by Brian Finney
“You mean with undocumented immigrants, not all of whom are Mexican?”
“Now you’re quibbling with words again.”
“No, I’m not. Eduardo is an American citizen. He’s as American as you or I.”
“I don’t trust them.”
“And whom do you mean by ‘them’?”
“Latinos. They have different values than ours. Different loyalties. Different attitudes toward women too.”
“You know, you sound horribly racist,” I say, looking round at her. She’s not used to being confronted by me. I usually shrug off or ignore her attacks and innuendos. But confronting her is the new me.
“You need to start living in the real world. A lot of Americans think the way I do. They just keep quiet about it when they’re with liberal types like you.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Dan Granger has been spouting those prejudiced opinions out loud throughout the campaign.”
“Exactly. We’re transitioning to an age where political correctness is losing ground to gut feelings.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. My gut feelings totally coincide with what you call political correctness.”
“Oh, you! You just think you’re in love. How sad that you’ve chosen another outsider.”
“You don’t know Eduardo. So please stop making judgments based on your ignorance.”
“I know his type well enough. That’s enough for me.”
“Okay. This conversation is over. Got it?”
Inevitably she has to have the last word. “You’ll see that I’m right sooner or later.”
I go silent. To have a bigot for a sister is so humiliating. Where did she get it? Certainly not from our liberal parents. The people in the wealthy crowd she hangs with have a thing up their collective butt about immigrants—about anyone who isn’t like them—blacks, Asians, the poor, the mentally ill . . .
After a few minutes Tricia pulls out of her purse a Ziploc and extracts some blue pills.
“Want one?” she says to me.
“Those barbs?” I ask.
“That’s right.”
“No thanks.”
“I just can’t face Mother and Father without a little assistance.”
Tricia slips a pill into her mouth and washes it down with bottled water.
“That was Gary’s regular excuse whenever he took one,” I say.
“Gary!” Tricia snorts. After a pause she remarks, “You know that for the last three years he has been my main supplier?”
“Gary dealt drugs?” I ask incredulously.
“Sure. How do you think he made his money?”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I didn’t want to risk my supply chain.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought you would get all ethical and interrupt my supply.”
“So all the time you were ridiculing Gary to my face you were relying on him to feed your addiction.”
“What’s wrong with that? That’s all he was good for. A not very reliable messenger boy.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“He’s a sleaze ball. He even tried coming on to me on one occasion. Wanted sex instead of payment.”
“And?”
“What do you think? A year’s worth of drugs wouldn’t have bought him even a hand job.”
I’m left speechless. Over the last few days so many people I thought I knew have revealed a darker, more sordid side. Did I deliberately blind myself to this harsher reality?
My thoughts are interrupted by our arrival at our parents’ house.
✽✽✽
Dad seats the four of us at the dining room table. Mom doesn’t look well. She’s avoiding looking at any of us.
Dad clears his throat. “We’ve been keeping this to ourselves for some time now, but it’s time for us to talk about it.” He pauses and takes a gulp of water. “Your mother has been diagnosed with vascular dementia.”
“What’s that exactly?” Tricia asks.
“It’s a form of dementia caused by multiple strokes and lesions to blood vessels in the brain.”
So, that explains her erratic behavior, I think. Preoccupied with my own mounting problems, I have ignored her frequent memory lapses, refusing to face the obvious. Now that her dementia is confirmed I allow myself to experience the shock I have repressed until this moment.
“And how long has this been going on?” Tricia asks.
“This particular condition is very hard to diagnose. Over the last year she has undergone numerous tests—blood tests of every variety, X-rays, ECGs, neuroimaging, and a wide number of cognitive tests. The definitive diagnosis was only confirmed yesterday.”
“And why haven’t you told us about this all that time?” Tricia demands.
“We didn’t want to worry either of you, dear, until we knew,” Dad answers.
“It’s a lot of nonsense,” Mom says to the glass of water in front of her.
