“Yeah, I’m excited.” I’m scared. Is that the same thing?
“Papi gets embarrassed because she always tells stories that make him look cheesy. Like how he and your dad used to help each other serenade girlfriends. They’d take their guitars and sing in harmony outside the girls’ windows. For real.”
“Wow,” I say, a trickle of guilt sliding down my spine. Was that the same guitar I stepped on? Was Tío Pancho harmonizing with Dad when he first sang to my mom?
“Kids! ¡Comida!” our mothers call.
“I’m glad you guys moved here,” I murmur. I don’t think anyone hears me, but I don’t mind. It’s still true.
We all eat dinner perched around the living room, then Crista and I sit on the floor at the coffee table to mess with a jigsaw puzzle.
On the couch, Aunt Jess, who isn’t married, argues with Tía Lencha, who is. “The wife,” says Aunt Jess. “It’s the leading role every girl auditions for, but I don’t want the part.” Aunt Jess talks with flair, maybe from teaching sociology classes at the community college.
“What about children?” Tía says, gesturing with her arms, leaning her whole body into the word. They turn to face each other.
“My life is perfectly happy without children of my own,” Aunt Jess says. “Besides, I have a niece and nephew.”
Lencha’s shaking her head. “You don’t know what you are missing.”
“Ah, but do you know what you’re missing?”
The aunts think Crista and I aren’t listening, but I catch Crista’s eye and wink. She understands. We know they’ll say more if they don’t know we’re paying attention.
“Who will take care of you when you are old?” Tía asks.
“I’ll call on you!” Aunt Jess says triumphantly.
It’s an old argument. They have it every time they see each other. Maybe Tía Lencha feels sorry for Aunt Jess, but I like Aunt Jess as she is. She takes me to the art festival every year. She lets me order what I want at the food trucks, and we dance at the music pavilion.
I imagine her life in more detail: Aunt Jess coming home from classes to read books and talk with friends. Aunt Jess writing her blog. Aunt Jess taking out-of-state trips with no car seat and no diaper bag.
My mother breaks in. “The point is we have a choice.”
“And what about . . .” Tía Lencha drops her voice. “A little heat? In the bedroom?”
“Lencha, las niñas,” Mom whispers and looks over at me and Crista. We keep our eyes on the puzzle.
“Just asking.” Tía Lencha’s playing innocent.
“Not every married person has what you have,” Aunt Jess says. “But don’t worry about me. I’m too busy for all that.”
“Winter nights can get cold,” Tía singsongs the last word.
“So can relationships,” Aunt Jess says, mimicking Tía’s tune.
“Enough,” says my mother. “It’s time to talk New Year’s bash. We’ll be in Guatemala until the second of January. Who wants to host something after that?”
I tune out. This puzzle is almost done. It shows a young couple carrying presents out of a wood-fronted store, musicians on a street corner, and children peeking out of a sleigh. It’s a happy scene, but I don’t see anyone who reminds me of Jayden, or an Aunt Jess type. I’m not sure who I am in this picture either.
Okay, what would the puzzle of my life be? I’ll have Zuri and her mom window-shopping; Jayden and Seth driving a sleigh; Aunt Jess hauling a Christmas tree on a sled. Tía Lencha, Tío Pancho, and the cousins can be carolers. My parents will hold hands on a bench; Memito can make a snowman. And me?
It comes to me immediately. I’ll be singing and playing a song in the town gazebo. Maybe I’ll give myself a friend or a helper. Or a husband. Maybe not. But in every version of the puzzle, I can imagine myself singing. Singing and smiling.
“What about a song?” Tía asks Dad. “Una canción para la graduada.” A song for the graduate.
“Hey, where’s the guitar?” Raúl says.
My father opens his mouth, then closes it. I wish for a snowman to materialize in the living room to make everyone forget the question. As Dad’s face turns red, I stand up. All eyes are ping-ponging between me and my father.
“I broke it.”
Dad’s head nods, but everyone else’s turns to me. “My goodness!” says Aunt Jess. “How did that happen?” Other voices pile on. My mother stays quiet.
“I, um, stepped on the neck.” The words come out thick from my throat.
