2. Maricela
“You need to come and eat something , moya krosa,” Marusya, one of the Ukrainian women, tells me.
Most of them don’t like photographers or journalists, but Marusya doesn’t mind. She grew to like me for some reason.
Marusya and many other women here are why people say that Ukrainian women are the most beautiful in this part of Europe.
Her long blond hair whooshes behind her in a long, heavy braid, making her angelic facial features pop. She’s stunning. Her gray fur coat wraps around her body elegantly, while there isn’t a drop of makeup on her face.
When she told me she was forty, I refused to believe her. She looks so much younger and untouched by the cruelty of war.
Right now, her lips are curving up. Making her look like a rare picture of joy. Like one I have captured before. Her warm smile that reminds me of a simple woman who sang when she made bread. I shake my head as I can almost hear Marlina singing the words of Alejandro Sanz, which probably makes Marusya think I reject her suggestion of food.
She’s not wrong. Food was a source of joy for me once, but not now. No matter how good it is, it’s just sustenance for my body.
“Thanks,” I say. “I need to call my family first, and then I’ll be right with you.”
I hang the camera around my neck, letting its weight comfort me as I start toward the rooms that were provided to us.
We could have stayed in a secure hotel with the rest of the team, but if there’s one thing I learned in these past four years, it’s that people will like you, trust you, and divulge more information if they can relate to you.
Therefore, Miriam and I took it upon ourselves to mingle with the people as much as we could. She’s the talker, while I’m the quiet presence that documents it all from behind the lens.
“I made some good Borshtand Pelmeni.”
I’ve grown to love the Ukrainian and Russian simple yet unique cuisine.
Well, most of it. Some of the salads and dishes are too much for my Latin-American taste buds. Pod-Shuba, a salad with Hering, vegetables, and a lot of mayonnaise, is too much for me for sure, my love for seafood notwithstanding.
“Save me some.” I smile warmly.
“It’s good you speak to your family. My Leyosha hasn’t called for seven days already. He is busy fighting.”
She doesn’t speak about her family in Russia. She has a brother and an uncle who live there, and they speak once a week. It’s strange how people think about war.
I thought I would see destruction everywhere I went and where the marks of war stain the ground with red. It isn’t like what we see in movies.
People are more cautious around others. Shops are open, most children go to school, and yet, strangely and tragically enough, they have a routine.
A sick routine in which one might hear that a friend or a family member died on the field, but in the midst of mourning, they must keep going.
Kiev is full of such a routine. I see people smiling from one side of the road and crying from the other. People might say it’s because there’s a war in Europe, a war between civilized people, which is ludicrous.
Wars are not about the people themselves. Their leaders have sent them here to make the rich richer and the poor poorer.
There is nothing civilized about it.
I enter the room I share with Miriam, bypassing the stairs to reach my room in two strides in the Kommunalka.
The place is a big building once owned by some wealthy person before Lenin and then Stalin created what we know as the Soviet Union. A full family used to live in a big room, sharing it with other people. The dream of equality disguised as what we know as status and power.
It didn’t work, and not because of the common people, but because power always rises.
The walls are decorated in a horrible green shade that was common in the era. It seems like a giant constructed the windows, as they’re spacious but have an exaggerated height.
The pillows are bigger than what I have ever seen, and the beds are not small by anyone’s standards, and yet it’s modest. Old but well-preserved. I like this place, as I do the people.
Miriam is out, probably fishing for any information from the soldiers nearby.
Miriam is the journalist here while I take the pictures, which is one of many news locations Maverick owns. Well, in actuality, Maricela Fernandez doesn’t take pictures.
She’s gone.
Obliterated by the man she thought loved her, by her sister, by a monster.
Jimena Juarez, however, exists.
I had to change my name in order to be invisible to those back in the US and stay that way any time I return. Something I’ve done only two times in the past four years and unwillingly. I could have changed my hair color or used contact lenses, but I didn’t care for the idea.
Liar, you wanted him to find you.
To negate the things he did to you.
To avenge you.
I shake my head. I don’t want those things.
My homeland became my worst nightmare. Serena and I haven’t spoken once since I disappeared.
For all my sister knows, I might have died that same day. But then, my fate is of no concern to her.
I shake my head, refusing to think about any of that.
My clothing is scattered all over the place. I’ve never learned how to be organized. War zone or not. Miriam’s side, however, is clean to the point of being sterile.
Her Kindle is lying on her perfectly made bed, and I don’t see a stitch of her clothing anywhere, and I know for a fact that she has a lot more belongings than I do.
Miriam is a former army brat. Her whole family is in the army. Yet, she chose journalism as a way of rebellion. Never mind that she found herself in a war zone. She’s also more cordial, sympathetic, and kind than I could ever be.
People confide in her and rarely pay much attention to me. Just as I want it. We’ve worked together for two years out of the four I gave to Maverick as his anonymous photographer. Nobody knows who Jimena is.
As for my relationship with Miriam, we’re friendly enough. She tries to learn as much as she can about me while I keep everything under wraps and ask no questions. I think she has finally learned to respect that about me.
