Chapter Two
Camila stared out the window and wondered when her father would leave again. He only spent a couple of days at a time here with her in Nogales, but they were always the worst days of her week.
Papá was a busy man, and he had definite ideas about how a girl should behave.
Despite having been raised with his strict rules, she frequently found herself on the wrong side of them.
Almost never deliberately. It was almost as if Papá was making up new rules or new nuances to them to find reason to punish her.
Last night had been another of those. She’d been gathering her dishes to carry back into the kitchen, like she always did, or at least when it was just her and Maria in the house.
But something had happened to her hand, she still wasn’t sure what, and she’d dropped the stack, shattering a plate and leaving a mess all over the floor.
From the way Papá had acted, she’d committed a heinous crime.
Before she’d had a chance to clean up the mess, much less apologize or say anything, he’d grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into his office where he’d forced her to bend over the back of one of the chairs while he’d taken a belt to her.
This morning, she could barely sit. But as long as Papá was home, she was expected to show up for every meal, and if she showed any sign that the beating he’d given her last night still hurt, he’d do it again, this time expanding his blows to her lower back as well as her thighs.
She forced herself out of bed and to dress in one of the day dresses Papá insisted she wear. Taking time to make sure her make-up was perfect and she didn’t have a single hair out of place, she went downstairs.
“Good morning, Mija,” Papá said when she entered the dining room.
“Good morning, Papá,” Camila said as she sat gingerly in her chair, careful to keep her face from showing how badly it hurt.
She sat primly and let Maria serve her, mostly because every time she got up to do something for herself was another time she’d have to sit down, another chance to not keep her face perfect for Papá.
“I’m glad to see you’ve learned your lesson,” he nodded to her plate where Maria was setting it in front of her now.
Papá insisted she speak English to him, despite their being in Mexico.
Yes, they both spoke Spanish, and she did most of the time, especially when it was just her and Maria.
But Papá got angry when she spoke to him in anything but English. It kept her fluent, if nothing else.
Camila kept her mouth shut because what she wanted to say would only get her in more trouble.
Instead, she nodded and kept her gaze on her plate.
Papá preferred it when she was demure and submissive, and she tried to play that for him when he was here, if only to stay out of trouble.
Most of the time she managed it, but sometimes her mouth got ahead of her and things tumbled out before she had a chance to stop them.
That didn’t happen nearly as often as it once did. She’d learned the hard way.
“I’m leaving after breakfast. I have some business in Juarez tomorrow. I’ll be gone at least a week, maybe longer. I will let you know.”
Camila nodded but didn’t respond. He didn’t expect her to, and it was one less thing to say and possibly get in trouble over.
But the prospect of at least a full week without Papá?
And that he would call to let her know when he would be back?
That was the best thing she’d heard since he’d arrived three days before.
Before he left, he gave her a list of things to do.
Nothing out of the ordinary but she knew if every item on the list wasn’t done, or if he thought they hadn’t been before he got back, then she would be in for punishment again.
She would make sure everything was done just to ensure she didn’t have to endure the beating.
After breakfast, Camila told Papá goodbye, then retreated to her rooms. She told him she was going to study, and she would, but she was going to do it stretched out on her belly on her bed so her rear could have a break from sitting.
Maybe after Papá left she would change into her swimsuit and make use of the hot tub in the courtyard.
The heat of the water would help ease some of her aches.
In her bedroom she picked up the book her father had given her, a history of one of the most prominent families in Mexico, and stretched out across the bed.
Papá wanted her to know the family in the book as well as she knew her own family history, or better.
She suspected he was planning to use her to make an alliance with them, but she hadn’t yet reached the current generation or even her father’s generation, so she didn’t know who he was looking at for her.
Before opening the book, she looked out the window, taking in the gentle rolling hills and wishing, not for the first time, she could get away. She fantasized about getting out of this house and into the US. It wasn’t far.
The estate where she’d spent most of her life was less than five miles from the border.
If she could get away from here and into the US, she could have a normal life, or at least what she thought was normal.
Where she didn’t have to watch every word she said for fear of someone’s temper.
That was her dream. It might be a fantasy for the rest of her life, but she would harbor the dream for as long as she could.