by OSTOW, MICOL
“Yeah, it’s just . . .” He pauses. “Anyway, it’s great that you’re here.”
It’s just what? I think. I am dying to know what the end of that sentence was, but he’s being so gracious about my indiscretion that I don’t want to push.
“Ricky, baila conmigo!”
It’s Lucy, smiling brightly and beckoning for my newfound ally to join her on the dance floor. Her lips are stretched tightly—too tightly—across her teeth, and I have to momentarily wonder if she’s ticked that he and I are being so chummy. It’s an ugly, suspicious thought and I push it away.
“You’re not going to dance, are you?” he asks me, and I find myself incredibly relieved that he seems to get it.
I shake my head.
“Are you going to be okay over here?”
“Yeah, no problem. You go.” I wave him to the dance floor.
“All right. But I’m coming back after one song.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Two songs, max.”
We drive home with all of the windows down, Lucy fanning at herself frantically. “Shoot, shoot, my hair reeks,” she says fretfully. “Tengo problema. I need to quit smoking!” She’s usually so self-possessed, seeing her discombobulated is unsettling for me. We turn into her community and she lowers the headlights, gnawing on a fingernail and clutching the steering wheel like Mr. Magoo. She leans forward and peers out the windshield, squinting.
As we approach her house, she sighs. “She’s asleep.” Meaning Rosa, obviously.
“How can you tell?”
“Her light is off.” She points toward Rosa’s bedroom window, which is indeed dark. “She doesn’t usually wait up, but you never know.”
I cannot get over how different Lucy’s life is from my own. I’ve never, ever had a curfew, which may explain why I can’t fathom the idea that she is willing to risk sneaking out, and being caught, night after night.
She pulls into the driveway and kills the ignition. Now I panic, praying that the noise from the car doesn’t wake Rosa.
“We’re going in the back,” Lucy whispers. “That way we don’t have to walk past her bedroom.”
She leads me through the fence and into the backyard. We tiptoe to the door off the kitchen. Lucy’s got this down to a science, I see. She slides the key into the door and rattles it just so, pushes the door open just enough to squeeze herself in. After I’m through, she gently guides it back into the door frame. I’m impressed; this is some serious stealth. She takes off her shoes and motions for me to do the same. At this moment I allow myself the thought that Lucy and I are partners in crime, accomplices—especially what with how we’ve gotten away with it. But then Lucy turns to me shortly and mouths simply, “Good night,” and pads off to her room.
I sigh. I make my way carefully to my bedroom—Lucy’s bedroom, of course. I would love to talk to my mother about this, to whine about curfews just to hear what she has to say on the subject, but she’s out cold when I get to the room, sleeping in a tight coil against the wall, leaving space for me even from the deep recesses of REM stage. I sigh and feel around in the semi-dark for my pajamas.
The real truth is that if Mom were in any shape to talk about things like curfews and clubbing, then we wouldn’t even be here to begin with.
Five
You guys—do you think we should spend one day at Yellowstone or two?”
It’s Adrienne, hunched over a road map in concentration. We’re sitting in a generic motel room, standard orange pattern bedspread and sailboat seascape paintings in place. Adrienne sits cross-legged on the one bed; Isabelle is upright next to her, legs stretched out in front.
“Two, for sure,” Isabelle says. "I mean, Yellowstone?”
I shake my head. We want to hike most of the trails as much as we can, and we want to spend some time at the geysers too. Even allotting two days, I’m thinking we’ll be rushed. But I don’t say anything. I never say anything in situations like these. Why is that?
I open my mouth. “I just think—” I stop.
Words that had formed so clearly in my mind are now stuck, a mental hiccup. I can’t remember at all what I was going to say.
I sit straight up, heart thudding dully in my chest. The sheets are twisted underneath me, my shorts ridden up and sticky with sweat. What? I reach my left arm across my body to grab at my alarm clock and am surprised when my fingertips scrape against the wall instead. I run my fingers through my hair.
