American Chica_ Two Worlds, One Childhood - Marie Arana [121]
“You know what this is?” I said one day, waving a little flask in her face.
“Perfume?” she ventured, and quite reasonably, since a golden liquid was in it and the image of a blossom on its side.
“Wrong!” I said. “It only looks like perfume. It’s a magic potion. My father brought it from Peru. One drink of this stuff and I have special powers. I can summon ghosts, witches, spirits. Anyone you’d like me to bring back from the dead?”
“How about Edgar Allan Poe?” she said excitedly.
“Poe, it is,” I said, and smacked my lips in anticipation.
“How will I know you’ve summoned him?” Kit asked, superbly rational creature that she was. “Will I get to see him?”
“Oh,” I said, rolling my eyes and thumping the bedspread under me, “believe me, you’ll know when I see him. Trrrrrrrust me, you’ll know. This is powerful stuff. Straight from the jungle. My father went down the Amazon to get it. In a canoe! Bought it himself from a cannibal.” I think she believed me. I could see it in the wide black of her eyes.
It was true that my father had bought it for me. He had wandered into a little Latino mercado in Manhattan. Orange-blossom perfume. Agua de azahar.
I twisted off the tiny gold cap and raised the vial to my lips. An intense sweetness flooded my nostrils. I put my tongue to the rim. It was bitter. I thought twice about taking the lie too far, but then the romance of my remarkable powers overtook me. I squeezed my eyes shut and guzzled the contents down.
“Oh!” Kit said, and her hand flew to her throat.
“Oh!” I said, and flung the bottle onto the bed. The liquid was burning its way down my gullet; I had no problem pretending convulsions. I clutched the bedspread behind me and arched my back in a serpentine curve. When I snapped to, I bounced on my haunches like a demented monkey. I bared my teeth, growled, and goggled maniacally over the top of Kit’s head. “It’s him!”
“Where?” she screeched, and jumped around to face the wall behind her.
“No!” I cried. “Over there! In the window!” and I stumbled my way there from the bed.
As I went past her, I could see that Kit’s face was red, her eyes terrified. She staggered back.
“Do you see?” I screamed, and, somehow, I actually pictured Poe’s sallow face hovering outside my window, his hair in wild disarray. “Aaaaayeeeeee!” I wailed, and pointed to the disembodied head. “It’s coming in!”
Suddenly, Kit bolted from the room, and, paralyzed with fear, I chased after. We scurried downstairs, squealing and jumping, throwing our arms around each other in the radiant light of the hall. “Did you see him?” I panted, my trachea burning from the full ounce of perfume that had wended its way through it.
“I think so,” said Kit. “Yes, I saw him. I did.”
“Oh, Mareezie,” my mother said, coming out from the living room, smiling and shaking her head. “I can see you two have been housebound too long. You’re playing your ghost games, aren’t you? Why don’t you bundle up and I’ll take you to the rink, let you air out awhile?” We shook our flushed faces vigorously and ran to pack up our skates. If there was one thing better than a scare, it was speeding like a demon over ice.
Hard water. My first time on it, I’d been gawky as a toucan on marble, my knees splaying out over my blades. But before long, I had straightened my cap, pushed off the chain-link, swung my arms out, and sailed the ice free, making my mother’s eyes dance. She loved to watch me skate. That night, while we spun around the rink, she sat in the car, elbows propped on the steering wheel—a cigarette in her hand, a grin on her face—her collar pulled high to her ears. I watched her watch me, turning to see her over my shoulder, feeling the pride and alcohol in me, thinking my chest would burst.
One evening not too long after that, we were driving home from the rink alone, when Mother pointed to the side of the road. A woman was navigating the curb on her toes, hugging her body, waving at us