Chapter 23
Alejandra
The second day of Dia de Los Muertos arrives with a quiet reverence. As we approach the altar that night, the first candle Ernesto lit is already burned out. Camilla grips my hand tightly, her little face set in that serious expression she wears each time I explain a new part of the tradition.
“In Coco, if nobody remembers a person, they disappear forever-poof like dust,” she mimics a mini explosion with her two hands, her voice so small and tight. “Ale. We have to make sure my Mommy knows we remember her. So she doesn’t disappear forever.”
These past two days, I’ve found myself breaking pieces of my own heart just to keep Camilla’s intact.
I crouch down and pull her into my side.
“As long as I’m here, chiquita, I’ll make sure we never let your mommy be forgotten.
In fact, it’s one of the most beloved Mexican traditions.
It reminds us that we should honor our family in life and the afterlife. ”
The thirtieth passes similarly; another candle is lit, along with food and water set out. For the past two days, Camilla has found several ways to honor Elena. Yesterday, she brought a small, sparkly seashell from her trip to Malibu and placed it, oh so gently, beside Elena’s photograph.
Today, as she rearranges the flowers on the Ofrenda, she’s humming a lullaby. One I recognize from when Consuelo sings to Camilla as she’s bathing or putting her to bed. Consuelo once told about how Elena sang it while she was pregnant with Camilla.
Tonight is a little different as we’re joined by a fourth.
Consuelo walks out to the garden; her usual quick steps are slow, and her usual smile is missing, replaced by sadness and tears.
In her hands, she carries a small, framed photograph of a young man in a crisp military uniform, his smile proud and confident.
It’s her son. She’s only ever spoken to me about him once.
A military hero, she said, they called him–with bitterness in her tone.
Apparently, having only joined the military to get Consuelo and himself citizenship in this country.
Consuelo glances towards me, a silent request for permission, and I nod.
She places the photo on the lower tier of the altar, her hand trembling slightly as she smooths a finger over the glass.
Every day, Ernesto watches from a distance; tonight is no different, even with Consuelo here.
Yesterday, I saw him watching from the kitchen window, today he’s standing motionless on the patio—his hands in his pockets.
Always watching like a King holding court over his lands, detached but always vigilant.
But when it's time to light the next candle, to perform the ritual itself, he always appears. Materializing at my side, his presence was a solid but silent wall of stoic self. He doesn’t speak–not since the first night– but he stands with us.
Tonight, when Ernesto lights the candle, four souls stand together, silent, and grieving, as a family.
Sunday, October 31st, begins with a different kind of ritual.
Getting dressed for a church service. As I brush my damp hair, Ernesto emerges from the closet, buttoning up a crisp white shirt, his movements so precise and all business.
The man who broke down last night is gone. The cold CEO stands in his place.
"Are you seriously going to work? It's a Sunday." The question comes out sharper than I intended.
"Work never stops." He doesn't look at me as he answers, his focus on the knot of his tie.
"How many Sundays have to go by that I have to remind you it's the Lord's day. Not just that, it's a day to spend with your family.” I’m suddenly scared that this man has his workers at the office on a Sunday.
“Dear God, I hope you don't have other people going in to work too.
Que Dios tenga compasión por ti, Ernesto.
De verdad que es una desgracia tu vida."
He meets my gaze through the mirror, flat and dismissive, as always. "I'm not a religious man, Alejandra. Everything I have is because of me, not because of some floating man in the sky."
"It’s not about the ‘man in the sky’. Going to misa has been part of our culture for years.
” I explain as I’m walking toward him, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet.
"Unless you’re afraid to burst into flames the second you set foot into the church.
Then, we can just worry about placing you on the Ofrenda next year.
” I pat his chest and smile sweetly at him, “I thought the big and bad Ernesto Damos was all about family traditions and all that jazz.” I don't care to hear what else he has to say, as I turn and leave him there, standing in front of the mirror, and leave to get Camilla ready.
Fifteen minutes pass as Consuelo, Camilla, and I head to the lobby. Camilla is wearing a frilly white dress with a blue ribbon that matches my dress. The three of us are chatting away, trying to decide where we'll eat after mass, when I'm brought to a stop mid-sentence.
Standing by the massive double doors of the lobby is Ernesto.
He changed his suit to a navy blue one that matches not only Camilla's sash but also my dress. Now, who’s matching who, Mr. Damos?
His hands are in his pockets, just waiting for us.
He doesn't bother looking at me, but he does look at his daughter.
"Papi!" Camilla yells as she runs ahead of us and jumps into her dad's arms.
Now, he looks over her head, his beautiful light brown eyes meeting mine. His expression offers no explanation for the sudden change of heart.
