A Childhood Bargain with My Guardian Angel

Illa died when I was six years old. I don’t have many memories of her, save the smell of her perfume, her passion for telenovelas, and the foam curlers that were permanent fixtures on her head, loosely covered with a patterned silk scarf. When it happened, Mami told me two things about my grandmother’s death. First, that she had died from smoking and don’t-you-ever-smoke-ever-ever-ever-in-your-whole-life-or-you-will-die-too. Second, that Illa was now in heaven con Jesus y los santos and would watch over all of us from heaven. Will she be watching us all the time? I asked. Until we see her again, Mami whispered, tears cascading down her mourning face and carving tiny canyons through her makeup.

I took my mother at her word and believed that Illa would watch over me for the rest of my life. Sometimes this was a comfort, as when the monsters under my bed threatened to come out of hiding. It was reassuring to trust that my guardian angel would keep the goblins at bay. But now and then my grandmother’s saintly vigilance felt like oppressive surveillance, akin to the secret police in Cuba that Papi told me had once landed him in jail for selling meat to dissidents. Was she watching when I surreptitiously picked my nose during Mass? When I forgot to say the Lord’s Prayer for the third night in a row? Or when I stole two dollars from Mami’s coin jar so the twins and I could egg Fat Joey’s house? What about when I was in the bathroom? I was mortified to think that she might catch me bathing or relieving myself. Eventually I concluded that Illa and I would need to have a little chat about when and where she offered her protection. I didn’t want her to see me doing anything except that which would make her proud of me, but I somehow knew I wasn’t going to stop being wicked anytime soon.

 One night, after Mami had tucked me in, traced the sign of the cross lightly on my forehead, and tiptoed out to read the latest Agatha Christie novel, I called a meeting between Illa and me. I sat up and retrieved an old leather coin purse with Illa’s name stitched on it in thick black thread, one of several little trinkets my mother had given me de recuerdo after my grandmother’s funeral. I cherished this little purse and had hidden it in my pillowcase for safekeeping. Tonight it would serve as a physical representation of its original owner, since she could not be present in the flesh.

Illa? I called out softly. If you are watching me right now, could you give me a sign, like in the Bible? I counted to one hundred, and then one hundred more, this time Mississippi-style. Nothing. Illa? Can you hear me? I need to talk to you. The only sound was my father’s familiar snore coming from the adjacent bedroom. After several minutes I decided I would just get on with it and hope that she was tuned in.

Illa, sabes que te quiero mucho, and I like that you’re my guardian angel, but I’m a big girl. I can ride my bike without my training wheels now and Mrs. Jensen said I’m the best reader in her class. You really don’t have to watch me ALL the time. Maybe we can have a codeword or sign so you know when to take a break and catch up on your telenovela. They have telenovelas up there, right? I mean, it’s heaven, and Mami said heaven is full of stuff that makes you happy. I could twitch my nose like the Bewitched lady and then you’ll know I’m okay. Watch, like this. See? But wait, that was just practice. Keep watching, okay? I get scared at night. But that’s what I’ll do when it’s safe for you to leave me alone for a while. And then when I need you again, um, I’ll sing a song. You like when I sing. I’ll sing a song and you can come back and be my angel again. So don’t ever go away too far, so you can hear me singing.

Over the years, there were times when my nose twitched violently, like it was struggling to remove itself from its sinful proprietor. But those moments were few, even though I erred often. The truth is that it never takes long before a child discerns that life is full of reasons to require the protection of angels. If Illa is in fact my guardian, then in the last two decades she has received far more beckoning songs than gestures of dismissal.

Until we see her again.