It was a dream, of course. Isabelle and Adrienne are back in Westchester. They leave—for Yellowstone, among other places—sometime this week. I think Wednesday. I idly wonder how much time they ultimately decided to allot to that leg of the adventure.
Me, I’m still in Puerto Rico—tropical temperatures, spotty air-conditioning. Tía Rosa’s house is equipped with the modern amenities, but climate control in Lucy’s room comes in the form of a ceiling fan that traces lazy circles above me, stirring the humidity rather than alleviating it. God, if I’m hating this room as much as I am, with the heat and the two to a bed, I can only imagine what it’s like for Lucy, stuffed in across the hall with her three sisters.
The fact that I’m in bed alone means, obviously, that my mother has already woken. I trade my pj’s for my track pants and a tank top—that clothing package needs to arrive soon—and wander out.
I find my mother at the kitchen table, idly stirring a cup of coffee. “Good morning, sweetie,” she says when she sees me, as if on autopilot. “Did you sleep well?”
“Uh-huh.” No point in mentioning the dream. If it has any great significance, I can’t figure out what it is. I drift to the refrigerator, pull out a carton of orange juice.
“Ay, there’s a glass set for you at the table.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. Tía Rosa is behind me, pointing toward the table and the glass in question.
“Right, thanks.” I take a seat.
“Qué quieres comer? We have eggs, cereal, toast, bacon. . . .”
“Oh, um . . . I guess cereal’s fine,” I say. She offers me a veritable buffet, three different choices. I pick the one with the highest sugar content and dig in. “Where’s Lucy?” I ask between munches.
“Taking a shower. She has to drive the girls to church. Their summer school starts today.”
“I’m so excited!” offers Dora, who I realize now has been sitting patiently at the end of the table. It’s pretty cute, actually.
“You’re so excited, but you’re going to be late if you don’t get dressed,” Rosa warns.
Dora bounces in her seat. “But I have to . . .” She looks at me, trails off.
Rosa nods. “No es un problema. I will do it just this once. Go—you can wear the pink skirt.”
This is apparently extra-fabulous news because Dora beams and skips off.
From the direction of the bathroom, I hear the water in the shower turn off. A few moments more and Lucy is in the kitchen, wrapped in a robe, her hair piled high in a terry-cloth turban. “I got it, Mamá. You can go.”
“Gracias. I have work, then.” She turns to my mother. “You’ll be okay?”
“Of course, Rosa. We have the grocery list, so Emily and I will take care of that. We might as well make ourselves useful. You’ve been so generous in taking us in for the summer.”
Rosa is quiet for a beat. Then, “Of course.” She grabs her keys, shouts her good-byes to everyone—“Tell José dinner at seven”—and is off.
Lucy hovers over me. I tap my spoon against the bottom of my cereal bowl, unsure of what she wants. “Can I . . . do something?” I ask.
“No, it’s just, I have to clear the table when you’re through.”
“Oh,” I say awkwardly. So she’s been waiting for me. “Oh. I’m almost—”
“No rush.” She cuts me off. “I’ll just load the dishwasher once you’ve eaten.”
It hits me more fully: Dora was covering for Lucy while she showered; Rosa was covering for Dora while she dressed. And now Lucy’s waiting. For me. I’m not sure about thi
s. On the one hand, they could have just told me to rinse my dish when I was done.
On the other, I’m horrified to realize that it wouldn’t have otherwise occurred to me.
Lucy insists on taking her sisters to church camp herself, but my mother decides she wants to tail her. “This way we’ll be able to do it on our own eventually.”
We dress quickly and head out to the car. “Couldn’t we, like, just get directions when the time comes?” I ask.
It’s not that I have anything better to do today. Mom’s got a grocery list and some errands to run. (Being this close to the beach and knowing that I’ll be spending my afternoon at the dry cleaner’s is torture.) But one look at Mom’s face—deep lines and grayish pallor not improved by chain-smoking—and I decide to keep my gripes to myself.
She’s actually laughing now.
“Directions?” Apparently this is pee-in-your-pants hilarious.
