Margarita Wednesdays: Making a New Life by the Mexican Sea (35 page)

“But I wasn’t looking to create safety. I was way more comfortable in a war zone than I was in the suburbs. Trust me.”

“Still doesn’t matter. Stop going there. As painful as it was, all that
sitting out there in Napa is what led you down here. It’s all part of the process.”

“So Mexico is my safe haven.”

“Well, in a way.”

“All I know is that something about this place just feels right.” I stood and leaned over the railing, my gaze resting on the back wall of the empty courtyard below. “You know, when I first arrived in Mexico I felt like I was taking in my first full breath of air. And now, with Tippy Toes and the girls in school, even though my days are crazy busy, I actually feel calmer than I’ve ever felt.”

“It’s called being happy, Debbie.”

“Who knew?” I poured us each a touch more wine and sat back down in my chair.

“Seriously, Deb, it’s a huge shift for you to be able to enjoy that feeling of happiness. People with trauma tend to develop these core beliefs that they’re not worthy, to the point where they don’t think they deserve to have positive feelings.”

“And you know what, Cyn? When I come up here, to Pátzcuaro, everything feels even more right, if that makes any sense to you.”

“Aha, so you
are
feeling it.” Cynthia sat back and rocked Señorita in her arms. “You’ve found your place, Deb. Not just geographically, but energetically. There are certain places on the planet that feel more like a fit for certain people. There’s a
physical
reason you feel differently here. Don’t forget about the vortexes. It’s an energetic match for you down here.”

I had to laugh. “Right now I feel like an energetic match for a mausoleum. I’m exhausted.” The truth was, I had barely slept the night before. I didn’t know if it was the place or if it was Cynthia’s unrelenting poking at my psyche, but Pátzcuaro seemed to bring out the most vivid dreams and graphic memories in me. Last night’s dream was one I had had before. It was clear that it stemmed from Noah’s growing desperation to get the baby her American passport to
allow for a visit to Michigan before it was too late, before my mom’s dementia progressed much further, or worse. But in my dream, Italya and my mom finally do get to meet for the first time. My mom’s mind is still all there, and they take to each other as though they have known one another forever. Italya is just old enough to say a few words and hears everyone calling my mom by her first name, Loie.
Can you say Nana?
Noah asks the baby.
Loibella,
she answers, clear as a bell, reaching out for my mother’s arms.
Loibella.
Beautiful Loie.

“I wish my parents could see all this.” I sighed.

Cynthia raised one eyebrow.

“I mean, my life. To get to know the baby. To see what a good father Noah is, to see how well Zach is doing. We all went through a lot together. They’d be so proud of my kids, and of me, too. Mom would get such a kick out of the idea of the girls in beauty school, but it’s hard to know how much she’s actually grasping these days. And my dad, he never even got to witness what I built in Kabul, let alone any of this stuff. He would have loved to have seen a happily-ever-after to the roller coaster we were all on for so long.” I shuddered a little at the thought of what a wild ride it had been.

Cynthia must have noticed. “You know what, Deb? Tomorrow we’re going to build an altar for your father. You’re going to welcome him back, tell him about Mexico, and Italya, and the boys, Tippy Toes, your beauty school project, and Denis. All of it. It’s time for the two of you to spend some time together.”

“Really?” I asked, as I felt a tear springing from my eye. Though the shrines that had been popping up in doorways and courtyards all around Pátzcuaro were incredibly captivating, it had never occurred to me to build one myself. But now the thought of it kind of made me tingle all over.

“Why not?” Really, I thought. Why not? The thought of it felt somehow right, to show some respect for Dad, even if it was a little
late for that. And who knew? Maybe it wasn’t too late. I’d learned by now not to discount any of life’s possibilities, especially down here. “I’ll go with you to pick up everything we need.” And with that, Cynthia stood and embraced me in one of her legendary bone-cracking hugs, and headed to her room with Max and Señorita close behind.

