Mexican Gothic: Chapter 14 Summary & Analysis

Noemí sits in her room, attempting to read her book about the Azande people. She’s tried to speak to Catalina twice already, but both times Florence has refused her. She feels ashamed, and her book is hardly able to distract her. She puts on the sweater Francis gave her and steps outside for a cigarette. She wants to get some distance from the house, so she follows the path that leads to the cemetery. Noemí walks among the tombstones, wishing to be lost. She was sent to fix a problem, and now she’s made an even bigger mess. What would her father think?

Noemí sees the stone statue of Agnes in front of the Doyle mausoleum. She searches for a plaque at the base of the statue and finds one hidden behind a clump of weeds. Agnes Doyle. Mother. 1885. That was all Howard had chosen to commemorate his first wife.  It seems odd to Noemí that Doyle would build a statue of Agnes but not compose even a proper line or two about her passing. That one word, Mother, bothers her too. As far as Noemí knows, all of Howard’s children were born of his second marriage.

Noemí sits down and absently tugs at the blades of grass. The silence is broken by Francis, who walks up to her. She thinks he looks fragile, as he often does. Only in a place like this, a gloomy cemetery, does he acquire any substance. She thinks that he’d be shattered by the noise and bustle of Mexico City. Francis tells Noemí that what happened to Catalina isn’t her fault. He reveals that Catalina had taken the tincture before and had a reaction to it. Noemí asserts that Catalina would never try to kill herself—they’re Catholic, it’s a sin. Francis explains that he mentions it only to tell Noemí that what happened isn’t her fault. Catalina is miserable at High Place, and Noemí should take her and leave immediately.

But Noemí can’t leave. Virgil would never let Catalina go, and Noemí’s unwilling to leave without her. She would be a failure in her father’s eyes, and their deal would be off the table. And she wouldn’t dare leave Catalina in her current state. Noemí tells Francis she can’t leave, and he responds by saying that this house is no place for her. Noemí is irritated, and accuses Francis of disliking her, but he assures her that he likes her very much. If he likes her, Noemí says, then he can prove it by giving her a ride into town tomorrow. She wants to find out what was in the tincture that Catalina drank. Francis reluctantly agrees; he’s tired, they all are. Uncle Howard has been keeping them awake at night.

Again Noemí feels selfish. She sees that Francis is unwell; he seems more hollowed out and has dark, purplish circles under his eyes. She imagines Francis and the others having to care for Howard’s withered body late into the night. She asks Francis about Howard’s old wound—what was the injury? He tells her that it’s ulcers that refuse to heal, but they won’t be the end of him; nothing will be the end of him.

They walk back towards the house. Noemí asks Francis why Catalina is so miserable. She was so happy at her wedding. Is Virgil cruel to her? Francis mutters that it’s the house. The house wasn’t made for love. Look back two, three generations, as far as you can, and there’s no love. The Doyles are incapable of love. He curls his fingers around the iron gate and stands motionless for a moment before stepping aside and opening the gate for Noemí.

That night, Noemí has a curious dream. The house has metamorphosized into a forest: the carpet has become moss, vines creep along the walls, and long, thin mushrooms grow all over and glow a pale light. In the dream, she knows exactly where she ought to go—to the cemetery. But this is the time before the cemetery, when they were building a rose garden along the mountain slope. Noemí reaches a clearing and beholds a woman in labor. Several people are gathered around, and Noemí notices a little girl sitting on a chair holding a white cloth. A man sits behind her with his ringed hand on her shoulder. The ring is amber.

The crowd is watching the woman as if she’s giving a theatre performance. The pregnant woman lets out a long moan, and then the man stands up and walks over to her. He bends down and carefully lifts the child that the woman has birthed. “Death, overcome,” the man says. But when he raises his arms, Noemí sees that he isn’t holding a child at all: the woman has given birth to a gray, egg-shaped lump of flesh. It quivers and ruptures, sending a golden cloud of dust into the air. The man greedily breathes it in, as do the others in attendance. 

Everyone has forgotten the woman—everyone except the girl. She approaches the exhausted figure on the ground and presses the cloth against the woman’s face, holding it tight. The woman convulses, unable to breathe, but the child holds on tight. Soon the woman quivers and dies. The man repeats the same words, “Death, overcome,” and then he raises his eyes and stares at Noemí. She feels incredible fear. When she wakes up, she finds herself standing at the foot of the stairs, moonlight streaming through the windows.