Flowers for the living

107 Pages·2016·0.43 MB·English

by  Rodriguez Mia

Flowers For The Living
Copyright 2016 Mia Rodriguez
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Dedication
This story is for all the spiritual seekers out there.
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter54
Chapter 55
Preface
Deeply nestled in the mountains of New Mexico, the small village of Milagros thrived. It
was lovely and picturesque. It may have had a strange name, Miracles, but for most of the people
there, except for the ones who refused to see, it was an appropriate moniker.
Certain skeptical villagers in Milagros believed life was a simple timeline. You're born, you
trudge along, and you die. If you're very lucky, there's something afterward. To them accidents
happen because they happen, the sun rises because it has no choice and while life is full of
coincidences, it's actually a clean equation over all.
Still others couldn’t deny the peculiar goings-on or the noises in the air. They believed
beyond a shadow of a doubt that while humans thought they inhabited only one space, there were
in fact many levels within that universe. If they listened carefully, very carefully, they could
hear a certain rhythm that was well hidden underneath the noise. To these villagers not to
believe in the oddities of life was like not believing in life itself. Not to believe in restless spirits,
ill winds, and telling dreams was like watching a 3D movie without the special glasses or like
eating pinto beans without chile. What would be the use of eating a bland dish without spices?
Some residents created rituals to make sense of the confusion while others tried to figure it
out through a limited microscope. Arguments erupted, family members didn't speak to each
other, and fists were thrown over the question of whose beliefs were superior. It was chaos at
best.
The chaos of faith or lack of it.
And, once in a while, the veil lifted for those who only saw straight lines while rewarding
the villagers who already believed.
Chapter 1
One very sunny day, the kind that makes you want to whistle to completely enjoy the
outdoors, Violeta and Arturo rushed towards the Zepeda home in a huge hurry. They didn’t stop
to enjoy the fruits trees dropping their gifts to the ground or the colorful butterflies sputtering
about. They didn’t give anyone a good morning as they were walking past them, and they didn’t
bestow even the tiniest of a smile to the smallest of children. In fact, what they were doing was
contributing to the maddening noise in the world.
“It’s all your fault!” exclaimed Violeta, her voluptuous body as rigid as a tree and her long,
straight, shiny, jet-black hair glistening in the sun while her pretty face barely contained it’s fury.
The wavy, medium-brown haired young man furiously shook his head at her, his handsome
features as furious as hers. “My fault? You distracted me! If someone is at fault, it’s you!”
Arturo retorted, his dark-brown eyes sparking.
“Why did you have to contact me?”
“Why did I bother to try to explain anything? The past is the past and your head is made out
of rocks.”
Violeta’s charcoal eyes burned with fire. “Don’t be calling me a rock head!”
“You don’t listen!”
“Stop calling me names!” Violeta snapped, hurt in her voice.
“Stop trying to make me feel bad!”
“Stop this incessant noise,” demanded Ymelda Zepeda. She and her mother, Doña Chamita,
were seated outside their home on an old tattered wooden bench that was gray from the
extremities taking its toll on it. Violeta and Arturo looked at them with surprise since they hadn’t
realized they had arrived at their destination and that they were actually being addressed.
“What took you so long to get here, dear-ones?” Doña Chamita questioned.
“You can see us?” asked Arturo.
“Of course,” Ymelda stated, insult in her tone.
“I told you they’d be able to see us,” declared Violeta.
Doña Chamita nodded. “We expected you here yesterday,”
“The accident discombobulated us,” explained Violeta.
“It took us a while to realize we were dead,” Arturo expressed sadly.
Chapter 2
If you are part of the how-much-are-you-worth crowd on the planet, you wouldn’t think
Ymelda and her mother were much, their monetary value being so little. Their home was no
better than a shack that only stood up because of some inexplicable reason. They owned very
little—a few outfits, shoes, chipped dishes and cups and assorted and mismatched utensils. Their
valuables, or rather what they valued the most, were the many memories and hard-won wisdom
inside their hearts.
Even though there were those who looked at Ymelda and Doña Chamita with pure disdain
because of their chosen profession of being shamans, most of the villagers in Milagros accepted
the eccentricities involved in the particular world of this mother and daughter. They accepted
that the compartmentalized box containing pieces of life most human beings carried inside of
them didn’t belong with these otherworldly creatures. Their animals never acted as these
villagers thought beasts should act, there flowers grew at the strangest times and in the strangest
places, and odd breezes floated outside their home when there was not even a sign of the
slightest movement in the air. The villagers accepted that even by shaman standards these two
were different.
