its soft skin. I pretend to be immersed in my work while my aunts and mother talk excitedly behind me. I lay the orange slivers on the ceramic tray Tia Paz has given me, arranging them in a circle figure, and by the last mango my fingers are orange themselves and I suck on my thumb to get at the sweet strings lodged under my nail. “All done, hija? Go and grab your plate. It’s all ready.”

I open the door to the dining room, already in a chaos of various conversations. When everyone is finally seated with a heaping plate full of food, the formal talk begins. My mother initiates: “I heard Paco and Ana’s daughter got married last weekend. Isn’t that nice?”

Someone said, “To whom?”

“The Santos boy. Wonderful to marry into that orange orchard.”

“Oh, yes.” My grandmother turned to me. “She’s younger than you, Isa, is she not?”

“Yes.”

“Soon, our Isa is going to be married herself. Right, hija?” I was silent but then my sister winked at me knowingly across the table and I blushed. “Look at her, she’s turning red. Have you found someone already, Isabel? We don’t want you becoming an old maid…” My grandfather stands then to offer a prayer and for the moment I am saved.

Eva is smoking a cigarette outside my dorm hall when I return. I recognize her silhouette before I see her face. She has wide pointed shoulders that seem to fight for her attention. One pulling her this way, the other pulling her that way. Her back curves slightly, shaping her long hair into a premature wave. Her legs are folded under her, thin brown legs that I have followed with my forefinger. She stands to flick away her cigarette and finally sees me approaching. “I’ve been waiting for you. How was your family?”

We kiss like friends, on the cheek, but she tugs at my hair playfully. “Like always,” I reply dismissively. We take the elevator, and Eva grabs my hand as soon as the door shuts but I am shy for all the mirrors. She is not my first.

She smiles coyly as I fumble for my key. “Thought I could stay with you tonight…”

“You have to promise not to snore.”

“Me?” The room is stuffy and I go to open a window. A cricket serenade pours in and she comes to sit beside me at the window, her body leaning in to fit my shape. We sit like that for nearly an hour, listening to the crickets, to our breathing, our heartbeats. I almost ask her to sing, but I am afraid it will drown out this rhythm, this comforting harmony.

In the morning, she is careful to not walk out with me. Our caution is not necessary, only a breathless paranoia, like children sneaking around adults quietly even when they know no one is paying attention anyway. We meet outside and she takes me to breakfast. Eggs and beans before our classes. She sips at her coffee, glancing at me over the rim. Her eyes are black and through the steam they look like pools of oil, of dancing colours. “I think we should move to the city.”

It is something I have dreamed of. Running away with her. But I do not have the same faith she does, that our happiness could conquer everything. My response is unintentionally cold: “We don’t have money.”

“Yes, but we could find jobs. We can work at a restaurant. We can—“

“Eva, two more years and we’ll have our degrees.” I touch her knee under the table. “Then, we’ll go anywhere you want. Amor,” I add in a whisper and she smiles.

It is not much longer before Mamá finds the letters. I have collected them in a notebook and in a fit of sentimentality, bring them home with me one weekend. I am showering when she runs in on me without knocking. My wet body chills with the forced wind from the curtain she pulls back in her rage. “A girl? A girl! Ay Dios! What is wrong with you?”

I do not have time to give her a response before she runs out again, ripping the letters up as she goes. Shakily, I dry my body with my towel and then wrap it around me for comfort as I sit and collect myself, watching all those white pieces drift disembodied to the floor. In the other room, I hear my mother talking rapidly into the phone. I can’t make out her words, but I know she is talking to my father. I make sure to lock my door when I finally slump to my room. I let the towel fall off me and fall into bed, allowing strands of wet hair to stick to my skin where they choose. Only when I have curled into a ball, my eyes buried in the cool skin of my knees, do I allow myself to cry.

It takes me a couple days to figure out that my parents are terrified, not angry. In a small town where everyone is in constant judgement, their reputations are at stake. I hear them whispering in their bedroom at night. I have been banned to my room after they call the school to tell them of my sudden “illness.” I don’t mind missing class, but I long to call Eva, to hear her voice—even the thought of wanting to shames me.

