Whispers of a Former Life: Episode 53

The SUV looked almost ashamed to still be here, parked off to the side behind the garage like a forgotten toy in a spoiled child’s backyard. Charity’s toy. Alejandra paused for a heartbeat before popping the door open, squinting at the glossy paint that somehow hadn’t dulled despite Charity’s neglect. She snorted under her breath. Of course. 

Patrona Stevens never drove a car until it died, she simply got bored, handed off the keys, or left it to gather dust like so many other pretty things she’d tired of. 

Alejandra thought of her mother’s battered pickup back in Zacatecas, sun-scorched and stubborn as the old woman herself, older than Alejandra by a decade and still alive because her father’s grease-caked knuckles had willed it so, year after year. Back home, metal had a soul and an expiration date was something you fought tooth and nail to ignore. Here, in Charity’s world, even an SUV could be abandoned without a second thought. 

Well. Not anymore. 

Alejandra ran her palm over the smooth hood, her hood now, feeling the ghost of Charity’s careless luxury humming beneath the steel. She slipped the key into the lock, a small, tight smile curling her lips as the door thunked open. 

One more piece of Patrona’s life, now hers to drive away. 

She tugged open the door, breathing in that faint new-car smell still clinging to the leather. Her heart gave a silly little skip as she settled into the driver’s seat,  her seat now. The wheel felt cold and smooth under her fingers. She let them rest there a second, drinking in the hush of the cabin, the soft sigh of the seat adjusting beneath her weight. 

With a grunt she hauled her new backpack,  Charity’s backpack, but who was counting?  off her shoulder and dropped it on the floor behind her seat. The faint clink of coins, the muted rustle of bills hidden beneath the clothes she’d stuffed inside. Next, her ratty old plaid bag dangled from her hand, its seams stretched by too many years of desperate use. She almost tossed it on the passenger seat out of habit, but paused mid-motion. 

A grin tugged at her mouth. No. Not beside her like a friend. She twisted, leaned back, and wedged it onto the floor beside the groceries and laundry bag in the back. Charity, her precious little Patrona, deserved to feel exactly where she ranked now. Not front and center, but down on the floor, squeezed between the same cheap laundry soap and off-brand rice Alejandra had stretched pennies to buy last week. 

She settled back, thumb drumming on the wheel. The stillness felt electric. All those nights sleeping in borrowed cars that stank of old fries or stale fast food wrappers. She used to breathe slow and shallow, afraid to fog the glass and catch the wrong man’s eye. Now here she was, parked in her old employer’s driveway, about to pull away in their car like she owned the pavement itself. 

She fished her new phone from the pocket of her hoodie, Charity’s phone, really, but no one would call it that now. The sleek screen lit up at her touch, flawless and unmarred by the spider-webbed cracks her old one had worn like a badge of struggle. 

She angled it, catching her own grin in the camera, the faint gleam of the SUV’s leather headrest behind her. Click. Proof. A glossy, perfect snapshot. She’d send it to Mamá later,  Mira, Mamá. Lo logré. Look what your daughter drives now. Look who your daughter owns now. 

The new weight of her money made her spine tingle. She felt it under her feet even now: cash hidden in her backpack, ready to feed hungry mouths back home. She pictured her father’s hands, rough and patient, fixing up the little house back in their dusty town. Her mother counting out pesos at the market, head high even when the prices rose faster than she could blink. This would help. This would really help. A warm wave of quiet, righteous satisfaction swelled in her belly. No boss. No permission. Just her decision now. 

She let out a slow breath and flicked the ignition. The SUV purred to life, a deep, contented growl vibrating up through her thighs, reminding her again that this was hers. She let her hand drift to the radio, poking through the preset buttons. Pop hits, Top 40, some bland news channel,  all Charity’s noise. One by one, she cleared them. Then she thumbed in her own: the upbeat bounce of Spanish pop, a scratchy ranchera from her father’s side of the mountains, a local reggaetón station that always made her hips twitch on the bus ride home. 

She leaned back, satisfied, as a catchy chorus spilled from the speakers. Her lips moved with it: No soy la misma, ya cambié… She glanced into the rearview mirror,  her eyes caught her own reflection. There was no housekeeper in that mirror now. No ghost in the walls. There was only Alejandra Jiménez, Guardián Autorizado. She cracked a grin so wide her jaw hurt. 

Her gaze flicked back to her plaid bag on the floor. Inside, the tiny thing that used to tell her when to scrub, when to smile, when to vanish. Now curled under a wad of cash like a secret she didn’t have to hide anymore. She wondered if Charity could hear the song. She hoped she could. Let her listen. Let her learn that the world would never again bow to her whisper. 

Alejandra gave the wheel a small, decisive turn. Her hand didn’t shake at all as she guided the SUV down the long winding driveway one last time. The tall iron gates yawned wide, automated and polite as always,  but this time, they opened for her. 

A twinge of mischief curled her mouth. She wondered how long it would take before someone noticed the precious Miss Stevens was gone. They’d squawk about the scandal, the breach. They’d check the system and see: legally claimed. Registered clean and proper under Mexican law. A ghost in the American system now. Just as easily overlooked as Alejandra herself once was. 

She tapped her fingers against the wheel in time with the music. Beyond the gates, the city waited for her ,  hers to enter in a car she owned, with a little she owned, with no shame and no permission asked. 

Alejandra laughed out loud, the sound bouncing around the cabin, startling even her. She pressed the gas gently. The SUV rolled onto the street with a quiet authority that matched the thrum in her veins. She had a safe spot in her floor at home ready for the leftover cash. She had a seat at the table now, and she’d feed her family better than ever. And tucked in her bag, pressed to the floor like any other bundle of groceries, was proof that for once, the system worked for a girl like her. 

As she merged onto the main road, sun cutting warm through the windshield, Alejandra thought: This is just the start, Patrona. Watch me now. 

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