“What?” I ask. “I don’t get it.”
“That’s because you’ve never driven in Puerto Rico, sweetie. Directions are useless. You either know the way or you don’t. Haven’t you noticed that there aren’t really any street signs around?”
“Well, I haven’t been driving myself,” I point out, easing into the passenger’s seat.
“No, I guess you haven’t,” my mother allows. “Anyway, the thing is, if you’re from around here, you know the main roads, and you can sort of feel your way from there. But otherwise you’re screwed.”
I start back, my seat belt snapping as I twist.
Screwed? Not typical language for Professor Goldberg. But I don’t say anything.
“So if we’re going to be here and get around, we have to feel our own way. I’m sure it will come back to me eventually—some things you just don’t lose—but for now, tailing. At least until the main roads become second nature again.”
“A lot has probably changed, though, right?” I ask. “I mean, the roads can’t be exactly the same.”
My mother becomes quiet for a moment, wistful. “They haven’t changed that much.”
I sense that there’s more meaning in what she’s saying than she’s ready to share.
We follow Lucy as she takes the girls to church camp. It’s not far from us, though my mother is completely right. Puerto Ricans drive like maniacs. No one has heard of a turn signal, and street signs are totally nonexistent. Technically my New York license is valid here, but by day three I’ve sworn to myself that I will never get behind the wheel on my own. It seems to me that I have two choices: one, to remain on good terms with my mother and join her on her cultural renaissance or whatever she’s doing here, or two, to forge blindly forward in a friendship with Lucy who has, up until this point at least, demonstrated the type of interest in me that one might feel toward a new strain of toenail fungus.
To Lucy, I’m a curiosity and not necessarily a welcome one. I’m an interloper and utterly housebound at that.
I suppose these two choices are not necessarily mutually exclusive. But they are equally dependant on some rather specific action. And I’m just not the type to take action.
I don’t think.
The next few days pass quickly. The language barrier keeps me on my toes, and I can’t help but wonder again what the deal is with those AP classes and placement exams. Qué tiempo hace, my ass. The tiempo is always the same in Puerto Rico: sunny, with a light breeze and little humidity. If it rains, it’s only in intermittent pockets, and it never lasts.
By now I wake up on time, on my own. Even as an early riser, I find I’m the last person up—but at least now I’m in the ballpark. I come to breakfast to find Lucy, Pilar, Dora, and Ana gathered. But they’re not waiting for me anymore, so that, at least, is something.
Their routine is well choreographed. Rosa is up first, before dawn even, and she gets breakfast ready. Once the girls are awake and settled with their breakfasts, she’s off to get ready for work, a day shift as a nurse’s aide at the local hospital. From there Lucy takes over: she makes sure the younger girls eat, reminds them to clear their places, and then washes up after them. Pilar helps Ana and Dora dress. And so forth.
Mom and I eat with the girls. We don’t take over their self-appointed chores or tasks because that would disrupt the delicate balance that they’ve created. But we have taken on our own roles. We run the daytime errands, taking clothing to the cleaners, bringing appliances in for repair, and, most frequently, bringing home groceries for dinner. I still refuse to drive, but by the end of my second week I could find my way to the supermercado and back blindfolded. We do the laundry, to which I am contributing more now that my father has sent along some clothing. We start preparing dinner at five. By five thirty my mother goes to pick up the girls at camp. Lucy and Rosa are home, along with the girls, by six. By six thirty we eat. Sometimes José joins us. Sometimes he doesn’t. I don’t ask. Lucy mentions his girlfriend, a freshman at the local university. But she doesn’t live in the dorm, so I have no idea where they spend their time.
The younger girls clear the dinner plates and head off to do their “homework” for camp. I have never attended a camp that required homework, but since it mostly seems to involve a lot of coloring, what do I know? Lucy disappears at night, usually to her room. I imagine she’s talking on the phone to Rafael, Pia, Ramona, Teresa, or maybe even Ricky. Seeing as how he was so genuinely nice to me, it makes sense that I think about him sometimes. Since he’s Lucy’s territory, though, thinking is as far as it goes.
