The Mapmaker's Daughter by Laurel Corona

Mama cannot be roused at all. As the day goes on, her moans grow softer and then disappear into a deeper sleep. Sometime that night, she slips away.
    When I wake from my makeshift bed on the floor, Papa’s face is slack and his eyes are unfocused and distant. Susana’s are nearly swollen shut with tears. I look at Mama’s closed eyes and peaceful expression, and I feel my whole body shudder. “Grandmother?” I ask in a tiny, pleading voice.
    She shakes her head. “She’s gone, Leah. Baruch dayan emet. Blessed be the one true Judge.”
    “No!” I scream. “Get more salt! We need more cloves!” I shake Mama’s shoulder. “Vida! Vida!” I cry out as I crawl in next to her. I lay my head on her chest as if nothing has changed, but her cold, still body is so unnerving that I jump up in horror and rush into my Grandmother’s arms.
    I feel my breath burning circles in her overskirt. Though my eyes are scalding, my sobs seem locked inside, and when I pull away, I am surprised to discover her skirt is wet. “Should I wake Luisa?” The question comes from the blackness enveloping me, and I barely recognize my voice.
    “It has to be done,” Grandmother says. “Help your sister braid her hair before you come back, and do your own as well. I want clean faces and hands.” Though I can’t imagine why it matters, I go off to do as I am told.
    “Luisa,” I whisper, going to the bed and jostling her shoulder. I want to crawl deep under the covers with her, to take in the breath of someone who hasn’t yet had her world turned upside down, but I know Grandmother is counting on me to get back quickly.
    I shake her again. “Wake up,” I say. “Mama is—” I can’t get out the word.
    Luisa sits up. “Mama?” she asks. Her eyes are sleepy but wide open. I nod my head, and she starts to cry.
    We return looking as presentable as I can make us. A lace on Luisa’s dress is undone because my fingers don’t feel as if they belong to me and I couldn’t tie it. Grandmother has been arguing with Papa and Susana, but they stop when we come in.
    “Very well,” Grandmother says, “I’ll do it then, if you won’t.” She motions to the two of us to come stand near Mama. Grandmother places Mama’s limp hand on top of first my head and then Luisa’s and gives us a last blessing.
    “We are conversos,” my father replies when she turns back to him. “She’ll have a Christian funeral and be buried in the Christian cemetery, and that’s the end of it.”
    My heart lurches. Her body will wait for the coming of the Messiah far from where she wants to be, next to the mementos of her four little sons, among the Jews of Sevilla. I imagine a cross on Mama’s grave, pounded deep enough to stab her heart, and I think my own will break with sorrow.
    ***
    Within hours of my mother’s death, Papa leaves with Susana to discuss Mama’s funeral with the priest, but Grandmother asks me to stay behind. She sends the servant off to get two buckets of water. “Find someone at the pump who can bring back two more,” she says as she hurries her out the door.
    “I’m not going to let anyone tell me what to do, especially not someone who once nursed at my breast, even if he is a grown man now,” Grandmother mutters as she bustles around our kitchen. “And if the church wants to tear me in pieces for what I’m doing, that’s my business, isn’t it?”
    Once she has her water, Grandmother sends the servant home for the day and closes all the windows and doors so no one can hear or see what is going on inside. Before Papa and Susana left, they laid Mama’s body out on the kitchen table, and Grandmother stands looking at the sheet-draped form.
    “I told my son that if his wife has to be buried as a Christian, she should at least have taharah first. It’s the ritual washing Jews receive when they die. I knew you would want to help.”
    She soaks a cloth in the water and twists it to release the water over Mama’s head. “In the