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.
“How’s it going, Dad?” I whispered as I lit the candle, its flame dancing a crazy hula in the wind darting through the courtyard. “Long time no talk. Hell, we probably never really have talked, right? Why is that?”
I pulled up a patio chair and sat. By now I knew the answer to my own question. I cleared my throat and began to speak a little louder. “So, Dad, first of all I want you to know that things are going great for me.” I pulled out my iPhone and scrolled through the photos. “See? This is Italya. Your great-granddaughter. She’s a feisty little one. Just like me, right?” I propped the phone up next to Dad’s photo. And like you, too. The smile remained frozen across the face beneath the red Santa hat, making me smile as well.
“I swear, Dad, if you could be here now, I think you’d be really proud. And honestly? I’m beginning to think I’m more like you than either of us probably ever realized. And you know what else? I’m proud of that.” The words coming out of my mouth in the privacy of the empty courtyard took me by surprise. I had spent my entire life trying to not be like my dad.
“I wish I had understood a lot of things earlier. I realize now just how tough it must have been for you. Mom didn’t leave much room for you in our little triangle, did she? No wonder you were grouchy.” The flame suddenly became eerily still. I glanced over my shoulder and pulled my chair in a little closer. “Between you and me, Dad,” I whispered, “I’m thinking maybe she wasn’t so perfect after all. I’m just saying.”
I rearranged the little sugar ducks in a row facing my dad’s photo. “You know, when push came to shove, you were always there for me. And don’t think I don’t realize that. ’Cause I do. And you know what else? Without you I would never have had the balls to do half the stuff I’ve done. Sure, Mom always said I could be whatever I wanted to be, but you were the one who actually showed me that anything was possible, who went out and did anything and everything possible, or at least tried. And there’s no way I’d be who I am without you.”
I plucked a Dos Equis from the center of the shrine. I don’t even like beer, but somehow if felt like the right thing to do. A sigh escaped from so deep inside that my entire torso deflated like a leaky balloon. I lifted the bottle into the air.
“Cheers, Dad. Wish you were here.” The candle flickered wildly. “Oh, sorry. I guess you are.”
I stood up and paused for a moment, slowly sipping at my beer, hoping with all my heart that there was some truth to the magic of this night. “Catch up with you later, Dad. I love you.” I watched as the smoke from the candle disappeared into the darkening sky above.
“THE VEIL IS THIN TONIGHT,” Cynthia reminded me on our way out the door that evening, all bundled up against the damp autumn air. “Just be conscious of it. Look around you. Let yourself feel the magic, eh?”
The first thing I felt was an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Traffic jams, police whistles, people pushing. The food carts and the dancers twirling on a stage set up in the parking lot made it feel more like a street fair than an ancient ritual. And the spot that Arminda had pointed to the day before, insisting that we “remember this place”? I had expected something really cool to appear there, not the port-o-potties that were already beginning to reek.
But the minute I walked through the towering iron gates the crowd seemed to melt away around me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. An almost sickly sweet odor, a blend of marigolds and smoke, filled my nostrils. I could taste it in the back of my throat. The heat generated by the thousands of candles illuminating the sloped earth was enough to make me loosen my scarf. And then there were the bells, ringing out their invitation to the departed souls. Come, come, come, they seemed to call.
I opened my eyes to a sea of orange. Cynthia grabbed my hand and advised me to stay close. A little dizzy, I struggled to find my balance as we began to follow the nearly invisible pathways between the graves, our pace slow and sporadic, controlled by an almost involuntary unwillingness to pass even one of them by. Each had a story to tell. Some provided just hints at who lay below, with their simple crosses inscribed with Descance en Paz or Recuerdo de su Familia, along with the years marking the spans of their lives, ranging from tragically short to remarkably long. Other graves had been turned into elaborate exhibits, flamboyant tributes to the deceased, 3-D résumés of their jobs, hobbies, talents, and vices. These folks sure must have loved their cigarettes and tequila, and I’d never seen so many bottles of Coke in once place in my entire life.
One of the most spectacular sights was a life-size bicycle made completely of flowers, with a real helmet resting on its seat and a photo of the deceased, competing in a race, hanging from the crossbar. One grave sported a huge marigold guitar, and another featured a magnificent floral donkey ridden by a child-size skeleton figure. I looked up to see a photo of a young boy dressed in his white Communion suit. But seeing the huge circle of family gathered around in the mist, sharing food and drink and conversation, nodding kindly at trespassers like me, who stood, openmouthed, admiring their work, I just couldn’t feel sad. Because the whole damn thing was just so sweet.
