How to Build a Heart

by Maria Padian

  “Could I stay with you guys? It would probably only be for a little while. Until Mom dries out. Again. You’ve got room now, right? With the new house? Please, Izzy . . .”

  An ask. A bona fide ask. From the girl who never admits she wants or needs anything. Before I could even think of how to reply, Mark returned. Pushing a wheelchair.

  “C’mon,” he ordered. “I got you into an exam room. Probably still have to wait, but at least you can lie down.” On shaky legs, she moved from one chair to the other, keeping a hand on the gauze the whole time. “Anybody asks? You tell them I’m your cousin,” he told her. “That way I’m allowed to stay with you.” He glanced at me and winked. “Rest of the ‘family’ is supposed to wait out here. I’ll let you know what’s going on.”

  You’d think with all the adrenaline pumping through my body I’d have paced that room like a caged animal, but next thing I remember, Mark was prodding me awake. My neck was stiff and one arm tingled from me lying on it like a pillow.

  “I’ll take you home,” he said. “Doc’s working on her now.”

  I licked my lips. My mouth tasted sour. “What’s happening?”

  “Stiches,” he said. “Finally.”

  If I felt hollow-eyed, he looked it. With a side order of grim. I couldn’t help interrogating him as we climbed into the truck and pulled out of the parking lot. “Is something else wrong?”

  “She’s just upset,” he said. And stopped. I could practically see his mind working.

  “About what happens next,” I supplied.

  “Yup.”

  “She asked if she could move in with us,” I told him.

  We let that hang in the stale air of the cab for a long moment.

  I thought of my sweet lavender room with the three freshly painted shelves. I tried to imagine a second twin bed in that space. Roz’s Crazy Beads worktable crowded into a corner, her fashion photos taped above on the clean, new wall. Her clothes in my closet.

  Was it awful of me that my heart sank? I had been so looking forward to decorating, unpacking, lying on my bed, and looking out the window.

  But what other option did she have? None. Zero.

  And I had so much.

  “She’s dreamin’,” Mark said. Clipped voice. Sort of angry. At me?

  “They don’t just release you to the neighbors,” he explained. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “How does it work?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” he muttered. “But not like that.”

  I’d been trying to explain all this to Sam, in my sleepwalking state, as everyone was scurrying around and setting up for the Dedication. He’d been doing his best to take it all in without looking too shocked, but what passes for a not-too-unusual night in lovely Meadowbrook Gardens is completely alien to East Clayton.

  I’ll bet he’s never spent a night with his front door duct-taped to the side of his house.

  “Sam, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I finally tell him.

  “You’ve never seen It’s a Wonderful Life?” he asks. Like I’ve just told him I’ve never brushed my teeth.

  “Nope.”

  “We watch it every Christmas. It’s a family tradition.”

  “Why do I get the sense that if the Shackeltons do it once, it’s in the books forever?”

  He laughs. “This really is a tradition. When my parents were at the University? It would play nonstop, twenty-four-seven, during exam week. They said it was a great study break.”

  Sam says “the University” like it’s the only one on the planet. But as I’m learning: that’s how Virginians feel about UVA. Also known as Mr. Jefferson’s University. Also known as Sam’s school come September. Which translates to this-is-all-going-to-end-soon. But that’s what happens when you date a senior. They graduate.

  “C’mon,” he prods. “Don’t tell me you don’t have traditions. Especially at Christmas.”

  I feel my grouchy meter shifting into overdrive. It doesn’t help that I’m so tired. “After all I’ve said about Roz and Shawn and the hospital and all, are we really going to discuss holiday traditions right now?”

  Sam’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “When I’m upset about something,” he finally says, “and can’t do anything to fix it? I try not to turn it over and over in my mind. That’s just worry, and it honestly doesn’t help. Instead, I change the channel. Think about something else. Until I can do something to fix the problem.” He looks at me, concern in his eyes. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was trying to distract you.”

  I don’t even know what to say. As someone who comes from a long line of practically professional worriers, I can’t relate to this put-it-in-a-box-and-deal-with-it-later mentality.

