like an endless garden, where the lines are
clean and organized. Here, the caskets are piled one on top of the other, inside tall walls with simple nameplates, each indistinguishable
from the next.
Gabriella’s mother isn’t there.
She’s in the Gómez mausoleum, an ornate little monument with marble slabs and a wrought-iron gate that you must open with
a key if you want access to those inside.
Gabriella’s great-grandmother is on the left, and on top of her is her great-grandfather, and on top of him, her grandfather’s
brother.
Her grandfather is on the right, and on top of him is her mother.
“It’s a temporary arrangement,” says Nini.
“When I die,” she always reminds Gabriella, “you have to put me on top of your grandfather, and your mami on top of me.” She
always adds, by way of apology and explanation, “I have to be beside your grandfather.”
Edgar wipes the gate clean with a moist rag before unlocking it. There are coins and flowers and paper icons on the floor,
offerings her grandfather’s patients keep leaving for him, even seventeen years after his death.
Nini collects them in a bag but takes them outside. She doesn’t like to keep foreign objects in the family crypt. Then she
instructs Edgar to sweep the little entryway, clearing it of dust and cobwebs, until it again looks shiny and visited. “These
dead haven’t been forgotten,” she always mutters under her breath.
“You want to go first, Gabriella?” she asks matter-of-factly as Edgar walks back to the car, leaving them alone with their
ghosts. “I’ll go to the chapel.”
“Okay, Nini,” Gabriella responds, and gently kisses her on the cheek because she always looks so grimly cheerful here.
Nini used to go in with her. The first years Gabriella came here, she was terrified. Of the casket, of the crypt, of all the
dead people in this place. The two of them would visit together then; Nini would talk to her daughter, Gabriella to her mother.
Nini would talk about Gabriella’s horseback lessons and her awards and what she had done with her hair. Gabriella would listen
solemnly, and nod. But it never felt comfortable, what Nini did. Talking to a dead woman she couldn’t see, who didn’t answer.
And then, Gabriella can’t even pinpoint when it happened, but it just did. She started to have her own stories to tell her
mother.
Now, she likes to close the gate and sit in the middle of all the coffins. Nini has a little chair for her in there, and when
Gabriella sits down, she’s still tall enough that she can rest her head on top of her mother’s casket.
Gabriella likes it there. She likes to lay her head on her mother’s chest and picture her, sleeping, face up, with her hands
folded quietly over her chest. Her hair is long—because it’s been growing all these years—and it falls in endless, gorgeous
curls over her shoulders and her breasts and down to her ankles. She looks beautiful like this, like a resting Lady Godiva.
And she always smiles, because she’s happy to see her daughter, to feel her and listen to her.
“Mami,” Gabriella says, speaking very softly, very close to her so Grandfather won’t hear. He’d be pissed. And then she tells
her what she couldn’t bring herself to tell her father. “I met a boy. His name is Angel.”
She pauses, trying to bring it all back.
“It’s a beautiful name, isn’t it? But the thing is, he’s the wrong kind of boy. That’s what Juan Carlos says, and honestly,
that’s what I think today, too.
“But he felt so right. And… and I guess he could be right. We danced last night, and he’s a great dancer. And he’s so tall.
You have no idea how hard it is to find someone who’s taller than me! And he’s so, so beautiful. He’s a beautiful boy, with
beautiful skin and cool hands—not clammy! I hate clammy. Just really cool and firm, you know?
“I don’t know how to explain it, Mami. I can’t remember the last
clean and organized. Here, the caskets are piled one on top of the other, inside tall walls with simple nameplates, each indistinguishable
from the next.
Gabriella’s mother isn’t there.
She’s in the Gómez mausoleum, an ornate little monument with marble slabs and a wrought-iron gate that you must open with
a key if you want access to those inside.
Gabriella’s great-grandmother is on the left, and on top of her is her great-grandfather, and on top of him, her grandfather’s
brother.
Her grandfather is on the right, and on top of him is her mother.
“It’s a temporary arrangement,” says Nini.
“When I die,” she always reminds Gabriella, “you have to put me on top of your grandfather, and your mami on top of me.” She
always adds, by way of apology and explanation, “I have to be beside your grandfather.”
Edgar wipes the gate clean with a moist rag before unlocking it. There are coins and flowers and paper icons on the floor,
offerings her grandfather’s patients keep leaving for him, even seventeen years after his death.
Nini collects them in a bag but takes them outside. She doesn’t like to keep foreign objects in the family crypt. Then she
instructs Edgar to sweep the little entryway, clearing it of dust and cobwebs, until it again looks shiny and visited. “These
dead haven’t been forgotten,” she always mutters under her breath.
“You want to go first, Gabriella?” she asks matter-of-factly as Edgar walks back to the car, leaving them alone with their
ghosts. “I’ll go to the chapel.”
“Okay, Nini,” Gabriella responds, and gently kisses her on the cheek because she always looks so grimly cheerful here.
Nini used to go in with her. The first years Gabriella came here, she was terrified. Of the casket, of the crypt, of all the
dead people in this place. The two of them would visit together then; Nini would talk to her daughter, Gabriella to her mother.
Nini would talk about Gabriella’s horseback lessons and her awards and what she had done with her hair. Gabriella would listen
solemnly, and nod. But it never felt comfortable, what Nini did. Talking to a dead woman she couldn’t see, who didn’t answer.
And then, Gabriella can’t even pinpoint when it happened, but it just did. She started to have her own stories to tell her
mother.
Now, she likes to close the gate and sit in the middle of all the coffins. Nini has a little chair for her in there, and when
Gabriella sits down, she’s still tall enough that she can rest her head on top of her mother’s casket.
Gabriella likes it there. She likes to lay her head on her mother’s chest and picture her, sleeping, face up, with her hands
folded quietly over her chest. Her hair is long—because it’s been growing all these years—and it falls in endless, gorgeous
curls over her shoulders and her breasts and down to her ankles. She looks beautiful like this, like a resting Lady Godiva.
And she always smiles, because she’s happy to see her daughter, to feel her and listen to her.
“Mami,” Gabriella says, speaking very softly, very close to her so Grandfather won’t hear. He’d be pissed. And then she tells
her what she couldn’t bring herself to tell her father. “I met a boy. His name is Angel.”
She pauses, trying to bring it all back.
“It’s a beautiful name, isn’t it? But the thing is, he’s the wrong kind of boy. That’s what Juan Carlos says, and honestly,
that’s what I think today, too.
“But he felt so right. And… and I guess he could be right. We danced last night, and he’s a great dancer. And he’s so tall.
You have no idea how hard it is to find someone who’s taller than me! And he’s so, so beautiful. He’s a beautiful boy, with
beautiful skin and cool hands—not clammy! I hate clammy. Just really cool and firm, you know?
“I don’t know how to explain it, Mami. I can’t remember the last
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