“So how will you get out of going to Guatemala?” Zuri leans forward.
“I won’t.” Saying it out loud makes me feel even worse.
“I know.” Jayden brightens. “You can be super rude, a total pain. Talk back to your parents, don’t do your chores. Then they’ll punish you by making you stay home!”
I smile my first real smile in four days.
“She can’t stay alone.” Zuri shakes her head.
“Why not?” Jayden says. His voice goes serious. “Quijana, have you ever burned the house down?”
“No, but somehow I don’t think I’ll get the okay to spend two weeks alone.” I laugh bitterly. “I’ve lost so much sleep over this stupid trip. When I picture stepping off the plane, I want to throw up, but I think I really do have to go.”
“You sure?” Jayden says.
“What else can I do? It’s not how I ever pictured Christmas, but . . .” I twist my napkin and curl it around my finger. I can’t even bring myself to tell them about how Dad’s still mad. Then I’d have to explain the whole guitar situation.
Zuri pushes her empty tray to the side. “Hey, the choir concert is Monday, right? At least that’s something to look forward to.”
“That’s right.” I look up. “You guys still coming?”
“Of course!” Zuri says.
“Sorry about Monday-night football,” I say to Jayden, trying to be a friend.
“We’re excited!”
Walking back to class, I feel a twinge of guilt. Grandma’s gone, yet here I am making plans and even laughing. Going on without her.
When I walk in from school, the house smells of cinnamon and sugar. Mom has put up our Christmas decorations—all except the tree ornaments. Stockings hang from the mantel, snowmen sit on the end tables, and green garlands swoop around the room.
“Wow, Mom.” I don’t know whether to be happy or worried about her. This must have taken all day.
“I thought we could trim the tree tonight. Does that sound fun?” Her eyes are hopeful. “I tested the lights. And I baked cranberry cake,” she says. That’s her specialty! But why today?
She must see surprise on my face because she explains. “I turned in my last research paper today. I graduate on Saturday!”
“Oh, yeah!”
Her smile fades, and I know she’s wishing Grandma could have been there. Grandma was always a big fan of Mom’s master’s degree. Aunt Jess isn’t here either; she’s gone to Florida to clear out Grandma’s house.
“Dad’ll be home soon,” she says. “How about some Christmas music?”
It’s probably good for Mom to start a new season. It’s probably good for all of us.
Memito’s lining up blocks end to end across the living room floor. Seeing me, he pulls me by the finger to his roads and gives me a car. I don’t feel like playing cars, but I sit on the floor and start rolling the car down the block road. I’ll give it five minutes, I figure.
Mom finds a playlist, and singers belt out “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas” through the speakers. Just then, Memito stops his car, jumps up, and runs to his room. “Mom? Did you see that?” I call into the kitchen.
“See what, Qui?”
“Memito just ran to his room.”
She’s wrapping the cranberry cake in foil. “So?”
“I think he ran away from the music.”
She sighs. “He used to love music. Your dad plays—used to play—all the time. I’ll go get him and see.” She wipes her hands on a dish towel and disappears down the hall. The next thing I hear is Memito’s yell and a banging on his door.
Mom comes back alone, her hair in disarray. “You’re right. He won’t come out.” She turns the volume down and looks down the hall. Then she clicks it all the way off—and we watch Memito’s door crack open. He crawls, for some reason, back down the hall toward us, and starts lining up blocks again like nothing happened. Mom looks at me and shakes her head. “This is so . . . I mean it makes no . . .” She blows air through puffed cheeks.
I don’t know which words she needed, but I know what she means. Memito used to be a little city laid out on a grid. I knew all the streets, every intersection. Now I am lost. Nothing’s where it used to be.
A memory fades in. We’re at the park last summer, and Memito is covering his ears and whimpering as the ice cream truck cranks out its repeating song. I hear one grown-up say to another, “What’s wrong with him?”
I try to remember if Memito squirmed at Christmas music last year. Does all music sting his ears, or only singing? Or only certain pitches?