  But I do get that he was trying to be kind. Not thoughtless.

  “Well,” I begin, “have you ever heard of parrandas?”

  “Never,” Sam says.

  “It’s basically Christmas caroling that starts late at night. We do it at my grandmother’s in Puerto Rico. You go from house to house, visiting all your friends. At each home there’s food and drinks and singing, and when you finish at one place, the hosts join you for the next. So the group keeps getting bigger and rowdier.”

  “Sounds like a blast.”

  “It is,” I tell him. “Then on Christmas Day, we usually eat the same things. Roast pork. Arroz con gandules. Pasteles. Those are meat-filled pastries that you wrap in banana leaves and boil. We make them assembly-line style. Everyone crowds into my grandmother’s kitchen for hours making piles of pasteles.”

  One time we went—it was the first Christmas after Daddy died—I remember we couldn’t eat them all, so Abuela froze a bunch. She gave us some to take home on the plane, wrapping them carefully in multiple layers of thick plastic. But they didn’t clear the gate. Mami cried when the woman in the Customs uniform took them. I remember being so embarrassed by my mother, making a scene over those dumb pasteles.

  It occurs to me now that those pasteles were just one goodbye too many on a rough day. An awful year.

  “Maybe make them for me when I come home at Christmas break?” Sam says.

  I hold my breath. He assumes we’ll still be a thing at Christmas.

  He is so positive. I want to be like that. Feel like that. Or at least try.

  “How about we do them together?” I suggest. “We’ll get Mami to show us. Set up our own little pastel-maker space in that new kitchen.”

  “Deal,” he says. He reaches with one hand to grasp mine, even though he’s turning into the Four Corners lot. “And I’ll bring the movie. You’ll love it.”

  The wine, bread, and salt are waiting for us (Ms. Clare called ahead), and after a quick pickup (she also paid ahead since we aren’t old enough to buy wine), Sam books it back. Even though we race, cars are parked down the length of our new road when we arrive. Sam edges the Cherokee onto a patch of grass near the Habitat sign at the entrance to the development, and we walk-run toward the cul-de-sac and our house. Halfway there I notice Mark’s pickup. It’s parked at a bad angle, and he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, windows down, talking on the phone. I haven’t seen him since he brought me home last night.

  “Take these!” I tell Sam, thrusting the grocery bags at him. “I’ll catch up.”

  Sam sprints, waving at Mark as he heads toward the house.

  When I approach the cab I hear Mark say, “Izzy’s here. Want to talk to her?” He passes his cell phone to me.

  “She’s a little teary,” he says in a half whisper. “But she’s doin’ good.”

  I hold the phone to my ear. “Roz?”

  “Hey, Izzy.” Snuffles. The sounds of someone blowing her nose.

  “How’re you doing?”

  “You can never, ever, say anything bad about that cousin of yours again. Okay?” I glance at Mark. He heard
that. Tries not to smile, but he’s damn pleased with himself right now.

  “I’ll try,” I tell her, winking at him. “But don’t be fooled. Deep down, he’s Devil Spawn.”

  “Promise,” she says, a break in her voice. God, she’s practically sobbing. What’d they do to her?

  “I promise,” I say. “Listen, he says you’re doing good. Are you?”

  “I have forty-five stitches in my head.”

  “Forty-five!” I can’t help it. “For that little thing?”

  “It was deep,” she says. “So they stitch you in layers. Because it was on my forehead, they brought in a plastic surgeon. He says I’ll hardly have a scar.”

  I remember the white bone of her forehead from last night. Taking a breath, I grasp the side of the truck with my free hand. “That’s great, Roz. Otherwise you feel okay?”

  “Social services was here this morning,” she says. A quaver in her voice. “They want to release me into care. Another foster home, Izzy.”

  I look at Mark. His jaw has clenched and his mouth is set into this firm line. It’s the grim face from last night.