I’m not looking for any kind of relationship with people. Not anymore. The only reason I keep in touch with my friends from New York is because of Ronen.
He happened to be at the hospital visiting someone when my life shifted, and he saw me at my lowest moment. After the doctors tended to my external wounds as best they could, Ronen took me to his place and saved me.
In the darkest days, when I can hear the evil words of the wolf monster, I wonder why Ronen bothered.
I don’t have people who need me. My family is nonexistent. As a wanderer in this vast world, my focus is on capturing the most despicable side of humanity in my photographs.
I throw myself on the enormous bed, coat and all, moaning loudly the second my back meets the stiff mattress, then drop the camera beside me, not bothering to get up and put it in the bag where it belongs.
This is not the worst place I’ve stayed since leaving the US. Africa is a whole different thing. And yet, I loved the place. The people there are unique and full of insight the Western world will never reach.
As predicted, my Zoom app reminds me of my weekly meeting. I enter the group chat, anticipating seeing Ronen, Raven, and Julian smiling at me. But the second I connect, I know.
I just know something is terribly wrong.
Raven’s clear blue eyes are red-rimmed. Even through the camera, I can see the vessels in them popping from what I assume were tears.
Ronen doesn’t look at me with understanding or pity that he tries to hide.
It’s much worse.
He refuses to look at me at all, his hands searching for the longer hair that isn’t there anymore, no matter that his sister is in remission thanks to his money.
And Julian, the goofiest person I have ever known, opens and closes his mouth again and again as if he can’t speak.
It’s about him. It has to be.
“Did he die? Just tell me it was fast.” I don’t mean to say the last part out loud.
And yet, somehow, the beating organ in my chest prays for it to be the case.
God forgot about me from the first day on this earth. My expectations for myself are minimal. I do, however, still hope for the best for him. I always have. Pathetic as it might be.
They don’t need me to say the name. I don’t dare to speak it out loud. No matter how many times I could have looked for signs of him on the internet, I never have.
Even my wandering fingers protected me from more pain. But somehow, I thought I would know if something happened to him.
I thought I would sense it no matter where in the world I was because just knowing he exists is the last thread that connects me to this world in the most fucked up way.
I have dreamed about the day I would stop breathing, knowing he wasn’t part of this world as well.
“Killian is alive,” Raven replies, her words barely spoken above a whisper.
Four years of not hearing that name. His name. A name that gave me everything I had and smashed it to smithereens.
But if he didn’t die... I gasp.
The silence in the room becomes deafening as if the world has stopped moving and then started again.
My world stops shifting at its access again as realization hits the pit of my stomach, trying to reach the torn strings of my soul and send a fatal signal to the caged organ between my ribs.
“No, no, no,” I think I say aloud.
My hand begins to shake, and the phone falls to the bed. I pick it up, still shaking all over. The room, once warm, and the coat on my skin might as well be nothing but icicles.
“Mari,” my sweet Raven continues with a choked voice, “Santino...killed Serena. He killed her and then committed suicide.”
The tears that gather in my best friend’s eyes, undoubtedly again, do nothing for me. My tear sockets dried out like the Sahara Desert, but unlike the biggest desert in the world, I didn’t try to seek a drop of water to save my broken soul. I just withered away with no hope whatsoever.
For the longest time, all I hear is the sobs of my friend. How lucky she is to be able to display her pain for all the world to see.
I remember Miriam telling me that her brother lost his arm in the war but that he could feel pain where it once was attached to his body as if it was still there.
Phantom pain, she called it. I couldn’t relate.
I lost my ability to feel anything, including pain, in a snippet of time on that ungodly day.
Raven and Julian don’t know the truth of all that happened that day.
They can’t.
All they know is about a video that wracked my soul because of a bitch that wanted what was promised to her. I can’t stand the idea of them feeling sorry for me, too. So, I let them think that what Lila did was what ruined me.
It did, to think that he used me as a pun, that his hands and smiles were a lie were enough to ruin my belief in humanity and love, but his father branded my skin, leaving me a shell.
“You need to come back, sweetheart,” Ronen says now.
Sweet-fucking-heart. Ronen has given me too many kind nicknames since the day every bone in my body broke next to what was left of my soul with the useless goal of survival. He keeps looking for the emotions he knows for a fact are not there.
I just know he’s searching for pain. He’s big on me breaking down again. Not a fucking chance.
I exist, nothing more, nothing less.
Ronen made me promise him I would not take my life, saying that to do such a thing would allow him to win. What Ronen doesn’t understand is that he already did.
“Mari, sweetie. You’re needed at home,” Ronen tries again.
I need to go back. I need to go home.
To see him. Them.
I shake my head, annoyed that he’s the first one that comes to mind.
It’s always him. No matter what he did, no matter what happened after that.
No, Maricela, don’t you fucking dare. The wolf monster can’t touch you anymore.