“You two need to stop bickering,” Ymelda demanded. She was only in her early thirties but
savvy way beyond her age.
Doña Chamita nodded patiently. “Dear-ones, it’s time to listen to each other.”
“But how can I possibly listen to him? He killed me,” stated Violeta.
“Killed you? The accident killed both of us!” Arturo exclaimed.
Violeta vehemently shook her head. “First you kill our relationship! Now you’ve killed us
both!”
His face completely scrunched itself. “But—”
“You’re the one who stuck his engorged dumb stick into Rub—”
“Stop! Stop this right now!” ordered Ymelda. Because of her brusque personality, people
usually didn’t see her beauty—her shoulder length caramel hair and almond shaped eyes of the
same color and slender but not skinny physique.
“She’s—” Arturo started to say.
“Please stop this right now, dear-ones,” entreated Doña Chamita with the calm patience of a
woman in her seventies who had seen much in her life. Every gray strand of her once caramel
hair, placed in a tight bun, was a testament to a life of insight.
“And you, Violeta,” said Ymelda while pointing her index finger at her, “what kind of way
is that to talk in front of my mother?”
Violeta shifted her feet in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, Doña Chamita. I didn’t mean to
disrespect you.”
“I’m not going to tolerate such disrespect for my mother at my home,” Ymelda stated. “Is
that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Violeta and Arturo said in unison.
“Let’s try to untangle this, dear-ones, so you can move on to where you’re supposed to go,”
commented Doña Chamita, her eyes—the same caramel hue as her daughter’s— sat on the
ghosts with serenity.
“Violeta, you speak first,” stated Ymelda.
“Arturo betrayed me in the worst way.”
“I did not—”
“Let her speak, Arturo,” declared Ymelda.
“All I know is that you don’t want to tell the truth even now when we’re dead!” Violeta
exclaimed. “You’re nothing but a poor excuse for a human being, a giant liar, a—”
“Stop!” Ymelda snapped.
Doña Chamita sighed in frustration. “Dear-ones, let’s not start that again.”
“But she’s—” started Arturo.
“You two are giving me an acute headache,” announced Ymelda. “Go home until we can
talk to you.”
“Home?” Violeta asked.
“Yes, both of you get going so I can get my stability back,” demanded Ymelda.
Doña Chamita nodded, crossing her arms over her plump body. “Dear-ones, it may be best if
we talked to you another day.”
“But I don’t want to go to the house I had to share with my husband,” blurted Violeta with
frustration in her voice.
“Weren’t you happy with Norberto?” Arturo asked.
Violeta stared at Arturo a few seconds before answering. “Not that it’s any of your business,
but no, I wasn’t happy with him.”
“Can’t say that I’m sorry, Violeta.”
“That’s a nice thing to say to me,” retorted Violeta.
Ymelda threw out an exasperated breath. “You two leave right now.”
“But I can’t go back to Norberto,” asserted Violeta.
“If I may make a suggestion,” expressed Doña Chamita. “It would be good if the both of you
stayed close by, so why don’t the two of you go next door?”
“You mean to Arturo’s house?” asked an incredulous Violeta.
“I built that house for you,” murmured a hurt Arturo.
“Go to that house!” Ymelda exclaimed. “And we’ll see you later.”
As they walked quietly next door, Violeta turned to Arturo who was deep in thought. “I
wonder why they didn’t offer us a cup of tea. Doña Chamita makes the best in the village.”
“We’re dead, Violeta,” Arturo murmured softly. “We can’t taste the tea.”
Violeta started to sob for the first time since the accident. “I forget.”
Arturo put his arms around her, embracing her as much as he could and found that even if
they were like vapor, he could still feel her beating heart. She didn’t take his arms away but
instead, cried softly on his shoulder.
Chapter 3
All in all Ms. Potranco had to say that so far her trip into the interior of New Mexico was
pleasant. Her car was running well and the scenery kept changing. One minute she was in the
desert and another in a grassy green area. Having lived in El Paso at a border between Texas and
New Mexico for most of her life, she was more apt to travel into Texas. Ms. Potranco just wasn’t
the adventuresome type.
She liked smooth edges, stubbornly preferring even numbers over odd ones. Surprises held
no interest for her and in her head everything could be quantified. After all, she was a scientist—
a science teacher to be more exact. She had been teaching for almost twenty years, and though
the rewards of showing young high school minds how time on earth made sense never ceased to
satisfy her, this year was different. Lately her life had started becoming illogical to her. Instead
of getting her usual oatmeal at the supermarket, she had had an all-consuming desire to grab the
sugary children’s cereal. While watching a documentary on television, she had a sudden impulse
to switch the channel to a mindless romantic comedy.
