Everything Within and In Between

by Nikki Barthelmess

  “Can I leave you my phone number so she can call me?” I ask.

  John nods. “Of course.”

  I tell him my number and watch him type it in his phone.

  “So, you’ll tell her Maria came by and have her call, right?” Brittany asks John. He nods and she smiles at me reassuringly.

  “Thank you.” I look at John. “Please tell her I can’t wait to talk to her.”

  “You got it,” John says. “Can’t wait to see you again, this time wrapped in your mother’s arms!”

  I smile as emotions whirl through me. Adrenaline. Excitement.

  On the drive home, all Brittany and I can do is talk about my mom.

  “It bugs me that I don’t know why she left,” I say. I put my arm outside the window and let it hang in the cool air.

  “You could ask her.”

  “I could . . . and I will, but . . .”

  Brittany tilts her head. “But?”

  I pull my hand back inside the car. “I just don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to scare her away.”

  “You won’t, Ri. She’s your mom. She’s been waiting for you for two years. Maybe even longer.” Brittany shifts one hand over to the steering wheel and taps my knee with the other. “You saw how excited her boyfriend was that you came. She must have talked about you constantly. Why else would he react that way? Just imagine how happy your mom will be.”

  I look at my phone. She still hasn’t called. But she will, soon. I hope.

  I flick on my living room light and toss my backpack on the ground before I kick off my shoes into the middle of the floor. My eyes flutter closed a second too long to be a regular blink. Thinking about my mom so much is apparently not just emotionally tiring. Wrapping myself up in blankets in bed and shutting out the world sounds really good right about now.

  I turn toward the hallway when I hear footsteps from Grandma’s room. Quickly, I grab my backpack and shoes and set them neatly by the couch.

  Grandma’s door creaks open.

  “Grandma,” I say, noticing her droopy eyes and ruffled hair. “I thought you were at work.”

  “I was, and I will be.” Grandma stifles a yawn before pushing her hands down, smoothing the wrinkles out of her blouse. “I needed a quick nap. I stayed late last night and was so tired. But I have to go by Riviera Country Club now to pick up food for Mrs. Reynolds. Because she must eat that same salad every week. Why she can’t have me get takeout from a normal restaurant . . .” Grandma trails off to let another yawn out.

  The second her hand reaches for my shoulder, I’m hit with a flash of anger. Grandma can act like everything is the same as it’s always been, but it isn’t. Not to me, anyway. It was so easy to find Mom. She’s been within reach this entire time, but Grandma kept her from me.

  I sidestep Grandma’s touch, but she seems too tired or distracted to notice.

  “You have homework to do?” She’s not looking at me but instead gathering her keys and purse.

  “Studying for Spanish,” I say, but then I remember I have to do some serious brainstorming for my video assignment. “And I have to think about my Multimedia project, pick a topic. All the high-tech video cameras at school are checked out for weeks, and since they have lenses way better than my phone, I have to wait to get started.”

  Shooting video, editing, doing voice-over—so not in her wheelhouse. Though Grandma likes to have an opinion on everything, she doesn’t know much more than how to use a computer and a cell phone.

  Grandma stands straighter. “Well, I’m sure you’ll do all you can ahead of time, whatever is necessary to make sure you are prepared when you’re able to check the equipment out.”

  “Yep.” I don’t want to talk to my grandma any more than I have to. Not when looking at her makes me want to scream.

  “I’m off to work. Dinner’s in the fridge.” Grandma moves forward like she’s about to kiss my forehead but doesn’t when I take a step back. “I love you, Ri. I know you enjoy running with Brittany, but don’t leave your homework until late at night. Rest is important; we all need it. I should know.”

  I narrow my eyes at her guilt trip. Grandma has no idea where I really was. Grandma doesn’t know anything. “Better get going, then!”

  Grandma sighs and tells me good night.

  To spite her, even though I know it’s silly, I’m not going to do homework right now. I check my phone again. Still nothing from my mom. So, I plop onto my bed and pull up my Instagram and search for Carlos. What’s his last name again? I don’t actually know it, I realize.

