The Pulse between Dimensions and the Desert Read online

  She hears Angie and Blanca fighting. Angie calls Blanca’s skin ugly. Angie spits at Blanca and shouts at her to stay out of the fucking sun. Lupe grabs Angie by the hair and slaps her in the face. Don’t you dare say that shit to your hermana. ¿Me entiendes? Angie shouts that hitting her won’t deter her from telling Blanca how it is. She chases after Blanca. They go down in fists. Lupe struggles to pull them apart from each other. Little Elena and Alma press their bodies against the door where Angie is now locked inside. Lupe prays frantically as she sits in the machine. She stumbles out of the machine and her past freezes. She opens the door to get to Angie and she hugs her. She steps back out and holds onto each one of the girls and asks them to forgive each other.

  Back inside the machine, Lupe slams her palms against the rose patch. She doesn’t want to time travel anymore. She wants to see her grandchildren. She wants to tell them silly stories and make them paletas in ice cube trays with toothpicks and horchata. She lands in her garage. She shuts the door to the egg and crawls into her house. Lupe crawls into her living room and clutches her phone so hard, she thinks she hears it crack. She calls Alma and tells her to bring the kids and leave the quiet man at home. Alma hesitates over the phone, but 30 minutes later, she rings the doorbell with the four kids lined up behind her.

  Lupe makes hot chocolate for the kids. All of the candles are lit. The kids sit in the living room and watch TV. Lupe runs into her room to gather more pillar candles. She places them throughout her shelves and on the tables. She lights them and asks Alma to help her grab some more. Alma gathers candles and tells Lupe to stop being weird. Lupe tells Alma she is sorry. Tell me if you are afraid. Let me know if you are scared. I will pray that you tell me. Lupe hugs Alma and expects a limp reaction. Alma hugs Lupe back and Lupe’s sleeve becomes a dark pool of her daughter’s tears. Alma is so silent, it frightens Lupe. Alma cleans her face with the bottom of her shirt and goes back into the living room to sit with the kids. They sit together and laugh at cartoons. The kids start to drift into sleep. Lupe helps Alma carry the kids into the van. She ensures they are secured properly by their seat belts and tells them one by one that she loves them. They leave and Lupe keeps the candles lit. She walks into the garage and opens the door to her machine again. She washes her feet. She steps into the colorful egg. She sits in the middle of the machine and falls asleep. In the morning, she decides to time travel again.

  CRAYONS

  During recess, I lugged the classroom’s bucket of crayons, color pencils, and markers with me. The class played kickball and I sat under the shade of a palo verde tree because of asthma. I arranged all the greens together, blues together and reds together. I continued until they were all in front of me in their chromatic families. Red represented anger. Pink meant passion. Blue mirrored the bodies of water on the planet. Greens expressed curiosity. Yellows owned the sun. Naranjas represented astronauts with Martian dust on their boots. Brown was my favorite. Brown represented the people I interacted with every single day. My grandma, my little sister, all the people gathered downtown waiting for the bus. In a floppy notepad, I wrote the name of every color down. I signed for them all and then I became the principal. I checked in on the classes. Were the blues perfecting the science of creating drinking water from cumulonimbus clouds? Were the pinks writing poetry? I checked in on them all and wrote down their progress. I took the green marker and drew little vines on the white bench behind me and then on my left hand and up my arm. Recess was over. I dumped all the colors back into the bucket.

  I shoved the bucket underneath the crafting area. I went to my desk and saw a pamphlet on my desk. The same pamphlet was placed on each desk in the class. The school wanted us to sell cookie dough. Mrs. Rodriguez asked us to participate and told us to open our pamphlets. Inside, I scanned the potential prizes. There were sticker sets and water guns, but an art case clutched onto my heart. The art case was pristine. Enclosed within was a rainbow organization of markers, color pencils, crayons, and sharpeners all neatly established in assigned creases. This suitcase of colors could be mine.

