The Other Half of Happy

by Rebecca Balcarcel

  My guilt stings harder when I think how I’m using her gift to visit my other grandma.

  Dad whistles our doorbell tune. Ding-dong. “Are you helping or are you helping?” He’s already loading leaves into a tall paper bag.

  “I’m helping,” I say, pulling the rake across the grass.

  I let myself imagine Guatemala. In person, I could hug Abuela. I could smile. We could braid each other’s hair, look at baby photos of Dad. None of that requires talking, right?

  Then I clench, remembering Cousin Raúl’s smirk. Guatemala still has cousins in it. I’ll still be trapped in my own silent movie once we leave the airport. I hear Abuela’s voice again, her syllables like forehead kisses. If only I could get the plane to land in Abuela’s living room and take off from her front door.

  “Can’t we bring Abuela here instead?” I say to Dad.

  He stomps the leaves deeper into the bag. “Why?”

  I can’t think of an answer he’ll like.

  “We want to see everyone,” he says. “My brother, three sisters, plus my nieces and nephews. And they want to see you and Memito.” He stops and looks up. “I’ll show you the house I grew up in! You’ll love it, m’ija, I promise.”

  This is my problem with grown-ups. They’re always telling you what’s fun, what you’ll like, what tastes delicious. It always turns out to be like yogurt—eight ounces of sour for one sweet peach at the bottom.

  I pull out my phone and click Zuri’s picture. Any word on the huipil?

  AFTER THREE WEEKS of waiting for an appointment, Memito’s finally seeing the audiologist. We walk into a small office that smells like plastic plants. Mom fills out a stack of forms while Memito plays with the wooden train.

  Mom said I could stay home this afternoon. I don’t have after-school choir rehearsal, and she said I could pull out our fall decorations. But I want to be here. I want to know if a hearing aid can fix Memito. And if not, what can.

  I’m handing him another wooden train track when a lady in jack-o’-lantern scrubs calls, “Manuel?” I almost don’t recognize the name as my brother’s. We step up to a metal door and Mom goes through, holding Memito’s hand. Ms. Jack-o’-Lantern tells me, “You can wait here, little lady.”

  “No,” I say. I stand up straight and speak clearly. “I’m his big sister.”

  She looks at my mother, who nods, then lets me through. I can tell Ms. Jack-o’-Lantern thinks I’m not important. She might even think Memito is a pain-in-the-butt brother to me, but that’s not how it is. I’m the one who watches him when Mom and Dad are cooking or outside, when they’re not home or just not paying attention. When he cries, I usually know why.

  Inside, we meet a woman at a low table. Her scrubs are a plain, crisp blue. “I’m Dr. Li,” she says. She puts headphones on a stuffed bear and then on Memito. She says, “When you hear a beep, raise your hand way up high.” Instead of raising his hand, he twists his head back and forth. “Let’s try this instead,” she says, bringing out a toy boat and a plastic elephant. She trains Memito to touch them when he hears the beeps. This works better. He touches one, then the other. I like her.

  Next, she brings out a white handheld instrument that looks like an ear thermometer. “You hold it,” she says, giving it to Memito. He puts it to her ear, then to my ear, then to Mom’s. He’s not afraid. “Now my turn,” Dr. Li says. She holds the instrument to Memito’s ear and prints the results.

  The paper shows a square grid with a barely arched line toward the bottom, like an eyebrow. It looks like something from my algebra book.

  “Good job, Manuel.” Dr. Li gives him a dolphin sticker and sets a box of blocks on the floor.

  “His hearing is normal,” she says to Mom, “but this line should look like a hill. A flatter line indicates fluid in the middle ear.”

  “What causes that?” Mom asks.

  “Since he’s not sick, I’d say he’s allergic to something. Maybe dairy or wheat. Try cutting those from his diet and see what happens.”

  The woman lists other “-ist” doctors we can see, and Mom takes notes, but I’m stacking blocks with Memito and thinking hard. A hearing problem would be easier to fix, wouldn’t it? Like, we could all learn sign language. But with this ear-fluid thing, Dr. Li said changing his food might help—like that might not even be the answer. Something more feels off with Memito. He used to let me hug him; now he stiffens. Is that really something you fix with food? He’s been curving away from us, and I want him back. My thoughts don’t get through to anywhere, smacking flat against my brain like the sound waves smacking flat against his eardrum.