In this cemetery, nobody seemed to have been forgotten. Arminda had told us that sometimes, when the dead become abandoned by families moving up north, their graves are adopted by others who step in to fill their shoes. Even the sparsest plots were covered by a blanket of orange petals that made death look oddly cozy and inviting. But I couldn’t help but be saddened by the sight of the tiniest mounds of dirt nestled between the larger plots. One in particular really got to me. Beside it, an elderly Purépecha woman sat alone, motionless in a low crouch, wrapped in a blanket, her deeply lined face expressionless and unseeing. Another, a large, soft mound butted up against another much smaller one, immediately drew a picture for me of a mother who had died in childbirth. Then there were the altars that spoke of some tragic accident or other catastrophic event, like the one with its floral arch topped with an angel. Hanging from the lattice were framed photos of four small children, along with little toys and dolls and baby shoes. Four little kids. What kind of horror must that family have gone through? I could not imagine. Yet I realized that however unbearable and alienating their l
oss might have felt, tonight they were not alone. They were a piece of a living, breathing entity that was bigger than just them, hundreds of people all sharing an experience, acknowledging and accepting death not as the opposite of life, but rather as a vital part of it.
It remained hard not to stop at every gravesite, feeling so keenly aware of the lives below. The veil is thin. I was curious, and also felt sort of duty-bound to find out who they all were. All I could be sure of was that, whoever they were, they were all people who once had hopes and dreams and successes and failures and joy and disappointment and who were, on this night, surrounded by others who had loved them, and who loved them still, no matter what.
Cynthia and I continued to weave our way through the sodden maze, no longer able to avoid treading on the dead, the place was so packed that night with the living. But nobody seemed to mind. More than one family welcomed us into their little space, offering tiny cups of mescal or posole with a smile. “Muchas gracias,” I replied, just as Arminda had instructed. We soon found ourselves following the sound of a discordant choir of deep voices coming from the highest part of the cemetery. Under a wide gazebo, at least a dozen men stood together, somberly singing a slow, sad song about their lost fathers, their beautiful wives, their precious children. It was a touchingly fitting sound track for the scene below, now a hazy blur through the thickening smoke.
After the last chorus I turned to go, but Cynthia was no longer by my side. But for once, it was okay. I knew she wouldn’t leave without me, and besides, I had prepared for this possibility by snapping a photo of our van and its surroundings before we left the parking area.
I continued exploring on my own, carefully picking my way through the patchwork of plots, trying my best not to disturb the calm of the night. But I must have missed a stone or something because all of a sudden I found myself stumbling forward into the darkness. “Fuego!” gasped someone behind me as I fell gently into a pair of beefy arms, my scarf crackling and sizzling from the touch of a toppled candle. I quickly swatted at the fabric until the little flame disappeared, and straightened myself up to thank my savior. And that’s when I saw it. Delia’s grave.
Now, I didn’t know Delia from Adam, but by the looks of her altar I wished I had. Her name was spelled out in big glittery letters across the foot of the grave. At the head, a long triple-tiered banquet table hosted a feast for a dozen tiny skeletons, sitting there all duded up in front of itty-bitty plates of clay food. On their left, a six-piece papier-mâché mariachi band strummed and tooted silently into the night. It looked like some party. And in the center, on a cross sculpted from sand and topped with silver sequins, a naked skeleton basked under a little spotlight, as if she were enjoying a glorious day by the sea.
“Tu mamá?” I asked the young man who had reached out to catch me, my voice cracking a little.
He nodded proudly, turning to the boy next to him. “Nuestra madre.”
Brothers. Suddenly a swirling wind kicked up around me, causing the dozens of candles adorning Delia’s grave to flicker wildly in the dark. “I hear you, Delia,” I said with a little laugh. “You weren’t by any chance a hairdresser, were you?” Delia’s sons held up their beers toward me in the gesture of a toast, and I toasted them back with my empty fist.
The veil is thin.
I stood with Delia’s sons, the three of us smiling down at the silent, miniature celebration happening below.
And then something happened. All of a sudden I was filled with a sense of lightness, a feeling of clarity I couldn’t recall ever experiencing before. If I could have seen what I was feeling it would have looked like this—hundreds of tiny pieces of myself whirling around, connecting to each other bit by bit with a soft thwack, like Humpty Dumpty in reverse. It was the oddest sensation, but wow, was it amazing. The only way I can describe it is that it felt as though there was no such thing as time: my past and present and future all melded into one. And for one brief moment I felt, for the first time in my life, like the skin on my body was the most elegant, luxurious, custom-made outfit in the world, and that it fit me like a glove.
I swore to myself that I’d remember that feeling, forever, and headed down the hill to find my way home.
“WHEEEE!!!” ITALYA SQUEALS AS I swing her by the arms, her toes skimming across the surface of the warm blue water. It’s Sunday on Stone Island. Family day. Behind us the whole gang, including my vacationing son Zach, is gathered around a shaded table, watching and laughing as I try my darnedest to keep my fussy two-year-old girl from losing interest, from wriggling out of my grip and running back into her daddy’s lap. Noah needs a break. Tippy Toes has been honored with a “Best of Mazatlán” award from a popular local magazine for the second year in a row. We are busy. Very busy. Hell, I need a break. Especially because Tippy Toes is no longer just Tippy Toes. We are now officially Tippy Toes and Marrakesh Spa & Boutique. That’s right. Manis, pedis, massages, facials, body scrubbing, hair, and shopping! Now I have an excuse, no, a reason, to shop my way across the entire country, finding all sorts of those kinds of handmade treasures that get my heart thumping. How cool is that? Talk about transforming evil into good. Well, maybe not evil, but at least I’ve found a way to make my addiction a fruitful one.
