And only then did she allow herself to cry.
ELENA
CHAPTER TEN
MAMI’S FACE SCREWED UP WITH DOUBT WHEN I FIRST brought it up about a week after the Fourth of July, so tonight I wait until at least her second rum and cola before I ask her about Mr. and Mrs. Callahan wanting me to spend the night on Saturday so they can attend a fundraising dinner in Houston and have a little getaway, just the two of them. I claim they are probably trying to work on their marriage.
“You alone with the kids in the house? What if something happens?”
“Mami, what’s going to happen on Point Isabel?” I say. “It’s a gated community and there’s a guard there all night. They’re going to pay me extra.”
Mami scowls and my heart sinks. Please please please let her say yes. I’ll never want anything else in this life if she just says yes.
“I don’t know about this,” Mami says. She stands up to head toward the kitchen, probably to refresh her drink.
“I’ll do it,” I say, reaching for her glass. She swats me away, and I stand awkward and hopeful in the no-man’s-land between the den and the kitchen, facing her back as she mixes another cocktail.
“You know, my parents were very well-off, but they always spent time with me,” she says to the rum bottle. Glug glug clink clink. “I never wanted for anything, but they didn’t dump me with the help all the time. Qué barbaridad.”
I hold my breath. There’s no right response when she brings up Cuba. I know she’s going to say no, and I realize how reckless I’ve become when I start thinking there might be a way to sneak out all night. But then she slams the refrigerator and turns around, sliding her pinkie into the drink and giving it a quick swirl before taking a swallow. Then she looks at me again, her eyes hard.
“Fine, you can go. I suppose if you don’t do it those poor little children will have no one.”
I resist the urge to shoot my eyebrows up in shock, agreeing with her that I’m the kids’ only hope and promising to call her after they’re in bed.
“Okay,” she says. “You’d better.”
The next day when Joaquin gets home from work, I’m packing my overnight bag and Mami is in her cocoon of a room, drink on the nightstand, romance novel in hand.
“I’ve got a babysitting job overnight,” I tell him, zipping open my school backpack and dumping out crumpled leftover papers that are trapped at the bottom. I wish I had a duffel bag or something normal to pack my stuff in, but I don’t.
“Overnight?” Joaquin says, shifting his weight against the doorframe. I look at him and he’s eyeing me carefully. I can’t tell if he’s mad or anxious or just surprised, and I have an urge to try to reassure him about the whole thing. But I don’t. It’s my life, I tell myself, looking down at my bag. And my heart is thrumming with possibilities.
“Yeah, the Callahans are going to Houston for a fundraising dinner and …” I start.
“Elena, Mami’s not even here to hear you,” he interrupts.
I ignore him and open my top dresser drawer where I keep my underwear and pajamas. This would be easier without Joaquin standing three feet behind me.
“Can you just let me pack?” I say, not turning around. My fingers pause on my favorite bra. A soft pink one that clasps at the front. My cheeks warm.
“I’m home tonight if you need anything,” he says. “Just, you know … call.”
“I told her I’d call after the kids are in bed,” I answer. My thumb grazes the bra’s clasp and my head gets swimmy with images that make my cheeks get even hotter. I really want Joaquin to leave.
“Okay,” says Joaquin.
“Can you shut the door?” I ask, hoping he gets the hint. I finally manage to look over my shoulder. Joaquin is chewing on his thumbnail, an old habit that Mami tried to break when he was little by making him soak his fingers in vinegar so they’d taste too nasty to chew on. It didn’t work, but I never knew if it was because Joaquin didn’t mind the vinegar or if he kept biting them anyway just to spite her.
“Fine, I’ll shut the door, your highness,” Joaquin says, taking his thumb out of his mouth and giving me a half bow. I sneer at him, but I don’t really care what he says if he leaves me alone so I can focus on packing.
Twenty minutes later and five minutes before Mr. Callahan is supposed to pick me up, I hover outside Mami’s door, my backpack slung over one shoulder. Saying goodbye might not be such a safe idea. What if she changes her mind at the last second? Still, I know she’s awake, because I can’t hear her usual soft snores.
