“Are you sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”
I heard what Michael said, but my eyes were fixed on the dilapidated apartment building, stretched tall and dank against the cloudy sky. Brick and mortar never seemed more daunting than on this place. Not even children scurrying back and forth on skateboards and scooters made it appear any less awful. The air here wasn’t like that of the quaint part of Jersey that we’d left. This place smelled of cigarette smoke, filth from the nearby open manholes, and exhaust from old, overworked cars. A defeated atmosphere hung about, unwilling to dissipate as if it were some sort of permanent fog. There was no panic attack this time because I wasn’t afraid of my aunt’s home. I hated it.
After a while, I realized I hadn’t answered him so I took a deep breath and unlocked my car door. “Yeah. I won’t be long.”
I didn’t spare him a glance as I got out. Seeing his face would make me chicken out and want to stay there, or maybe beg him to drive me the hell out of here. I couldn’t do that. My mom deserved better.
I walked across the cracked sidewalk and into the courtyard that split the building into two sections. The building itself had four floors and last time I checked, hers was on the second. Part of me prayed that she wouldn’t still be living here but I knew my luck wasn’t that good.
I ascended the stairs and walked to Room 234, raising my fist to knock on the door. My hand hung in the air above the faded forest green paint for a long moment until I worked up the nerve. Two knocks. Nothing. Three, this time. Nada. Four knocks.
The ancient doorknob turned. I stepped back and stared into the face of Carmensita Durante.
Her eyes were grey, but not the same kind of grey as a cloudy sky. They were dark and dirty like cigarette ash. Smoke curled up from the lit coffin nail clutched in her bony hand. She hadn’t aged well. Her skin was yellowed from years of chain smoking and hung from her skull like a turkey’s jowls. Her hair was all grey and pulled into a tight bun. Her clothes were simple as always: pink blouse with a scoop neck, black skirt, and faded blue slippers. The only thing that had changed about Aunt Carmen’s demeanor was that she was shocked to see me.
“Hola, tia,” I said, shoving my hands in the pockets of my duster. My fingers wrapped around the rosary self-consciously. Sure, she wasn’t technically a demon, but there were plenty of times during my childhood that I thought her to be inhuman.
In mere seconds, the surprise trickled out of her aged face to be replaced with the same harsh stoicism I’d seen for years.
“Hola, chica. It’s been a long time, no?”
“Yes, it has.”
She tapped ashes from the end of her cigarette, crossing one thin arm beneath the other and taking a drag on the cig. “What do you want?”
I licked my lips, trying to figure out the most delicate way to ask. “I was at the psychiatric hospital looking for things about Mom. They said they forwarded the rest of her things to you. Can I take a look?”
Aunt Carmen stared at me for a long moment before blowing out a stream of smoke inches away from my left cheek. I didn’t flinch. She grunted at me and opened the door all the way. “Fine. Come in.”
I stepped inside and immediately shut down all my senses. Cigarette smoke permeated anything vaguely resembling oxygen in this apartment. To my surprise, a few things had changed. The old tan couch made of scratchy cotton had disappeared and a green couch sat in its place, though the usual stains and burn holes were there. A dirty glass table covered in magazines sat in front of it, reflecting images from the large TV propped up on a set of phonebooks nearby. The kitchen was to my right, but I could only see the fridge and part of the counter from where I stood. Past the den lay the bedrooms. I hoped she wouldn’t make me go back there to see her husband Rico, provided that he was even home.
Aunt Carmen brushed past me and grabbed a small glass from the coffee table that had an amber liquid in it. I didn’t even need to guess—Jose Cuervo. Her favorite kind of tequila. Such a charming woman.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to speak up. “Where are her things?”
She drained the glass and set it back down before answering. “It’s been eighteen years, chica. Do you really think I kept them all? I sold all her valuable stuff and threw the rest out with the garbage.”
Anger flared up my body so fast that I got dizzy. I clenched my hands into fists and reminded myself it was unwise to punch an old woman in the face, even if she deserved it. Instead, I just shook my head.
“Cold bitch,” I spat.
Her bony hand lashed out and hit my right cheek, leaving a patch of my skin stinging. It made me flinch, but not stumble.