What had I done? Whatever it was, I hadn’t intended to be a nuisance, which I clearly was being.
Rena reached my side, leaned down, and spoke softly. “Anna, you have mud all over you.”
I hadn’t realized that with every step I took, I had accidentally flipped mud onto the back of my skirt and blouse. By the time we reached the car, my entire backside was covered in mud.
“O-oh no!”
“You’re not getting in my car with all that mud on your clothes.” Dad spat out the words, then glanced around us for a solution to the problem. “Rena, fix this.” And with that, he trod off to a little café on the main road.
“I’m so sorry!” I began to sob.
“Don’t cry. We’ll wash it off. Don’t worry.” She handed me a handkerchief, and I dabbed the corner of each eye. Rena dragged me all over that little town until we found a house whose owners allowed us to use a chopped-off piece of rubber hose attached to an outdoor spigot in back. Rena hosed off the mud, but that still left me all wet. I had to turn my blouse and skirt around so I could sit on the driest part of my clothing to avoid ruining the seat of the car. That meant I stared at the wet, mud-stained back of my outfit all the way home. Doing so relieved me somewhat —it seemed like penance for being such a bother. I felt certain my father would never ask me to accompany him on another mission trip.
My father had many meetings during his stay in Catemaco. Couples or burly, rough-looking men came to the house regularly, and Antonia showed them to the bedroom where Dad continued to write at the desk. The rest of us went about life and work as usual, the only real difference being that we saw Dad when he occasionally emerged from the bedroom. But he never acted like Rafael did when he gathered his daughter on his lap, cuddled her, and called her “Rosita,” the endearing form of her name. I didn’t feel an affinity for my father like I had hoped I would. Yes, I wanted to please him, but that was more out of a need for self-preservation than anything else. Plus, he had far more important work to do —writing sermons and keeping his followers in line.
One day Antonia caught me listening at the bedroom door where my father was conducting a meeting. “Anna? Don’t you have work to do? I guess you must have already finished your chores if you have time to stand around waiting for your father and eavesdropping on his meetings. For shame! If you don’t have enough to keep you busy, I can come up with additional chores for you. Come with me.”
I mumbled an apology and followed her to the kitchen. She opened the small window, and a light breeze greeted us. I wondered why we didn’t keep the window open all day. She handed me a can of evaporated milk and asked me to open it.
“Yes, Antonia.” Since we didn’t have a can opener, I dragged the step stool in front of the refrigerator, where she kept the hammer we used, along with a knife, to open cans. I grabbed the hammer from the top of the fridge and pulled it toward me. When I did, the claw of the hammer hooked on a bit of a broken plate sitting on top of the fridge. As the dish fell, it slashed the side of my left calf. Blood gushed down my leg, then my ankle, and onto the stool.
I stepped off the stool immediately, grabbed a rag off of the counter, and tried to stop the bleeding. Though I knew she’d be furious with me, I finally called out, “Antonia, I’m hurt, and I need your help.”
Antonia washed the blood from the rag and held it to the cut once more. I hopped on one foot to a chair at the dining table, and Antonia pulled another chair close enough for me to prop up my hurt leg. She leaned over and examined the wound. “It’s pretty deep. Stay here.”
Moments later, Rafael returned with her to take a look at the cut and offer his opinion. Between them, they decided I needed only a “butterfly” bandage. Antonia cut an adhesive strip, shaping it into a butterfly shape, and placed it over the wound. Based on the depth and length of the gash, even I knew I needed stitches. I didn’t see how such a small bandage would be able to hold the two pieces of skin together, especially on this moving part of my body. But taking me to the doctor was not an option. That cost money and took time we didn’t have. I would just have to hope for the best.
Later that afternoon, Antonia approached me as I sat at the kitchen table copying from my book, my leg throbbing from the pain of the gash. “Anna, here are a few pesos.” She opened her hand to show me the coins. “I need you to run to the pharmacy.”
I lifted my face toward hers and beamed. Antonia understood. She acknowledged my pain and the fact that I needed medicine so the cut wouldn’t get infected. They still weren’t sending me to the doctor to get stitches, but this simple acknowledgment meant so much to me. She must actually care about my welfare.
“Anna, are you listening to me? I need you to go pick up some aspirin. Your father has a terrible headache. He’s been writing all day, and he can hardly see straight because of the pain. You need to hurry. Can you do that?”
“What?” I stared at her in disbelief. I slowly came to realize that neither she nor anyone else in that house cared about the gash on my leg. She had already forgotten about my gaping wound, further confirming that my needs were unimportant and not likely to be acknowledged.
“Anna!” Antonia pressed the pesos into my hand. “Run! Run fast, and bring back the medicine for your dad!” I heard the urgency in the sound of her voice.
I limped down the concrete steps from our second-floor apartment and down to the dirty street that kicked up dust into my open wound, past the houses where I’d pounded on doors day after day trying to sell painted rocks and slices of cake. My mind raced. I had a gash on my leg the size of a stick of gum, with nothing but a tiny strip holding the two pieces of flesh together.
Antonia’s words echoed in my brain, “Run fast, and bring back the medicine for your dad!” Did my dad know that Antonia would send me to the store to get something for his headache? Did he even know my leg had a gaping wound that was getting dirtier by the minute? If he knew, he must not care. I couldn’t be very important to him. And after listening to Rafael go on about my father’s greatness, I knew I existed only for the greater good of the kingdom of the prophet Ervil LeBaron. Still, that thought was more tolerable than believing I was only a nuisance and a bother.
MORNING DAWNED with the promise of another scorching hot day, offering no relief from the oppressive trifecta of Mexican heat, sun, and humidity. The air was stifling, limiting our breath and energy. Still, chores beckoned. We couldn’t wait for pleasant temperatures or a cloudy day to work.