The Land of Forgotten Girls

Things I know to be true: Tita Vea married my father so she could come to the States, and there is nothing magical about that. And there is nothing magical about Giverny, either, even though it’s just outside of New Orleans and people say New Orleans is loud and fun and vibrant. Giverny must have drained from its gutters.

We live on the ground floor, in apartment four. There are sixteen apartments in the Tower, and there is nothing magical about apartment four. There is nothing special about any of them, actually. Vea says they’re all alike: each one has a living room; two small, square bedrooms; one cramped bathroom; and a kitchen with three cabinets. On each floor there is a hallway right down the middle that’s either too dark or too bright. When it’s too bright, the light bulb makes a buzzing sound and you can see all the water stains in the ceiling, but when it’s too dark, it feels like you’re walking into a horror movie. Our apartment is at the end of the hallway right next to a broken elevator and a dark stairway that looks like it leads to certain doom.

The only nice things in our apartment are the four plants that sit under the window in the living room. The window isn’t very big, so the plants are gathered up together to get the most sun they can. The plants are my favorite things in the apartment, but they belong to Vea so I don’t let on how much I like them.