Chapter 6: Reflecting Grace
Beneath the Weight of Water | Serialized Mexican-American literary fiction
It is never too late to be what you might have been.
Inspired by Adelaide Anne Procter, “The Ghost in the Picture Room”
Lucia
“No… That’s not me.”
A week later, the honeyed aroma of figs from Sofia’s kitchen slipped into Lucia’s memory. The warmth she’d felt only sharpened the coldness waiting for her at home. She wanted more, needed more, but she’d learned the hard way that big leaps could break her. Smaller steps might carry her further.
She looked up through the library hush and found Matteo. He sat across from her, brows drawn in quiet focus, a finger curled under the page to hold his place. When he caught her looking at him, the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. Breathing him in, vanilla and sandalwood, pinched something low in her chest in a way she hated.
He thumbed the Catherine de Palma medal his grandmother had given him. Lucia had noticed him playing with it whenever doubt crept in. He raked his hair back. “Leaving early today?”
“Yes. An appointment at Merle Norman, a cosmetic store.” Within a week of plaiting her hair and covering the spots, the hallway glances changed. No more lingering stares, just quick looks that moved on. Smirks turned into small nods and polite smiles. Time for another small step.
“I can drive you,” he offered, his grin widening. “You can skip hours on the bus.”
“Really?” Accepting his kindness meant owing him something, and debts were dangerous things.
“My pleasure.”
Stores on that side of town made her heart race. Salespeople stalked her through the aisles, as if theft were inevitable. Her hands left damp prints on anything she touched. She didn’t want to rely on him, but his blond hair and blue eyes would turn suspicion into polite smiles.
On the drive to College Grove Mall, he glanced over at her. “I’m meeting with Carol tomorrow. I’m looking forward to being done.”
Carol’s name hit low in Lucia’s stomach, tight and unwelcome. Her foot began bouncing against the floorboards, a jackhammer she couldn’t stop, driven by the fear of being replaced.
“If she doesn’t end it this time, I will.” He said with a determined look on his face. “We both need to move on. It’s not fair to any of us.” He didn’t explain, as if she should already know.
And she did. Another girl was waiting her turn. Maybe the next one wouldn’t want him hanging around with Lucia. Heat flared in her throat and remained there as he pulled the car into the mall’s parking lot.
He saw too clearly, and the barrio saw everything else. Before she turned to look at him, she put on a smile.
The salesladies’ brows creased when she entered. Matteo followed. He said nothing, but when they saw his pale skin and light eyes, their smiles returned. Relief pricked through her, a reminder that her safety was borrowed.
“What do you think?” She turned so he could see the foundation on her skin. Neither woman mentioned the bruise on her cheek. A small knot in her shoulder eased by a fraction.
“It matches your skin tone,” he said, his eyes fixed only on her.
He was every bit the fairy-tale prince, lighting every corner with his bright smiles and effortless grace. Princesses shoved each other to claim him: Snow White was a scrapper; Cinderella and Aurora outmatched. A smile tugged at the edge of her mouth.
She hoped her first real boyfriend would be someone she could breathe around. Not a fairy tale. More of Roger and Anita. Just home.
The women returned to the cotton pads, brushes, and compacts on their tray. Sharp pink lips. Eye shadow rimmed in electric blue. Another mask layered on: dutiful granddaughter. Good minority. Catholic girl. Now 80s girl.
The makeup sat heavy on her skin, as if her pores couldn’t breathe. She wanted to look like herself, not to add another mask. Being who people wanted would protect her, but she wanted more than safety. She wanted to figure out who she wanted to be. In the mirror, her eyes turned flat and downcast.
The women stepped back. One turned to him. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”
What if he agreed? Her mind jumped to the worst place, fearing she might need a new mask to please him. Her breath thinned.
“No,” she told the woman, and then, louder. “That’s not me.” The words tasted of stupidity because defiance never ended well for her.
“She is looking for something different.” The quiet certainty in his support eased the burn low in her stomach. Before she knew she’d been holding her breath, she exhaled.
“But she looks amazing!” one of the women protested.
He smiled sweetly. “Understated suits her better.” Her smile rose to meet his, feeling seen, not molded.
This look was hers. Delicate pink lips. Faint blush. Lightly lined eyes. His gaze stilled. Away from the barrio, being seen didn’t feel like vulnerability. It felt like possibility opening before her.
But then she remembered Abuela’s voice. La feita. Ugly. Her reflection in the mirror dimmed beneath Olivia’s shadow. Her mind clung to the old script, but something new was trying to take root.
Lucia shut her grandmother out. Not here. Not now. The mirror had not winced back. She let herself believe she was pretty, just this once.
Outside the store, Matteo spun her as they headed to his car. A soft laugh slipped out, heat rising to her cheeks.
She was ready to start taking up space in her world. The makeup and Dutch braid set her shoulders back. She could picture herself in a suit, lecturing at a university, rows of students turning to her. Something inside her cut loose. Gravity lost its hold. She could fly, and for just a heartbeat, she did.
Thank you for reading another chapter of
Beneatht the Weight of Water.
What did it cost you the first time you allowed yourself to feel free?
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