  When I got home, I crawled on the floor of the single unit scavenging for a pencil. My scabbed knees slid across the cement floor that collected dust easily and caused my coughing fits each morning. I reached under the bed and found a standard no 2. In the bathroom, there was no tub, only a shower. I crawled into the cemented space underneath the toilet and thought about neighbors who might theoretically buy from me. There was the Cubana next door, with her high heels and hair as bright as when you look into the sun. She was not home often. Like my mamá, she worked a lot. When they went dancing together, mamá would wear her black dress with the circular cutouts on both sides of her hips and the Cubana wore lipstick deeper than a bloodline. The Cubana called me ‘hermosa’ and I called her ‘muy amable’ because I thought it was rude to ask an adult for their first name.

  I was never asked to sell anything before. Mrs. Rodriguez explained how the accumulated profits would help in funding the school, but I was enthralled by the art set. I tore paper from a notebook and taped six pieces against the front door. I took out an extra order form from my backpack and cut out the picture of the art case. I taped it to the center of my makeshift billboard. I drew a line graph, a bar graph and a pie chart on the display. I drew arrows in black crayon that pointed to the art case and stars in yellow crayon to signify stellar importance. I went to each door in our row of living units. I knocked and asked for adults to buy from me. Most of them didn’t answer. One woman answered and then asked me how a bucket of cookie dough would bring nutritional value to her bebé? I shrugged. I asked my sister if I could use her name to buy buckets of cookie dough. I pointed to the art set and explained that I needed to gain enough points for the prize and she nodded. I asked her what type of cookie dough she wanted. She nodded. I asked her if she wanted chocolate chip and peanut butter. She enthusiastically shook her head at me. I wrote her name out on each line and carefully calculated the amount of points needed to get the art set. I took her hand and helped her squiggle letters onto the signature lines with a pencil. I was so proud of my sister for understanding how this would benefit the both of us. Our eight piece set of crayons never detailed the true richness of blue in the desert sky or the brown depth in our hair.

  Before class started, I turned in my order form to the office and the receptionist squinted at me, shook her head and said nothing. That morning, I brushed through my curly hair and it expanded beyond the padded shoulders of my passed-down sweatshirt. I smiled at myself as I brushed and brushed in front of the mirror. A girl in class told me my hair looked cuckoo ca choo. She asked me who did my hair and I told her it was my mamá. Recess started and I sat on the white bench under the palo verde tree. I traced the vines I drew on the bench the day before with my finger and watched the kids playing dodge ball. I didn’t take the coloring bucket outside with me. Recess finished and I sat quietly at my desk until school was over for the day. I picked up my sister from my grandma’s apartment on Alameda and we walked past fading billboard signs until we got to the empty unit. I locked us inside and cut up an apple for us to share. I pierced through my finger and watched the blood trickle into the dust beneath my bare feet. I told my sister that a bad guy cut my hand on my way to school and took my order forms. He didn’t want cookie dough, but he wanted that art set so, we wouldn’t be getting either prize anytime soon.

  HAMMER

  The line of twenty-four kids ahead of you shrinks as each person grabs an index card and obediently goes back to their seat. Your last name starts with a Z. You have adjusted to being last in alphabetical formations. The last card is waiting for you. Mrs. Espen announces the animal assigned and each one of you has been given the responsibility of deciding what to name it right then and there. You are all responsible for a storybook based on the assigned animal. Amanda Rosalia with the pink glasses and light up shoes names her Zebra “Ziggy.” Jaime Santos with the bowl cut and dinosaur shirt names his bear “Brownie”. T
he names continue to be announced and your palms are sweating. You link them together, open them toward you and look at the lifeline abuela told you about. You will live a healthy, productive life con el favor de Dios.

  The next name is “Storm” for the stingray. “Mango” for the lion cub. “Henry” for the koala. You’re up next and the index card has a strange sea creature on it. You ask Mrs. Espen if it’s a mermaid. She smiles, braces covering her teeth, and says no. It’s a hammerhead shark. What do you want to name your hammerhead shark? Startled by the new animal shifting your perception on wildlife and evolution, you blurt out “Hammer!” Hammer the hammerhead shark by Jocelyn Zavala. Mrs. Espen has made the official announcement and you can’t take it back. Hammer will have to live with this label for the rest of her life so long as she exists in this story you make for her. Maybe she is one of those sharks who has been in trouble for her temper so “Hammer” stuck as a nickname. You don’t know yet. You have to go home and discuss with Abuela and Mamá.