A
RMINDA WAS ALREADY WAITING IN
the courtyard when I opened my door the next morning. Cynthia had hired her to lead a group of us on a preliminary tour of the cemeteries the day before the Day, to see firsthand what goes into the preparation for the big night. Being a Purépecha, a direct descendant of the indigenous people of the area, she was well versed in all of the Day of the Dead traditions.

“Isn’t it sort of like the Mexican Halloween?” asked a stout man in Bermuda shorts and knee socks.

Arminda slowly shook her head. “Even though the Day of the Dead comes one day after Halloween, it was not always on that day. It was the Spanish who moved it to Todos los Santos—All Saints Day—because before, we celebrated in August, during the, how do you say, harvest time, when we were offering corn and squash and beans. Also wild duck from the lake, with molé. We had no chickens then.”

My stomach growled as I tiptoed behind Arminda to grab a breakfast cookie from the kitchen counter.

“It is very important to receive the spirits with enthusiasm. They
are very hungry after their long journey. And thirsty. They are coming from far away. I don’t know from where, but it is very far.”

The small crowd nodded in unison, as if they had already experienced that journey themselves.

“Somebody asked me, is this sad for everybody? Personally, when my mom died I was very sad. But now I am very happy.” Arminda took a deep breath. “I am very happy, because I am going to check with her, and stay with her, and it is only once a year we can do this. So I am very happy.” She paused and smiled a little wistfully. “What you will see most today is the cleaning of the graves. This has been happening all week. They will pull the weeds, and make the dirt fresh. After, the family will decorate. You will see lots of cans, which will be filled with candles. It is the light which will guide the spirits to the cemetery or to the home where their family is waiting. It is believed that if they don’t have a candle they have to light their finger to find their way, and they will be very sad because their loved ones have forgotten them. You can bring candles for graves who have no family there. It is important to have candles so the dead can find you. My mother told us, please, when I die, bring me a candle. I don’t want to burn my finger looking for my place.”

A polite laughter echoed through the courtyard. Cynthia hugged Arminda and began herding the group to the vans waiting on the street.

“A parade!” squealed one of the guests standing close to the gate. Outside, the cobblestone streets were jammed with schoolchildren, walking slowly and silently toward Plaza Grande as they scanned our faces for admiring looks. There were little girls in wide-brimmed, plumed hats, parasols, and fancy gowns, and boys in black suits, bow ties, and top hats, all with painted white faces and the blackened eyes of a skeletal corpse. There were veiled Catrina brides carrying flowers, and others who looked like they were celebrating a macabre First Communion, or like they could have been tiny grieving widows. Mustachioed little skeletons twirled their canes in their hands,
stopping only to strike a serious pose for the awestruck tourists lining the sidewalk. A parade of dead children, I thought. But then again, I guess it wasn’t any weirder than the zombies and mummies and Freddy Kruegers that were roaming around the streets up north this very day. But these kids were all so quiet! Eerily quiet. It was hard to imagine kids in the States being so well behaved and respectful. These little guys apparently knew better than to mess with the dead.

A
RMINDA CONTINUED HER LESSON ON
the traditions of the day when we reached our first destination. I trailed behind the rest of the enthusiastic group, a little wary since, until now, setting foot in a cemetery was an experience I’d managed to avoid. Although I’m not sure what I had expected, whatever it was certainly wasn’t this. Behind us, entire families were pouring through the gates with shovels and buckets and small machetes, their arms full of marigolds and baby’s breath and tall white candles. I could see men hacking away at long pieces of sugarcane, which Arminda had explained would be used to build the arches adorning each grave. There was so much activity it was hard to imagine that this was supposed to be the ultimate place of rest.

We stood in a light mist, surrounded by mounds of freshly turned soil. Arminda quickly explained that these were not new graves, simply newly “renovated,” in a way. They had been spruced up in preparation for the festivities. Cameras began to click as she continued with some advice. “Tomorrow night when you come, be, how do you say, respectful. If you see people who look sad, it is better to leave it alone. That means that person died this year, so they are still sad. Next year they will have a big celebration. You can take pictures, but no flash. Do not disturb people. But if someone offers you something, say ‘muchas gracias.’ Do not say ‘no thank you.’ They are making you a gift from the deceased. And now, please walk around and look. By tomorrow night, it will be transformed.”