I picture her black eyes, the short thick lashes that line them. They stare at me all night, those eyes, follow me around and even though I can’t see her mouth, I know when she is smiling at me. Sometimes her eyes laugh and other times, her lids look heavy. A certain sadness, but they never cry. I am glad for that.

Father Pedro comes to talk with me after my parent go silent. They do not stay in the room but I can hear their whispers just beyond the door. They think I am sick. That I can be cured. Apparently, the priest does too. He prays over me, watches the rosary in my shaking hand.

The room is plush in reds and purples, but to me it only seems sterile and otherworldly—a place of banishment. I feel like an out of control child being sent to the principal’s office as I slouch in the seat next to my mother, who eyes the counsellor suspiciously. “Can you help her?”

“Certainly, Señora Mesa Pena, I will speak with her. Would you excuse Isabel and me? I would like to talk with her privately. If you like, you may wait in the reception area.” My mother shuffles off reluctantly, giving me a last pleading look over her shoulder.

After the door closes, Dr. Ria gazes at me expectantly and my head begins to swim with anxiety. “Tell me about yourself, Isabel,” she finally says, her perfectly lined lips stretching back to let her white teeth show through. My head goes blank.

“Well, uh. I am in my second year at University.”

“What do you study?” she prompts after a my pause.

“Chemistry. Papá wants me to be a doctor.”

“And you want to be a doctor.” Her back is rigid and her hands are crossed lightly over her knee. I try to sit up straighter.

“I guess, yeah.” I’m not making the conversation easy and I imagine something like frustration from her, though her lips are still stretched taut.

“Isabel, tell me about your relationship with your parents.”

“It’s okay,” I say automatically.

“Do you know why they brought you here?” She leans in then, as if with concern. I suddenly feel like crying.

I finally make eye contact with her, not caring where the sudden boldness comes from. “Because I’m gay.”

I stare out of the window as my mother drives me home. She asks me how the session went and I give her only the answers that she wants to hear. That it went well and talking with Dr. Ria was very helpful. Afterwards, I am silent, keeping the rest of our conversation to myself. She is hopeful though, and chatters on about Enrique, a boy my age, who helped her with her groceries the other day. “He even opened the door for me. That’s the kind of man you need. You don’t even try, Isa…Why don’t we get you a new dress tomorrow? Nothing too expensive but…” Her words fly out my open window and I let the wind overwhelm them. “Umm hmm,” I mutter but I am already lighter. The dark lips are my talisman as I drift away from her, playing over and over in my head her mouth moving over the words: You must learn to accept yourself, Isabel, whether other people do or not. I will help you do that.

I go on a date with Enrique, set up by our mothers. He is just as uninterested as I am. He kisses me awkwardly on the cheek, a quick peck before pulling himself away, like a relaxing rubber band. His hands are rough, fingers square at the tips. I watch them indifferently as he drives, wondering how Eva’s exams turned out. In the dim lights beside the road, I spot a payphone and ask him to stop. “I need to call my friend.” I offer the explanation but he only grins kindly and nods his head as he slows to a stop. Perhaps he does know, after all.

The third ring and finally, “Bueno?” I feel water gathering at the corners of my eyes at the sound of her voice. She is my ally. Amor, let’s run away.

I am restless for the sun to go down. Mamà senses the new anxiety but assumes that Enrique has awakened something in me. She keeps telling me that I’m glowing and then asks about the date. My sisters are singing too loudly as we make dinner. I pretend to be hungry to make them work faster.

It is midnight when I hear the tick against the window. My heart jumps and I lay in bed for a moment to make sure Ana is still slumber breathing. Then I quietly slip out of bed fully dressed and, conscious of my footsteps on the tile, I somehow make it to the front door.

Enrique grins at me, more friendly than before. Grabbing my bag in silence, he leads me to the car and opens the door for me. You need a man like that, I hear my mother saying. I smell cinnamon before I see her, legs stretched out across the back seat. I climb in beside and notice the light go on out of the corner of my eye. My parents’ bedroom. As Enrique drives away, the black silhouette of my night-gowned mother appears in the light of the window.

