The Temptation Of Demetrio Vigil Part 22

"Frankly, I'm surprised you still have any friends with the way you've been acting," she told me. "But no, sorry. Give me the phone."

"I can't even call them? At least a text?"

"You want to reach out to that hoodlum, is that it?" she asked.

"He has a name. Demetrio. And he's very nice, mom, if you'd bother getting to know him."

"Phone," she seethed. "Now."

I did as she asked, though it occurred to me that in one year's time I'd be a legal adult and no longer required to do anything she told me to do. I couldn't wait.

"Thank you," she said, pressing it off and stuffing it in her pants pocket.

"Don't read my texts," I said.

"Not your decision to make, I'm afraid."

"Mom! What is wrong with you? Why are you treating me like this?"

"Do not use that tone with me, young lady."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good night, Maria. Seven a-m. Be up and ready to go."

I went to bed furious, and woke in no better a mood. My mother was in her beige ski clothes, including pants that swished together irritatingly when she walked. She had made breakfast burritos for us to eat "on the road" in the Lexus SUV. I went through the motions of loading my suitcase into the car and my skis onto the roof rack, but I was miserable. I had no way to communicate with my friends - or with Demetrio. My mother was evil.

She drove through the cold, clear morning tight-lipped, without talking much, and we filled the s.p.a.ce with her Celine Dion CDs, which only made things worse, in my opinion. I watched the desert slide past out the window, and tried to feel something close to hope. How could I get through winter break - two long weeks of it - without my phone?

Mom, unsurprisingly, took Interstate 25.

Things began to get surprising, however, when, instead of taking the turnoff to the ski area in Santa Fe, as she'd said we would, she turned onto Highway 84, driving past the Santa Fe Opera and out of the city limits, into the artist colony of Tesuque, and then onto Highway 502, toward Los Alamos, through the village of Pojoaque. Clouds covered the sky now, and a light snow began to fall.

"Where are you going?" I asked her.

"Don't worry. We're not lost." That's all she said.

After a few turns onto increasingly narrower, less-paved and b.u.mpier roads, we arrived at a heavily guarded gate for what appeared to be a ranch, given the words Rancho la Curacion emblazoned across the thick adobe walls in large gold lettering on either side of the metal egress. My mother stopped the car, and rolled down her window, all business and control, as a guard stepped forward with his thick moustache and dark gla.s.ses leading the way.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Maria Ochoa," she told the guard condescendingly, "we have a nine o'clock appointment with Doctor Bergant. She's expecting us.

"What's going on?" I asked as the guard buzzed us through and my mother rolled her window back up.

"I'm helping you," she said snootily as she drove through the opening and onto the compound.

"I have a doctor's appointment?" I asked. "Are we skiing after that?"

My mother did not answer me. Instead, she wove the car down a few curving paths, among several beautiful upscale adobe houses separated by snowy expanses that I imagined were lawns and gardens in the warmer months. This is when I noticed there were people sitting outside on rocking chairs, and that every porch on every house had exactly the same kind of rocking chairs, and the same kind of blank-faced people smoking or muttering to themselves there.

"This is a mental inst.i.tution," I said in a whisper, my breath shallow as the full weight of the realization hit me. "Oh my G.o.d."

"Make yourself useful and help me find building 19," my mother mused, squinting at the houses as we pa.s.sed each one. I was too busy looking at the sorrowful faces of the people on the porches, and peering out at us from the windows of the houses, to help her.

"Is it?" I asked, a sick feeling was.h.i.+ng over me. "Is this a loony farm? You're putting me away in an asylum?"

"Oh, you'll see." She smiled at me without a hint of kindness. "It's not nice to use that terminology, Maria. Very politically incorrect. We prefer to think of this is a healing retreat for you. That's exactly what it is. A nice, peaceful place with lots of helpful people to fix you right up."

"But I don't need fixing."

"The ones who need it most never think they do," she said.

"I'm calling dad. He'll get me out."