  The ride home is quiet. Memito falls asleep. At our driveway, Mom says, “This is good news. He can hear. So, great. We’ll try changing his diet.” Her voice sounds peppier than usual. She sounds like she’s convincing herself, or rehearsing what she’ll tell Dad. I don’t say anything.

  My phone vibrates. A text from Zuri.

  Hey, breaking news. Jayden mentioned getting a girlfriend.

  Everything drops through my head’s trapdoor except Jayden.

  Girlfriend?

  Told me yesterday.

  I close the car door for Mom as she carries Memito inside. Then I run to my room and call Zuri.

  “I thought you’d be interested.” She pauses. “I know you like him.”

  I try to think of something rational to say, but there’s no use pretending. I’m practically wailing when I say, “I’m never not thinking about him.” I take a breath and lie back on my bed. “My Grandma Miller says not to worry whether Jayden likes me back, but . . .” I trail off. Hope is born at the same moment as love, Don Quixote says in my head.

  “He does like you. He texts you all the time.”

  “But does he like me?”

  She pauses, and I can tell she’s trying to be honest. “Hard to tell.”

  I think how flattened I would feel if Jayden liked some other girl. How 3-D I would feel if he liked me. “Z, I—” I’ve wanted to ask her this for a while. Now that she knows how I feel, it seems safe. I take a deep breath. “Do you like him?”

  “Me? No, no. He’s like my brother. I don’t see him that way at all.” She sounds like she’s telling the truth, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve been worried about this since day one. “But he says he thinks someone likes him.”

  “He didn’t say who?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “What do you think that means?”

  “It could be you, and he was just embarrassed to say so, right? Or it could be someone in the play.”

  Why didn’t I sign up for the play? Total missed opportunity. This is not working out like any of the Latino love songs my parents sing.

  “You’d still be his friend, no matter who he means.” Zuri can tell this is not my first choice at all.

  “True,” I say with false energy. I push myself up and sit cross-legged, my mind trying to plump up the word “friend” like a pillow.

  “So did you talk to your mom about posting the huipil?” I ask.

  “That’s the other reason I wanted to call you. It’s up already!”

  “Wow!” I’m thrilled to think it might sell quickly and slightly alarmed that I’m actually doing this. The bus still has seats left, according to the website. I hope they last. “Do you ever help your mom make stuff to sell?”

  “It used to be fun to glue on rickrack and stuff. But I’m kind of sick of it, you know? I keep asking Mom to let me use the sewing machine. Then I could make something cool—a scarf or a whole dress, even.”

  “Maybe she’ll teach you.”

  “I’ve been sketching designs.”

  “Ooh, send me pictures!”

  “Okay, sure. Hey, how was your brother’s appointment?” Z knew I was stressing about this all week. I take the phone out to the kitchen to see if supper is started.

  “Well, we found out that his hearing is normal.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  Good question. It ought t
o be good news, but I feel weird about it. “Well, he can hear. But that means we still don’t know what’s wrong.” I see a box of spaghetti on the counter and a jar of sauce.

  “Are you sure he’s not just, you know, different?”

  “He’s definitely different. But there must be a name for what he has. Hey, I’m getting the signal that I’m supposed to help make some supper here.”

  “I gotta go too,” Zuri says.

  I thank her for everything. I can’t imagine seventh grade without her. I shove my phone in my back pocket. As I pick up the spaghetti box, Mom comes in. “Oh, sweetie, hit pause on that. Thank you for starting, but we’ll have to give that box away or something. Dad’s picking up gluten-free noodles on his way home. Might as well start this diet thing right away. Maybe you can make the salad?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I hope gluten-free is better than it sounds. Spaghetti was my favorite meal. “So, Mom?”

  “Mm?” She rummages in the cupboard for the spaghetti pot.

  “Is Memito okay?”

  “I suppose,” she says, filling the pot with water.

