P.S. This is Eddie.
Then I text Cameron:
I got a phone! I’m at the airport about to leave for Colombia.
I add a tongue-sticking-out face and hit send.
I look up and see that Mama’s eyes are filled with tears. They wait like the planes lined up outside on the runway. I have to look away before they take off. “Promise to text me,” she says. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I promise,” I tell Mama, and hug her tight. This time it feels like she’s the one who’s going to float away.
* * *
Last year my teacher gave us a bonus spelling word. “Discombobulate: to upset or confuse.” We thought it was a funny word. Now I’m glad I learned it, because it perfectly describes how I feel right now. Cameron sure was right when she said life is something. One moment you’re standing on a fishing dock in Minnesota, and the next you’re in a foreign country all by yourself.
I’m waiting for my luggage with the flight attendant/babysitter at the Cartagena airport. I haven’t seen my suitcase since Minneapolis, even though I got off one plane and onto another in Miami, followed the whole time by my babysitter. In one hand I grip Papa’s medal. In the other, I hold my new phone like it’s a life vest. The airport has Wi-Fi, so I connect and type a new message.
Flight attendant was not hot. Did not smell like pee.
I add a smiley face. Then I worry Cameron won’t get it. Then I worry that I sound dumb. I look around the baggage claim area and worry that I won’t recognize my brother, who is coming to meet me as soon as I get my luggage. I watch the suitcases pour out of the carousel, piling against each other, knocking into one another. Sometimes my worries feel like that, all of them piling up. What if Big Eddie doesn’t show? What if I never get home to Minnesota? What if I don’t catch a fish?
My suitcase on wheels is now inching its way along the carousel. “Is this yours, Edward?” the flight attendant asks. She pulls it off and sets it upright next to me just as I hear a familiar voice.
“Little Eddie!”
And then I’m standing in front of a man who hardly looks like a teenager anymore. It’s been three years, and now my brother, at nineteen, is practically an adult. He’s wearing slim-fitting jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. He hugs me and smiles, but his eyes are sad. Sad like Mama’s are sometimes.
“Hermanito,” Big Eddie says, hugging me, messing up my hair. “My little brother.”
He scoops up my suitcase, shows his ID to the flight attendant, signs a paper, and that’s the end of the babysitter.
I follow my brother to the airport’s exit. A swarm of black-haired people, their skin yellowed in the harsh lighting, look at me without really seeing me. The automatic doors open and shut with a swooshing sound like someone diving into a lake.
I would love to jump into Lake Mad right now. Even the humidity of Minnesota summers hasn’t prepared me for this wall of heat. I thought inside the airport was hot, but the heat outside feels like an evil villain wanting to eat me alive.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Big Eddie says as we walk through the dark parking lot. I can’t believe he’s wearing pants and long sleeves. “And Abuela is too.” He heaves my suitcase into the trunk of a tiny blue car. I smile awkwardly. Talking to him in person is different from talking to him on the phone. I was eight the last time I saw him. And now. Now he’s like a stranger. Only not.
“¿Listo?” Big Eddie turns the ignition, and the car jerks to life, along with a booming bass rhythm. Big Eddie switches off the radio.
“It’s hot,” I say. “Can we have the air-conditioning?”
“In this old car?” He laughs and then opens the windows. The breeze doesn’t cool me down. “Are you hungry? We’re going straight home,” he explains in English even more accented than I remember. “We can eat there.”
As he careens around corners, he shouts, “Hold on!” and he laughs his familiar laugh when I shriek at the turns. He loves to drive. When he visited three years ago, he was sixteen and was always asking to drive Mama’s car. She told him he needed an international driver’s license, because she’s a rule-follower like that. She let him drive once, but he went so fast on the little side streets, she said she almost had a seizure.
Now I see what she meant. He weaves in and out of traffic. Motorbikes whiz past. We lurch to a stop at an intersection where women with bags slung over their shoulders offer to sell candies and strange fruit. He takes off once the intersection is clear, zooming around corners. Even though it’s dark out, the city of Cartagena is alive, pulsing. I’ve never seen so many people out at night except for when Mama and I go see fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Big Eddie pulls the car to a stop at another red light. A man stands in the spotlight of the cars’ headlights and starts to juggle knives—actual knives. Music pours out of a shopfront that smells like burgers, only different.