“Your mother refuses to admit that there’s anything wrong with her, apart from a little depression.” Dad says.
She looks up at him angrily. “That’s because there isn’t.”
“What about you getting lost in the bathroom this morning?” he asks her gently.
“That was just for a moment,” she says.
“Alright. What day is it today?” he asks patiently.
“How should I know?” she replies, flustered. “He’s always trying to trap me like that,” she says to Tricia and me.
“Or how about your setting the microwave on fire on Saturday by setting it to heat up a frozen bagel for thirty minutes?”
“I set it for three minutes. You just won’t believe me.”
Dad addresses us. “It’s getting too dangerous to leave her on her own when I go to work. She gets dizzy spells on the staircase. She leaves the front door wide open when she goes out. She turns the burner on and walks away. She forgets to eat when she’s on her own—”
“It’s not my fault,” she shouts. “I leave myself a note of what there is for lunch, and then I lose the note.”
Dad sadly shrugs his shoulders at us, as if to say, “You see?”
“So,” says Tricia, “what do the doctors recommend?”
“They want me to go live in one of those terrible places,” Mom says.
Dad nods. “They strongly urge me to find her a place in an assisted living facility.”
“So?” Tricia asks her father.
“I was told what the diagnosis was likely to be months ago. I’ve been researching assisted living facilities in the Valley. The best one is called Encino Senior Living. It’s on Ventura Boulevard. Here’s their brochure.”
Dad pushes the glossy booklet across the table to us. On the cover is a courtyard furnished with flowers and shrubs, deck tables, cushioned outdoor chairs, a glassed-in gazebo—and no humans. “Located in tree-lined Encino, this prime location offers healthcare facilities and providers, as well as places of worship, restaurants, and a nearby shopping center and entertainment complex . . . Patients suffering from Alzheimer’s disease and dementia are offered individualized mental exercises encompassing the six areas of cognition . . .”
“How much does this cost?” asks Tricia, the practical one.
“Your mother has a modest life insurance policy that can be converted to pay the facility directly.”
“For how long?” Tricia asks.
“Five-and-a-half years.”
“And after that?” Tricia presses him.
Mom interrupts. “Don’t worry about that. According to the doctors I only have four years maximum left.”
I am stunned. I had never faced the obvious fact that my parents wouldn’t be around for the rest of my life. They were a fixture in my mind. I feel sort of uprooted.
Dad looks kind of defeated.
“When is she moving in?” Tricia asks coldly, as if she were negotiating with one of her clients.
“Tomorrow,” Dad says with a qui
ver in his voice. I reach out and touch his arm.
Tricia pulls out a checkbook and writes a check. Looking over her shoulder, I see the amount: one thousand dollars. She hands it to Mom.
“You always were generous,” Mom says.
I feel a stab of envy. Mom never could say that to me. All I can offer her is love.
“When are visiting hours?” I ask.
“Pretty much any time apart from mealtimes and medical sessions,” Dad answers.
“I’ll visit you as soon as you’re settled in,” I tell Mom.
“Settled in,” she replies with a snort. “That’s a joke.”
“I’m sorry,” says Tricia, “but I have to get back to a client by 4.” She looks at me. “We need to leave now.”
“I’ll phone you tomorrow, Dad,” I say. “You and I can visit Mom together after you get back from work.” I pull back my chair reluctantly and get up.
“Thanks, both of you,” Dad says.
“Surprise! I’ve got news for you. I’m going to live in an assaulted living facility,” Mom calls out as Tricia and I are walking away.
✽✽✽
Eduardo and I are celebrating at Tlapazola, a gourmet Mexican restaurant on Venice Boulevard. When I protested that I couldn’t afford it, he told me not to let a small thing like money stop us from savoring a victory. Besides, he’s treating tonight.
We are on our second margarita. Our entrées have already arrived—Wild Lobster Tail Vegetable Enchiladas for Eduardo, and Black Tiger Shrimp Fajitas for me.
“Fantastic,” I declare, wiping my lips with my napkin.