When her students started telling ghost stories on the last day of school when no one really
worked but had parties, instead of scolding them for their unquantified superstitions, she listened
carefully. On the first day of summer vacation, she decided she needed to get herself together.
Instead of getting a part time accounting job like she did every summer, she made a decision to
spend her time with science. She'd study the advances being made in new discoveries.
“You're going to do what?” asked Iris, her best friend since they were children.
“I'm going to study, and I don't need any criticism from you,” stated a defensive Ms.
Potranco, her dark-brown, opaque eyes narrowed.
The flaxen-haired, baby blue-eyed Iris sighed deeply. “But Lila, it's the summer. Your
daughter is at her father's. Why don't you do something fun for a change?”
“What would you suggest?” questioned Ms. Potranco.
“How about a trip to Europe?”
“I don't like air travel.”
“Then take a trip to Mazatlan. You can go by train.”
“I don’t like burning under the sun.”
“How about a trip to the interior of New Mexico?—we do live next to the land of
enchantment after all.”
“An excursion to New Mexico?” Ms. Potranco scratched her head, her wheaten-brown hair
touching her shoulders. For some inexplicable reason, the idea sounded good to Ms. Potranco.
“A friend told me about this house for rent in a place called Milagros. It's close to
Albuquerque and only a few hours from here by car. No flying necessary! You could drive
yourself there. How does that sound?”
This was how Ms. Potranco found herself driving into the interior of New Mexico with an
unaccustomed careless spirit, and enjoying the new smells and interesting scenery. She reasoned
in the top level of her mind that this trip would do her research some good since she would have
no distractions to keep her from it. In the back of her mind, way deeper than she could get her
conscious into, she felt a relief that her increasingly disconnected life was connecting to
something.
The directions Mr. Sandoval had given her were excellent as she was able to go straight to
the door of the rental home. Her eyes squirmed a bit upon seeing the pumpkin-orange home.
What kind of color is that to paint your house, she wondered. But so far she had seen residences
in all kinds of bright colors—pink, green, blue, and so forth in Milagros. Her own abode being
beige and white never surprised her senses. In fact, she never put much thought into the color of
her home until now. This place makes my neutral-colored house look downright bland, she said
to herself. And the vivid hue of the dwelling wasn’t the only splash of incredible color—bright
wildflowers of many kinds grew all over the property, creating an indescribable beauty of nature
in all its freedom. How luminous. Really breathtaking. She was staring at them when a man came
up to her.
“Good evening,” he expressed.
“Good evening,” she returned.
“Are you Ms. Lila Potranco?”
“Yes, you must be Señor Lauro Sandoval.”
The balding, short, stubby pleasant man nodded. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking her
hand.
“I hope you haven't been waiting for long.”
“No, I've only been out here for an hour or so.”
“You've been waiting out here for an hour?” asked Ms. Potranco, surprised.
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you wait inside?”
“I prefer to be out here,” he rushed.
“I don't blame you for preferring the outside. It's beautiful out here.”
He nodded in deep thought. “I'll help you with your bags.”
Lauro hurriedly placed the suitcases inside the living area, his eyes nervously darted around.
Ms. Potranco grabbed her purse.
“Let me pay you,” she said, taking out some bills.
“Thank you,” he shot back as he took the money and handed her an already made receipt.
“Let me show you where I live in case you need anything,” he burst as he hurried outside. “I live
in the green house over there,” he explained as he pointed a few houses down. “Don’t hesitate to
contact me if there’s a problem.”
“Thank you,” Ms. Potranco said. “But I’m sure everything will be fine.”
Lauro’s eyes shifted to the rented house as his face showed a worried expression.
“Hopefully,” he murmured. When he stepped away, Ms. Potranco couldn't help scratching her
head in bewilderment. What a strange man, she said to herself. He seemed uncomfortable in his
own rental home.
As she stepped back into the house, she surveyed it carefully. It was actually a very pretty
place with flower design floor tile, solid wood furniture, and open spaces. The living room had a
sky blue sofa with the cocktail tables being of oak wood and glass. Empty vases sat everywhere.
She assumed the owners liked flowers and yet, Lauro Sandoval didn't seem the type. The master
bedroom had a full size bed with a cherry panel headboard while the two extra rooms had twin
beds. What she liked best was the kitchen. Along with a modern gas stove, it actually had an
old fashioned wood one.