I imagine life without music. Silence deleting every song in the world. My choir music transformed into pages of rests, my music files two gigs of static. I imagine Memito walking into kindergarten with noise-canceling headphones.
Another quirk to add to the list.
But doesn’t the list add up to something by now? We still eat dinners with the main light off. There are the words he doesn’t know, the bell he couldn’t hear at all, and now music he hears too well?
I take out my phone. You’re getting warmer, says a voice in my head as I Google child sensitive to noise. Warmer, it says, when I change my search to “sensory integration,” a phrase that’s bolded on every page. Finally, a site lays out Memito’s issues like a row of matches.
“Mom!” I run up to her as she rinses the mixing bowl. “Read this.”
She turns to me and enlarges the text on the screen. She reads, nodding. “You think Memito has autism.”
“It fits everything!” I can’t believe no one has raised this as a possibility before.
But Mom’s too calm. “I see your point. A lot of this fits.” She hands back the phone with a grim smile. “His preschool teacher did talk to us about it. Back in September, she even did a screening. But it was decided that he made too much eye contact for this to be autism. That’s how we ruled it out.” Mom dries the bowl and puts it away. “Quijana, come sit for a minute.”
I follow her to the living room, but I stay standing. I’m not convinced. What’s one test? The website not only lists symptoms, it talks about why Memito was normal until age three—something called regression. If we can figure out what this is, we can treat it, maybe cure it. We could get him back.
“I know you’re worried about Memito, but you’ve got to let us handle it.” She rubs her eyes and sighs. “We’ve been to the doctor, and pre-K did their screening. To tell you the truth, I just don’t think they know what to call it. His symptoms are all over the place.”
This jars my brain. How can they not know? Grown-ups are supposed to know the important stuff, like why my brother is slipping, curling into himself more every day. “Can’t they do anything?”
“They’re trying, sweetie—we’re trying. You know we are. Speech therapy to get him to talk. Occupational therapy to help his motor skills, and the brushing, well, I don’t know if it’s working. It’s supposed to make him less sensitive.”
“But is he getting better?”
Now Mom looks away. “We’ll have to wait and see, Qui.” She pulls her pitch up at the end, giving the words a determined sunniness.
I’m not willing to wait and see. “He’s supposed to know over a hundred words by now.” I know she knows, but language delay is an important clue.
“I know, Quijana.”
“So what are we going to do?” I don’t care that tears are leaking onto her cheeks. I don’t care that I’m hurting her, even when we’re all still missing Grandma terribly. “We can’t just sit around and wait!”
“There’s not much more we can do.” She reaches out to touch my shoulder, but I pull away.
“We have to do something,” I say, my voice rising.
Her tone sharpens. “Quijana, we are.”
“It’s not enough! Memito was fine, perfectly fine until something changed. We have to figure out what happened to him!”
Now my mother stands up. She’s not taller than I am anymore, but I find myself stepping
back. “No one knows, Quijana. Do you think I haven’t been to all those websites? Do you think I haven’t lain awake every night, worried sick just thinking about it? You’re not the only one who worries, Quijana. You’re not the only one who loves him!”
She’s crying for real now, and I am, too. Memito is oblivious.
For some reason, this makes me feel better. Not better about Memito, but better. We’re walking into the flames together. Maybe she’s been there, burning with me, all along.
Mom is blurry through my tears. I step toward her. She takes me into her arms and strokes my hair. My heart wrenches, and I lean into her body. I wish she could solve things like she used to.
“Can’t I do something?” I ask. “Please?”
She doesn’t answer right away. One second flips by, then another, and I realize that her silence is the answer. We haven’t fixed anything, but the feeling that I’m a lone firefighter has faded. She squeezes me harder, keeps petting my hair. “Even if he never talks,” she says at last, “he’s still our Memito.”
I WRESTLE INTO A DRESS for the second time this month, feeling not at all pretty and not excited either. Mom gets her master’s degree in English this morning, but all I can think of is having to sit with Dad and Memito for over an hour in the audience. Dad and I still have a force field between us. Grandma would probably tell me there’s a door there somewhere, but I’m still not ready to find it.