  Nina García, I type instead. We still follow each other even after everything. There’s a profile photo of her and Miguel. Miguel’s arms are wrapped around her from behind. She’s smirking, like she’s too cool to smile.

  Without having to worry about them catching my stare, I study Cassie’s and Nina’s pictures. Their bodies, more womanly than mine. The way shirts cling to Cassie’s chest, hug her hips and thighs. Nina’s smaller up top but has that big apple butt guys seem to love. Not like me, with a runner’s body. Thin and small, in all the wrong places.

  Carlos, I type in the list of her followers. Carlos Moreno pops up. I stare at his self-assured smile. He’s surrounded by a couple of guys from the football team and their girlfriends.

  I scan through the pictures, visible on Carlos’s public settings, going back further on his timeline.

  I find a picture of him and Cassie, with her leaning her chest into him. He’s looking down at her, grinning. Dislike button, if there were one. There are a few shots of Carlos playing football with the team, and some photos Carlos must have taken of Edgar shooting pictures of kids at the skate park doing tricks.

  I switch to Edgar’s profile and my mouth falls open. Beautiful landscape photos of the mountains. Purple clouds hovering over an orange ocean sunset. A gap-toothed child smiling. An elderly man hunched over the engine of an old truck, twisting a piece of metal. The colors. There are so many.

  The expressions of the child as she grins and the man as he works. Joy. I’ve never seen photos like this before. They should be hanging somewhere, in an art gallery or a museum. And then there’s a picture someone else must have taken, because it’s of Edgar holding that fancy camera. His curly hair ruffled, his fingers expertly attached to it.

  I keep scrolling. There are pictures of Edgar and his brother, I’m guessing, given the strong family resemblance.

  My phone buzzes. A number I don’t recognize is calling. I practically jump out of bed to answer. A raspy voice I instantly recognize, even though it’s been years, greets me.

  “Maria?”

  “Mom?” I choke out.

  A whooshing sound of an exhalation cracks in my ear. Her voice trembles. “Oh, baby.” Grandma calls me that sometimes. Baby. I hold my breath as my mom starts to cry.

  “I’m so sorry I missed you.” She laughs a watery laugh. “Oh, I wish I would have checked my phone. I could have made it back in time.”

  I stumble over my words. “It—It’s okay. But we could try again . . . to see each other, I mean.”

  “Yes!” she exclaims. “There’s nothing I’d love more. I can drive up to meet you on Sunday, if that works for you.”

  I was supposed to do my first golf lesson with Brittany, but I’m sure she’ll understand. “How about Leadbetter Beach? In the afternoon? After church?”

  Mom laughs softly and the sound makes my stomach warm.

  “I love that beach. Yes, I’ll be there.”

  “I can’t wait,” I tell her, and I mean it with every part of me.

  “I have to get going, but I wish I could stay on the phone,” Mom says. “I could talk to you for hours. I want to know everything. I want to hear everything about you. We’ve missed so much.”

  My shoulders slump. I have so many questions. So much bottled up, it feels like it could bust me open, if I let it.

  I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

  “I get it. I can call you
back later?”

  The words hang in the air for a moment. “I’ve got a lot going on, some things I need to take care of, plus it will all be better in person. Can we wait until Sunday?”

  The smile slides off my face. I blink, surprised, but I try to copy her relaxed tone since I know I’m just excited. And I don’t want to scare her off. “That would be great.”

  “I love you, baby,” she says, and I hold my hand to my chest, almost unable to believe I’m hearing these words from my mom.

  I don’t say I love you back, although I do. I mean, she’s my mom, of course I do. I’ve missed her so much. But I have so many questions. Why didn’t she come for me, rather than just writing that letter? Why did she leave?

  Despite those reservations, after we hang up, I imagine all the possibilities. Mom and me hanging out, her giving me advice, maybe helping me get ready for a date. I could tell her all the things I can’t tell Grandma. I could ask her for advice about Brittany. I could tell her about my dreams of being a journalist. Traveling the world hearing and sharing other people’s stories. Learning what makes them tick, what makes them who they are, and having adventures of my own in the process.