“Hermanito,” Big Eddie says, shifting the car into gear when the light turns green and the juggler steps aside to let the traffic pass. “What do you think of my country?”
“Um,” I say, not really listening. I feel jumbled and shaken, and not just because of Big Eddie’s driving. This isn’t anything like the pictures of Colombia in the C volume of my encyclopedia that I read on the plane.
Big Eddie socks my shoulder. “This is tu patria, Little Eddie. Your homeland.”
My homeland? I silently shape my mouth into the Spanish word: pah-tree-ah. It feels strange, but maybe strange is okay.
I hear a pinging noise. It’s coming from my pocket. I pull out my phone as Big Eddie swings the car around a corner. I didn’t think my phone would work, but there is a text from Cameron.
Hey, you fisherman. Sorry your flight attendant wasn’t hot. My dad is talking about getting me a fishing rod, but he always promises and never delivers. I went to the dock and dropped a yogurt in. Lots of fish came up to eat it. But no sign of the big one. Stay cool.
I smile. She’s as wacky as her purple hair.
Another ping. Mama.
Did you arrive in one piece? Please message me so I don’t worry. I checked the weather, and it says it’s supposed to be 98 degrees in Cartagena. Don’t forget sunscreen. And drink plenty of water. Love you!
There’s a funny twinge at the back of my throat at the thought of Mama worrying about me. I answer her.
I’m here with Big Eddie. He’s super tall!
Mama pings me again.
P.S. Drink only bottled water!!!
I send a thumbs-up to Mama, and she immediately texts back with three pink hearts.
“Wow, Little Eddie,” my brother says as he pulls the car into a driveway between two small, low houses. “You’re a popular kid. Is that your girlfriend?”
I’m glad it’s dark so that he can’t see me turn red. I bet he never turns red. He probably never gets embarrassed.
“It’s just my mom.” I don’t tell him about Cameron.
“Did you tell Liz you got here safe? She’s going to worry otherwise. We had to convince her that we would take care of you and that you wouldn’t be in the way.” He turns off the car, and in the sudden quiet, I hear the distant laughter of children. “Ya llegamos. We’re here.”
While Big Eddie gets my suitcase from the trunk, I look at the text from Cameron again. I don’t know what to say to her, so I take a picture of Big Eddie bringing my luggage through a small gate to the house. He turns when the flash goes off, and his face is strangely lit like he’s a ghost. I send her the picture anyway. She sends back a smiley face, and my own face becomes smiley too.
9
“¿CÓMO AMANECISTE?” a voice asks. In the yellow morning light, I see a man with black hair leaning over me. Across the small room is an unmade bed that matches the one I’m lying in. Both beds have dark wood headboards and footboards. Between them is a matching nightstand with a lamp crowded next to a pile of magazines. The walls are hidden by posters of shiny cars and of singers I don’t recognize. The bedroom is as messy
as Liam’s. A bookshelf is crammed with stuff: a trophy in the shape of a soccer player, a white seashell the size of my head, a stuffed monkey with one eye missing, and a stack of postcards. I feel clammy and thirsty, like I’ve been in a desert for forty days (not that I’ve ever seen a desert).
“How did you sleep?” asks the man.
Oh.
That’s not a man. It’s Big Eddie. I untangle myself from the damp sheets.
Last night Abuela’s house was a blur of white tile floors and dark wood furniture. Abuela was at the hospital, so Big Eddie made me a ham and cheese sandwich in a little sandwich press. He gave me a glass bottle of Coca-Cola even though it has caffeine and it was after nine. At bedtime he showed me how he lines up six empty beer bottles across the floor tiles in front of the door. “In case someone gets through the locks,” he told me, “the noise will wake me up, and bam—” Big Eddie made a slicing motion with his hand, and I laughed.
“My grandmother can leave the hospital this morning,” Big Eddie says now. “I’m going to bring her home.”
I still feel discombobulated. I rub my eyes again. Maybe this is what a fish feels like when it’s pulled out of the water.
“I’m leaving now, but Nita, Abuela’s maid, is here.”
A maid? “Is Abuela rich?”