  Mamá is cooking fideo because she’s tired after a long day of moving pet food and merchandise around in her department. You help your brother and sister with their limes and then you squeeze half a lime into your bowl and warm your hands with the steam rising between the tomato sauce and noodles. Mamá tells Abuela about your cousin Stefani, who just turned ten. She is going to a private school and learning how to play guitar. She lives in Cali and auditions for commercials on the weekends. She’s the cousin who you saw on TV when the apartment had cable for a month. She disappeared from the screen after the cable did so, you watched Dragon Ball Z en español on channel 2 in between TV fuzz and Univision.

  Stefani was Goku and you were Piccolo. She had resources to be more powerful than you, but you never doubted your own strength. Stefani represented good and you shifted from evil to virtuous depending on the episode. You thought of yourself as evil when you acted on aggressions that came to you at night. You broke the limbs off of dolls and repaired them with duct tape in the morning. You drew on the faces of your sleeping siblings with eyeliner and then helped them wash it off in the morning. Once, you wrote “shit” as “chet” on your little sister’s belly and told her to run up to mamá. Mamá was on the phone and yelled your full name (Jocelyn Esmeralda Mendoza Zavala) to help your sister get dressed for bed.

  You finish your soup and ask Mamá and Abuela about story ideas for Hammer. Abuela suggests a story about Hammer being the Jesus of the sea. Hammer is the son of a carpenter and was born to a virgin mother shark. You tell Abuela that Hammer is a lady shark. You place your palms on your forehead and look at Mamá. Mamá suggests a story about Hammer as a shark who loses her memory. She is in the middle of the street under the sea, when she collapses and doesn’t remember who she is anymore. Hammer was supposed to marry an heir to a company that specializes in wedding dresses. You grab your notebook and pencil out of your dandelion yellow backpack and crack your knuckles. You scribble: Hammer, I am going to make you see the sea in yourself. You write and erase. You write and keep erasing.

  The next morning, the classroom is full of carried voices and foot taps to the linoleum squares beneath small feet. The teacher makes her way toward the chalkboard and announces new vocabulary words that will make you sound like a college kid. This is how she pulls you in. The first word is “grotesque”. Grotesque. The second word is “idiosyncrasy”. Idiosyncrasy. You repeat the words after her so they can stick to your tongue. Try using these words today. Energize your vocabulary, she says. Next, she asks the class to get into a single file line and place their math homework on her desk. She collects the stack and puts it into her rolling backpack. She reminds the class about the story book assignment. She expects it on her desk tomorrow morning. The index card with Hammer’s picture is under your pillow. You thought Hammer would appear to you if you placed her beneath your sleepy head.

  You search the library to look for more information on Hammer and come across articles of humans catching her relatives and displaying them like prizes. Humans attempted to tame Hammer’s kin even though she represents protection, with her strange head and white belly. On your walk home from the library, a pink arch labeled “Dulcería” catches your eye. You walk underneath and find yourself at a carnival. The building is painted in pink and white vertical stripes. “La Vida es un Carnaval” is playing out of a boom box sitting on the dirt with a bouquet of balloons attached to the handle. No one is there, but you hear laughter. There are carnival games behind glass windows. You press your forehead against the glass where rubber ducks float in a blue pool. You knock on the window in case someone is behind there. You look to your feet and see green arrows. They lead you past the window displays and into a room with a claw machine. The machine is filled with stuffed animals of sea creatures. Jellyfish and squid are stacked with starfish and sharks. You grab the joystick and aim for the sharks. It takes you three tries before the claw gets a grasp of anything. Finally, you win the hammerhead shark. You throw your arms in the air and jump around. You start dancing with Celia Cruz singing “Contrapunto Musical.” Confetti falls from above and the pieces that land on your tongue taste sweet.