  “You suppose?”

  “He is what he is, Qui. What do you want me to say?”

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  She places the pot on the stove and glances over at me. “Of course I am. Today we got more information. We have to keep looking. Keep trying things, experimenting.” She dries her hands on a dish towel and flings it up on her shoulder. “He’s getting OT, ocupational therapy, at school now, so that’s a good development.”

  “The brushing?”

  “And swinging and other stuff.” She turns to face me. “He’s lucky to have you, Qui. Now, salad?”

  I open the fridge. The lettuce looks like a green submarine instead of a ball. “What happened to the lettuce?”

  “It’s Romaine. I thought we’d try something besides iceberg. Something different.”

  Maybe Memito is just Romaine in an iceberg-lettuce world. Just then he dashes through the kitchen pushing his dump truck. The clack-clack sound recedes down the hall.

  “You know, um, Grandma’s surgery is Saturday,” Mom says to the silverware drawer. Her voice sounds small, like she’s a kid, and for once I swallow my own fear and think about how she must be feeling. Grandma Miller is her mom.

  She picks out three forks and a plastic spork for Memito, then pauses over the open drawer. I lay the lettuce on the counter and slip my arm around her waist, and she turns and hugs me.

  A new thought makes me feel even worse. “What if Memito never gets to know her?” I choke on the words.

  “Oh, Qui. Look, we can’t think that way. Some days I can’t help it either. I’m afraid I’ll up and cry at work. But then I remember all the people who’ve recovered from cancer. It all depends on if it has spread. We’ll know more after this operation.”

  “But she could die, couldn’t she?” Something makes me want to force my mom to say it. I’m sick of her being brave and telling me not to worry. I do worry. Doesn’t she worry, too?

  “I can’t imagine her gone.” She shakes her head. “I still need her help.”

  “But she could—”

  “Yes, Qui, my goodness.” Her tears make me feel like I’ve won something. “She could. She could die.” She puts her hand over her mouth and lets out a sob. I run for the Kleenex box, wishing I hadn’t pushed her, my own tears starting. We blow our noses, and Mom tries to smooth her hair. Then Memito calls out, and I’m left alone with moist eyes and blurry lettuce.

  ON SUNDAY, I TEXT JAYDEN after walking church. That’s what Dad calls our Sunday-morning walks on the wooded trail near our house. Sometimes he meditates out there, and prays. Dad always says he’s not religious, but spiritual. He also tapes Yoda’s words on notecards to our light switches: “Luminous beings are we.” Classic oddball Dad. I agree that Yoda’s cool, though.

  Jayden rehearses all the time now, but I send at least one message every day. Is the set finished yet? Truthfully, my imagination is killing me with visions of Jayden texting some new girlfriend from the play, who isn’t me. Except for Zuri’s message that the huipil has had six views, my phone’s been quiet all weekend.

  The house is quiet, too. Memito is playing in his sandbox—actually a kiddie pool filled with sand—while Mom and Dad fix a section of fence out back. My fingers are itching for the guitar strings, and my song is running in my head as I pace through the empty house. I lift down the guitar, see Dad through the window, and put it back. It’s all I want to do right now, but I don’t want to get caught.

  It’s weird to have a free afternoon. A blank rectangle on my daily planner. Usually I’m what Mom calls “organized” and Dad calls “extra scheduled.” My planner is filled with choir rehearsals and assignments. Every hour is labeled. It’s great when Monday barrels in like a tornado, and I need to grab the schedule or blow away. The downside is that my phone’s clock runs my life. It bosses me through each minute.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Jayden saying, Yup! And the last props came in yesterday.

  I type Where have you been? but delete it. Too whiny. Just back from a walk. You been busy?

  Painting sets for the play. Roller-skating with Seth. Sleeping in!

  Who’s Seth?

  The lead in the play. The super-talented Sherlock! Sandy hair, nerdy glasses. I want you to meet him. You’ll like him!

  Cool.

  I guess it’s cool that he has a new friend. A new, super-talented friend. I just hope he doesn’t forget his old, regular ones. That is, me. There’d better not be any super-talented girls in this play.

