Bruno's birth had been the hardest. Even after Julieta had slipped out almost painlessly and Pepa, though intense, had been quick, Bruno had still writhed and twisted and fought his way out of her womb. And when he was finally out, his eyes widened and his scream drowned out Alma's own. "He's a feisty one," Pedro had chuckled, laying a kiss upon Alma's sweat-drenched forehead, "Like his mamá."
If only he had known. Bruno was not nearly as difficult to raise as he was to birth, but he always seemed to be just out of her reach. Alma knew Julieta's mind almost as clearly as she knew her own. Pepa was a little harder to read, but with some effort, Alma could usually understand what was going on in her head. But Bruno... Ay, Bruno. Even as an infant, to find out why he was crying was an ordeal on its own. Through trial and error she had figured out that he was sensitive to light, to wind, to his blankets if he was swaddled too tightly. And sometimes she would eventually calm him down by taking him to a darker room and wrapping him up in more blankets. Other times, it would be a miserable affair with Alma trying in vain to soothe him and Bruno slowly crying himself into exhaustion. When she tried to play with him, he would hardly ever react, even when Julieta and Pepa would smile and coo and gurgle. It had been a relief when he had finally (though a little later than Pepa and much later than Julieta) started speaking, and Alma thought she could finally reach him.
If only she had known. He had refused to part with a ruana Alma had made for him when he was two years old, and when it inevitably started smelling and Alma was forced to confiscate it to wash, he would scream and hit his forehead with his tiny palm amidst her scolding and pleading explanations. It had been even more of a battle when he outgrew it even when Alma promised to make him a new one.
It took years for her to realize that Bruno knew and understood what had happened. It was just that he was utterly incapable of accepting it. And even though she had asked him why for hours in a multitude of ways, he did not or could not answer.
When he got his gift, Alma hoped he would come out of his self-imposed isolation. During the ceremony he had interacted directly with Ángela Rodríguez, and Alma dared to celebrate that her youngest child was finally making friends.
She should have known better. At first, things seemed to be going well. The children asked Bruno for visions and he happily granted them, seemingly basking in the attention. But Alma could soon see the discomfort in his eyes, the increased number of crying episodes afterwards. And when each time she asked what was wrong, he would rub his eyes and respond with a, "No es nada, Mamá."
So Alma took it at face value. After all, nothing she did or asked revealed to her any hint of why Bruno was falling into these melancholic episodes. Perhaps Bruno himself didn't know why. And he still seemed so eager to give visions to the others, insisting on granting one more even when the sun was setting and it was time to go inside for dinner.
Which is why it had been such a shock when Bruno returned from school alone one day with tears in his eyes.
"What's wrong, Brunito?" Alma asked.
He sniffled, "Is something wrong with me, Mamá?"
"Why would you say that, Mijito?" Alma's eyes widened.
"Everyone at school calls me Bad-Luck Bruno when they think I'm not there." Bruno wept.
"Everyone? But what about your friends?" Alma asked, perplexed.
"I don't think they care," Bruno said dully, "They only come to me when they want a vision."
"Brunito…" Alma's heart broke. "Are you sure about that?" She had no reason to doubt her son's words, but he had always seemed to be surrounded by possibly could have changed?
Bruno frowned, "I don't know for sure, Mamá, but it feels that way." His voice sounded strained.
"Well, then," Alma's voice lightened. "If they ask for a vision, tell them that your gift is for the good of the community, not a party trick." Surely Bruno would find out who his real friends were after that.
Bruno didn't seem satisfied by this, but he whispered a "Sí, Mamá," all the same. Thinking she had resolved the issue, Alma continued with her chores.
If only. Alma had just approved a project to create a new farming plot when Ángela Rodríguez burst into Casita, her hair plastered to her face, "Señora Madrigal! Señora Madrigal! Come quick, it's Bruno! He's hurt!"
Grabbing an arepa from the batch that she and Julieta had prepared the night before, Alma followed the panting girl. As Ángela led her to the schoolyard, she could hear Bruno screaming. She ran even faster, only to be stopped by the horrifying scene in front of her. Bruno was huddled on top of a tree branch, his ruana wrapped around him. On the ground, a group of older boys, led by Horacio Zapata, the cobbler's son, were gathered at the base, stones in hand. As they looked on, tossing the stones, Horacio started up the tree.
"What in God's name is going on!" Alma's voice boomed, surprising even herself with its ferocity. Horacio turned his head in shock, and fell from the tree with a thud.
One of the boys in the gang spoke up, "Señora- We didn't mean to- It was just a bit of fun-"
She glared at him, and he fell silent. Bruno scampered down the tree, immediately shrinking behind Alma's back. Upon a closer look, she noticed bruises and cuts littering his face. Her expression hardened. As she fed him an arepa, the cuts and bruises disappeared, but the frightened expression on his face did not.
One of the other boys found his voice, "It was Horacio's idea!" With a groan, the cobbler's son pulled himself from the ground, his arm bent at a funny angle.
She narrowed her eyes. "Go home, all of you."
The boys scampered to obey, until only Horacio remained. "My arm's broken," he complained, "I need help!" Alma sighed, tearing a strip of linen from her apron and binding the limb into place.
"You'll live," she replied. "Now, Bruno and I are going home. I strongly suggest you do the same. Quickly." The gang relaxed momentarily before she glared at them once more. "Because after that, we are going to have a conversation with your parents."
The sun was setting by the time she had returned from the Zapatas' house. Ernesto Zapata and the rest of the parents had been appropriately apoplectic at the actions of their children, fervently apologizing on their behalf and promising to accept any punishment that Alma had felt appropriate. She decided to make the bullies dig out the planned farm plot every evening after school under Farmer Rosario's supervision. The punishment would last a month at least this way, Alma told herself
Rubbing her temples, she entered Bruno's room.
"¿Qué ocurrió, Brunito?" she asked, wrapping her arms around him.
"They wanted a vision," Bruno answered dully.
Alma couldn't help herself, "I told you not to-"
Bruno started crying, "It doesn't matter. They hate me! Horacio said he wouldn't be my friend if I didn't show him a vision! And then he threw rocks at me when I did! What was I supposed to do, Mamá?"
Alma hugged him again, "Mijito, anyone who says such things will never be your friend." Bruno's face fell even more. Alma paused, "What I mean, Brunito, is that if someone says that, it means they don't care about you. They just want your visions. They aren't worth your energy."
"But it's my fault! I told Horacio he would break his arm, and he did! I hurt him!" Bruno started wailing even louder.
Alma put her hands on her son's shoulders, "Listen to me, Bruno. You did not hurt Horacio. He brought it upon himself by hurting you. And it's nothing that one of Julieta's arepas couldn't fix. He'll be perfectly able to help Señor Rosario in the fields tomorrow morning."
Bruno's sniffles seemed to subside, as he contemplated her words. Slowly, his frown turned into a smile. "You should have seen Horacio's face when he saw you, Mamá. He knew he was in trouble."
Alma couldn't help but chuckle.