I peek out of my bedroom and check the hall. No Dad. I cross over to the big bedroom, where Mom brushes on blush and checks her teeth in the mirror. “What if I had oatmeal in my graduation pictures? Yikes!” I watch her pull on a blue graduation gown and pin her mortarboard cap in place. “Hey, you could wear the huipil today. It would match my blue gown.”
I’m pretty sure my breath stops. A lie always surfaces, as oil floats on water, warns an inner voice I recognize as Don Quixote’s.
“It would make your dad happy,” Mom adds. Huge gulp. “But that dress looks nice, too.” Whew.
Our eyes meet in the mirror.
“He loves you, you know,” she says.
“I know.”
“He’s not so much angry as hurt.” She turns to face me. “You need to talk to him soon, Qui. I’m trusting you to be mature and handle this thing with Dad on your own, but it won’t go away by itself. You have to actually do something about it.”
I guess she’s right. And hurt? I hadn’t thought of him as hurt. I thought he was sulking, but if Mom’s right, he’s waiting.
She slides tinted Chapstick across her lips and presses them together.
As I watch Mom, I realize I haven’t really looked at her in a while. Her eyes are shining, and her hair is glossy. “Mom, you look beautiful!” I pick up her phone. “Can we take a picture?”
“Thanks, sweetie.” She looks genuinely happy on the screen as we take our selfie. “Mother and daughter. And when you graduate,” she winks at me, “we’ll do another one just like it.” If I make it to graduation. I can hardly imagine getting through Guatemala.
“Are you nervous?” I ask, posting the photo with a caption: Love this grad! English is her superpower!
“Oh gosh, no,” she laughs. “The hard part is done. This is a celebration.”
“But so many people will be watching you.”
“Well, but only you guys will be looking at me.” She smiles at me in the mirror. “And you’re my fan club, right?”
“Right.” Dad and I may not be fans of each other, but we’re both fans of Mom.
Though the auditorium is crowded, Dad, Memito, and I find good seats toward the middle. I make sure Memito sits between me and Dad. The graduates all look alike in their caps and gowns; I can’t tell which one is Mom. But when Dad points her out to Memito, I see her bright face and feel a surge of pride.
A woman in a floppy hat takes the podium. Her white hair and frank style remind me of Grandma Miller. “I can’t tell you that your field will be easy,” she says. “But I can tell you that you are prepared. This class has strength of mind and strength of spirit. That strength is what we honor today.” She seems like a fellow ocean lover.
Mom crosses the stage, tall and sure, looking like a woman who can make the world better. Dad and I shout and clap. Like swimmers in parallel lanes, we’re doing the same thing, even if it’s not exactly together. Memito catches the spirit of the moment and yells, “Yay!” Mom waves to the audience, and joy rises through my body.
At home, Dad has made a special lunch of black beans, buttery rice, and a tomato-y Guatemalan dish called pepián. Mom’s invited one of her classmates, Julie, to join us, so we’re all on our best behavior. Julie sees Dad at his warmest, Mom at her friendliest, me at my sweetest, and Memito, well, being cute Memito. I think we’re all relieved to have someone easy around, someone from outside our world, and the happy chatter lifts us all.
I watch Dad all through lunch. He’s acting so well that even I am convinced he’s not mad at me. When he tells his favorite story about me—the time I helped a boy learn multiplication by using piles of acorns—he performs the tale all theatrically, just like old Dad. “Quijana. We’re so proud of her.” He gestures with both hands as if he’s presenting me onstage.
But when he meets my eyes, his smile fades. And when Julie leaves, all the color in the house seems to go with her. I wish I could say it was Grandma’s death making Dad subdued.
But I know it’s still me.
MONDAY NIGHT FALLS CRISP AND STARRY—perfect weather for my choir concert. I only wish the weather in our house were perfect.