“You stepped on it?” Raúl squints, as if sure he hasn’t heard right.
I try to think what else to say. A wordless ocean surges in my ears. I can’t explain what happened. What would I say? I was really mad?
“An accident,” my father tells them, swallowing.
An accident? Not even close. I guess it’ll stay our secret.
“And that means—” He fastens his eyes on Mom’s and says, “I owe you a song, Kim. A graduation song.”
This is all my fault. I’m melting in shame. Neither of my parents looks at me. They only look at each other.
“For she’s a jolly good fellow!” starts Aunt Jess. “For she’s a jolly good fellow!”
The whole room joins in, and I’m glad Memito is in his room.
I sit back down to the puzzle, but I’m not really looking at it. I find I’ve been staring at a pine tree that’s completely finished except for one piece. I hope we do get another guitar. Soon.
AFTER SCHOOL, I DROP MY BACKPACK and open the fridge. Mom’s at the wall calendar, writing something.
“Is your last week of school going well?” Mom asks, turning around. “I started packing. Four days! I can’t believe it’s so close. You’re going to love Lake Atitlán!”
I still wince when I think about Guatemala, but Mom’s obviously excited.
“Hey, and guess what?”
“What?”
“We made an appointment for Memito with the Child Study Center. They’re going to do a full evaluation—I told them all his symptoms and everything. I don’t want to get your hopes up about any miracles, but they may be able to tell us something new.”
“That’s great, Mom!”
“Play with him for a while, will you? While I start on his suitcase?”
Zipping Memito into his coat, I let myself hope that we’ll learn more about how to help him.
We head into the garage for sidewalk chalk. It’s cold enough for gloves, but I hate getting chalk dust on my mittens. In the frosty air, my bare hands soon turn red.
At first we scratch lines and arcs on rough concrete. I can’t draw anything fancy, just hopscotch squares. Memito likes them, though. He hops through the boxes, which gives me an idea.
I make a straight line, thick like a balance beam, and he walks it, putting one shoe ahead of the next. Then I place circles like stepping stones down the sidewalk, and he jumps inside each one. I add train tracks, zigzag trails, curves. Soon we have an obstacle course of chalk shapes. I’m an artist-engineer, a playground designer. The perfect ending pops into my head. A spiral.
Memito knows just what to do. He winds into the middle and looks at me.
“Puh,” he says, meaning up.
“All done!” I say. “Now go back.” I walk over and show him how to turn around, thinking he’ll retrace his steps, but he stands still. He’s arrived at the end. Spiraled to the center. The only way out is teleporting “up” with his big sister’s help.
It’s funny to see his mind stalled like this. He’s stuck, and a sneaky thought makes me think of leaving him there.
“Puh,” he says again and holds up his arms. His bottom lip pushes out, and I lift him up. His arms wrap around my neck, and I press him close. He smells like baby shampoo. With his soft cheek against mine, I don’t care how many words he’s supposed to know. I don’t care if he goes to a special class or learns to read when he’s eight or never. All the have-tos he’s supposed to follow puff away like breath in cold air.
<
br /> And just as I’m thinking this, Memito wriggles, hugs my neck, and says clear as a bike bell, “Quijana.”
It’s the longest word he’s ever said. I feel crowned. Maybe he will talk someday. But I’m starting to see what Mom means, too, about doing what we can and still loving him as he is.
In a big-sister glow, I watch him jump from chalk square to chalk square. He does it in his own quirky way, sometimes with two feet, sometimes with one, sometimes tromping on the lines.
For some reason, the colored lines and circles of my chalk course make me think of my Jayden song. I sing it all the way through under my breath. It’s still a good song, even if I’ll never sing it to him. I guess I could start a new one. I walk wide circles in the driveway, humming, looking into the bare treetops, trying out lyrics. We pedaled up the sunny hill / one hot October day.
Memito pulls down my old jump rope and runs it back and forth on the sidewalk like a streamer. I’m tempted to show him the right way to use it, but I don’t. He has his own ideas.
The lake shone bright with tinsel streaks floating stars suns sparks / We . . . hay, ray, stay, ballet?