  What are you up to? he asks.

  A little thud lands in my stomach. I want to type something impressive. Nothing seems lame. I think about my planner—normally scribbled full, but empty today. I could say I’m playing guitar or writing the song. But why am I thinking of lying?

  Taking a siesta.

  He doesn’t text back right away, so I lie back and relax. Dad says the Spanish take a siesta. It’s like an intermission in the day’s movie.

  I should do that! How’s your grandma?

  Surgery went okay yesterday, but I can’t help worrying.

  Oh man, that’s intense!

  I watch the little bouncing bubbles of “. . .” as he’s typing, my curiosity rising. But he just adds, Gotta run lines with Seth now. Hang in there, Q!

  Ugh. I type Have fun, but then hesitate. Should I use an exclamation point?

  To tell the truth, I’m bummed. We haven’t talked very long. I think of when we used to do homework together on the phone. I guess that’s not happening anytime soon. But a period at the end would look sarcastic. A period would look rude. Okay, fine. I’ll type it and try to mean it.

  Have fun!

  I open Notes on my phone and bring up the song lyrics I’ve been writing. Missing Jayden brings another line to mind, and I write and rewrite it to fit. Without your love, I’m incomplete. Instead of milk, life’s semi-sweet. Togetherness makes life more sweet.

  Skype’s water-drop ringtone interrupts my thoughts. Grandma!

  “Quijana. I’m glad you’re online.”

  I take in the metal bed rails, the white blanket, and a beeping monitor next to her bed. She’s at the hospital. I didn’t think they’d let her Skype from there. She’s sitting up, but a pillow is behind her head. Her face looks pale—and old. Grandma’s never looked so old before. Aunt Jess pokes her head into the frame. “Hey, Quijana. We’re doing okay here. I’ll call your mom in a minute, okay?”

  “Are you all right, Grandma?” I’m sure she hears concern in my voice.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Do I look that bad?” She smiles, looking more like herself. “They’ve got me stuck in this bed. But I’m going to eat as much of their chocolate pudding as I can hold!”

  “So they’re letting you eat?”

  “Today I’m on soft stuff. How’s the song going? Can you text me your lyrics?” Her body looks weak, but her voice sound
s steady.

  “Sure. What’s that on your wrist?” White tape wraps her wrist like a cast.

  “Oh, that’s a port. See, this plastic tube lets them pour painkillers in. It doesn’t hurt.” She pauses for a bout of coughing. “Tell me what’s going on with Jayden these days. Is he still lucky enough to have your good opinion?”

  I laugh. I wonder if everyone used to talk that way. “Um, yeah. He’s in a play at school.”

  “A thespian! Good sign. But he must be very busy, then.”

  Leave it to Grandma to go right to the core of the problem. I blow air through my cheeks. “Monumentally busy. We still text, though. And there’s school.”

  “Hmph. And the play is done when?”

  “About two weeks.”

  “Maybe you kids could take another bike ride before the weather turns cold.”

  “Mm.” That’s actually a good idea. “I bet we could.”

  “I talked to your mom on the phone. She’s real excited about the Guatemala trip.”

  “Yeah.” She sure is.

  “Why the sad face?”

  I wish I could tell her everything. My mouth goes dry as I think of what to say. “I won’t like it.”

  “You might.”

  “You know Tía Lencha? The Carrillos here? I don’t fit in. Like, not at all.”

  She frowns. “So, tell me about it.”

  I try to explain how out of place I felt to be the only person not speaking Spanish and how all the fun stopped when they found out that I use the word “dad.”

  “You know what I’m going to ask you, don’t you, Qui?”

  “Um, no?”

  “Well, did you know that manatees shove crocodiles out of their way?”

  “What?” Typical Grandma—finding something in nature that makes all our human stuff make complete sense.

  “If a croc is in the manatee’s path, the manatee just nudges him. No fear at all. The deadly crocodile might as well be a log. Do you know why?”

  I shake my head.

  “For a long time, I wondered, too. I had to watch for months to understand that crocs gulp instead of chew. And they can’t gulp a manatee. So a manatee can bully a croc.”