All in all she guessed it would be very peaceful in her rental home, and she would be able to
get a lot of work done. As she put her clothes away in the master bedroom, a vase tumbled off
the chest of drawers and shattered on the floor. Ms. Potranco swore she wasn't anywhere close
to it. Before she could sweep it up, a sharp knock echoed throughout the house and interrupted
her thoughts. When she swung open the front door, she found two ladies on the doorstep.
“Good evening,” one of them said.
“Good evening,” greeted a surprised Ms. Potranco. She wasn’t expecting visitors of any
kind.
“We're your next door neighbors,” explained Doña Chamita with a smile.
“My next door neighbors?” asked Ms. Potranco.
“Yes,” asserted Ymelda.
Chapter 4
Ms. Potranco had had no choice but to invite them in. It seemed expected. How could she
explain to these ladies that all she wanted was peace and quiet? Since she had always heard that
small towns were a breeding ground for gossip and intrigues, she wasn't looking towards making
friends, but she didn’t want to be rude either.
“Where are you from, dear-one?” asked Doña Chamita.
“El Paso,” answered Ms. Potranco.
Ymelda’s eyes darted around the house. “I've been there once.”
“Great place,” asserted Doña Chamita. “How do you like Milagros so far?”
“It’s a very picturesque place,” Ms. Potranco commented. “I really like it.”
“I hope our animals don’t disturb you too much, dear-one,” Doña Chamita expressed.
Ms. Potranco’s eyebrows shot up. “Animals?”
Ymelda nodded. “We’ve got a cow, a pig, and a bunch of chickens.”
“The cow and pig are in our small barn, but our chickens like to run wild,” Doña Chamita
explained.
“Hopefully, they’ll behave themselves,” remarked Ms. Potranco. “I’ve never lived within
close proximity to chickens.”
“They’re interesting creatures,” assured Ymelda. “That’s for sure.”
“We won't take any more of your time,” interjected Doña Chamita. “We just wanted to
introduce ourselves.”
As Doña Chamita was serving chamomile tea for her and her daughter in their own home,
she kept shaking her head. Ymelda did the same.
“It’s a grave situation,” announced Ymelda. “Those two ghosts are still furious with each
other.”
“Should we warn our neighbor about them?” asked Doña Chamita.
“She’s a nonbeliever. Let's not tell her anything yet.”
“She'll have to experience those two for herself.”
“And we'll have to go in that house soon whether she wants us there or not,” Ymelda
declared.
Doña Chamita nodded. “There's no choice.”
After Ms. Potranco had swept up the glass from the mysterious vase that had shattered just
before the Zepeda visit, she finished unpacking. When her clothes were in the closet, she noticed
she had left her cotton knit black dress in the suitcase. I could've sworn I unpacked it. Then it
occurred to her that she hadn't eaten and figured that her imaginings were because of low blood
sugar. Ms. Potranco had seen a small grocery store as she had driven up. Since it wasn't too far
away, she considered walking there, but soon changed her mind. She needed to stock up and
didn’t think she could carry too many bags.
In the El Sombrero grocery store, Ms. Potranco found everything she was looking for
despite it not being a huge supermarket. When she’d get back to her rental home she’d make
herself a steak and a salad.
“You're renting the Sandoval place, aren't you?” asked the cashier, a woman about her age
with her same coloring.
Ms. Potranco nodded with some irritation. “Yes.” Gossip sure travelled fast in these small
towns.
“My husband and I own this store. I’m Claudina Gamboa at your service,” she declared,
sticking her hand out.
Ms. Potranco promptly took it and shook it. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Lila Potranco.”
“That’s my husband, Doroteo in the next pay station.” Since Ms. Potranco was the only
customer paying at the time, the tall, lanky man stepped over to them. He and she shook hands.
“You're from El Paso?” asked Señor Gamboa.
“Yes.”
“I hear you’re a teacher,” he kept chattering.
“That’s right.”
“Aren't you scared of being in that house?” blurted Señora Gamboa.
“Excuse me?”
“Claudina!” exclaimed Señor Gamboa.
“I think she should know,” responded Señora Gamboa.
“Know what?” questioned Ms. Potranco with needling curiosity.
“Nothing,” answered Señor Gamboa. “Claudina, give her her change. I’m sure she’s tired
and anxious to get home to rest.” Señora Gamboa frowned but did as her husband bade her to do.
Once Ms. Potranco was on her way, Señor Gamboa turned angrily to his wife. “Why did you
say anything?”
“I would want someone to tell me if where I was living was haunted,” stated Señora
Gamboa matter-of-factly.
“Haunted? That's ridiculous.”
“I don't know why you don't believe it.”
Señor Gamboa sighed. “Because there are no such things as ghosts.”