When my song snags on a rhyme I can’t find, I decide to leave it for later. Like Memito, like me, the song’s future is still forming. Right now, we’re all unfinished. And unfinished is fine.
When we go in, my cold hands hurt with warming up.
“Hey, sweetums,” Mom calls from the dining table. “Aunt Jess is back from Florida. She brought this over for you,” she says, handing me a padded envelope. “It’s from Grandma Miller.”
Confused, I squint at it.
“There’s a postcard inside, written to you, and a necklace of some kind. Aunt Jess was cleaning out Grandma’s desk and came across it.” Mom smiles.
I’m distracted for a second because it’s just occurred to me that my Unaccompanied Minor letter would still have been delivered to Grandma’s. “Um, did Aunt Jess mention any other mail at Grandma’s?”
“No. You mean mail Grandma meant to send? Or mail she received?”
“Uh. Either, I guess. Never mind.”
Before Mom thinks of another question to ask, I take the envelope and walk to the table.
It’s so light it feels empty. I freeze for a second, wondering how to feel. Happy and sad pile on top of each other as I open the flap. I pull out a postcard of a mermaid statue and a thumb-sized mermaid on a necklace, her tail sparkling teal and blue, flowers wreathing her shoulders. The statue on the postcard perches on a rock and looks out to sea. On the back it says Den lille havfrue, which must be Danish for The Little Mermaid, since it says Copenhagen, Denmark, at the bottom. And there’s Grandma’s handwriting, bold strokes in dark ink.
My dear Quijana,
I look away for a second, not wanting to reach the end of her message. Not wanting to say goodbye again. Not wanting to cry. But I’m already crying.
My friend brought this to me from Copenhagen, but I want you to have it. Remember how we laughed to learn that manatees inspired mermaid legends? Well, this one is lovely. Like you, she is special and beautiful. See how she longs for the ocean, her true home? That’s where I am going, isn’t it? Even if the surgery goes well, I’ll be leaving you soon. But I’m happy to see what’s ahead. Remember, I will stay close to you, Quijana. Think of me in quiet moments, and you will feel my love flowing over you. Keep swimming, dear one. Do everything for joy. I love you, G’ma Miller
I can hear her saying each word, and I run them through my head over and over. I look up at Mom. She’s carefully not looking at me, letting me have my moment.
“Thanks, Mom.” I hold the card to my chest as I walk to my room. Inside, leaning against the closed door, I reread her words. Think of me in quiet moments. I sit on my bed and look at her wise eyes in her picture.
Dad taught me to meditate when I was little. He grew up praying only in church, but now he “pulls up a chair with God,” as he says, whenever he feels like it.
Now I remember what he taught me. I try to relax my feet, my stomach, my shoulders. I watch my breath. Inhale joy, exhale worry. Inhale thank you, exhale goodbye. Inhale yes, exhale yes, until breath is a stilled lake I float on.
Soon I feel my heart lighten and my head go airy. I think of Grandma Miller, and love warms me. She doesn’t seem far away, but very close. I’m almost tempted to believe what she said about staying close to me. Instead of missing her and feeling sad, I’m happy in this wide-open moment, my mind a place I can trust.
The postcard flashes into my mind, with the little mermaid looking toward the ocean. And though I’m sitting on my bed, in my house, in my town, I’m also a ray of sunlight spreading across Denmark’s North Sea.
I open my eyes and put on the mermaid necklace. Her open arms remind me of something else Grandma said: Embrace the adventure!
I walk out to the living room and find Memito pulling his suitcase in circles, Dad washing up for supper, and Mom rummaging in the fridge.
“That is such a beautiful necklace,” Dad says.
“It’s from Grandma.”
“I heard.” He winks.
Mom’s phone rings, and she hands the Romaine lettuce to Dad. “Why do people always call at suppertime?” Dad says, frowning.
“Hey, Jess,” Mom says. “Yup, started packing today. I have a list of my lists!” Her voice drops in volume for a few seconds. Then it’s loud. “Unaccompanied Minor form? What are you talking about?”
Oh boy.