  “That’s not going to happen,” I tell her. Even though I have no idea how this can possibly not happen. “We are here for you. All of us.” Despite the fatigue, I hear the resolve in my own voice. I don’t know where it’s come from, or how I know, but we’ll figure it out.

  “Okay.” Her voice sounds small. Un-Roz-like. “Izzy?”

  “Yeah?” From the corner of my eye, I see someone waving at me, just beyond the line of cars and before the crush of people standing in front of our house: Wacky Wavy Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man Aubrey. Today’s program includes Veronic Convergence singing a hymn.

  “I’m sorry!” Roz bursts out. “For throwing that rock and bringing Shawn into your house and all those mean things I said and—”

  “Stop! Roz, stop!”

  She has nothing to apologize for. Neither of us do. Both of us do.

  We’re all just doing the best we can. It’s time to forgive ourselves. And each other.

  “I love you. Okay? I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I hear.

  I hand the phone back to Mark. He holds up a finger, signaling that he’ll join me in one minute. As I race-walk toward the house, I hear him say, “Hey. Me again.” We’ll see if he makes it to the ceremony.

  I wend my way through the crowd in front of our house, trying to get to the front porch—where I can see Mami and Jack standing with Mr. Lyle and our pastor—but it’s slow going. There must be a hundred people standing out here in the sun.

  Every one of them helped build our house.

  “Finally!” Jack exclaims when I reach them. A microphone has been set up and it’s on, so everyone hears him. Laughter ripples through the crowd.

  Mr. Lyle gets things rolling, introducing himself, then our pastor, for the blessing. Then the speakers. A lot of them. Everyone who sponsored or who sent a group to volunteer or who’s a big deal with Habitat wants to say something. I get it, this is important. But as the clock ticks, Jack tocks. He’s wearing his Church Pants and a stiff shirt—Mami might have used starch when she ironed it—and I can tell this is totally testing his limits.

  And he’s on a stage. In front of all these nice people.

  Finally, it’s the part of the program where the new homeowner speaks. Which would be Mami. She has been working on her “remarks” for days now, reading lines out loud and asking me what I think. Asking Mr. Lyle and Mrs. Brenda for advice. She wants to get it just right, and not leave anyone out.

  She’s printed her speech, and as she steps to the mike I can see the sheets tremble. Her hands shake.

  Mami starts to read, but then . . . she stops. She looks up from the paper and out into the crowd and tears slip down her cheeks. She’s not going to be able to do it. My brave Mami.

  Holding my brother’s hand, I join her at the mike.

  “I’ve got this,” I tell her.

  She nods, her eyes spilling over, and steps back.

  I look out. To the left stand the VC girls, who are going to sing the final hymn. The Shackeltons stand with a posse of East Clayton neighbors and basketball parents. There are Mami’s coworkers from the hospital, folks from St. Bernadette’s, teachers and friends from my school, other Habitat families we’ve gotten to know. At the very back, sort of off to one side, my amazing cousin, the Devil’s own Spawn, stands alongside Betts. She’s almost unrecognizable in beige slacks and a white blouse. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen her in something other than denim or flannel.

  “For a long time,” I begin, “our family has been lost. As most of you know, a few years back my dad died. His name was Charlie Crawford. He was a big man with a big heart, and when he was gone he left a big hole.

  “I think we’ve been wandering, trying to fill that hole and find a place to call home. We’ve moved a lot. It’s been hard. We’ve been lonely. I don’t know how my mom stayed strong, but she never gave up. She never stopped fighting for us, and having faith that things would get better.

  “And they did. When we met all of you. I know that Mami would like to thank each and every one of you by name, but that would take too long and it’s getting hot and my little brother here is about to melt down.” Everyone laughs. They all know Jack. “So I’m just going to say, you have changed our lives. You have become our new family. You have given us a home. Thank you.”

  When I’m finished and everyone applauds, I make a point not to look at my mother. Because I will absolutely cry, and I know if I start blubbing, I won’t be able to stop. Mr. Lyle seems to get this, and he quickly moves to the mike for the final presentations.