“Rich? No. Why?” Big Eddie looks confused. “Oh, the maid. Lots of families have maids here. People need work. Nita doesn’t speak any English, but you’ll be fine. She can make you breakfast.”
After he leaves, I climb out of bed, my feet hitting the tiles. When I jerk from the startling cold of the floor, my arm hits the nightstand, and all the magazines slide to the floor. Stacking them back into a pile, I examine each one. Maybe I can learn something about my half brother by studying his stuff.
The magazines are all in Spanish. They have different titles, but each one has a car and a woman on the cover. All the women are smiling and wearing very little clothing, and they’re draped across the hoods of the cars in what look like very uncomfortable positions. In fact, I get a little uncomfortable just looking at them.
Ping. I pull my phone out of the pocket of my jeans that are on the floor in a heap. The text is from Cameron.
Liam hasn’t answered yet.
Cameron’s message contains a blurry photo and the word “Duckling.” I zoom in and count six baby ducks swimming in a crooked line.
In the early summer, the mallard ducks parade their fuzzy ducklings around Lake Mad like the human moms with their strollers. Back home I read about ducks in the D-E-F volume of my encyclopedia. Mallards, like chickadees, are native to North America. I type a reply:
Did you know that mallard ducks don’t live in Colombia? I wonder if I should. Happy fishing.
I pull on a pair of shorts from my suitcase, slip Papa’s medal into the pocket, and go into the hallway. The entire house has the same white tiles. I’ve never seen a house with floors like this. Our old apartment had worn wood floors, and our new duplex has carpeting.
Ping. I read Cameron’s message.
Haven’t fished yet. Still no rod. Don’t stay there forever! I need a partner!
I smile. Even though I just met her, she already seems like more of a friend than Liam. Why hasn’t he texted me back yet? I stuff the phone into my pocket, ready to explore. To my left is a heavy wooden door with a lattice of black bars covering its rectangular window. Beyond the window, I can hear the rumble of cars in the street out front. Through the bars, I see a small yard surrounded by a fence, and a walkway splitting it neatly in half. Across the hall, a door is partway open. I peek in. The curtains are green and match the bedspread. An arrangement of black-and-white photos in gold frames clutters the bedside table, which is crowded with medicine bottles. A stale smell seeps out. It must be Abuela’s room. I wrinkle my nose. It’s the tangy, sour scent that infects Mama’s work clothes and reminds me of the mustiness of Papa’s hospital room. I’ve been trying not to think too much about Big Eddie’s grandmother being sick, even though that’s why I’m here.
At the end of the hallway is a living room, dining room, and kitchen that all open onto what looks to me like an indoor backyard. Brick walls, as tall as the one-story house, enclose a cement patio, a patch of green grass, and a few shrubs. A bright green tree in the courtyard’s center reaches for the scorching sun above. In the kitchen, a short, round woman in jeans and a T-shirt that says “pretty” in sparkly letters is mopping the floor. Is this the maid? She doesn’t look like a maid. Not like a maid in a movie, not anything like Cinderella.
She sees me and smiles. She points at herself. “Nita,” she says, and then says about a hundred other words in Spanish.
I stare at her. I can’t help it. What am I supposed to say? She leans her mop against the wall and lifts two brown eggs from a tray on the counter. Oh, she wants to cook me breakfast. But my stomach feels funny. And I’ve never seen eggs not from a refrigerator. I shake my head.
She puts down the eggs and grabs a pitcher. Her eyebrows go up. I come closer and see that it’s some kind of juice. I nod. “Okay,” I say. And then I say, “Vale,” the way Big Eddie taught me. That makes her go wild with excitement. I feel like a baby saying his first word.
She pours juice for me and says something else in Spanish. I don’t know what kind of juice this is—it tastes supersweet at first, but after I swallow, a shock of sour. And with that sip, it hits me that I am in Colombia. South America. Somewhere out there is the Caribbean Sea. During the flight I read in my encyclopedia that the water of the Caribbean is famous for being clear, blue, and warm. And filled with fish. I hope Big Eddie will take me fishing, even though his grandmother is sick. Maybe he’ll want a break. And I need to practice. If I can catch a fish in the Caribbean, catching one in an old Minnesota lake will be easy.
