Behind the Wall

CONTENT WARNINGS: Implied sexual violence (not explicit), mentions of child abuse and domestic violence (not explicit), kidnapping, cultural erasure, alcoholism.

The photo that sat on the fancy fireplace with the mantle and the gold-framed mirror hanging above showed a beautiful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, All-American family. But behind that photo, there was a wall that contained secrets, a wall that hid a room. The room had no windows and a hidden door, and inside of the room was nothing but a pile of newspaper, feces on the floor and a sad, broken, haunted girl hunched in the corner.

           The beautiful family with the blonde hair and the blue eyes and the fancy clothes has a deep, dark secret and her name, once upon a time, was Maria. Now, her name is Rose, and she calls the rich, handsome Mr. Hart “Daddy.” Her real father was an alcoholic, and not much better than Mr. Hart. Sure, she knew that her papi’s

love for her would never match his love for booze, but at least he didn’t come into her room at night. At least she had a mother who loved her, even if she wasn’t very effective. 

           Mr. Hart found Maria-Rose at the park one day when she was six. Oh, how enchanted she was with his crystal blue eyes that contrasted with her plain, dark ones, his fancy shoes that looked so shiny next to her tattered ones. She had practically begged him to take her away with him to live in his big, fancy house on the big, fancy hill. She had thought that life with Mr. Hart would be getting

ponies for her birthday and eating lobster for dinner every night, embracing her new blonde-haired, blue-eyed brother and sister, having the perfect family

in the perfect home. That’s what he had promised her, once upon a time.

           Instead, the others didn’t even know about her. She didn’t know their names, but she often

dreamt that she shared a room with the girl, whom she had named Eleanor, and got to borrow her clothes whenever she wanted because they were the best of friends. The big brother, who she called Benjamin, helped them with their homework and warded off the bullies at school. In her fantasies, her name was

still Maria.

           Mr. Hart had shown her photos of his children when they met at the park. He had told her that if only she were his daughter, she would have a brother and a sister, a beautiful mother and a warm, loving father, and whatever toys and gifts she could imagine. Maria had thought it impossible then, had wished it could be true. And one day, Mr. Hart had convinced her that it could be, if only she would come with him.

           Maria wasn’t even supposed to be at the park that day. Mami didn’t like it when she went alone, but she was working, and Papi was sitting in front of the T.V., a beer in his hand, and he hadn’t even noticed when she’d slipped out the door.

           She could hardly remember what her mother looked like anymore. Instead, she remembered warm hugs

from her mother and black eyes from her father, warm cinnamon milk when she couldn’t sleep at night because of the yelling, Mami making eggs in the morning

and Papi passed out on the floor.  

           She held her mami close to her heart, the one thing that she would never let Mr. Hart take from her. He took her name, her life, her innocence, but never her mami. Often, she closed her eyes and saw the shadow of her mother smiling back at her, and she held onto her with white knuckles, trying desperately not to forget.

Sometimes, when Mr. Hart called her Rose, even she forgot her true name. She whispered it to herself at night so that she

would never forget. 

           “Maria. Maria. Maria.” When she whispered her name to herself, she rolled her R’s, the way Mr. Hart had never done when they used to meet at the park; the way her mami had taught her to. 

           “Tap your tongue behind your teeth, m’ija.” She had had trouble at first, but her mami had always wanted her to be able to say her name correctly, to say it proudly, like they did in Mexico. 

           Now, if Mr. Hart caught her saying her true name or rolling her R’s, he slapped her. “Maria is dead,” he told her once. “You’ll never be content here if you can’t forget Maria.”

           When they would meet at the park on weekdays after school, when Mami was at work and Papi was drinking on the couch, Mr. Hart used to say that Maria was a beautiful name, fit for a beautiful girl. He used to say many things, and Maria thought that he was her friend.

           Sometimes, she would ask Mr. Hart if she could come out and meet the other kids. He would smile softly, and tell her that maybe, if she was a good girl, and always did as he said, she could meet them someday. Maria-Rose would look up at him with

those big, brown eyes, silently begging him to stand up, turn around and leave the room. Or, perhaps even more so, to let her go back to her mami, even if it meant that she had to go back to Papi, too. But he never did. 

           She would fall to her knees each night after he left and pray to whoever would listen that her mami would come and save her. She would remind Dios and all the angels and all the saints up in the sky that she was Maria Sofia Pulido, not Rose, and that she wanted to go home. But Dios never heard her, or if He did, He didn’t care. 

She had once thought that she was the unluckiest little girl in the whole world. Now, she wishes for nothing more than to go back to the days when R’s were always rolled, when Mami was always there to protect her, when roses were just flowers that grew in the gardens of the big, fancy houses on the big, fancy hills.