“But Javier heard noises in that house yesterday.”
“Javier is only ten-years-old.”
“He's also our son,” burst Señora Gamboa. “How can you not believe our son?”
“It could've been anything. Maybe Lauro was in there getting the house ready for Ms.
Potranco.”
“You know as well as I do that he stays away from that house.”
Señor Gamboa sighed deeply. “Woman, there are no such thing as ghosts. Get it through
your head.”
“But—”
“Leave the reserved Ms. Potranco to herself—I’m sure she doesn’t believe in apparitions
either.”
Señora Gamboa placed her hands on her hips. “You'll see that the very private Lila Potranco
will soon discover there is. You'll see.”
As Ms. Potranco was frying her steak, she wondered if she should re-pack everything and
return home. Her first moments in Milagros weren't good. All she had encountered were odd
people. But she refused to be defeated by circumstances. She had already paid Lauro for the
whole summer, and deep inside she felt a certain type of relief in this little village, as if someone
had let the air out of an overinflated tire. Even with all the hassle of peculiar people, the
atmosphere left her calm. The air was filled with a freshness smelling of a combination of
animals and plants.
She took one bite of her steak and smiled. The salad was equally delicious and the red salsa
she had prepared had just the right amount of heat. Now that her tummy was full she could think
clearer.
Yes, she would definitely stay.
Stay and concentrate on her work.
Chapter 5
“I can't believe you left El Paso for the summer, Mom,” declared a thirteen-year-old Rosita.
Ms. Potranco was relieved her cell phone’s roaming abilities were working perfectly.
“I don't know what the big fuss is about, baby,” said Ms. Potranco.
“You hate trips, Mom. Admit it.”
Ms. Potranco sighed. “Maybe I needed a change.”
“You hate change, Mom.”
“Sometimes it's necessary, Ro.”
“So how’s it going?” Rosita questioned.
“Good. Milagros is an interesting place,” Ms. Potranco asserted. “I think I’ll get a lot of
work done here. Baby, how's it going with your dad?”
“He's not with Gwyneth anymore.”
“He isn't? He—” Ms. Potranco stopped herself. “That doesn't concern me,” she muttered.
Rosita ignored her mother. “There's nothing of hers here anymore.”
“Maybe they're on a break from each other.”
“She seems to be completely out of his life. He doesn't talk at all about her.”
“He must have another girlfriend,” murmured Ms. Potranco. Someone younger than
Gwyneth, she said to herself. Maybe someone in kindergarten instead of grade school.
“No, Mom, he doesn't have a girlfriend. The only woman he talks about is you.”
“Me?” blurted Ms. Potranco. “What does he say about me?”
“He asks me if I remember when we did things together. He asks if you still cook those
killer enchiladas.”
“I don't know why he mentions me at all,” murmured Ms. Potranco.
“Maybe he misses you, Mom,” Rosita said wistfully.
“I doubt that,” responded Ms. Potranco softly. “Baby, don't get any ideas in your head.”
“I can hope, can't I?”
“No, it's hopeless between your father and me. There's no use for you to be suffering any
more disappointment than what you've already suffered, okay, baby?”
“Yes, Mom,” said a deflated Rosita.
Ms. Potranco hated doing this to her daughter but felt she had to dispel any false hopes. It
had been hard enough making Rosita go through the divorce. If she could she would shield her
daughter from all the sadness and heartbreak in the world, but that was an impossible task.
Ms. Potranco bit her tongue when thinking about the kindergarten crack she had almost said
aloud. She worked at keeping her true feelings about her ex to herself so she wouldn't traumatize
her daughter but because of all the hidden aching, some damage sometimes just slipped out.
Rosita ignored this slight poisonous leakage making Ms. Potranco worry that her daughter was
keeping everything hidden till it exploded. Yet, Ms. Potranco couldn't bring herself to have an
honest conversation with Rosita about what had happened to them as a family.
“Your father and I will never get back together,” Ms. Potranco asserted.
“Yes, Mom.”
The disappointment in her daughter's voice almost broke her heart. Ms. Potranco decided
that a change of subject was necessary. “I'm going to get substantial amount of important work
done here, Ro. I’m so excited.”
“Just have fun, Mom,” insisted Rosita.
“Work is fun.”
But as soon as Ms. Potranco got off the cell phone she found that she couldn't concentrate on
her books. In an uncharacteristic move, she stepped over to the back yard where she plopped
down on the bright yellow wood bench and took a deep whiff of the fresh air. She was enjoying
the peace and quiet when she heard the loud shrill of a child. It came from next door where,