I walk into the courtyard. The tree in the middle of the patio is not very tall but has a twisted trunk. One branch is held up by two pieces of wood nailed together. Big yellowish-green spheres hang from the tree branches. Limes? I look closer. No, they have little nubs like lemons. It’s funny because I know that lemons come from trees the way I know milk comes from cows, but it’s different to see it for myself. If you don’t see where something came from, it’s hard to believe it actually did.
After setting my juice glass down on the patio bricks, I grab a yellow fruit from a low branch. I yank until it drops into my hand. The lemon is warm, almost as warm as the air. I toss the fruit up and catch it again. Toss. Catch. It feels like I’m inside a secret garden. A steaming hot secret Colombian garden. From over the courtyard’s brick walls, I can hear the drone of a television from some other house, and in the opposite direction the chatter of what sounds like very loud and wild children.
Toss. Catch. The lemon’s citrus smell fills the air. Maybe catching a fish is as easy as this. I hear Nita chopping something in the kitchen. The rhythm is like a drumbeat. Toss. Catch.
I’m just about to toss the lemon one more time, when something comes soaring over the courtyard’s wall. A soccer ball, black and white with frayed stitching. Above me, the top slats of a wooden ladder appear, followed by a small brown face. The face says something to me in Spanish. I mean, I knew everyone here would speak Spanish, but it still surprises me to hear words I don’t understand coming out of a little kid.
“I don’t speak Spanish,” I call up to the boy. He’s about seven or eight. The boy laughs and talks to whoever is on his side of the wall. I hear more laughter, and more brown faces appear.
“Hola,” I say, and wave to the two—no, three—faces. They burst into giggles. I feel like a goldfish in a bowl.
“Soo-kur,” the first boy says. “Fútbol.” He points at the ball again.
I set my lemon on the patio next to my empty juice glass and grab the ball from under the branches of the tree. I line the ball up for the kick. In third and fourth grades, I played on the park soccer league, midfield. I wasn’t that good, but I could keep away opponents with some quick dribbling
and sometimes a pass (even if it was usually accidental). During one of the last games of my last season, my team was losing by eight points. The other team had a girl center with a wicked kick. You should’ve seen the parents. Shouting, jumping on the sidelines. “Don’t let her through!” they called. “Watch the open spots!”
We lost. Like I said, the girl was wicked good. After we all high-fived, I found Mama in her lawn chair, with her usual book open in her lap. She didn’t always pay attention, but she always came to my games.
“Great game,” she said, looking at me from behind large sunglasses.
“What do you mean ‘great game’?” said a dad behind her. His son was the forward on my team. The dad and son sometimes gave me rides to practice when Mama was at nursing school. “Eddie could have hustled,” the dad said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I thought Colombians could play soccer.”
Mama didn’t say a word, but she let me quit after that.
I look up at the kids peeking over the wall. What would Big Eddie have said to that dad? What about Papa? I run and pull back my leg to start an angry kick—a kick that releases my bad memory of that guy. But instead of going over, the ball thuds against the wall. The kids go nuts, laughing like hyenas—or what I imagine laughing hyenas must sound like. It’s hard to stay angry when little kids are laughing like that.
I take a bow, and they giggle again. I kick, and again the ball smashes into the bricks. More titters. I’m sweating. I can hear Nita chopping, and I’m getting hungry. Still, I give the kids a little bit more of a show. I even fall over a couple of times. Totally on purpose. They laugh, and I wish I could talk to them. I try to think of Spanish words.
“Tacos!” I shout. They sputter with giggles and jabber at me while I catch my breath.
“Enchiladas!” I say. “Siesta! Guacamole!”
“Guacamole!” the kids shout back. “Tacos!” they mimic as if we’re playing catch with words.
When I miss the kick again—this time not on purpose—I fold over in laughter, hardly believing that I’m speaking fake Spanish and kicking a soccer ball in Colombia. Papa’s Colombia. Big Eddie’s Colombia. The kids shout at me in between their giggles. Even though I have no idea what they’re saying, the sound of their laughter is no different from the noise kids make in my own school. In fifth grade I sat near the window, and I liked to listen to the yelling during kindergarten recess and watch little arms navigate the monkey bars. These kids in Colombia are the same. Just kids laughing.
What If a Fish Page 5