Cross-Stitch

It was around noon when I got into the shower. The damp patch on the bathroom ceiling was spreading, making the paint peel and feeding a colony of fungi, initially green and then red, like a moldy tortilla. During the first year and a half of my daughter’s life, I used to let things like that just happen, too weary and overworked to worry about them, but now they’re beginning to irritate me.

I walked naked into the bedroom, chose some clothes, but before I had time to dress, I heard my cell phone vibrating. The screen showed a Facebook message from Valentina Flores. It took me a moment to remember that she was Citlali’s aunt: I’m devastated, Mila dear, my heart breaks every time I write this. Citlali had an accident, she drowned in the sea in Senegal. We’re bringing her ashes back. I’m so sorry, Mila. She adored you and I know you adored her.

My head hurt like I’d been punched in the face. Like someone was trying to suck my brains out through my eyes. I don’t know how long I sat there on the bed, hugging my towel, trying to cry silently so my daughter and Andrés wouldn’t hear. Brief, painful images flashed across my mind, one after another like bats in a cave: Citlali’s face, her lips blue; her arms battling against the current; her open mouth swallowing salt water; her body floating amid strands of seaweed, spume, and plastic bottles. All this mingled with the laughter and shrill voice of my daughter: she was singing and dancing with her father to an album by The Breeders. My damp hair was dripping down my neck. It was hard to breathe.

After a while, Andrés left her playing with a toy and came into the bedroom. Which friend? he asked. You don’t really know her, I replied. You only met her once. Is she the one with the parvovirus dog? No. The punk? The engineer? The child-hating redhead, the blonde child-hater?

I smiled and, as I did, realized that my nose was bleeding. Andrés went to fetch cotton balls to stem the flow. I didn’t have the strength to explain who Citlali was. I didn’t even try, not until later, until that night.

Is she the one who lives in Spain?

No, that’s Dalia. Citlali was always moving around. She finally settled in Brazil but had to travel a lot because she worked for that environmental NGO.

Right, and I met her? Was she the woman with black hair and dark complexion?

No, that’s Dalia too. Citlali had short, fair hair and was really skinny.

She wore kind of masculine clothes, right?

Yes, that’s her.

And you three were childhood friends?

Well, we met in middle school.

But then you were at college with Dalia.

Same department, different majors.

Ah, I think I know who she is now.

I woke very late the next morning, and the first thing I did was text Dalia. Her reply came back after a few hours. It simply said, Yes, I know. I had no idea what else to say, and I guess she didn’t either.

The Spanish verb bordar is derived from the Indo-European bhar, meaning point, bristle, hole. This, in turn, has an etymological association with the Latin fastus, from which we get fastuoso and fastidio (lavish and annoyance). In both Spanish and English, the verb has a common root in the Old French brouder, meaning the side of a boat (as in starboard). And this is how it relates to embroidery, which was used to decorate the edges of fabrics.

The tenth-century Anglo-Saxon Exeter Book contains an ambiguous extract: Faemne aet hyre bordan gerised. The ambiguity lies in that bordan can mean table, embroidery, or, as above, edge. One possible translation is, A woman’s place is at her embroidery. A looser translation might be, A woman’s place is on the edge of the abyss.

I passed days in a state of profound sadness about Citlali’s death, trying to distract myself with the routine tasks of caring for my daughter—something that required my full attention—living in the absolute present, but, even so, in each quiet moment I returned to a mix of sorrow and anger. And that’s still the case: I’m furious with her for having let herself be defeated, for never managing to defy her stupid father or recover from her mother’s death, for never managing to get over herself. At my deepest levels of egoism, I also reproach her for having given up on this world my daughter now shares, for having abandoned me in my new life, just when I most need her humor and affection. But another part of me is angry with myself. I feel powerless and at the same time responsible for not having taken better care of her. Waves of fury and misery wash over me.

It took me two days to reply to Valentina’s message. I told her how deeply her news had affected me and that I was anxious to hear more details of what had happened. She repeated pretty much what she’d said in her previous message: Citlali had drowned in the sea in Senegal; she went in for a swim and never came back. They found her body on the beach hours later. None of that clarified whether it had been suicide or an accident.

Her father had the ashes. He’d put them in the living room of his apartment. I wanted to know exactly where but decided it would be best to see for myself.

I asked if they were thinking of holding some kind of leave-taking ceremony. Yes, she replied, I know we should, but I’m not up to it. I’m in pieces. Would you help us? I didn’t reply immediately, but then said of course I would. I asked her to suggest a date, said I’d contact Citlali’s friends and think about what kind of event it should be.