  Maybe she’ll see me. Or who I want to be, at least.

  She won’t tell me who to be like Grandma does.

  I flip back over in my bed, tapping my feet together in excitement. I text Brittany, telling her what just happened. Things are going to change. I can feel it.

  My mom is nothing like Grandma.

  Chapter

  Six

  I’m barely able to contain my excitement at church Sunday morning. After Brittany told her mom we’d have to reschedule our golf lesson, Tara made a big deal about how busy the instructor was, how it was a personal favor to her to get us in so quickly, and how it would be a while before our next lesson could be put on the books after this. Like that’s my biggest problem, though. Or a problem at all.

  Thoughts of Mom distract me, so I can’t keep up with the worship music, which causes Grandma to give me a look. As always, she seems out of place among the congregation of hippies and college students, with her outfit that’s more suited to mass: nylons under a long blue dress covering most of her slight body. I still don’t understand why she switched us out of our Catholic church after Grandpa died. Not that I’m complaining—this place is a thousand times less stuffy. Though, as I look around at the sea of white people, I wonder if it was another way to whitewash us.

  I watch Grandma, a walking contradiction.

  I scan the room to see who is here. A few girls from the swim team, looking pretty in boho dresses. I tug on my oversized sweater, look down at my black jeans. Grandma wishes I’d dress up, but a lot of people at this church wear jeans because it’s so casual. Several kids from Westmont, the private Christian college in Montecito, are here and wearing jeans too. The guys are tall and lean and can talk about theology until they’re blue in the face, or I am.

  I can’t focus on them, though, or anything really, when my stomach’s in knots. Mom is probably getting ready to come see me now. At. This. Exact. Moment.

  The music ends, and we bow our heads in prayer. Then Pastor Mark starts in on the sermon about chastity.

  Carlos’s face breaks into my thoughts.

  His toothy grin, like we’re sharing a secret.

  His brooding eyes.

  I can almost feel his hand on the small of my back, slipping down to my waist, confidently guiding me as we walk together. I can hear his laugh tickling my ear, his breath kissing my neck. His fingers softly pushing a wisp of my hair away from my face.

  I wonder what it would feel like for him to kiss me.

  I choke, suddenly aware of my thoughts in a church.

  “You okay, baby?” Grandma looks at me with concern.

  I cough and avert my eyes from her, without answering. Like I would ever, ever tell her about Carlos. She’d probably make up some stupid reason why I shouldn’t hang around him.

  After a few moments, I sneak a glance at Grandma and notice the lines on her face. The crow’s-feet. The sagging underneath her eyes. She’s strict, she’s tough, and I’m so mad at her I could scream, but . . .

  She sacrifices so much for me. I feel it in the way she watches me when she thinks I’m not looking. I taste it in the meals she cooks for me, after a minimum ten-hour workday, without fail. Without complaint. I sigh, watching Grandma mouthing the words to her silent prayer.

  She loves me. And I love her, my abuela—though I can never call her that to her face. A tear trickles down her cheek as she prays silently.

  My stomach squeezes. She’s probably praying for me. Little does she know I’m plotting, hoping, praying to secretly meet her long-lost daughter in just a couple of hours. I dip my own head and cast my eyes down—don’t close them in case anyone is watching.

  God, I know we don’t talk much, but if you could, please let Mom and me have a good reunion today. Please help her to see how much she misses me and wants to be around again. Forgive me for lying to Grandma, but she doesn’t understand—you know how she is. She can’t take my own mother away from me. She can’t keep me from learning who I truly am, from becoming who I’m meant to be. Please help her to see that, God. I want to be a family again. Me, Mom, and Grandma. Please.

  In Jesus’s name, amen.

  After church, I eat lunch with Grandma at home. We don’t talk much. It’s like I have a million things to say to her but not one will come out. While Grandma’s clearing our plates, I stalk to the couch and fling the Yale blue blanket away from me. Grandma clears her throat as she stands at the edge of the living room. I hadn’t realized she was watching me. I grab the blanket and set it on the arm of the couch sheepishly.

