The Sisters of Alameda Street

  Copyright © 2017 by Lorena Hughes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hughes, Lorena, author.

  Title: The sisters of Alameda Street : a novel / Lorena Hughes.

  Description: New York : Skyhorse Publishing, [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017001225 (print) | LCCN 2017014966 (ebook) | ISBN 9781510716018 (ebook) | ISBN 9781510716001 (hardback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Suicide victims--Fiction. | Family secrets--Fiction. | Sisters--Fiction. | Identity (Philosophical concept)--Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Sagas.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.U367 (ebook) | LCC PS3608.U367 S57 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017001225

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Esthela, my wise and kind mom

  Ecuador, 1962

  Papá had been many things: forgetful, cryptic, melancholic. But never duplicitous. Malena had always overlooked his flaws—they seemed so minor then—but this was not something you could just ignore. She sat on the bed, light-headed. Her hands had turned clammy and cold. She couldn’t believe that her father, the mathematical genius respected by all who knew him, had lied to her all her life.

  The letter was curled around the edges and faded to a vanilla white. The professional letterhead made it seem like a business correspondence and so did the fact that it was typed, but its content made it personal. Judging by the stains on the sides, someone with dirty hands had once held it. Who knew how many people had read it before her or how many times, but this was the first time she’d laid eyes on it.

  Platas Jewelers

  Alameda Street #345

  San Isidro, Ecuador

  November 20, 1947

  Dear Doña Eva,

  Please forgive me for writing. I know I promised I would never contact you or Malena, but I’ve now realized the huge mistake I’ve made. Giving my daughter away was a deplorable, unforgivable thing, but it was my only option at the time. Please don’t think I want to take the girl from you. You are the only mother she’s ever known and pulling her from your side would be cruel. Besides, I could never give her what she needs. All I ask is that you let me see her one more time. She doesn’t have to know anything. I won’t even speak to her. I just need to see her one last time to keep my sanity, to know that she exists. We could meet anywhere you’d like. Please let me know if this is possible and if so, set a place and a time, and I’ll be there.

  With warm regards and utmost respect,

  A.

  What in the name of everything holy was this? Her mother had died in childbirth! At least that was what both her father and her grandmother had said. And as far as she knew, dead people didn’t go around writing letters! Could she still be alive now, fifteen years after this letter had been written to La Abuela Eva? Had her grandmother agreed to the request? Malena had no memory of her mother whatsoever, but she must have been five years old when this encounter took place, if it ever did. Would it have been too much to ask to include a photograph with the letter? Then again, her father had buried this correspondence in the depths of his trunk. Clearly, he hadn’t meant for Malena to find it.

  A metallic taste filled her mouth. First his suicide, now this.

  She sifted through mountains of paper in the trunk in search of her birth certificate. Her mother might still be alive and only a few hours away. Her mother, alive? Malena couldn’t grasp this concept, no matter how many times she repeated it.

  Years of arduous studies were compiled in her father’s trunk: diplomas, student lists, graph paper covered with numbers and never-ending equations. Photographs of herself as a child kept popping up—most of them with those stiff braids her grandmother had weaved to tame her curls. Underneath this mix was an unmarked manila envelope. It was filled with canceled checks made out to someone called Cesar Villamizar and signed by her own father. The amount was always the same: half of his teaching salary! And it seemed like he’d been paying this man every month for the last year. No wonder they’d been so tight on money! But who the hell was Cesar Villamizar?

  She tossed the envelope on the floor and let out a groan.

  Her father’s bedroom was so silent now, so void. A musky scent of cedar and mothballs had taken over the room after a week of being closed off. If only Papá’s things would give away the answers she needed. There was the calculus book he’d written and would never open again, the guayaberas gathering dust in the armoire, and his precious Gardel record collection, which would forever sit silently under his phonograph. She ran her hand by his indigo bedspread. To think that Papá now lay inside a frigid, hard casket instead of this bed. The thought didn’t let her sleep the night of the funeral.

  On top of his desk was the note he’d left for her—a series of rushed words that didn’t explain a thing. This paper was supposed to be her consolation, the answers that would keep her satisfied for the rest of her life. But, honestly, what was she supposed to do now that he was gone? For as long as she could remember she’d been the Daughter of Hugo Sevilla, acclaimed mathematician.

  Ha! If only the dean of mathematics and her father’s other devoted followers would know about this double life of his, about his lies. And what about this mother she’d never heard of, the woman who “could never give Malena what she needed”?

  She picked up the letter again. They said her mother had been a nurse and that her name was Malena, like hers—obviously another lie. But perhaps she had some answers, if not about her father’s suicide then about why Malena had been raised by her grandmother and father, or why they had moved from one city to another her entire life until they landed in Guayaquil.

  She ought to just take the first bus to San Isidro and demand an explanation.