Italya slithers away and I follow her across the warm sand toward the table. “Looking good, Deb,” says Barb.
“Really? Thanks.” I twist my wet T-shirt to wring out the salty water. I’m not so convinced. I may be in better shape than I was, but I’m still not a hundred percent comfortable baring my belly in front of a crowd.
“Cuidado!” Martha puts down her Coke and shields the bundle in her lap as Italya tries to climb aboard. Yes, we have a new baby in the family, a boy this time. Kai Milan popped out with the chubbiest cheeks I had ever seen. “He cried in English!” insisted the gorgeous young doctor who helped bring him into the world. I didn’t care what language he cried in. We all were just happy for another little munchkin to cuddle as we open up in the mornings, another doll to pamper with kisses and hugs at the end of the day, another cutie to spoil with toys and treats anytime we feel like it, for no reason whatsoever.
I look around the table at my friends and family, remembering that day that doesn’t really seem all that long ago, when we first met. Only Sharon and Glen, and Analisa, are missing, too busy to take a day off for the beach. All has been quiet on the streets of Mazatlán, and the tourists are back. Casa de Leyendas and Macaws (especially on Margarita Wednesdays!) are packed. In fact, all of Centro seems to be booming, with new galleries and boutiques and restaurants that are starting to make it feel like a little SoHo. The neighborhood’s biggest issues these days seem to be limited to things like broken sewers. But we’ve learned how to deal with that. One call to the local TV station and abracadabra, a pipe is repaired or a road repaved, overnight. Sergio has still not stopped teasing me about my ranting and raving on the six o’clock news.
A cheer goes up from the table as Luz and Alex come whizzing by the shoreline on top of a banana boat, Derek squeezed between them, all three holding on for dear life. “Cuidado!” Teresa and Martha shout out, this time in unison. Me, I’m happy to see those kids letting loose. Alex has been working hard at Tippy Toes doing everything, even the mani-pedis Sergio and Teresa had objected to, at first. That would make him more gay, they had protested. Go figure. But we do have plenty of customers now asking specifically for the boy with the pink hair. And he’s planning on going back to finish school this year. A chef, or a lawyer, he answered when I asked him about his future. I will keep my fingers and toes crossed. Oh, and his other plan? A float for Tippy Toes in Mazatlán’s next Gay Pride parade. We are all looking forward to it.
Luz now has her own tattoo gun, and is keeping herself in ink by doing tats in her spare time. She’s still learning, but I have no doubt she’ll soon be a star in her field. At home, her sister Gaby is doing better, she tells me, and is loving beauty school. I’ve seen evidence myself in the different style of braid
Italya’s wearing every single time she comes down from The Hill.
“Más rápido!” I yell to the kids as they make another pass near shore. Yes, my Spanish is finally improving. It started, as everyone told me it would, with my ears. If I just kept my mouth shut long enough to listen, I found I could pick up a few things. My tongue still feels thick and long when I try to speak, and my delivery sounds more like beauty shop Spanglish than proper Spanish, and there are times when a word pops out in Dari by mistake, but at least I’m getting somewhere.
“You still here?” I squeeze my chair into a spot next to Denis, who lets out a laugh so loud I have to cover my ear. “I didn’t mean it that way!” I had thought Denis was planning to go home early, to get ready for a poker game. But yes, he is still here. And I mean that, this time, in the bigger sense. In fact, I think my relationship with Denis has almost set the record as my longest. I know it’s my best. Even if he sometimes drives me crazy with his uncanny ability to sit and do nothing, which, to a chronic multitasker, is torture to watch. That, and his poker face. Unless Denis is laughing, you can’t tell if he’s mad, glad, or sad. I keep telling him I’m going to make him wear a mood ring just to help me out a little.
And one of my dreams has come true. Noah is planning a trip to Michigan, with Italya. He finally succeeded in getting her passport and visa, and they are going together to see my mom. I so wish I could be there to see their faces when they meet. But somebody has to hold down the fort at Tippy Toes. Besides, I need to be here to make sure my girls get to school.
There are now seven students involved with Project Mariposa. And we’ve actually started to supplement their education with a little mentoring, right upstairs from Tippy Toes. The whole thing just came out of the blue, and I went with it. I was introduced to Rick when he tagged along with his friend, a furniture maker who had come by my house with a bid. “It’s you!” he screamed. “It’s her!” Turns out he was a hairdresser from Denver, and a big fan of my first book, who had recently retired in Mazatlán. He had no interest in working behind the chair anymore, but was looking for volunteer teaching opportunities to keep himself active in the industry. And he was fluent in Spanish. How could I say no? Now he parks himself upstairs with the students every Monday, sharing the tricks of the trade that can come only from a seasoned pro. I have to admit it is starting to feel a bit like Kabul up there, but in the good way.