I decide to set my embroidery aside for a while to make the calls. For days, I’ve been feeling guilty about putting things off. I haven’t worked out how to sew and think about Citlali without pricking my fingers. I’ve set myself the task of calling people today, but it’s the hardest thing ever. Somewhere, I have an old address book that must contain the cell phone numbers of high school friends. A few may still work.

I rummage through the messiest drawer in my desk, but before I can find the addresses I come across the journal I kept during our trip to Europe and sit down to leaf through it. Since Citlali’s death, the memories we shared have been weighing on me because she’s no longer here to help me carry them all. Images, scenes, and conversations that I didn’t realize I’d forgotten emerge from all sides, secrets and memories that belonged exclusively to Citlali and me, and others that we shared with Dalia. In this journal there are traces of those three-person memories: photos, entries about the places we visited together, and a sizeable collection of odds and ends glued in—museum, gallery, and subway tickets; pressed leaves; and even a gum wrapper. There’s enough information here, in the scattered phrases and on those scraps of paper, to reconstruct and so recall the itinerary, although I know perfectly well that my memories aren’t accurate, that I make half of them up. More than half. That doesn’t bother me.

I find an Air France ticket and recall that journey when we were nineteen, as if I were remembering a dream. In the final year of high school Dalia started working in a bookstore in Coyoacán on the weekends, but her airfare had been a present from her lesbian aunt. Both Dalia’s parents and mine were separated—something that was already pretty common by then—but we were also united by a coincidence that seemed to us more unique: We both had single lesbian aunts (we used to fantasize about setting them up on a blind date, but they never agreed) who were like second mothers to us, but with a little more spending power and much more capitalist views on life than our biological ones. My aunt bought my ticket without complaint, although I’m sure she had to pay for it in a number of installments. At the very last minute, my father, who was four years behind with the alimony, turned up with an unexpected—and no doubt guilt-inspired—wad of dollars that I stashed in my bra, as my mother advised.

The reason for the trip was to see Citlali, who’d already been living in France for six months. A few days before we set off, she sent us an email saying that she was flat broke and hadn’t eaten for two days. At that point the trip became urgent: We were going to rescue our friend, save her, and—as far as I was concerned—bring her back home with us, although that last part was a bone of contention between Dalia and me.

On the morning of our departure, Citlali sent another email, as terse as a telegram, simply stating that she couldn’t come to London but would catch up with us in Paris the following week. We replied, asking what had happened, if everything was all right, begging her to reconsider, saying we’d lend her enough money to get by in London. But deep down we knew there was nothing to be done; Dalia and I would see London on our own, and then if Citlali didn’t come to Paris, we’d go to the town in Provence where she was staying and find her there.

Although an out-and-out atheist, my mother made the sign of the cross over me when she said goodbye. But at least she’d agreed to stay home. Dalia’s, on the other hand, insisted on taking us to the airport. She checked we’d charged our phones, had the address of Dalia’s cousin in London and Citlali’s phone number in case of an emergency. I already told you she’s not coming to London; we’re going to meet up in Paris, replied Dalia impatiently. Just in case of an emergency, repeated her mother. What kind of emergency is she going to deal with from France? Dalia snapped and I intervened, taking a strand of Dalia’s hair between my fingers and saying, Your red streak is definitely pink now. I know, it faded in no time, but I think I like it better this way. She smiled, forgetting about Marie—her mother—for a moment. Marie heaved a sigh, muttered a these things are sent to try us—she hated Dalia dying her hair—gave her daughter a big farewell kiss on each cheek, and asked me (rather than her daughter) to let her know when we arrived in London.

Dalia and I joined the interminable check-in line. We were dressed for winter, though the weather in Mexico could hardly be called cold. I was jealous of Dalia’s coat, which was lovely: black and fitted at the waist. Mine looked like a garbage bag. My mother had insisted on buying me one with goose-down filling. No polyester or those plastics that were destroying the planet. I knew better than to argue about things like that, but the only suitable coat we could find was a couple of sizes too large and had a weird florescent yellow design on the hood. There had been a time before that trip when Dalia’s pet name for me had been Toucan, though we’d forgotten why. When I put on my coat, she pulled up the hood and called me by that name again. We laughed, and she hugged me.

Or tried to hug me, while stooping to support her giant suitcase—the drag handle had broken the moment we arrived at the airport. She also had a carry-on bag, a purse, and a small backpack. I asked why she was bringing so much stuff, and she said it was winter clothes. And in that bag? Food for the plane; everyone says the in-flight meals are disgusting. And in that other one? My embroidery things. I need something to pass the time, she said, because I can never sleep in uncomfortable places. Will they let you through with your needles? I asked. I’ve only got one, and it’s inside my needle case; I don’t think they’ll notice.