  But who knew if her mother still lived in this town. What if she had died, too? It was now 1962. So many things could have changed since this letter was written. Going on a wild chase across the country with such little information would be crazy, and she still had so many things to take care of here: this apartment, her studies, her father’s things. She wasn’t reckless, like her father. She was an anchor, like her grandmother—not that any good had come out of that.

  Abuela, if you’re up there pestering the angels to sit up straight and tune their harps, send me a sign and tell me what to do.

  Chapter 1

  The taxi’s rearview mirror revealed enormous bags under Malena’s eyes. No amount of foundation had been able to cover them up. Well, what else could be expected after a ten-hour bus ride? Her night at the humble hotel she had found by the bus station had been anything but restful, with all that panting and moaning next door. It had taken all her might to lie on those coffee-stained sheets. She could have swor
n she saw lice in there, too. She scratched her head. Who knew what kinds of germs inhabited that rickety mattress. Now that she thought about it, this cab looked like it hadn’t seen a feather duster in months either.

  “Are we almost there?” she asked the taxi driver.

  “Yes, Niña, almost.”

  Malena reapplied her carmine lipstick, which she kept for special occasions, and squeezed a drop of almond oil onto the palm of her hand—not that she was excessively vain, she just needed something to do with her hands.

  The town of San Isidro was larger than she’d expected. And she hadn’t expected much after nearly missing it on the map altogether. Nestled in a valley in the Andes Mountains, a gothic cathedral towered over hundreds of high, pitched roofs. Concrete balconies filled with red geraniums lined the narrow, winding streets. Behind the colonial houses, a majestic volcano rose over the town.

  Had her father lived here, too? It would make sense. Where else could he have met her mother? The thought of him still brought a lump to her throat. But that was it, she refused to shed a single tear after what he had done. Not that she could cry, even if she wanted to. She’d wept so much after her grandmother had passed away—had it been ten years already?—that she seemed to have dried up inside, at least that was what her father used to say. (Once in a while, when you least expected it, Papá would say something insightful, something that made you think he was actually paying attention.)

  A daunting cliff divided San Isidro in two, but a dangly bridge joined the two parts. Malena’s stomach seemed to float as the taxi crossed it, but the nonchalant driver whistled the entire way. They continued a few more blocks uphill until they reached a park surrounded by a green metal fence. A monument of a noble man or conquistador—she couldn’t tell who it was—overlooked a garden of blushing lilies. Lottery ticket vendors, ice cream carts, newspaper stands, and shoeshine boys filled the park. Malena wouldn’t have minded switching places with one of those carefree ladies enjoying the sunny morning on a bench.

  This trip was insane. She still hadn’t thought about what she was going to say. She didn’t even know her mother’s name, for God’s sake. Who was she going to ask for? Mrs. A? Perhaps she had rushed too much when she took the first bus to San Isidro, but she was already here, wasn’t she? And now she had to discover who this mysterious woman was and why she’d given her away, preferably without leaving a trail of destruction and scandal in this little Sierra town.

  The taxi turned into Calle Alameda and stopped in front of a whitewashed two-story house attached to a jewelry store. Above the glass door was a sign in black bold letters that read JOYERÍA PLATAS.

  Her mother might live in this house. There was, of course, the possibility that she might have moved somewhere else, but what if she were here, at this very moment? Malena could be a few minutes away from meeting her. Seconds even. A tremor started in her gut and traveled all the way down her legs.

  What if her mother didn’t want to see her?

  “We’re here,” the driver said.

  Malena paid for her fare and stepped out of the taxi. She moved slowly, as if prolonging the moment would give her the courage to ring the doorbell. But her courage left with the departing cab and she remained glued to the paving-stone sidewalk, squeezing her old leather purse. She stood in front of the jewelry store with only one thought in mind. Leave before it’s too late. Get out.

  She forced her legs to cross the street and caught her reflection in the store’s glass door. Only now did she realize the miserable state of her grandmother’s wool suit—it was old-fashioned, faded, and two sizes too big for her. You would think she’d have bought a new outfit to meet her mother, but her father had left her nearly destitute.

  She adjusted her pink headband. Maybe she should go back to the hotel and think about this some more. Do something about those worn-out shoes of hers. She turned to leave, but a male voice stopped her.

  “Are you lost?”

  The owner of that deep, raspy voice was a young man holding the door open. His eyes—somewhere between green and gray—seemed to be smiling at her. He was just a notch taller than her and a few chest hairs escaped the top of his collar.

  “I’m looking for someone,” she said. “Mrs. … Platas?”

  “Ana Platas?”

  Great, an A name.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He examined her as if she were an art piece at a museum. “You must be Liliana Paz.”

  Liliana?

  “I thought you looked familiar,” he said. “Though you probably don’t remember me. We were so small when we met.”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Javier!” A man’s voice came from inside the store.