  When you get home, Mamá is making enchiladas verdes and she asks how your story is coming along. I figured it out in the Dulcería carnaval. Hammer reincarnated into a stuffed animal so I could meet her. Mamá laughs and asks you to get your brother and sister from the room upstairs. You go upstairs and see your sister sleeping on your pillow. You wonder if Hammer’s past self is in her dream, taking her on an underwater quest. You write about the carnival. You write about Hammer’s reincarnation. You decide to write more and more. Maybe a buddy cop movie with Hammer and a blue whale. Maybe hammer decides to go into space. You write these stories and read them to your brother and sister before bed. You write about Hammer every single day until you run out of ideas and have to focus on writing about yourself.

  EAR TO THE GROUND

  Soledad handed you a knife for Navidad. Let me show you how to use it, she said. She placed an apple on your head and told you to stand against the kitchen wall. She held onto the knife and shut one eye as she looked above you at the manzana. She threw the knife and it made a woosh sound into the bag of beans next to you. She praised you for not showing fear. She dug the knife out of the beans. You don’t have to learn how to use the knife, but it could be beneficial. She patted your head and you smiled at her. When the knife was back in your hands, you hid it under your pillow and ran into the living room to sit next to Soledad. You watched stop motion movies together. The images birthed butterflies in your belly because you thought you were watching someone else’s memory. You said this to Soledad and she told you she felt the same way. You both had Christmas sweaters on because Madre thought it was cute. You covered in penguins. Soledad covered in candy canes. You both ran for your matching red and green beanies and darted out of the house. You played tag around the pecan tree that marked the middle of the neighborhood. Soledad joked about magic powers in the tree.

  “It talks to you if you put your ear to the ground.”

  She crouched toward the dirt then, she placed the side of her face toward the earth. She slapped her knee and laughed. You tapped your feet on the ground with impatience and fear of tree roots grabbing them. Soledad sat with criss-cross legs and reached up at you. You helped her up and watched the tree branches stretching themselves out toward the moonlight. Soledad hugged the trunk of the tree. Once boredom hit, the two of you ran back inside and drank warm horchata from mugs shaped like lizards and played lotería while Madre cooked pozole verde.

  In the summer, you sliced open the stuffed jalapeño toys your madre sold to the people waiting in cars to get back to the U.S. You sewed them back up by hand and never told your mamá about the notes you placed inside them. “Be cool, stay in school.” “Chill out, don’t shout.” “Hasta la vista, mamacita.” The jalapeño pepper wore sunglasses and had a huge grin with little arms that gave the buyer a thumbs up. Como, it was saying, thank you for
taking me away from this border town. You helped madre a couple times a week with newspaper and a spray bottle filled with watered down Windex. She told you to run up to the car and don’t give them a choice, you spray the front window, take your newspaper and wipe that shit down before they can shoo you away. Look for U.S. license plates. Look for the gueros. They are supposed to be strangers, so they better tip you. Never refuse a tip from the blonde ones, but don’t let them touch you.

  Years pass and you’re a woman now. This is what the eyes say on the walks home from the corner store. Sometimes men whistle. Sometimes they vocalize. You never give the satisfaction of eye contact. You have three knives on you. One by your side, one in your dangling earring and another in your boot. These are the material possessions that bring you peace of mind. You run errands for Madre during the day. She’s always tired, always in bed, but she says it is a phase for her. The TV light radiates on her smile lines and worry lines. She asks you where your sister is. Is she out dancing? ¿Dónde está? Is she at the library finding new books to read? ¿Dónde está mi hija? Soledad has been missing for two months.

  You have talked to every single person in your neighborhood. You roughed up a couple of men who attempted to flirt with you when you asked them for information. One of them grabbed you by the waist and sniffed your ponytail, so you pierced into the middle of his hand with the blade in your earring. You cleaned the knife on your pant leg and asked him to talk. This was a power you were growing into. The other man asked you to listen to him. Neither of them knew who your sister was or who made her vanish from this tierra. There are rumors of a bus taking women away. That is all he knew. The wounded man, bleeding and screaming, wailed at you about his kids at home. You told him to be better. Take care of those bebés and help his mujer at home. Be better, hombre.