Ronen probably interprets the shake of my head as a refusal to his words because he says, “You’ll regret it if you don’t come back. The kids have nothing to do with their actions. Those babies did nothing wrong.”
Julian glances at Raven before looking back at me and asking, “One day, you two will tell us what happened, won’t you?”
Raven is still crying, her tears silent now. The sweet soul that loves everyone hurts because of my loss.
My loss. Another one added to the fucking count.
But the mention of my niece and nephew has me shaking all those thoughts out of my head.
“I have to speak with Miriam, but I’ll come as soon as I can. It will likely take me two days. Is someone with the kids?”
“Mari?”
Raven’s attempts to gain a reaction out of me are futile. I had four years of perfecting the art of nothingness.
It’s simple, really. No matter what happens around me, I am untouched. A being that lacks a soul.
“Is someone with the kids?” I ask again.
Since I left, Serena gave birth to the newest of the Fierro clan, her second child. A boy. As I refused to do with him, I could have looked her up to see how she was doing. I didn’t.
Her words wounded me more than any gash the wolf monster left on my skin. Serena didn’t want me. She never loved me. I tried to see the reality through her eyes.
My thread of life took her mother away because of preeclampsia, which in some cultures is called the poisoning of birth.
How fitting.
I poisoned my mother with my life. And killing my first parent became the demise of the other. My father succumbed to the bottle, which made him brutal to me and my sister.
I understand Serena’s hate. I don’t blame her.
So, I stopped caring altogether. All I know about the kids is that they exist. The sister I loved and worried about more than myself stopped caring about me long ago, and I didn’t even know it.
My late sister. Mierda. My fucking dead sister had another kid about eight months ago, who I’ve never met.
“They’re with my mom and dad,” Julian answers, using a voice I never heard him direct at a person, let alone me. It’s filled with pity, and if I could master the old Maricela to live, I know I would hate it. “Killian and the deviants are on their way home from Japan as we speak.”
Julian tells me where he is, even though I didn’t ask. Nodding once in acknowledgment, I let my friend know I heard him.
“The coach can let me go home for a few days,” Julian suggests.
And I know he would. Julian is a kind soul. He’s the brightest of us all. Even in these past four years, Juli tried to make me smile at each opportunity he could, speaking about his sports, Marlina’s cooking, and anything that could bring me back.
He failed, but now, as always, what ties my hands is another death to the count.
“No need,” I say, as they expect of me. “Marlina can take care of the kids. I trust her.”
The raw truth is that I don’t trust even myself these days. What happened four years ago was just the beginning of shaping this unfeeling woman, but the last few years of witnessing pure evil sealed the deal.
The old Maricela had some resemblance of optimism in her, but witnessing the atrocities of humankind thoroughly jaded what is left of her. Now, I just exist with no actual goals.
“I’ll come as soon as I can,” I say again. “See you in two days, I think. But I need to speak with Miriam first.”
As soon as I end the video call, Miriam enters the room as if summoned.
I avert my gaze. Long used to my obtuseness, she doesn’t mind. Miriam has been the only person to have any substantive personal contact with me over the last two years.
Maverick, my photography teacher and now my boss, found himself a Stanford wife, and he’s a family man now. All his teachings about the poor were fake, just like the man himself. To this day, I recall how he looked down on the rich just because he wanted the same status for himself.
He took the administration side upon himself and wanted me front and center. Miriam, however, was always respectful of my boundaries and my refusal to appear on camera. She repeatedly held Maverick at bay when he swore that my face would make him millions. Oh, yeah. The man who hated the rich so much is richer than dirt himself now.
“The women are calling us for food,” Miriam says, pushing her tight black curls into my face, looking all confused and intrigued as her gaze flicks back and forth between my open suitcase and me.
Miriam is beautiful in a classic way. Her heart-shaped face and gray-blue eyes give her an exotic appearance. She is much taller than me, too, which makes me think of Raven every time Miriam stands next to me.
Raising a brow, she says, “We have two more weeks here before we leave. What are you doing, Jimena?”
I don’t blame her for being confused. After all, I am the one who hates to return to US soil.
“My sister died. I need a leave of absence.”
I move away, not looking at Miriam as I speak, gathering the shirts and pants from around my side of the room and tossing them into the suitcase that is always on the ready. In fact, some of my things are still inside.
“Oh, my God. Jimena, I am so sorry. I’ll call Maverick.” She doesn’t get close, knowing by now that I’m not big on touch.
“No need. I’ll see him in New York. Could you check on a flight for me?”
Actually, I have no intention of seeing that asshole. I work as a freelancer, so I don’t have to answer to him. It was one of my stipulations.
Miriam’s soft, long fingers stop me as I rush around the room, making me look at her.
“It’s okay to show pain, you know. And you will not fly alone in this condition. I’m going with you.”
I nod. “All I need is to take flight. I’ll have time to break then.”
Another lie.
“That’s something I can respect. Let’s take care of the flight arrangements, then.”
And so, my destiny shifts again.
Only this time, I know I’m making the wrong choice.
But then, what more do I have to lose?