GrowingOlderHopeWiser

La Casa was huge compared to what Isabel was used to. All she had known in her life were New York City apartments and crowded, bustling streets. This was so different. La Casa was a building unto itself, three stories tall with balconies overlooking the garden and the street up front. In the center courtyard, each floor had its own breezeway with wrought-iron banisters and huge, colorful planters filled with lush trees and tropical flowers spilling over the edges. A resplendent fountain sat in the middle of the courtyard, along with small wrought-iron tables with tiled tops.

Isabel’s eyes widened with each breath, drinking in the beauty of this exotic house. Pinching herself, she realized she was really going to live here, a far cry from the cramped apartment she had just left. She had only one small piece of luggage; she didn’t have much. She was starting over, rising from nothing. But this was different, like a dream, a good one. Not the nightmare she was living in the city.

Her cousin Matty showed her to her room on the third floor, bigger than any room she had ever had to herself. Even better than the pink princess bedroom she had before her nightmare. The furniture was large, with carved animals and flowers on the bed’s headboard. The walls were the color of marigolds, and flower paintings hung everywhere. There was a large mirror on the floor, leaning against the wall, where Isabel caught her reflection, still unbelieving that this was true. She still had dark circles under her eyes, leftovers from the nightmare. Great-Grandma was with her now, welcoming her with open arms, and the fear melted from her heart. It was going to be okay. 

Matty, help her put away her things in the big dresser. It was not much. Just one tiny corner of that huge dresser drawer. 

“You’ll get some new clothes soon,” Matty said.

Her older and wiser cousin, whom she had never met, seemed nice, Isabel thought. 

“Get ready for lunch. Juana has prepared a great meal for us. Meet you downstairs.”

Great-Grandma helped Isabel finish unpacking. The only toy she had was a plastic dollar-store doll she got for Christmas from the house of nightmares. It was the only good thing she got from them. The doll was on her shoes, on the floor, when she woke up on Christmas morning. No tree, no Christmas lights, no smell of suckling pig roasting in the oven. All her memories were what she had left in that house. And this sad plastic doll.

The dining room was another feast for the eyes. The table was set with colorful terracotta dishes featuring floral designs in blues, golds, and greens. There was a delicious-looking, aromatic, and exotic spread of unfamiliar foods. Isabel sat in one of the big chairs, her feet dangling. Great-Grandma sat next to her, then Matty and Aunt Matilde, a beautiful, elegant lady whom Isabel admired and watched as she made each graceful move. Don Bernardo entered the room, an impressive figure, tall and well-built, with a strong mustache, dark eyes, and wavy, slicked-back black hair. He sat at the head of the table. Juana and her daughter busied themselves serving the Tamales en Casuela, the lush corn tortillas made from scratch, along with a variety of salsas, green, red, spicy, and mild. Matty showed Isabel how to roll a tortilla like a big cigar, with all the delicious fillings inside. They had “Agua Fresca De Sandía” (Watermelon) and ice-cold beer for the Don. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Isabel noticed a boy her age running through the courtyard, wearing a golden cape and mask. She was intrigued by who he was. After lunch, she ran outside to the courtyard and caught Sandro, who was hiding behind a large planter. The afternoon sun had settled into a golden glow, casting light across the courtyard. 

“¿Quién eres?” Isabel caught herself saying in Spanish. 

“¡Soy Sandro, el Luchador de Oro!” The golden wrestler said Sandro.

Sandro stepped out from behind the planter and posed, flexing his skinny arms as if he had muscles. His skin was golden brown, glistening in the sunlight. 

“What do you look like, Sandro?” Inquired Isabel. He was still wearing a full-head golden mask; only his Caramelo eyes and his smile peeked out. 

“That is a secret. No one must ever know,” Sandro said, pressing a finger to his lips.

“I’m Isabel from America. May I play with you?” 

“Sí, bonita.” “Follow me”

Sandro opened his golden cape and began running around the courtyard, with Isabel following him as if she were chasing a golden eagle. 

Soon after Isabel settled, she was introduced to her new school, the fifth grade at a private school in Mexico City. Classes were taught in English for half the day and in Spanish for the other half. Isabel could speak Spanish but could not read or write, so Aunt Matilde arranged a tutor for her. 

Matty was in 8th grade and could not be bothered by Isabel, as Isabel soon found out. Sandro remained her only friend in that big house, which seemed to grow bigger each day. Isabel hung out in the servants’ quarters, where Sandro lived with his mother, Juana, and his older sister. It was warm and welcoming. In the big house, people seemed to enter and exit the rooms like living ghosts amid splendor that now felt empty and hollow. She was seldom spoken to, as if she were invisible. 

Occasionally, the family hosted large, elaborate parties with Mariachi bands and many guests. To Isabel, the floating strangers seemed not to touch the ground. On weekends, she was taken to Chapultepec Park in the center of the city, where she could ride her favorite white horse and sample treats from the food carts in the plaza. She made up songs to fill her emptiness. She became Sandro’s sidekick. He played the hero, and she the damsel in distress.

Matty grew envious of their friendship; her own relationships were superficial at best. She began with small comments, then escalated to serious accusations, prompting Aunt Matilde to end the friendship between Isabel and Sandro, saying it was not befitting for Isabel to socialize so closely with the servants. Heartbroken, Isabel became introverted, hiding behind the planters and not speaking to anyone. She even stopped writing songs. The beautiful house was a disguise. Which was worse, the nightmare she left behind or the hollowness of now? Where is happiness? she thought. 

She learned a few things that year in Mexico, and soon she focused on the wisdom she could draw from her experience. In some ways, she felt stronger and more resilient. When she returned to America, she was ready for her next phase. She learned how quickly our fates can change, what stays with you, and what goes. She learned to let go and to embrace and cherish what is present. However brief, every moment teaches and fosters growth. Sandro, glistening in the sunlight, will forever remain in her soul. 

“Sí, bonita, I am here”