HeartLines

“Note from the Mausoleum”

by Xochi Perez

No one ever talks about that crack in the ceiling. It stretches across the living room like a scar. It’s thin and zigzags. Small dust pieces flutter down, but no one bothers to glance up. It wasn’t there when Deja and I moved in with our aunt and uncle, back when I still had a physical body that could brush past furniture and knock over items on the kitchen table. Now I just watch. And wait. Everyone continues to sweep up the fallen pieces without looking up. The landlord, Lalo, steps right over them. Everyone here moves on with their lives while the ceiling above them is on the verge of collapsing. But I see it. I always see it. 

Today has opened possibilities for a new journey – or more specifically the possibility of connecting with someone. A small family of three visited. It gave me hope for the first time in decades. This house hasn’t held a family that small since the late ’40s. The average number is around five. When my uncle was the tenant here, we had six. Deja had a big room in the back. I was near the entrance. My cousin had the middle room. My aunt and uncle took the one next door. The last was storage. The house had just been renovated then. The floorboards gleamed beneath the warm lamp. The smell of the fresh paint and pine polish from my uncle’s flooring company lingered throughout the house. It was new, and for us, it was our new home. This place doesn’t just house new tenants every few years but also the memories I reminisce about daily. 

Before that, Deja and I lived in Cuba. Moving to Florida was strange. The sharp scent of pine replaced the strong scent of salt and smoke in Havana. The honking, the loud laughter and chatter in English – everything was puzzling! Deja was thirteen. I was nineteen. We spoke but a few words of English. Our aunt and uncle helped us adjust – slowly – to the neighbourhood of Hialeah, which was a mix of this new American life and our Cuban memory. 

I remember this one night, Deja snuck into my room with a half-burned-out copy of Little Women. “We’re gonna practice some English,” she whispered, climbing onto my bed.

“You can’t even pronounce ‘Wyoming,’” I teased. 

“I could, eventually, if you’d help me!” she shot back, grinning. 

We stayed up and read for hours. She stumbled often, and I corrected her. We laughed and bonded under our breaths, making sure not to wake our aunt. That night, I didn’t think about missing Cuba. Or the sudden cough that started to linger. My little sister’s reading made the world stop for a second. It was all going well – until it wasn’t. My entire reality shifted completely. 

Tuberculosis was rampant in the city during those times. With one handshake, I ended everything. My coughing grew noticeable one Tuesday afternoon, but I already knew. It was over. The disease progressed fast – it tore through me faster with every hour. At age nineteen, I succumbed to the disease. 

It hurt, watching my family pack up and leave. But watching Deja was the worst. That bright, curious girl’s light was dimmed. Her eyes stopped asking questions. She stared at the ceiling instead. She had a blank and heavy expression, the silence clearly weighing her spirit down. I tried not to blame myself. I fought. I really did. For her. But my body just couldn’t keep up. 

I died in my room on Friday, April 16, 1926, at 2:05 a.m. Soft sniffles filled the tense air. My uncle just stared at the floor. My aunt held my cousin tightly in her arms. Deja locked herself in her room, throwing stuff onto the ground. The big clock ticked on. Life always does. They carried my body out an hour later. That sight broke me. My room was left untouched for a few weeks. Then, my family began to put my items in boxes. The last thing they packed was the Cuban flag above my bed. Deja was the one who took it down. She hesitated. Her hands trembled. That flag held every dream we had when we travelled over here. 

Luciano Cordero is still here. But at the same time, he isn’t. Nothing prepared me for the next sixty years. This aching for a connection. This helplessness. This rage. And ultimately, not knowing. What happened to Deja? Where did she go? Did she ever finish Little Women? This place – their home, my Mausoleum – keeps me trapped. I can’t leave. I can’t rest. Not until I know for certain what became of her.

If you’re wondering, no, I haven’t just sat here waiting for a miracle to come. I’ve tried to reach out to people. But when a note appears from nowhere, they scream. Understandably. One woman even ran out barefoot. People don’t want the truth—they want comfort. And I know that my presence is not comforting, especially to strangers. All I can do is write. I can move small things, like a pen, but I can’t fix ceilings. I can’t escape. I can’t die again. So I’m just here, waiting. 

Until now.  