The four of us head to church together as a family—a fractured one, but a family nevertheless.
The two hours at mass pass with an unexpected normalcy.
We sit at a pew near the middle, Ernesto's next to feels like a solid warm delight–not really–but he has all the ladies around us smiling and whispering.
He doesn't pray or sing along, but he does stand when we stand, all while holding Camilla's hand and never letting her go.
Five o'clock rolls around, and now it's a whole different world. The sacredness of the church is now gone and replaced by the chaos Halloween night brings.
We ate after mass and came straight home. I needed to finish putting the finishing touches on Camilla's costume, and Ernesto said he needed to take some calls from his brother—otra vez encerrado en su cueva.
All anyone sees is flashes of red and gold as Camilla causes chaos inside the mansion. Her Elena of Avalor costume includes a scepter and she keeps running up to the staff and yelling BLAZE! I might have a little future arsonist on my hands, Dios santo.
As for me, I decided to go as my favorite unofficial Disney princess—goddess, maybe?
She did get with Hercules. Meg has been my favorite Disney character since I can remember.
The costume wasn't hard to put together, a purple toga and a corset work wonders on my figure.
Both Camilla and I are wearing ponytails because that's all this step-mama knows how to do. High, 90's ponytails at that.
I look out the window, and I can tell it's getting late, so we all head down to the garden for our nightly ritual at the ofrenda.
We gather once again in the garden as the sun is setting, painting the sky in beautiful strokes of orange and pink.
Ernesto joins us a few minutes after as we set the food down.
A concha and Cafe de Olla for Consuelo's son and some tamales as well for Elena.
I know it's very generic pero we don't really know what she would have wanted, since Ernesto won't ever tell us anything about her.
We let Camilla light the candles tonight, and she does it with such reverence, like our own little priestess. The small flames from the candles dance, casting long shadows across the altar.
"Okay!" Camilla announces after she completes her ritual. "Now, can we go trick-or-treating?"
"Yes, Princess," I say, smiling. "Are you coming with us?" I ask Ernesto before he attempts to make his escape.
He raises an eyebrow, as if going out with us is some ludicrous idea.
"Yes!" Camilla answers on his behalf. She runs over to the patio table where I left a small bag of supplies. When she returns she hands me a palette of white face paint. "You can be a zombie, Papi!"
"Absolutely not," he states, shaking his head and backing away.
But Camilla, being his daughter, is her own force of nature, and he can't seem to command it. She looks up at him, her lower lip trembling and her eyes wide and pleading with unshed tears. The perfect puppy eyes. "But Papi…it's our first Halloween together, like a family."
Oh yeah, that'll do it.
She has this man wrapped around her little finger. He looks from his daughter's hopeful face to mine. I offer him a small but challenging smile. He knows he's trapped as he lets out a low, resigned sigh.
"Fine. Do your worst." Ernesto says as he crouches down, bringing himself to her level.
We spent about ten minutes working on his face.
Our laughter and his scolding, he says we're torturing him but he's just a big baby, echo in the garden.
White paint is smeared all over his face and some even on his suit, black smudges under his eyes, a fake trickle of blood to finish off his terrifying look of zombie CEO.
When we're done he takes his phone out of his pocket and looks at our work.
A ghost of a smile, a true and honest smile, appears on his lips.
We spend the next two hours walking the streets of the gated community.
A silent entourage of men in black suits and white faces–Hector and his team—follow at a discreet distance.
We ignore them and focus on the joy that is radiating from Camilla as she runs from house to house, her plastic pumpkin filling rapidly with candy.
I watch Ernesto, our zombie king, hold her hand as she makes her way through a particularly spooky porch display.
He doesn't smile but there's a softness in his eyes as he watches her.
At one point, Camilla stumbles, and Ernesto catches her, swinging her up into his arms. She giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder. He keeps walking on, carrying her as she points out the next house yawning.
I fall a step behind them, watching the two of them under the glow of the streetlights.
A man who rules a ruthless empire, his face painted like a monster, holding his daughter dressed as a princess, and me, the contracted wife, the woman who sold him her life, dressed as an unofficial princess—like the unofficial wife I am.
A sweet but sharp ache blossoms in my chest. I look at the two, this broken man and his beautiful little girl, and for a fleeting, dangerous moment, I let myself wonder.
I wonder what it would be like if this were real. If I truly belonged in this life with them. Not because of the contract, but because of love, something real to hold me to them.
What it would be like if I weren't just playing the part of mother and wife but actually living it. The thought is as dangerous as poison, a sweet but toxic fantasy that has no place in my reality.
But tonight, under the Halloween moon, surrounded by laughter and fake ghosts, it feels like a damning possibility.