“I agree.”
The waiter asks if we want dessert or coffee. We order two espressos. As we sip them, Eduardo leans across the table and says in a low voice, “I am having real difficulty staying on this side of the table.”
“Greedy,” I tease him.
“I feel as if I’m in a force field.”
“So now we’re blaming physics, are we?”
He grins. “All I know is that if we don’t get you back to my place quickly I am going to get arrested for lewd conduct in public.”
“We can’t have that,” I say. “Drink up, and let’s get out of here.”
On the car ride home we make the mistake of listening to the news on NPR: “Just minutes ago the polls closed on the West Coast. Republicans have made big gains nationwide and are projected to take over the House and sweep into a majority of governors’ mansions.” We exchange a glum look. “We’re projecting wins for Democrats Jerry Brown for governor and Barbara Boxer for the Senate in California.” Eduardo and I exchange a high five. That news frees us from our obsession with the election, so we can devote the rest of the evening to each other.
MIGUEL
It is 8 in the morning. Miguel stands alone in the Oaxaca airport. When he was released, the guards told him that he was getting “deep repatriation.” No driving over the border for him. Flown in handcuffs in a plane contracted by ICE, he has been returned to the city where he was born twenty years ago. His first memories are of his childhood in Baldwin Park. He has never visited Mexico. Never dared risk it. Now here he is back in a birthplace that he cannot even recall.
The grandly named Xoxocotlan International Airport turns out to be a single terminal with three gates. Miguel has no idea what “Xoxocotlan” means or what language it belongs to. Passengers’ voices bounce off the hard surfaces of the building. Announcements over the PA are totally distorted and must be shouted out again in person by uniformed personnel.
Miguel exchanges the few dollars he had when he was arrested for pesos. Next he finds a public phone, consults the phone book to find the number of his grandparents, and dials that number.
“Bueno!” says a male voice.
Miguel knows only a few words of Spanish.
“Con—mm—quién hablo ?”
“Miguel ! Su padre llamó . . .” The rest was drowned by a PA announcement.
“I can’t hear you. Damn! No puedo—what’s the Spanish for ‘hear’?”
“Qué estás diciendo?” asks the male voice on the phone.
Miguel looks round him in desperation. An older woman waiting for the phone offers to help. “‘No te puedo oir’ means ‘I cannot hear you,’” she tells Miguel. He repeats this into the phone. His grandfather, presumably, replies with the same sentence about his father doing or saying something.
Still unable to understand him, Miguel turns to the woman behind him and holds out the phone. “I think my grandfather is trying to tell me something about my father, but I don’t know enough Spanish to understand what he’s saying. Could you please explain the situation to him?” She nods and speaks in Spanish with his grandfather.
She turns to Miguel. “Your grandfather was phoned by your father last night and told that you might be deported anytime. He wants you to take the shuttle to the Zócalo.”
“What’s the Zócalo?” Miguel asks her.
“The central square,” she tells him.
“Oh. Please tell my grandfather that I’ll do as he asks and meet him there. Could you also describe to him what I look like?”
The woman nods, talks some more into the phone and hangs up. Miguel thanks her and asks her where he can pick up the shuttle.
Following her instructions, Miguel makes his way out of the terminal, buys a ticket, and joins the line awaiting the arrival of the bus.
The drive to the city center takes him through some flat green farmland ringed by wooded mountains. They stop in the center of San Antonio de la Cal, and street vendors scramble on board to try to sell their wares during the five-minute layover.
The bus rolls through the suburbs of Oaxaca, streets of row houses painted in different colors, with broad, brightly painted window frames and tall doors with decorated porticos.
The Zócalo is an enormous tree-filled square humming with people, balloons, flowers, street cleaners, and vendors. Miguel gets off the shuttle and looks around for his grandfather. Most of the men he sees seem to be his grandfather’s age.
Miguel dreads the moment he will have to try to talk to his grandfather. How will he survive here when he cannot speak the language? Will he be like Mexicans at home, who don’t know any English and therefore must accept the lowest-paid and most unpleasant jobs?