My embroidery was at the bottom of my check-in bag. I was doing a black tree with black birds on black fabric. Dalia hadn’t seen it yet. For the flight, I’d also brought books, an MP3 player loaded with a playlist, and headphones with splitter cables so we could listen at the same time. Dalia used to say she knew nothing about music but liked what I listened to, so she was learning that way.

On the plane, we were in a row with three seats and were almost certain we’d have them to ourselves, with elbowroom and space to stow our carry-on bags. It felt good to be traveling alone; we’d just finished our first semester at college and were in a fascinating period of our lives, brimming with possibilities. For the first time, we were studying things we’d chosen to study, taking our initial steps along a road that was completely our own. There’s a song by Françoise Hardy that says we’re rulers of the world when we’re twenty, and despite being still only nineteen, we felt we had that world at out feet, were flying over it, exactly as we’d be doing very shortly.

Just as the doors were about to close, a young, almost handsome priest boarded the plane, and we had to squeeze together to let him get to the window seat of our row. He gave us a friendly greeting, read the safety instructions a couple of times, then opened a book called Tears of Hope with a picture of a frog on the front cover. Dalia took out her embroidery. She was halfway through a bookmark with a really intricate design of red flowers in cross-stitch: a birthday present for her aunt—gifts were our favorite pretext for embroidering. I was reading Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle, which had me hooked: The main character was just like me—or partly like me; I was much less brave but more cheerful—and while reading, I was high on the idea that we were at the very least sisters under the skin, that I understood her dark side because it was also mine.

The priest laid aside his frog book and said he didn’t want to bother us, but would it be okay if he asked a question. I nodded. He said he couldn’t pass up the opportunity because he had very little contact with girls our age and was curious to know if we believed in God. My view was that there was no way of knowing if God existed, but I thought we had to live as if he, she, or it didn’t. I’m certain there isn’t one, said Dalia; all religions, Christianity in particular, are interesting but dangerous fictions. Ah, I see, responded the priest, and embarked on a convoluted argument with Dalia about the proofs for and against the existence of God. I very quickly tuned them out but could no longer concentrate on Jackson, so I put my headphones on and started watching a Hugh Grant movie. Dalia, Citlali, and I had discussed the Hugh Grant enigma once or twice, unable to decide whether he really was good looking—whether he seemed handsome because he was likeable, or if it was just that so much talk about him being handsome had made us believe it, even though he actually wasn’t. I wanted to ask Dalia if that was what we mean when we say someone is attractive but didn’t because I could tell that the argument with the priest was in full flow, and she was beginning to lose her temper and raise her voice. I heard her quoting from the apocrypha and German philosophers I’d never read. What do you two girls know? You’re just a couple of rich kids whose parents are sending them to Europe, the priest almost screamed. And you’re just an old sleazebag who can’t get it up, and probably a pedophile to boot, replied Dalia with a conclusive gesture, and then she stood up to go to the toilet. When she returned, she immediately took out her copy of Natalia Ginzburg’s The Little Virtues and buried her head in it to the exclusion of all else. After a while, the priest also got to his feet. He asked permission to get past us and, as a peace offering, returned down the aisle with two of the chocolate popsicles they were handing out at the rear of the cabin. We accepted them guiltily. They looked delicious. He tried to apologize and continue his conversation with Dalia, but she told him firmly that she didn’t want to talk. She stopped licking the popsicle, finished it off in bites, and, frowning, read for an hour more. Then she slept, balled up like a black bean with the hood of her coat up. When Hugh Grant finally found happiness, I donned a mask, put in earplugs, and slept too.

As we were disembarking, I realized that my Shakespeare professor had been on the same flight. Goodness knows why we hadn’t seen him when we were boarding. It was a coincidence, but not a huge one considering that it was the last weeks of the college vacation. I liked his classes, even if his overdone irony and melancholy man-of-letters persona drove me slightly crazy. I thought he liked me because I was one of the few students to actively participate in the class.

We greeted one another and walked to the baggage area together. Eduardo was visiting a former student who was now living in London and dating Iris—a friend who had the same major as me. As she was also staying in the city during the vacation, Dalia and I had planned to meet up with her a few days later. Eduardo knew London well and told us about the bookstores, pubs, and his favorite museums and galleries. He was particularly looking forward to visiting a German neo-expressionist exhibition at the White Cube and jotted down the name of the artist (Anselm Kiefer) on the back of his card in case we were interested. Dalia’s luggage arrived quickly, Eduardo soon had his, and there was only mine to come. It turned out that it had gone missing somewhere. I was told it would be located and sent to my lodgings as soon as possible. I took one of Dalia’s bags, and the three of us walked to the underground station. Eduardo helped us to