  He hands the loaf of bread to Jack. “Here is bread, so that this house may never know hunger,” he says. He passes me the salt. “Salt, so that life may always have flavor.” He hands Mami the wine. “Wine, so that joy and prosperity may reign forever.” Then he dangles a set of bright silver keys from a ring. “And keys, so you can open the front door!”

  Everyone laughs.

  I step down from the porch and join the Veronic Convergence girls. Min gives us the tone, and we begin to sing the closing. It’s one I chose: “How Great Thou Art.”

  As we sing, I look over the sea of heads at Mark. He flashes me a thumbs-up. I’m guessing it’s for my impromptu little speech, but maybe not. Maybe it’s the music.

  Because he’s the only person here who would understand how important it is for me to take back this hymn.

  34

  Most people don’t dedicate and move into their new house on the same day. It’s too much. But after what happened, there’s no way we’re spending another night in Meadowbrook—especially without a functioning front door.

  So after most of the Dedication guests leave, Mr. Lyle rolls up in the U-Haul. Paco’s riding shotgun with him.

  “Not safe. Not safe at all, Mr. Lyle,” I chide him when he emerges from the truck. “You’re setting a very bad example for Jack.”

  Paco scampers after him. The little guy starts yapping and running in frenetic circles. It’s his first visit to the new house, and he can scarcely believe his luck.

  Neither can I. Luck. Who knew?

  Mr. Lyle drapes an arm over my shoulder. “I know,” he muses. “I’m a terrible influence. You don’t know the half of it.”

  I wrap my arms around him and give him a huge hug. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For everything.”

  When I release him he claps his hands loudly and calls out to the lingerers.

  “Hey! Make yourselves useful. Let’s help these people move their furniture.”

  Here’s the good thing about being poor and constantly moving: you don’t have too much stuff. In a little over an hour, the U-Haul is empty. Thanks to Mami’s wife-in-the-military moving skills, each of our boxes is labeled according to
content and the room where it belongs, so things like clothing, blankets, and pots are easy to find. And while it’s a bummer to see that awful Scrouch planted in our bright new living room, at least . . . it’s a bright new living room.

  People are slowly, finally, almost gone. We’re down to only one Habitat volunteer, who is carting off the last of the Dedication celebration trash; Mr. Lyle, who is leafing through the homeowners’ manual they gave to Mami; Sam, who is outside running Jack and Paco into the ground with a ball; and Aubrey, who volunteers to help me set up my room. I’m trying to figure out a nice way to put her off. Because I really, really want to do it alone. To some girls it might seem like work, but this is something I’ve been looking forward to since . . . forever. I want to savor every little folded sock.

  As I’m trying to figure out what to say to Aubrey, there’s a knock at the door.

  Betts, Mark, and a heavily bandaged Roz walk in. I barely recognize her: there’s bruising around her dressing, and her eyes are swollen. Shawn really did a number on her.

  “Ay, mija!” Mami exclaims. She rushes over to her and guides her to the pleather armchair.

  “Look who we sprang from the hospital!” Betts announces. She looks exceedingly pleased with herself. Like she just pulled something off. Mark looks equally pleased. Like he’s her partner in some crime.

  Aubrey looks like her eyes might bug out of her head.

  “Oh my god. What happened?” she asks. No filter.

  “I got a bad cut on my forehead,” Roz explains. She manages to look around. “Nice place.”

  Aubrey plops herself on the Scrouch. “Ouch. Did you need stitches?” she continues.

  “A bunch,” Roz says.

  “I’m sorry, you two haven’t met,” I jump in. “Roz, this is Aubrey Shackelton. Aubrey, this is my friend Roz Jenkins.” I lean in a bit closer and whisper in Aubrey’s ear. “My stylist.”

  Aubrey sits bolt upright. “Oh my god. Oh my god, you’re the one who makes those incredible necklaces! I’ve been begging to meet you. I love your stuff!”

  Even through the swelling and the bandages, I can see Roz flash me a look. Is she for real? it says. I widen my eyes and incline my head ever so slightly at her.