Miguel catches sight of an old man walking toward him with a slight limp. This must be his grandfather; he’s smiling and waving his arms. He’s a short man with white bristles on his chin, a tanned leathery face, and a missing upper front tooth. He’s carrying a plastic bag filled with fruit and vegetables.
“Hola, Miguel!” he shouts.
Miguel manages one of his few Spanish phrases: “Mucho gusto.”
His grandfather reaches up to embrace him with both arms and slaps his back repeatedly. Finally he breaks away, launching into a long speech unintelligible to Miguel. What should Miguel call this stranger? He cannot recall the Spanish for grandfather. So he just nods and says “Sí. Sí.”
Eventually he gathers from gestures that his grandfather wants him to walk with him. For the next thirty minutes, as they walk, his grandfather chatters. Miguel nods away and adds a “Sí” whenever it seems appropriate. Miguel is utterly miserable, doubly estranged by geography and language.
Finally, the two of them reach a street of brightly colored row houses. Outside an orange stucco single-story house a group of women and children are waving at them. Miguel waves back awkwardly, aware that in a few more moments they will learn how little Spanish he speaks. Before he knows it he is enveloped in hugs and kisses accompanied by greetings that he longs to understand.
A young girl of about twelve is urged to the front of the group. Shyly, she tells Miguel, “I speak small English.”
“Thank you,” Miguel says. “What’s your name?”
“Teresa,” she says. “I am your cousin.”
“Please tell everyone I’m grateful for their wonderful welcome,” Miguel says. As Teresa translates this, they respond wi
th dismissive gestures, as if to ask, where else could they be when a relative from abroad arrives?
A wizened elderly woman dressed in black addresses him. He turns to Teresa for a translation.
“Your abuela—how to say it? —”
“My grandmother?” Miguel guesses.
“Sí, your grandmother asks you inside. She gives breakfast.”
“Muchas gracias,” Miguel says to his grandmother.
“Ven, mi nieto,” she responds, grasping his arm and shepherding him through the open door.
The living room is dominated by a large painted wooden table and upright wooden chairs. The yellow ochre walls are hung with decorated crosses, pictures of the Virgin, masks, and hand-painted plates. A worn plastic fan slowly whirs on the tiled ledge in the corner. The floor is paved with Saltillo tiles. A light bulb covered with a paper shade hangs over the table. Two windows, one each side of the door, offer some additional light.
One place at the head of the table has been laid for Miguel. The women and his grandfather seat themselves around the table; the children stare at him from their places between their mothers and aunts.
Miguel’s grandmother pours him out a cup of dark coffee from a hand-painted ceramic pot. “Yo sé que a los americanos les encanta su café,” she tells the others. Miguel grins uncomprehendingly. Another woman emerges from the kitchen and sets a platter in front of him. On it is a huge yellow omelet covered with red salsa, green chili peppers, chorizos, and slices of avocado, accompanied by a basket of corn tortillas covered with a colorful woven cloth.
“Que aproveche!” she says.
“Muchas gracias,” Miguel replies. Overwhelmed, he grasps a fork, looks down at his breakfast, looks up at all of them, and bursts into tears.
Wednesday
November 3, 2010
Eduardo, Felicia, and I are standing on the beach at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. Each of us holds a white rose in our hands. We’re here to say goodbye to Susan by recalling our chosen memory of her.
Felicia remembers the time her car broke down and she’d had it towed to Todd’s driveway. Susan asked for the keys. At the end of the day she told Felicia that her car was working and gave her back the keys. When Felicia asked her how that could be, Susan told her that she’d asked a mechanic friend of hers to look at it. Days later Felicia came across a bill Susan had accidentally left in the kitchen. It revealed that Susan had paid a Newport Beach repair shop $2,800 to fix it. When Felicia told her she wanted to pay her back, Susan just gave her a big hug and refused to discuss it.