The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (7)

New York City, six years later, would not be claimed by Marimar. It was not a place that could be claimed, though many tried. New York seemed to reject her like she was the wrong blood type. She’d been mugged twice before she learned to fight back and discovered that when someone didn’t like you, they’d tell you to your face. When she’d started working at sixteen, she realized she couldn’t keep a job. There was something about her that her employers didn’t like after a while. Things would start off fine. She’d say the right things, go above and beyond. Then, like clockwork, after three months or so, something flipped. Suddenly, she was too pretty, too ugly, too smart, too dim, too short, too quiet, too loud, too—everything, and not enough at the same time. There was always a reason. Once, a manager at the college bookstore told her she was distracting paying customers because people came in just to look at her.

Marimar was stunning like her mother, with hair that fell in rippling dark waves and framed impossibly dark eyes. Brows that were once bushy and would be on trend years later. A nose that had been deemed “?ata” by her grandmother, though she’d never explained the meaning. Small but round at the tip and a little flat. It made her look too young. Button-like. Her skin was the brown of hazelnut shells and running up and down her arms and across her chest were beauty marks in the same pattern as her mother and grandmother.

Sometimes Marimar felt like there was this hole inside of her, amorphous like the negative impression of a tumor. When she was in Four Rivers, she didn’t notice it as much. New York made her notice it for sure. Maybe it was that everyone in this city could see right through her, see the parts of her that were incomplete. Maybe it wasn’t New York’s fault. Maybe she wasn’t unlucky, cursed like Tía Parcha liked to claim. Maybe Marimar just needed to figure out how to accept that this is who she is—a girl with missing pieces.

At least here she didn’t stick out like she had in Four Rivers, where she’d gone to school with seventeen boys named John and thirty-two Mary-Somethings. Even she was, technically, a “Mary Something” too. People thought it was Mari-Mar. María of the sea. But her mother had meant “mar y mar.” Sea and sea.

Why had her mother named her that, of all things? Why hadn’t she asked when she had the chance?

When she returned to Four Rivers, she’d have to try and find out.

Marimar was nearing Rey’s office building but couldn’t quite let go of the pent-up breath in her chest. Part of it was the invitation to attend a funeral for a woman who was, by her understanding, still alive. Part of it was just an effect of walking these streets.

At that moment, her Walkman fritzed and when she opened the battery cover, found they were oxidized. She walked the rest of the way in silence. Turned left on Sixty-Fifth Street, panting, a cold sweat matting her baby hairs against her temples. The city glittered before her in multicolored lights and shadows, and a strange sense of longing washed over her. As hard as it was, she had fallen in love with this city, and wanted New York to love her back. To be just a little bit easy. If she went back to Four Rivers, maybe she would never get the chance.

She pressed the button to her cousin’s offices, assuring herself that yes, New York would be waiting for her when she got back.

But didn’t she know? New York waits for no one.



* * *



Reymundo Montoya Restrepo was supposed to be alone in the office all night but was interrupted by the familiar, haunting squeak of the mail cart’s wheels. He blinked weary eyes at the red digital clock on his desk that read it was just past midnight, then looked up to see Paul the Intern making a beeline for him.

“You’re still here?” Rey asked, his voice groggy from misuse.

“Mr. Leonard said that I should always be around in case someone needs my help,” Paul said.

His name wasn’t actually Paul—that was the name of an intern from five years prior. Paul had been an intern for about three years, the longest in the accounting firm’s history, mostly because he loved being an intern but also because he was so terrified of Mr. Leonard that he’d never remind him that his six months were up. One day Paul, with his mousey brown hair and milk-white skin, was hospitalized from stress and burnout and never returned. The next day there was a new intern, hired by Leonard’s secretary. That second intern had walked into Leonard’s office determined to make a name for himself, to be distinct, to impress the man whose eyes were always so glued to his computer and papers that they were shrinking every year.

“Heya, Paul,” Leonard had said in a Brooklyn accent so thick you needed a pizza cutter to slice it. “Take these to Jasmine, and don’t forget I take six sugars and half-and-half in my coffee. I think you forgot yesterday because it tasted like I rinsed my mouth with an ashtray.”

“Yes, Mr. Leonard,” the young boy said, and so was born an infinite number of Paul the Intern.

Rey had once been Paul the Intern, but he’d changed that after he put in the required six months. He’d asked Jasmine the secretary to put him in as Mr. Leonard’s 1 p.m. interview. Maybe no one had thought of doing that before, but Leonard looked up.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Rey Montoya, I just finished my internship and I’m here to apply for a full-time position.”

Leonard watched him with his beady eyes, moving around like a crab’s. His wide mouth became even wider, showing teeth yellowed by red wine and cigarettes. “Montoya, eh? Oh, you killed my father, prepare to die.”