Chapter 21
Alejandra
The two weeks that followed the Dia de los Muertos event were shrouded in an unsettling calm in the Damos household.
The fight between brothers, the release we found in each other that night in his home office–it all dissolved.
It’s as if a storm has passed, leaving behind a sky too clean, too bright, and yet too empty.
Ernesto has retreated into himself again.
He’s become a ghost in his own home. Once more, a man of sharp angles and clipped sentences.
I had seen small cracks in the walls he had around him, but now he’s rebuilt them higher, thicker, and colder than before.
Where there once had been a flicker of something volatile and possessive, there’s now only an empty void.
He moves through the house like a shadow, his immediate presence altering the atmosphere of every room he enters.
Our interactions have changed as well. When we could commune in the same room and hold at least a civil conversation, they are now sparse and only function to a point.
‘Pass the salt when we’re at dinner. Hector will take you when I need to be somewhere.
Camilla needs to be in bed by eight when he will be home late. ’
Our physical contact has also vanished. The only time his skin brushes mine is usually by accident, a brief, sterile touch that he would pull back immediately as if burned.
That raw and desperate hunger we’d shared, the friction that we’d ignited in his office, was gone.
He no longer looks at me; he looks through me, as if I were just another piece of the perfectly curated decor around the mansion.
I know that I shouldn’t have gotten comfortable in my role as his wife.
His coldness reminds me that I am his wife, but solely on paper, the mother figure for his child only when it's needed, and most importantly, the solution to his legal problem.
The small intimacy, however violent and transactional, is over.
I should be relieved, I tell myself, that it’s better this way, safer.
But in the quiet of our bedroom, I lie awake next to him and feel the phantom touch of his hand on my skin, the memory of his body pressed against mine, and I hate myself for missing a man who looks at me like I shouldn’t even exist.
Life has settled into a strange, suffocating routine.
Mornings are for Camilla, a whirlwind of glitter, storybooks, and giggled secrets.
Afternoons are for my “education”. Consuelo teaches me household essentials, Veronica is coaching me on the company's board members and how to woo them, and the severe woman with the bob continues her futile attempts to teach me the difference between fifty shades of white.
In two months, I have learned how to navigate this world of loud luxury.
When to smile at the right time to the right people, which fork to use for the salad and which for the entree, and, most importantly, to wear the Damos name like a heavy crown made of diamonds.
With my head held high and my back completely straight.
But as October bleeds into its final days, an old, familiar ache begins to surface.
I’m starting to feel the homesickness I have for my family and our traditions.
Dia de los Muertos is approaching, but not the corporate-sponsored spectacle you see around the American stores, but the quiet, sacred duty we have to our predecessors and ancestors.
I know I must ask Ernesto. Honestly, it isn’t a matter of fear; I don’t think he’ll refuse. It’s the principle of having to ask permission. In this house, my existence is conditional. My every move, even one as personal as honoring my dead, requires his sovereign approval.
Today is October 28th, the first official day of Dia de Los Muertos, and the air in the house feels different, charged.
Ernesto has remained his usual Grade-A asshole, but something has shifted.
Tonight, I find him in the library, the room he favors a lot more now than his home office.
He’s sitting in the worn leather armchair, a stack of files on the side table next to him, and a single lamp casts his face in warm light.
It takes me a long time to gather my courage. When I finally make my way into the room, he doesn’t look up from his writing, but I know he’s aware of me. He always is.
“Ernesto,” I say into the quiet room.
“What is it?” He responds as he continues his writing.
“Well…I was wondering. Dia de los Muertos starts in three days, and I wanted to ask if I could build an Ofrenda in the garden.” I brace myself for the cold dismissal I usually receive when I ask for something.
But he only looks up and stares at me, his expression is as if he’s questioning my intentions.
The silence stretches, and I feel the familiar tightening in my chest. He’s going to say no.
Damn it. He’s going to tell me it’s inappropriate, a disruption to the carefully manicured aesthetic of his home.