As I navigated the narrow rows between the graves, trying my
damnedest not to step on the dead, I marveled at the works in progress. There were tiered mounds of wet dirt, looking almost like little adobe pyramids, and others that were just shallow piles of fresh soil bearing simple crosses. Others were more elaborate elevated marble or concrete monuments. Some were half covered with petals, while others supported ornate marigold lattices or sculptures that had been already erected. It was already a beautiful sight. I couldn’t imagine it getting much better than this.

I
T
’
S HARD TO EXPLAIN WHAT
happened the next day. Everything started out normal enough. Sticking to her promise to help with Dad’s shrine, Cynthia led me to the flower market that had popped up next to the basilica, where dozens of trucks overflowed with fresh marigolds and cockscomb and baby’s breath. The men who had climbed to the tops of the piles couldn’t toss their bundles down fast enough to the waiting customers below. We passed through the long row of tables sagging under the weight of more blooms than I had ever seen in one place at one time, Cynthia filling my outstretched arms until I was forced to cry uncle. I felt like Miss America cradling the massive bouquet against my chest. I hoped Dad would appreciate the effort, and I also hoped that my allergies would be kind enough to grant me a day off.

The ton of flowers, added to those spare pounds I was still carrying around, made keeping up with Cynthia a chore. She was like a mountain goat on those hills. I struggled to catch my breath as we maneuvered our way through the crowded sidewalks. On the street across from the plaza, we managed to jostle ourselves up to the rickety tables covered with elaborately decorated sugar skulls, some with bright green eyelashes or neon pink teeth and sequin eyes, all swarming with bees that had hit a holiday jackpot. It was hard to make a choice. There were sugar skeletons sitting upright on top of their coffins, wearing sombreros and waving bottles of tequila, candy skeleton
couples sitting on park benches made of Popsicle sticks, tiny sugar infants tucked into their little sugar coffins. It amazed me that something so incredibly sad could seem so cute and playful.

The afternoon was spent building the altar. First I cut the stems from all the flowers, as I had seen others do the day before in the cemetery. Then I began to arrange everything on the table Cynthia had put out for me in the courtyard. A glass of water in case Dad got thirsty, and cup of coffee, because he never really was too fond of water. In fact, I couldn’t really remember him without a cup of coffee, either in his hand or on the table next to his favorite chair. A few pesos and a few dollars, because I figured he could probably use some cash while he was here, and who knew, he might want to pop up to D.C. to see Zach, or over to Michigan to drop in on Mom while he was out and about. Then came the five ducks made out of sugar, which I placed gently among the flowers. When I was a kid, my parents bought a house in the woods. A house that, for some reason, came with five ducks. Those ducks adored my dad. When my dad went to the mailbox, five ducks went with him. When Dad mowed the lawn, five ducks followed behind. He loved it. He’d put on his cowboy hat and boots, call the ducks, and march around the driveway like he was the commander of a duck platoon.

Next I added a bottle of Bohemia, a Dos Equis, and a Victoria. Why shouldn’t Dad sample all the local beers while he had the chance, right? I couldn’t not include a piece of cake, for the man who loved his sweets, for the man who once dipped into a bowl of potpourri thinking it must be some sort of fancy candy. And of course, the traditional Pan de Muerto, a sugary loaf crisscrossed with what looked like chicken bones sculpted from the dough. Oh, and a bowl of fruit, in the unlikely event that he’d decided to turn healthy in the afterlife. The final touch was a picture I had printed out in Cynthia’s office. In it, a towheaded Zach, with a grin stretching ear to ear, is seated on the lap of a very large Santa in those big glasses that can only mean the 1980s. My dad. My dad the way I liked to remember him best.