Once the babysitter arrives, we drive to school. It’s my turn to be onstage, but I’m way more nervous than Mom was. I know all the music well—Mr. Green made sure of that—but I still have a scurrying feeling in my stomach. Tonight’s my first time to sing in front of real people in a real auditorium. We practiced on this stage last week, but it was echoey then. Now the audience murmurs, charging the air. I realize that I’m actually excited to begin. I straighten my dress and lift my hair behind my shoulders.
Now the whole choir is lining up in the wings, arranging ourselves in the right order. The guys look spiffy in their black suits, and our matching dresses make all of us girls look pretty. The prettiness feels spread around, instead of concentrated in just a few. I try to focus on the fact that not just popular people or even the best voices matter tonight. All that matters is the music.
When Mr. Green walks out, applause pours down. It’s louder than I expected. As he delivers the welcome, I peek around the kids in front of me. In the auditorium, faces are staggered like rows of letters on a keyboard. I wonder where Jayden and Zuri are sitting. Then the lights go down, and the audience is a rumbling, black sea. The sea hushes when we walk, row by row, onto risers onstage.
Mr. Green smiles at us and bends his knees. This is a signal to bend ours, too, so we won’t pass out. He takes a deep breath and exhales; we do the same. This pushes some of the nervousness out. My heart surges, then settles. Mr. Green raises his baton, bringing the whole choir to a hushed focus.
Then the air turns magical. My skin tingles as every person in the room shares the same held breath. I feel the moment itself—the what’s-next—connecting us. We’re all—each singer, each listener, even the dust motes in the air—held in the same single spell. The tingle moves to the top of my head, and I know we’re about to do something amazing.
Mr. Green cues the accompanist. And then it’s happening.
As I sing the first note, the audience disappears, and I give myself to the song. I climb each phrase and ride it down. We bounce each note in the fast sections and crescendo into strong tones for the big ending. My favorite piece starts, and soon tinkling highs give way to warm lows.
Oh, Shenandoah,
I long to see you.
Way hey, you rolling river.
Oh, Shenandoah,
I long to see you.
Away, I’m bound away,
’Cross the wide Missouri.
&n
bsp; The last note ends and echoes. Mr. Green lowers his hands, and applause erupts. The stage lights shine like sunlight on my face.
In that warmth, my heart opens wide. I’m in tune with all the universe. But then a thought pinches my heart. Two of those clapping hands are my father’s. It’s been almost three weeks since I broke the guitar, and he’s never shouted, never threatened. Mom’s right. He’s not mad; he’s sad. He could have stayed home tonight, but he came. My stomach drops. I have to apologize.
The next song springs me into a fast phrase. I hop from note to note, and alongside the tune runs the idea of talking to Dad. As I sing out stronger and stronger the rest of the night, I’m more and more sure I can do it.
We get to the last song all too fast. I wish I could stay in it forever. And then we curve into the next phrase and fly to the final line. The last note pops, and the audience sits stunned. Then they roar with applause, whoops, and whistles.
Backstage, Zuri’s the first to find me. “You made me cry! That last one was beautiful.” She gives me a long hug. “Oh my gosh, I hope they recorded it. I want a copy, okay?”
I’m glowing, pleased with the performance and happy at all the joy in the room—a hundred people smiling and gushing.
“Me too!” shouts Jayden, swooping in for a squeeze. “My favorite was the a cappella piece.” Jayden’s fingertips meet his thumbs and he jiggles his hands in the air like a chef describing a precise taste. “Tight harmonies and no piano. Just pure voices. Very nice!” Seth, of course, is behind him.
“Thanks, you guys. I was so glad you all were out there.” I realize that I even mean it about Seth.
“It really was great, Quijana,” Jayden says.
“Yeah, that was better than football,” Seth adds. I think he might be exaggerating about that, but still, my vision of our threesome is stretching to add a fourth.
“Thanks, y’all,” I say. “Hey, come see my parents.”
We grab our coats and jostle through the crowd. “Isn’t that your dad?” Zuri says.
It sure is. Dad’s wearing a native Guatemalan shirt, and it’s the most colorful thing in the room. “That’s him all right.”
The Other Half of Happy Page 19