  “I’ll be right there!” He returned his attention to Malena. “I’m Ana’s son, Javier.”

  Her son.

  Javier smiled and a pair of dimples—identical to hers—framed both of his cheeks. This could be her brother.

  “Come on in. My mother has been waiting for you since yesterday.”

  Malena peeked inside the store, but couldn’t distinguish any shapes through the glare in the glass. She was about to clarify the mix-up, to say her name, but something stopped her. This moment of confusion could be a way in. If she came as Malena, she risked being turned away without ever being able to talk to Ana. This was a delicate matter, after all; she couldn’t just blurt out to her son: “Maybe I am your mother’s daughter?”

  No, she must speak to this woman first, in private.

  Javier opened the door wider. From the back of the store came a man who stopped behind a U-shaped glass counter filled with silver jewelry.

  “There you are,” he told Javier.

  “Papá, Liliana is here.”

  The man looked at Malena. His face was pale, his nose slightly crooked. A mustache framed his upper lip and his hair was slicked back. He could pass for a thin man were it not for the paunch extending over his belt.

  “Welcome, Señorita. I’m Rafael Dávila, Ana’s husband.” They shook hands. Not once did he smile.

  “She’s waiting for you in the house,” Javier told her. “Follow me.”

  Javier led her into a sterile room furnished with a desk, a chair, and a metal vault. Her heels echoed behind him into a hallway with two shut doors. A frog seemed to be hopping inside her stomach. From one of the doors came the muffled noise of a drill. Javier pointed at yet another door at the end of the hall.

  “That’s the door to the house.”

  Her pulse raced as though she’d run a kilometer. What if they discovered she was not Liliana? It would be so humiliating. Plus, she was not prepared to meet her alleged mother yet. She hadn’t decided what she was going to tell her. God, please make her happy to see me.

  He opened the door.

  “Madre, someone’s here to see you!”

  Malena followed Javier into a spacious living room with a grand mahogany piano and a chimney. Two women sat on an off-white couch, needlework in hand, while a third one sat on a rocking chair across from them.

  The woman in the chair set her embroidery on the coffee table and stood.

  “Lili?” She approached her. This must be Ana. “It’s so nice to finally have you here.” The woman raised her hand to adjust her spectacles. The sleeve of her dress pulled back and exposed a purple and yellow patch wrapping her wrist like a bracelet. Was that a bruise? She glanced at Malena before hastily covering her arm with her maroon shawl. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Ana Luisa.”

  Malena remained stiff as Ana hugged her. For years, she’d longed to have her mother this close. She wanted to hug her back, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. This woman was a stranger, after all. She examined Ana’s features behind her glasses. Her eyelashes were long. Her eyebrows had a decent shape, though they could use some tweezing. Fine lines emerged from the corner of her eyes, but she was younger than she appeared from afar, and not bad looking. Without the glasses and the scarce gray hairs in her bouffant, she would
be much more attractive.

  “This is my older sister, Amanda, and my daughter, Claudia.” She pointed at the women on the couch. “You probably don’t remember them either. You were just a toddler when we last saw you.”

  Wait. Did she say Amanda?

  The older sister stood up and gave Malena a kiss on the cheek, leaving a sweet scent of gardenia in the air.

  Amanda didn’t look older than Ana. And she didn’t look much like her either. This woman exuded elegance through every pore of her body. Not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her exquisite cream-colored suit. Her makeup was impeccable and her legs enviable.

  Amanda and Ana. One of these two women had to be her mother.

  “I wouldn’t have recognized you,” Amanda said. “It’s amazing how much you’ve changed. I didn’t remember you having curly hair.”

  It had to be her Medusa hair that would ruin everything! Malena searched for something in Amanda’s appearance that would resemble herself, but this woman was worlds apart from her, in style and confidence.

  Ana turned to the young woman named Claudia.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?”

  Claudia adjusted the golden cross on her necklace and stood up, examining Malena through a pair of blue eyes, the bluest she had ever seen. Her hair was up in a ponytail and a pair of pearl earrings dangled from her ears. Claudia flattened the creases on her skirt and extended her hand.

  “Welcome,” she said.

  Malena held Claudia’s frail hand in hers. She reminded her of a porcelain figurine—like anything could break her petite frame—a younger version of Ana in demeanor and coloring but without the glasses.

  “Have a seat, please.” Ana pointed at the couch. “Javi, could you bring Liliana’s luggage inside?”

  “Sure. Where is it?” Javier asked Malena.

  Luggage? So this Lili person was staying here. Malena wanted to scream the truth. But if only Ana’s children weren’t here. They probably didn’t know what her mother had done (and certainly Ana wouldn’t want them to). And what if Amanda was her mother? She’d probably hid it from the family. It was obvious that Malena was someone’s secret. If she blurted out her suspicions, her mother—whomever she might be—may never forgive her.