“Fine,” he answers, his voice flat, sounding almost bored by the idea. He returns to the file he was working on, the conversation already over for him.
“Fine?” I blink in surprise.
Ernesto puts down the pen, exasperated, and sighs loudly. “Yes, Fine. Do what you want. Just keep it out of the main house.” He waves a dismissive hand at me and goes back to the file once again. “I don’t care what you do. Take Hector with you if you need to go out.”
And that was that. Permission has been granted with an indifference that feels more insulting than a flat-out refusal. After that beautiful speech he made at the event two weeks ago, honoring this tradition, he says, ‘I don’t care. I stand there for another second, anger mixing with relief.
“Thank you,” I say, clearing my throat. I don’t know why this hurts so much if he’s given the okay, but I walk away before he can see the tears beginning to form in my eyes.
After breakfast, the first thing I did was call Kari up and tell her the good news.
“Oooo, so you got permission? For like a full-blown altar in the gucci of gucciest garden?” Her voice cracks over the phone with disbelief. Apparently, she too thought Ernesto would say no to me.
“Yes, ma’am, I did, and obviously, you know I’m going to need your help. I already have an expert in glitter application, aka Camilla. Still, I’m going to need help arranging the cempasúchil’s and sneaking in that cheap bottle of tequila my Nana Lupe always enjoyed.”
“Say no more! I’m on my way. Also, leave the cheap tequila for the living; the good stuff is for the ancestors. They’ve more than earned it.”
She’s right. I guess I can sneak a bottle of Rey del Sol’s collection from Ernesto’s home office. He has tons of them in there. I doubt he’ll notice one missing.
I give Kari the mansion's address and hang up. We have a lot to do today, and I need to finish it before Ernesto gets home and changes his mind.
For three hours, Hector-the imposing security lead with a neck like a redwood tree and the humor of a statue–has become my personal chauffeur and pack mule for the day.
We go from hardware stores in the valley to the vibrant, but chaotic, streets of my side of town.
I drag him through crowded boticas that smell of incense and dried herbs.
We stop at two different panaderias to order the perfect pan de muerto.
Hector didn’t complain once, just followed me silently.
Oddly enough, it was easy to get through the crowd at the tiangis because his presence alone made the crowds part for us.
A weird fondness has grown between Hector and me over these past few weeks. Hector has somehow become my unofficial helper. You would never believe it, but he dotes on me in his own gruff way. I’ve even learned how to differentiate his monosyllabic sounds.
An hour after we get home, a beat-up, bright yellow Honda Civic pulls up the long, winding driveway, looking absolutely out of place.
Hector, who materialized at the front door the moment the car breached the gate, stands with his arms crossed, his expression a mixture of suspicion and stone-faced professionalism.
Kari bounces out of the car, her arms full of grocery bags filled with sugar skulls, candles and a ridiculous amount of crafting material. She squeals as she runs up the stairs and embraces me in a tight hug. I know I just saw my best friend less than a week ago but I’ve missed her so much.
She breaks the hug, immediately turning her attention to the big, hulking man next to us.
“Damn boy, you got a permit for those arms, or are they considered concealed weapons?” she teases, giving Hector a wink.
Hector just blinks at her. For the first time since I’ve met him, he looks completely thrown off balance. He gives her an almost perceptible nod in her direction. “Ma’am.”
“Oh, he talks, and he’s a ma’am guy,” Kari loudly whispers to me as I guide us inside the house. Hector trails behind us like a silent shadow.
“I like him, Hector,” she tells me. “He’s like a grumpy, life-sized action figure. I dig it.” We laugh as I roll my eyes and make our way to the garden.
There’s a secluded corner of the garden that’s perfect for the Ofrenda. It has a flagstone patio that’s partially enclosed by a wall of trailing Jasmine. Also, far enough from the main house to feel private, but still visible from the floor-to-ceiling windows of Ernesto’s office and our bedroom.