"No he won't. We already spoke. He's signed off on all your paperwork. He agrees it is not in my - I mean, your - best interest for you to date a hoodlum. Plus, Kelsey's mother told me about you having bad dreams about death and coyotes, and your father said he overheard the two of you talking about ghosts as thought you believed it. But worst of all, Missy - whom I normally despise but who seems to care about you, though I have no idea why - tells me you might have even seduced an elderly plumber they hired."

"What?

"My mother regarded me with disgust.

"I don't know what happened to you when you had that crash, Maria, but it has to stop. You're endangering yourself. You must understand."

"I did not seduce that old man!" I screamed. "Are you completely crazy? He - he heard us talking about the dream, and he's some kind of religious person. He said he thought it meant something. That's all. He thought I was seeing ghosts. I swear, you're crazy. You. Not me. You!"

"And the way you're speaking to me! It's shameful."

"Mom. Please. You have to believe me."

"I'm doing this because I love you. I know that's hard for you to understand right now, but someday you'll thank me for it."

"How long are you leaving me here?" I asked in a panic as I looked around and realized just exactly how isolated, and barricaded, this place was. There was a razor wire fence around the entire encampment, as though it were a fortress, or a prison. For a brief moment, I did wonder if she were right, if I were imagining all of it, including the ceremony, and the dead dog, and the cows and traveling with Demetrio via descanso. It was all so absurd, viewed from afar. G.o.d, maybe I was losing my mind.

"I'm leaving you here until they fix you." She smiled her politician's smile at me, sending a cold wave through my flesh. "There are visitation days, and I will come to see you. Your every need will be met, including a tutor to keep you up to date with schoolwork, and there's a gym here, and a salon, and a spa. Everything you could want or need."

"What about my friends?"

"Once you're settled, I'll tell Kelsey and Victoria where you are, if that's what the doctor thinks I should do. It would be nice for you to have your friends visit you."

"This isn't happening," I groaned.

"Cheer up, it could be the best thing that ever happened to you. You can't know yet. Try it before you judge. I picked the best facility in the state, the most exclusive and luxurious. You really will be very comfortable here."

Soon, we had parked in the small lot in front of Building 19, a two-story adobe house flanked by towering cottonwood trees whose naked branches looked to be begging the sky for forgiveness. Pots of dead flowers sat on the porch, as did two girls who looked to be about my age. They did not look happy. Or nice. I caught sight of the arms of one of them, and it was crisscrossed with long cuts, scabs and scars. I shuddered.

"Come on," said my mother, popping the hatchback. "Get your suitcase. In you go."

"My suitcase? Why?"

"Oh, never mind" she said, seeing a woman in nurse's scrubs walking toward us with a clipboard. "I'm sure they'll get it for you. G.o.d knows I paid them enough. They better have valet."

The nurse came directly to my door, and waited for me to open it.

"Maria Ochoa?" she asked, smiling fakely.

"Yeah."

"h.e.l.lo. I'm Debbie. I'll be your intake nurse. Welcome to Rancho la Curacion. We've been expecting you."

My mother waited impatiently just behind Debbie, with a cold, hard, vindictive look in her eyes.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked my mom. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"You'll have someone get her things, I a.s.sume?" said my mother in her regal way.

"Of course, Ms. Romero. Joshua will get them shortly."

"Good." My mother exposed her heartless smile to nurse as the orderly, Joshua, a bald man with kind eyes, fetched my suitcase in a servile way.

"I really don't need to be here," I told the nurse. "My mother does. But I don't."

"Follow me, please," said Debbie, flas.h.i.+ng my mother a knowing look, as though everyone who was brought here said the same thing.

My mother let the nurse pa.s.s her, then put her arm around as though she loved me, holding me close to her, pinching my arm and saying in my ear, "I'm doing this because no one, and I mean no one, is going to ruin my chances at the mayor's seat, Maria. I have been very clear with you. I cannot afford to have a crazy daughter. They'll fix you here. I'm paying a lot of money for it, so they had better fix you here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, resolutely.