“Mami?” I say, rapping lightly on the door.
“You leaving, mija?” she asks. “Come in for a moment.”
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry, and I turn the knob, peeking my head in. She’s on her stomach in her nightgown, her novel tossed to the side. A half-empty tumbler sits on the nightstand. On the pillow in front of her are a few old black-and-white snapshots from Cuba that she likes to paw through every once in a while, usually after her third or fourth cocktail. Her favorite pictures are of her in her quince dress, which she wore on the night of her fifteenth birthday party. She always talks about that magical evening as one of the best nights of her life.
“Mr. Callahan should be here any minute,” I say, hesitating.
“Did I ever show you this photo of your abuela?” Mami asks, ignoring me. She always refers to her mother as my abuela, like we had some personal connection. Like we spent Saturdays baking cookies and doing other things grandmothers do. Or that I think grandmothers do—not having any grandparents I really wouldn’t know. Anyway, I wish she would just refer to her mother as her mother. It’s creepy otherwise.
Mami rolls over onto her side and hands me an 8 x 12 photograph of a stunning woman seated on a couch with her legs crossed at the ankles. I’ve seen it before, and every time I look at it, I selfishly hope there’s a trace of this strange person’s high cheekbones and big eyes in my own face.
“She was so beautiful,” I say. It’s what Mami likes to hear, but it’s actually true.
“Mm-hmm,” Mami says, nodding. “And she never got old, so she never got ugly, either. Not like me.” She runs her fingers through her dark, dyed hair.
“You’re not ugly, Mami.” I glance at my watch. I’m supposed to get picked up in two minutes.
“Please. You have to say that,” she spits, snatching her mother’s photograph from my hands.
“No, I don’t,” I say, straining to sound sincere. Mami was beautiful once. But she’s turned into something hard and sharp, her complexion full of tiny broken blood vessels and scowls.
She pats the photograph gently and looks at it for a moment, then glances back at me. She leans over and grabs her drink, takes a swallow or two.
I’ve got one more minute to get out of here.
“Your abuela was beautiful, but she was a lady,” she says, setting her glass down, taking her time. “Always a lady. She used to tell me that a lady keeps herself like a fine piece of Baccarat crystal until her wedding day.”
“Yes,” I say. “I remember you telling me that.”
“You do?” she says, suspicious. “You remember me telling you that?”
Of course I do. She’s mentioned it hundreds of times.
“Yes, you’ve told me before, Mami. Listen, I’d better …”
“Well if you remember it, then you’d better live it, mija,” she says, cutting me off. “Nobody likes a whore.”
My eyes widen. Mami never uses words like that. She seems to realize it, too, because she smirks at me like she’s a little kid caught doing something naughty.
“I’ll call you,” I say. I don’t kiss her or hug her goodbye. It’s not what we do. Instead, I turn and hurry out, heading toward the front door. Joaquin is on the couch drinking a beer and watching television.
“You’ll call?” he says, not looking up.
“Yeah,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
And I get the hell out of there.
J.
C. is grinning when I slide into the car at the corner of Esperanza and Fifteenth. He leans in and kisses me, ignoring the fact that he’s blocking traffic. A car honks but he doesn’t stop until he wants to.
“Don’t say hey or anything,” I tell him, tossing my backpack into the microscopic back seat of the VW. But I’m grinning as I say it.
“Hey,” he says with a wink, and I melt inside. He’s so good-looking I still can’t believe he likes me. He pulls into traffic and checks his watch. “I just gotta make one pit stop and then I’m yours all night.” The words all night make my stomach flip, but I’m ready for whatever happens next. It’s time to grow up a little.
I wish we didn’t have to do the pit stop though. I know it’s to sell pot. Part of me wishes he would just tell me, but maybe he thinks it would mess up the romantic vibe if he did. When he climbs the steps of the Surf’s Up apartments two at a time and leaves me sitting in the car, windows down so I don’t get too hot, I find myself counting to a hundred over and over again to busy my brain until he reappears.
All night. I’m yours all night.
After he comes bounding down the steps, that irresistible grin on his face, we swing by Tony’s Pizza to get a pie. The sun is just beginning to settle when we get to his apartment and head upstairs.