I rest my head in Eva’s lap as the movement of the car lulls me into a peaceful state. Thirty minutes go by before we finally reach Enrique’s. The night is cold and I find myself shivering despite Eva’s arm around me as we wait for him. Her skin is warm but it does nothing for my chill. I clutch at my bag as the wind blows a cloud of dust through the window Enrique has left cracked open. Lightly, she slips her hand under my loose shirt and strokes the small of my back reassuringly as she chatters about the plans she has made for us, for our new lives. She sees it as starting over, but I can’t help wondering if I can jump the gap between those worlds—the end of the old me, the new beginning. What would be lost to that canyon? Everything feels wrong. I blow into my hands to warm them up. They remain icicles, so I fight to concentrate on the sensation of her fingers against my skin. The pleasure is only a guilty one as my mind swims to images of my family, my sisters.

In a room of my head they are sitting under the limón tree in our garden. Their faces are joyful, mouths opening wide and arms aflutter with their dancing. My mother calls them to dinner then and obediently they skip into the kitchen and set the table after greeting Papà with a kiss from each. Only four places are set; a chair has been removed and sits in the corner of the kitchen as if an outside observer. Suddenly, it begins to sing.

Back in the car, I shift my head to look up at Eva as she sings to me. It is her favourite song and I know she is trying only to comfort me. Trying to make it all ok. “I can’t do it,” I tell her.

“Of course you can.” She smiles down at me but I raise myself up, level with her, as Enrique opens the driver door to throw in his bag.

He looks as if he’s about to say “Vamanos!” but I don’t let him finish the word. “I have to go home. I just have a bad feeling. Leaving like this…it’s…” Eva suddenly looks frantic and grabs my hand pleadingly. “Eva, what if it only makes things worse?” I then turn to Enrique, who has been staring at me unhappily, as if I’ve blasphemed against a great prophecy that he’s been waiting all his life to see fulfilled. My body feels squeezed together and it gets harder to breathe as they sit in condemned silence. I almost give in to them, to their desperation, but Enrique just starts the car as if making the commitment for me.

As we drive, the intermittent road lamps light up Eva’s face like a series of moments—a silent film in which the beautiful actress cries bravely, blamelessly, and with each enlightenment the stream from her eye flows closer to her throat. I reach through the screen and put my hand on her knee. She only turns away, wiping her wet cheeks abruptly, and stares out the window.

Enrique is slightly more in denial for I soon realize that he is driving in circles, perhaps waiting for me to give the signal that my crisis has passed and I’m ready to proceed with the plan. “Enrique.” He turns in surprise as if caught in the act. He sees the two of us as his opportunity to get out. He was afraid to go alone. Afraid of being thought simple in a city too big for his roughened fingers. “Enrique, take me home.” He sighs but slows the car for a right turn. Eva still says nothing.

When they drop me off three hours later, my parents’ light is still on. The kitchen light too. Enrique is silent as Eva pleads with me again not to get out of the car. I can’t stop myself though, and lean over to kiss her goodbye. Enrique waves through his window when I get out; he doesn’t help me with my bag this time. As I turn toward my front door, I am drawn to the two rectangles of light from the windows cast onto the concrete. My stomach lurches in dread, but I straighten myself, drawing strength from those welcoming yellow shapes.

Running away now would mean being chased forever. Understand, Amor. I imagine myself telling my family at Sunday dinner—telling them that I am in love with a girl. Perhaps someday. I clutch my bag to me as I turn my key in the lock. On the other side of the door, anxious footsteps run across the tile from the kitchen. I have the fleeting desire to take a swig of tequila before sitting down with them, Papá will need one anyway.

When the door opens, their faces are contorted mixtures of concern and anger and relief. I take a deep breath before they can speak. “I need to talk to you,” I say with a shaky voice. “The truth is…I don’t really want to be a doctor.”

Heidi Evans has an M.A. in Creative Writing from Swansea University. She is a columnist and a composition instructor who is to be found in Nashville, Tennessee, unless she has found some excuse to travel.