“Well, I don’t know about that, but I can’t take sides, so let’s just leave it like that. God bless you for your help…”
Mila had recently written Mercedes a letter which included a brief mention of how abusive Apophis had always been, not only to her but also to their father and, in later years, even to Julia, his most ardent admirer.
Her voice message, not even an “I’m sorry that happened to you,” sounded as though she wanted to maintain control but couldn’t.
Her anger came across loud and clear.
And it was precisely that repressed rage that brought back recollections of odd mishaps Mercedes had claimed happened whenever Apophis was mentioned.
Recollections from when Mila was five and Mercedes was a budding, rambunctious teenager, loud at school, emboldened by Yvette, her even louder best buddy.
At some point, still at the Salaverry house, Mercedes gradually went from a good-natured, at times unruly child, to spending time alone. She drew beautiful pieces of ethereal women, faces from somewhere only she could see. She collected fan magazines and stayed in her room for hours on end.
“There she is, laying down. That’s all she knows how to do!”
Julia’s words, piercing as a razor, echo in their mind to this day.
In between evictions, the children were thrown out of the fancy schools their father had enrolled them in. Mercedes withdrew into her room, bothered by the most mundane things.
It was all attributed to her being “difficult.”
One of the lasting memories Mila has kept of Mercedes all these years is of watching Yvette help her climb onto the open back of a Jeep, the two of them laughing, full of purpose and possibility, heading off in pursuit of their grand idea to finish high school at night.
Soon after that, Yvette was never mentioned again.
Mercedes became reclusive, was allowed to drop out of high school, the drawings eventually stopped.
Apophis, just one year younger, roamed the streets late into the night, dispensing unsolicited advice pertaining to masculinity and the inferior nature of women.
This he learned from Julia, who insisted, “El hombre cae parado en todas partes.”
A man lands on his feet everywhere.
Much like a cat, which, in her mind, proved the superiority of men.
“If I had a do-over, I’d be reborn as a man and never have fucking children,” she’d say.
Often.
No exaggeration.
So while Mercedes was labeled “mental” for her social withdrawal, Apophis was admired for roaming the streets, preoccupied with his own sexual proclivities and delusions of superiority.
***
Mila had been at the Salaverry house for less than three years when, inexplicably, she made up a story about a man coming into the house at night.
A wild story.
Mila started telling Julia and the siblings that a man had begun sneaking into the house.
“He comes from the Continental Bank building, that one,” she said, pointing to a tall structure. “He talks with me. He’s nice.”
As ludicrous as the story was, the moment came when Mila was told to repeat it in front of her father, while Julia and Mercedes stood around, listening.
The girl, feeling empowered, added a couple of details to the already unlikely saga of the nightly visitor, which must have amused her father greatly.
She was well aware of her own lie.
She was also aware that through it, she was being heard and seen, if only briefly.
Her father leaned on a short wall, listening intently, while Julia looked on with disgust.
As he headed back into the house, Mercedes blurted out:
“That’s true, because some of my stuff is inside out…”
“What? What did you say?” he asked, much to Julia’s consternation and Mila’s delight.
The girl knew instantly that Mercedes’ claim was as fake as her own story of the visiting stranger.
“Yes,” Mercedes said. “I’ve had my underwear on backwards sometimes…”
Neither girl understood the implications.
Was she, too, made to play along with Apophis’ nasty bouncing “game”? Did it escalate?
No one thought her comment relevant enough to ask questions.
Mila’s story of the friendly intruder faded and was never brought up again.
***
The lack of cohesiveness and supervision made for a pattern of risk.
There was Apophis, overtly favored and sexually preoccupied. Julia, mocking instead of protecting. Mercedes, withdrawing further into herself, parents too quick to dismiss potentially disturbing claims.
No direct accusation.
Mere speculation.
Mercedes, throughout her life, was labeled as the “mentally ill” one before anyone ever asked what she might have endured. Everything she said, remembered, or protested got filed under that label.
I still wonder what happened before the label hardened around her.
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