"Good. I'll be back for you when you're ready to cooperate."

An hour or so later, after having stood at the window of my upstairs suite and watched my mother drive away in the increasingly heavy snow, I found myself face to face with Dr. Bergant. She was an elegant woman in her early 30s, with short light brown hair and intelligent brown eyes that seemed to pull you in as you spoke. The doctor didn't wear clinical doctor-type clothes; rather, she wore jeans and a dark brown cashmere sweater, with diamond stud earring and a delicate pendant necklace with gold in the shape of a star contained within a circle. Her boots looked to be designer. Her nails were perfectly manicured.

We both sat on a small floral sofa in the cozy sitting area of my suite, near a kiva-style corner fireplace that crackled with good cheer. Dr. Bergant had brought a plate of hot and gooey chocolate chip cookies and a pot of green tea with her, and was pouring me a cup. The room was exactly the sort you might find at one of the upscale resorts my mother favored, done in a pueblo Indian style and decorate in muted earth tones with splashes of red and black for accent. The main difference, I soon realized, was that the windows here did not open, and the doors locked from the outside. It was, in every sense, a beautiful prison.

"Tell me why you think your mother sent you here," said the doctor, her eyes oozing sympathy and understanding. It was a far cry from the cold, hard, spectacled male doctor I had somehow expected. This almost felt like talking to one of my girlfriends.

"I think my mom thinks I'm at great risk of ruining her political career," I said. "And her political career comes first. It always has, now that I think about it. That's why I'm here."

I felt tears sting my eyes, unexpectedly. I hadn't realized how deeply it wounded me to realized I came second for my mother.

"And why do you think she thinks you're going to ruin her political career?" asked the doctor, as she stirred a dollop of honey into her own cup of tea.

"Because, my mom wants everything to be perfect. She thinks people will only vote for perfect people. Family problems of any kind ruin things for politicians, I guess. And in a city like Albuquerque, where everybody knows everyone else, news gets around, especially in the political world. A lot of my cla.s.smates have powerful parents in town, and I guess everyone knows I'm 'crazy' now, and my mom thinks it'll ruin her."

Dr. Bergant looked thoughtful, and sorrowful, as she listened.

"And how does all of that make you feel?" she asked.

"Terrible. Like a failure."

"Why a failure?"

"Because I'm not the perfect daughter my mom wants me to be. Because I tried to be for so long, and now I just can't."

"Why not?" she asked.

I sighed and watched the fire jump and dance for a moment before answering. "Because I fell in love with the wrong kind of boy for her tastes, I guess."

Dr. Bergant smiled peacefully at me. "Do you want to tell me about him?"

I shrugged. Truthfully, I did. I wanted to tell her everything, and I felt like maybe I could because she was such a nice person. But part of me also knew it would be foolish to mention to a psychiatrist that my boyfriend was a ghost.

"He's this nice, sweet guy from Cerrillos," I began. "He used to be in a gang, but he got out and got his life together, and even had a scholars.h.i.+p to go to St. John's."

"Had?" she asked. "Did he lose it for some reason?"

"No. Not exactly."

Dr. Bergant watched me, and I was aware of how uncomfortable I must have looked.

"Is he in school now?" she asked.

"No. Yes. Sort of," I said, in rapid succession.

"Maria," she said, patiently. "If we're going to make any progress here, and I want that very much so that you can go back to your life, then you're going to have to be honest with me. There's no room for lies here."

"Yes ma'am," I said.

Dr. Bergant laughed. "You make me feel so old with that."

"Sorry."

"No, no, it's fine. I guess I'm almost twice your age."

We sat in silence for a while before she spoke again.

"I should tell you, when I was your age I had a similar situation."

"Oh?" I asked.

"Yes," she smiled fondly at the memory. "I came from a strict Baptist family, down South, and I fell in love with a black man from the wrong side of the tracks."

"Really?"

"You can imagine how well that went over with my family. He was a mechanic, of all things, but very smart, and so handsome and kind to me. We met at a science fair."

"What happened?"