The new family arrived earlier today. Daryl, the landlord’s nephew, brought them in. A tall woman with green eyes and curls wrapped in a bun walked in first. She expressed confidence and tranquility. Then, a taller man, mustache neatly trimmed, hands behind his back, walked in after. He was more reserved but very observant. And lastly, a girl, maybe fifteen, with blonde-tinted tips on her voluminous dark brown locks walked in. Walkman in one hand and headphones plugged in. She reminded me a lot of Deja. 

“Right now we’re planning repairs for the bedrooms and living room,” Daryl said. “The kitchen’s been under renovation, so ignore the paint streaks on the wall.” 

The woman nodded, then turned to the man beside her. She said, in Spanish, “Se ve bien todo por ahorita. La casa se ve más grande en el interior.” He nodded and asked Daryl, “So how much longer would you say until repairs are done? We really like the house so far.” 

“Two weeks, tops. We’ve just got a few more boxes to move.” They disappeared down the hallway, heading towards the bedrooms. 

The girl – Vanessa – stayed. She began walking towards the living room. 

“Vanessa, come over here,” her father called. “¿Pa’ dónde vas?” 

“I’m just gonna go see what’s over here, papi. I’ll be in the living room – there’s something interesting in that corner.” 

He hesitated but let her go. “Okay. But please don’t touch anything. We’ll be over here in the bedrooms.”

She made her entrance. Music could be heard faintly coming from her headphones – Billy Idol. “Eyes Without a Face.” A classic song. I hadn’t heard it in a while. She tiptoed through the dust and renovation debris on the ground, her curious eyes scanning the environment. Each step escalated the tension. Something had shifted in the atmosphere. Her presence was familiar. It was eerily familiar. She stopped at the far-left corner, by a large photograph. I was surprised it hadn’t been packed. It seemed to mean a lot to Daryl, I think. She carefully studied the image in front of her. A family of four could be seen wearing their tennis gear. They were grinning from ear to ear, matching, and all tidy. This photo is like the crack in the ceiling – it doesn’t reveal the story beneath. Vanessa leaned toward the frame to touch but quickly pulled her hand back. She was curious but most certainly not impulsive. 

A piece of plaster fluttered from the ceiling and landed on her cheek, provoking a sneeze from her. She wiped her face and looked up. And saw it. The crack. From where she stood to the center of the room, where the newly installed ceiling light hung, it spread across the ceiling like lightning streaks. She kept staring. Confused. Concerned. Someone had finally seen it! She walked toward the chair, my chair. The one where I always sit. Despite her father’s warnings, she sat down gently on the edge. 

She looked around, and then… she looked at me. Directly at me. 

I froze. Could she really see me? Is she really looking at me right now? I stood up, uncertain if it was happening. Then she rose too, walking past me toward the window. Of course. I had forgotten about the gorgeous view that was right behind me. 

The giant window frames the landscape of trees and sky. A red swing hangs from the biggest tree in the backyard. Flowers are blooming in the yard. The sunset streaks the horizon with orange and red hues. Vanessa’s face lit up with wonder.

“Vanessa, we’re leaving!” 

The voice jolted her out of her trance state. She glanced at the window one last time, her eyes shining with that mix of curiosity and cautious hope. Gathering her things, she skipped towards the door, careful not to step on anything. But just before making her exit, she paused, turning back to face the window. Her face expressed something delicate – like a silent understanding of something she wasn’t completely aware of yet. It was hanging heavily in the air. Once the door clicked shut behind them, I was alone once again. All that could be heard was the slamming of car doors outside. The emptiness in the room was unbearable. The hope Vanessa brought lingered for a moment before my fear crept in, very heavily. 

I moved closer to the table near the window, grabbing the nearest pen and some index cards. My hands began trembling. I quickly set the pen down, making a loud and echoey “clink!” This is risky. I know this – every past attempt has been a complete failure. One wrong move, and they leave. Or scream. And another empty decade waits for me. But something told me: Just write. She’s the one who might get it. I felt it deep down. So I picked up the pen. Again. My fingers continued to tremble. The ink was blurred. This could ruin everything. What if she panics? Still, I knew I had to try. 

I pressed the pen to the card. 

I set the pen down. Relief set in. But that quickly spiraled into panic. 

Would she hear me? 

Would she get scared? 

Would she answer? 

I’m frightened, I’m unsure, and I don’t know how she’ll react. 

But what I do know is that I won’t know unless I try.