My parents stalk toward me as I slink into a chair at the dining table. Embrace the adventure, all right.
“How did a form granting you permission to ride a BUS to FLORIDA get into Grandma’s mailbox?” Mom’s as much bewildered as angry. She keeps shaking her head and throwing her hands in the air, like she can’t imagine such a thing.
Memito senses tension and runs to his room. Great. Without him, the spotlight will shine entirely on me.
“I don’t understand,” says Dad. “What is going on, Qui?”
“I’ll explain,” I say, sighing.
And so I give up. I tell them everything.
“Sold it. As in, sold it?” Mom’s still in shock. “And Ms. Thomas knew?” Again, her hands go up. “How could you?”
“On eArtisans.”
“No. I mean, How. Could. You.”
“Quijana,” Dad says, “your abuela paid good money for that. She paid with love, too. She went to the market and picked it out especially.” His forehead creases, and I worry that he’s about to cry. I feel worse than when I broke the guitar. We’re back to his being hurt and me being the cause.
“I know, Dad. I’m sorry.” I press my lips together, then continue. I tell them how I biked to the bus station and bought the ticket. “And then they needed a form and a signature,” I explain.
“Good thing!” Mom says.
“And I didn’t want to forge your names or anything.”
“Dear God.” Mom presses her eyes with her fingers.
“Quijana,” Dad asks, sincerely puzzled. “You wanted to avoid Guatemala that much?”
I wince. The truth is that I still don’t want to go.
“And they let you buy the ticket?” Mom says.
“Well, I had to show my ID, but yeah. If you’re over twelve.”
“Well, that makes it okay.” Mom’s sarcasm is clear. “I know we’ve ridden the bus together,” she says, “but how could you possibly think that . . . You know I’d have had the police stop that bus immediately. A twenty-eight-hour ride?” Mom’s voice squeaks as her pitch goes higher.
“But I was going to leave a note. And Jayden was going to walk me to the bus station. I figured you wouldn’t worry.” It’s kind of too bad that I never got to try my plan. “Plus, I was going to call at eight-thirty a.m. from Pensacola.” They don’t see the beauty of it, obviously, although it’s actually sounding crazier to me, too, as I see their faces. “I was going to bring snacks,” I say, tentatively.
“Unbelievable.” Mom puts he
r palm to her forehead.
Dad blinks and shakes his head. He’s frowning, but then his expression changes to one I don’t totally recognize. He’s tilting his head and looking at me closely. A smile tugs at one side of his mouth.
“Snacks,” he says. He starts chuckling. “Snacks!” He throws his head back with a full laugh.
Mom stares at Dad. “Nothing about this is funny.”
“I’m sorry. But such an elaborate plan,” Dad says through laughter. “The garage sale, the website, the ticket, the letter.” He’s lost it, cracking up. “She could be la presidente!”
Mom, chin juts out, but then she smiles.
“Snacks!” says Dad again. I can’t tell if he thinks snacks are smart or silly.
And now Mom is laughing, too. Shaking her head at first, then full-out laughter. They’re laughing—both at me and with me.
I look from one to the other, confused.
“She thought of everything, Kim,” Dad says. “But you left one thing out, m’ija. We would never have left without you. Never. And if we had, we couldn’t have enjoyed the trip. Not with you somewhere else.”
I think I’m still in trouble, but I smile anyway.
Dad puts his arm around Mom. “We raised a resourceful girl. Determined.”
Mom isn’t over it yet, but she doesn’t disagree with Dad. “We’ll talk about this more later,” she says, and then Dad says, “Come,” and pulls me close with his free arm.
It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve trusted their love for me. They love me for who I am, crazy as I am. They love the Quijana they have.
THE SCHOOL BUILDING IS BUZZING TODAY. It’s the last day of regular class before finals. Jayden walks backward as we go to lunch, telling some complicated story involving water balloons. He’s already almost run into three people, partly because of his wild hand gestures, partly because of the backward walking. I laugh, but Zuri is subdued.
“So what’s everyone doing over the break?” Jayden asks, taking his usual stool at our table. “I’m staying home. No trips. Bo-ring.”
The Other Half of Happy Page 21