“Where’s your roommate?” I ask as we walk inside.
“Went to Austin for the weekend to visit his parents,” J.C. says, sliding the pizza on the counter and turning around and kissing me in one swift motion. His hands slide down to my hips and he pulls me close. He’s kissing me like he can’t get enough. My entire body softens.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” he whispers when we finally stop to catch our breath.
“Me too,” I say. And then I can’t help it. I lean in and kiss him right back. I kiss him like I might never get the chance to kiss him again, fiercely and full of desperation. My fingers travel to the hem of his black T-shirt. I sneak my hands underneath and slide them all the way up his chest. His skin is smooth and warm.
“Whoa,” J.C. says, pulling back but just barely. “This is nice.”
I don’t have the words or the witty banter. I only have this night. This chance. I pull him toward me and suddenly he’s sliding his shirt off over his head in one swift motion, dropping it into a puddle at his feet. I’m hungry for him, kissing his neck, his shoulders, tasting sunscreen and salt.
“Elena,” he says, and his voice has changed from playful to something husky. Needy. “Are you … sure?”
I answer by pulling him back toward the bedroom. He follows wordlessly, and soon we are on his unmade bed with the mismatched sheets next to the nightstand covered in empty beer cans and rolling papers, surrounded by mostly plain white walls—the only decoration a painting of a beach at sunset that looks far prettier than any actual beach on Mariposa Island.
“I’m sure,” I say, and I look him right in the eyes so he knows I mean it.
“We can go as slow as you want,” J.C. says, his voice so soft and sweet and dreamy, and I think how good it is that this is happening with him, with this older boy, a boy who has experience, a boy who has his own apartment, a boy who seems to like me a whole lot.
“Okay” is all I can manage to say in barely a whisper. This is really happening, I think to myself. This is really happening. And the next thing I know, clothes are sliding off and losing themselves in the sheets and hands are searching, reaching—mine hesitantly, his much more confidently. I try to take in every moment, every sound—even the sound of the air conditioner cycling on and off and the honks of distant traffic on Esperanza Boulevard. I need to document this in my mind. To know it’s real.
And soon, much sooner than I expected, I’m on my back, crossing into unknowable territory from which there is no return.
So I close my eyes and give in.
Afterward, J.C. gets the pizza from the kitchen and it’s still pretty warm, and we sit in the middle of the bed naked and eat pizza and drink beer and I giggle a little when J.C. gives me knowing looks. We don’t talk much, but it’s okay. It’s not as weird as I thought it might be. I mean, it’s a little weird. But mostly good. Then I go to the bathroom and stare at myself in the spittle-covered medicine cabinet mirror.
“You just had sex,” I whisper to my reflection. Then I start laughing at myself, so loud I have to clamp a hand down to shut myself up before J.C. overhears and thinks I’ve lost it completely. I crinkle up my nose at the dirty toilet and wipe it down with some wadded-up toilet paper. It hurts a little to pee and there’s the smallest bit of blood. I hope that’s normal. I can’t wait to dissect all of this with Michelle, but at the same time I don’t know what she’s going to think about this happening with J.C. in the first place. Maybe I just won’t tell her.
I crawl back into bed and J.C. stops eating to give me a kiss.
“You’re so pretty, Elena,” he says, and I smile and fantasize about running away from home and holing up in this crummy apartment forever, cleaning it up and living on minimum wage because we don’t need much anyway if we have each other. Of course that’s probably ridiculous, but I still think it.
After we finish eating, I check my wristwatch—it’s so weird that I’m totally naked except for my watch.
“I should probably call home,” I say, even though I really don’t want to. I pull the bedroom extension onto the bed, take a deep breath, and punch in my home number. I twist the cord in my fingers as I listen to the tinny ring.
“Hello?” It’s Joaquin.
“Hey,” I answer. I close my eyes, hoping it will make the conversation feel less weird, like a baby who closes her eyes and thinks she’s invisible.
“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” I can hear J.C. lighting a cigarette next to me. I wonder if the click of the lighter and his sharp inhale are loud enough to make it through to the other end of the line.