  “So, what did you think of the sermon today?”

  “It was fine,” I mumble.

  Grandma settles next to me on the couch. Out of the basket she keeps on the side of the couch, she grabs a needle, along with a ball of pink yarn as well as a purple one, and continues knitting a beanie she started last week. “It was more than fine, I think. Pastor Mark really knows what he’s talking about,” Grandma says, staring attentively at the hat as she switches from pink to purple. “Warning you against the wrong sort of boys.”

  I lift my eyes to her, feeling my blood pressure rise. “And what kind of boys are those, Grandma?” Grandma met my ex-boyfriend Eric last year and liked him okay. Even though he only had one thing on his mind and when I told him I wasn’t ready, at least not with him, he dumped me. Not that I told her that, but still.

  Grandma cocks her head. “Well, Eric was a nice young man, not quite motivated enough, but he came from a good family.”

  I grit my teeth. “What does that even mean, Grandma? You never met his parents.”

  “Oh, well. I know they work hard. They have that nice house on the Mesa.”

  I scoff. “So, what, since they have money, they must be a nice family?” I don’t doubt that if I told Grandma about Carlos right now, she would react exactly how I fear, even if he likely comes from a family with a “nice house” somewhere not here.

  Thinking of how much Grandma pushed me to spend more time with Brittany instead of Nina, I add, “Or is it because they’re white?”

  Grandma heaves a heavy sigh. “Dios mío. Not this again. I am not talking about”—she waves a needle in front of herself—“whatever thing you have all confused in your mind. I am talking about the sermon. Pastor Mark telling young girls to keep their legs closed to honor God. Something your mom should have listened to.”

  My mouth falls open. Grandma, who can’t be bothered to talk about my mother, who never tells me stories about her growing up or what it was like when she lived with us, decides that will be the thing she wants to talk about? I almost laugh at myself. Why should I expect different than slut-shaming from my judgmental grandma?

  Despite my rage, my voice is cool and flat. “If she had kept her legs closed to honor God, I wouldn’t have been born. Is that what
you want?”

  Grandma huffs but continues staring at the beanie she’s working on, “Of course not, Ri. You know that’s not what I mean. But the Bible says—”

  I cut her off. “I know what the Bible says, Grandma.” Heat floods my body, and I know I have to get out of here before I say something I’ll regret. “I’m going for a run.”

  Before I get the chance to stand, Grandma sets her knitting down. She leans over and hugs me, and as soon as I remember to breathe, I smell the vanilla scent of her hair.

  “Baby,” she whispers, her voice soft and loving, not huffy like it was a moment before. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  She pulls away slightly, so she can see my face. “You don’t see it, but you have so many options. So many more than I ever had. Even more than your mother did, before she got pregnant. A pregnancy, right now, would take that all away. It would ruin the future that is possible for you.” Grandma tucks a piece of hair that’s fallen out of my ponytail behind my ear. “I only want you to have the life you deserve, so I focus on preparing you to get into university and warning you about boys. You do not want a hard life like Grandpa and I had, working at all hours for low wages, not being treated with respect.”

  Grandma’s eyes crinkle at the edges and down her cheeks as she watches me for a moment. I fidget under her stare.

  “Don’t get me confused. Your grandfather and I had a beautiful life. We were in love.” Grandma’s eyes get this faraway look.

  Even though he was a strict, somber man, Grandpa had a soft side. I saw it when he put me to bed with his made-up bedtime stories every night. And the times I snuck out of my room, having heard the Spanish music playing in the living room, and saw the two of them slow-dancing, Grandma beaming.

  I miss him, too, but I don’t bring him up because Grandma doesn’t seem to like it. She says the past is the past, but I think it makes her miss him more when she talks about him.

  “We were lucky he had his relatives show us the way to get into this country,” Grandma tells me, “with the paperwork and everything. His uncle helped your grandfather get a job here. It wasn’t the job he would have wanted. But it was good, honest work. Here, in America, we had a chance to start over. Away from our families.”