I miss talking on the phone at night. But Isabelle and Adrienne are away by now, and it’s catch-as-catch-can. As for Noah . . . well, he never answers his phone, and I’m starting to wonder what it was we always talked about anyway.
Lucy and I haven’t had a night at the “coffeehouse” since my first Sunday in Puerto Rico, which by now feels like it was ages ago. Sometimes there’s a telenovela hour where we all gather around the television in the living room and I pretend to understand what the bosomy actresses are getting at as they wave their fingers and squeeze tears from heavily made-up eyes.
I think of asking my mother about the beach again or if maybe there isn’t something else to be seen in Puerto Rico. But she’s distracted, doing a lot of concentrated staring, so I settle for laps around the tiny pool and wondering what leg of their ride Izzy and Ade have hit. I’d call, but . . .
Well, I’d call, but I don’t.
“You hate it here.”
It’s been long enough that I’ve become fairly accustomed to Marisa’s sneak attack visits. I don’t know what she does all day in her house—but it may or may not involve spying, as it were, on me. She tends to emerge whenever I’ve just gotten comfortable, either on a lounge chair or on a raft in the pool itself.
Today I’m perched on that same lounge chair, Us Weekly cracked open but facedown on my stomach. I’m not so much on the dieting habits of supermodels just now. The day is bright but not sunny, and I’m soaking in the UV rays.
I wonder how you say ultraviolet in Spanish?
“You hate it here,” she repeats. She squints at me behind bug-eyed sunglasses. She’s channeling La Lohan or an Olsen twin, with the oversized glasses and a ruffly pink dress that’s at least three sizes too big.
“What?” I have the distinct impression that I’m being put in my place. By a fourth grader. Somewhere along the way, my life has veered horribly off course. Or at least my summer has. I should jump in the pool, duck underwater, and refuse to come up again until Marisa’s gone home. But it’s too late; obviously she’s already seen me.
I’m not sure quite what to say in response to Marisa. Hate is a very strong word, as they say . . . yet not entirely inaccurate. I am not overcome with affection for this place, that’s for sure. I miss my friends, my brother, my father, the mother I had before all this started. My boyfriend . . . or the idea of my boyfriend—if only he would take my calls. I might be more open toward Lucy if only she showed the slightest modicum of interest in me.
“No, I
don’t.”
She raises one eyebrow at me. I’m totally getting grilled by a ten-year-old. Wow.
“Well, there’s not all that much going on,” I admit. I actually feel guilty about admitting this to Marisa. I’ve stumbled into an alternate reality.
“There might be.”
“Might be what?”
“Might be more going on.” She points to my lounge chair. “If you maybe left the house.”
I peer at her disdainfully, then realize . . . she’s right.
“You could be on to something,” I admit reluctantly. “But there’s . . . you know . . .” I wave my magazine at her feebly.
She cracks a grin, pulls up her own lounge chair. Carefully, with great purpose, she plucks off her sunglasses and pulls her dress over her head, revealing a polka-dotted bathing suit. She positions herself just so on her chair, next to me.
“How come you don’t hang out with Rosa’s daughters?” I ask.
She wrinkles her forehead. “They’re always at Bible camp.”
True.
She reaches over, swipes my magazine. “Who’s splitting up this week?” She sighs and settles in.
After Marisa has returned to her house, I’m struck with a burst of inspiration. This is Puerto Rico. It’s a Caribbean island. It’s the origin of my misplaced cultural heritage. Somewhere in the recesses of my suitcase is a guidebook. I should Get Out. See Something.
But I refuse to drive by myself.
I head into the house to find my mother. Maybe this will be it, our opportunity to bond. She’ll overcome whatever emotional trauma has recently been dredged up. We’ll rediscover ourselves.
It will be like The Joy Luck Club, except in Spanish.
I find my mother in our bedroom, sound asleep. I check my watch: 1:30.
I don’t think Rosa would approve. Which is probably why my mother is taking her nap now, when we’re alone.