Dorita

Holding my breath.

I repeat the names of Aaron's brothers and sisters in descending and ascending order. I know them all, Gonzalo, María Antonieta...Gustavo, que era Octavio but didn't like his name, so he changed it, Ñaña, Alejandro, that got his nickname from when he was a little boy sitting in his diaper in the hallway, and when asked what he was playing with said, "ñaña" 38 odd years later he was meeting me at the airport. Martín, whose house I know so well, Rey who will take me to the Chopo if I ask him...Ime, Tania and Isaura's mom... and Javi, who loves going to the film festivals.
There are more, more, I can remember them, I repeat them under my breath in a sort of a mantra. Arturo, whose birthday is the same as mine, the sister in Tijuana, what was her name? What was her name? Ah. Elsa, por cierto..

Dora, Andrea's mom. Recently divorced, her daughter is 6, she must be huge, he reminds me, it has been two years since I have seen them. I wish I could go with you, he says, even though I don't love you anymore. Maybe I can go with you, take me in your suitcase... Backwards, backwards. I can't mix them up, what will I do?

Weeks later, I get out of the metro and we walk towards the Avenida Álvaro Obregón. There is a defeaning roar of traffic and a whooshing rumor of bodies milling about in the circular esplanade. Arturo, who is inexplicably sick, leans on my shoulder, pinching my hair under his elbow. He tells me that during the '85 earthquake it acted as a refugee camp for the displaced. The wandering mourners lost in a sea of dust and rubble and twisted bodies. Martín threw down his camera. A life-changing career decision? He dragged the dead and the dying from the ruin, covered his mouth with a bandana, worked, worked, worked side by side with other able-bodied individuals. Not one of them died, not one of the 12 brothers and sisters, not the mother, or the father who must be approaching 90. He still speaks Nahuatl, still goes to their town, in Texcoco, still builds on the plot of land that he will give to his children to have when he is gone. Almost 60 years in La Roma, we walk towards the tiny house, with paintings covering the walls.

The floppy-eared beagle thrusts its over-eager nose under the metal garage door, the key turns, Dora steps out smiling, Andrea is bouncing, we walk up the street. You've never had tacos al pastor? No, never. You haven't been to Mexico if you haven't had tacos al pastor. We stop, we eat a taco. The pineapple drips with spit-roasted adobo, the minute tortilla melts in my mouth. Good, huh? Mommy can I do trick or treat? I raise my eyebrows, ya ves, she says, kids these days, Día de los muertos isn't good enough, they want everything like there, like in gringolandia. The plastic pumkin that she clutches is like the ones I remember using when I was her age. She jumps up and down as we pass the Casa Lamm, in the center camellón, the long, thin strip of green between opposing traffic lanes on this central avenue.

Then we are walking home drunk, from a club, we sleep on the floor in her office building, upstairs from the house her parents rent and where she and three of the others live. I miss her dad, she wails in her inhebriated state. Es un cabrón, pero lo amo todavía. We walk, arms locked, she steered me clear, kept me from kissing (too much) the cute bartender that kept supplying my drinks... Let's go, you don't want to be here, do you? Don't I? The swish of his pony-tail, and those straight smiling pearls that glow white under the black-light glow. No, I don't, wait do I? I sneak away and steal one last kiss beore she drags me away from the sounds of Heroes del silencio, or was it Soda Estereo? We are outside anyway, and it is cold, and I wrap the thin suede jacket around me, smelling of tobacco and clean dance-induced sweat. Underneath I am wearing practically nothing, nothing to combat the cold sinking into my bones, I am soooo drunk, we lay under the desk, her boss' desk, my head spins, she makes me drink some swill, says it'll feel better in the morning, but when morning comes an hour later, I am still spinning, and two hours, and three.

Someone tried to open the door last night, she insists, I couldn't figure out why. I shut my mouth in a tight frown. I kiss her cheek, I don't tell her. She leaves my house at 10, I turn on the music in the stereo and blast it, blast out my fury, my humiliation. Blast him, blast him, how could he bring a girl home, to my house, to our house, and try to pretend it was a friend. A male friend. And then have the gall to invite me into the living room, the one he still hasn't paid the rent for, to join them, this female friend. I don't tell her as she walks down the same street, I look out the curtain, over the balcony ledge, and watch her long-legged gait, watch her disappear down the street where I saw them kiss, just hours before. I sweat, and sweep, and scream and weep, but I don't make him leave. I don't kick him out on the street, or back to his father's house. I take pity. Until I don't.

And there we are, at the store. I can't believe you don't know how many people you invited. Give me a ball park. 50? I can't remember, just last week we were listening to Antidoping's release. Hey, that kid, you know? The one who fell? He died. My stomach hurts, he died? They took him to the cruz roja, and they sent him home. He died the next day of a brain hemmorage. So young. Tears well up in my eyes, I think about the baby in my womb, and I shiver. We pick up a second case of caguamas. People will be there in an hour, I think. She chops and chops, mini-sausages, tiny, she makes finger foods, there are people streaming in the doors, the music is loud, she hands me a tequila, and I decline. She raises her eyebrows. It's not like you are going to keep this baby. I squirm under her scrutiny. I think about our trip the next day to Tepoztlán, and the Canadian doctor we are looking for. Maybe? I just don't want to drink, ok, she frowns at me, shrugs, walks back into the kitchen and keeps preparing. It is late and she falls, Mamá, Dora, Mamadora, laughter follows as she falls from one side of the car out the door in between the car and the curb. She is stuck, right where the car had pulled away, with another man, and another woman, after a kiss, a clandestine kiss, that went unpunished, or never went unpunished. She stumbles back up the stairs.

I don't see her again until that baby is almost 3, and I am heading to California, Tania is having a house warming party, and her family is all there, not to disapprove, well, not really, even though it would be better if she married before moving in. You know you can call me, she says. I will, I say, she knows I won't. I know she won't either. Her daughter is 9, she is huge, she is beautiful. I remember the Barbie that I got for her birthday all those years ago. We say good bye. It was good to see you. Yeah, we smile sadly, good to see you.

Dolores died. My mom says, and I say, Dolores? there was no Dolores. I run through the names one more time, incredulously. Dora? You mean Dora?! I shouldn't have told you, I am sorry, I didn't think. No, I want to know, I would have wanted to know. Dora? I don't know, I don't know, I shouldn't have said anything. NO, it is ok, I mean. They said it was the youngest sister. That's Dora. Honey I'm sorry. Yeah. She must be, have been 37, what will happen to Andrea? I wonder. Her brothers went to DF this weekend. I don't understand. I don't understand. I do. But I don't. Don't want to. It is so easy to let go, so easy, it is just one step, one step too far, letting go, and the downward spiral, and someone else can take care of me, of my kid, I could send her to her grandparents, there are others, disappearing into the night, into the life that asks for nothing back, for nothing, nothing. It eats away, ate her away, I think, she was so thin, so so thin. She was ill for a long time. Yes, for how long? I wouldn't know, longer than I have known her, longer than that. But the illness, it is there, lurking, yes, I feel it too. It wouldn't be hard, you know, to give oneself over to the darkness. I'll miss you Dora. I'm sorry I never called.