“Is Mami there?” I ask.
“Yeah, hang on,” he says. There’s a pause and then her voice. The same voice that always calls to check and make sure I’m wiping down the baseboards or ironing the shirts or cleaning out the refrigerator. Well, not this time, mother.
“What’s going on over there?” she asks. I imagine her standing in the kitchen, drink in hand.
And I imagine myself in the Callahans’ fancy Point Isabel mansion, talking on the living room extension while seated in the middle of the white leather couch, sipping brand-name soda.
“The kids are asleep,” I say. “They were so heartbroken their parents were gone. It’s really sad, just like you said.” She likes hearing she’s right.
“I told you,” Mami answers, and now we’re conspirators, so it’ll be okay.
“They’re supposed to be back tomorrow around lunchtime,” I tell her. I hear J.C. take another drag and I shift away from him just in case. “I can call you first thing tomorrow morning.”
“All right, yes, do that.”
“Well, I should go check on them,” I say.
“They were very upset, weren’t they?” she asks. She’s enjoying this.
“Oh, they cried and cried when Mr. and Mrs. Callahan left. It was sort of a scene.”
Mami cluck clucks. It’s enough to satisfy her, and at last I can hang up the phone and hand it back to J.C., who is sitting next to me, eyeing me with a bemused grin.
“Drama at the Callahans?” he asks, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray by his nightstand before slipping his arm around my waist. He is all the right parts of warm and heavy and soft and strong. His fingertips graze my navel.
“Oh, totally,” I answer, collapsing into his arms as he curls up around me. He kisses the back of my neck and I shiver.
“Do you think she’ll ever figure it out?” he asks.
I tense up, not expecting that question. “Sometimes …” I manage, “sometimes I wonder if she already knows.”
“You mean that they don’t even exist?”
I startle. J.C. has just
spoken a truth so rarely acknowledged by the two other people who know it—Joaquin and Michelle—that hearing it out loud unsettles me. I’m glad J.C. can’t see my face. I’m sure my eyes are wider than a lost child’s. Finally, I come up with an answer. “Sometimes I think she has to know,” I say. “But I also think she likes believing they’re real.”
J.C. laughs softly into my neck and it irritates me. It’s not something I can laugh at.
I’ve worked so hard to create the Callahans. I know Jennifer’s and Matthew’s birthdays and allergies. I know the layout of their Point Isabel home and even sketched it out once in a journal I keep hidden in my closet. I know exactly how they look, too—they’re the spitting image of Michelle’s cousin’s kids who visited from Corpus Christi last summer—the ones I took a Polaroid of to show Mami.
I know which pediatrician’s office they use when they’re on the island and what sorority Mrs. Callahan was in at UT, and I know that Mr. Callahan proposed to Mrs. Callahan in his parents’ living room in Houston, just the two of them under the Christmas tree, Mrs. Callahan’s pretty eyes twinkling like the tiny white lights that encircled the Virginia pine.
I know all of this because I invented them, and I invented them so I could have all of this—a boy’s arms around me and his lips near my neck. A few hours out in the world every summer.
A normal girl’s life.
“I’m lost,” J.C. says, not letting go of the question. He pulls back and props himself up on his shoulder, and I roll over onto my back so we can look at each other if we want. But I don’t look at him yet. J.C. keeps talking. “If you think your mom has caught on that you’ve been lying all this time, why would she want to believe the Callahans are real?”
My gaze traces the crooked, light brown circles in the ceiling—water marks from old leaks. I chew on J.C.’s question before finally answering.
“Because I think the Callahans being real is, like, proof to her that she’s actually a really good mother,” I say. “She can tell herself she wouldn’t do anything like leave her kids with a sitter all day long and ignore them during what’s supposed to be family vacation time. And she can tell herself that just because the Callahans are rich, that doesn’t mean they’re better than her.” I pause. “I actually think she kind of likes that they’re rich. She grew up rich, in Cuba. Maybe she hopes somehow it will rub off on me.” I train my eyes on the water marks. I’ve never said these things out loud, not even to Joaquin.
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