The House That Lou Built

by Mae Respicio

  What should I do?

  I dial Mom’s number but can’t get a signal. I wave my phone around and try different spots in the yard until finally, a connection.

  “Mom, Sheryl’s hurt. Can you come right away?”

  * * *

  —

  We sit and wait for Mom on a cold, damp tarp. Sheryl has stopped crying, but her toe is bruised and swelling up. She won’t talk to me. No one’s talking.

  Mom finally drives into the clearing and runs out to examine Sheryl’s foot.

  “Let’s help you into the car,” Mom says.

  * * *

  —

  Sheryl sits in the front with her foot propped up and an ice pack on it.

  How could this have happened? I’m shaking.

  We speed past hills and shoot through the tunnel that launches us back into the city. As soon as we reach the other end, cars line the road. Traffic. Tons.

  I think about reaching over Mom and honking the horn. I just want to get Sheryl to the doctor.

  It’s drizzling out. Mom turns on the wipers and they make a smeary film.

  “What were you girls doing out there? Lucinda? Do you have an explanation?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Mom grips the steering wheel in tight fists. “Your cousin got hurt, and you’re lucky it wasn’t anything much worse.”

  “I know! I’m really, really sorry.”

  “It was an accident, Auntie,” Gracie says.

  Sheryl just glares out the window. Gracie does, too.

  Finally, the traffic clears and our car moves. For the rest of the ride it’s silent inside, drizzly outside. Mom keeps her eyes on the road. I wonder if she ever thinks about my dad dying in a car crash on the freeway. Sometimes I do.

  We drop Gracie off, then Sheryl.

  “I’ll help you in,” I say to Sheryl, but she says, “Don’t.”

  Mom takes Sheryl up to the house and speaks to Auntie Gemma at the door before coming back to the car.

  For the last few minutes, it’s easiest not to talk. Finally, we inch into the driveway. The engine stops and Mom stares at me.

  “What’s gotten into you, Lucinda?”

  “You’re moving us away and I’m losing my land…and you’re asking me that?”

  “Do not use that tone,” she says. “Whatever you girls were doing out there, you’re not allowed back anymore—not by yourself, not with Mr. Keller, not with anyone. Do you understand? We’ll talk about your consequence later. Now please go to your room.”

  “My room? What room?”

  I slam the car door and run down the street, my speed picking up as the road slopes down, blocks and blocks, straight to the ocean. She runs after me, then stops.

  * * *

  —

  It’s dusk at the beach, and the drizzle has cleared. Couples make out and surfers on the water bob up and down like buoys, waiting for waves. They’re all wearing thick wet suits.

  I slip off my shoes and walk the ocean’s edge, the way I used to with Lolo. He’d swing me like a pendulum while the water lapped at our ankles. Water always soothes me: hearing its movement, swimming in it, or watching the waves tumble. As a toddler, whenever I had tantrums, Mom would run a warm bath and dunk me in, and I’d calm down.

  The foam rolls back and I step in. My bare foot makes an impression in the sand.

  “Spot me a ciggie?” a homeless lady asks, and I shake my head. Instead, I reach into my pocket and fish out everything I have. I hand her the few bills and she says, “God bless you.”

  Sheryl’s hurt because of me. She was right; I’ve taken my friends for granted. Sometimes I forget to say thank you or—my mom’s favorite—“I appreciate you.” I shouldn’t push my friends or family. This dream belongs to only me.

  The hairs on my arms stick straight up. I rub the goose bumps and turn toward home.

  I’m in bed but wide-awake. Through the wall I hear someone crying. I look over at Mom’s side of the room and she’s not there.

  * * *

  —

  The door to my grandma’s bedroom is slightly open, so I poke my head in. Mom and Lola sit on the bed. Lola’s arm is around Mom. My grandma might look skinny and frail, but I know her grip is strong. It comforts.

  The room is simple: clean, no clutter. A rosary of dark wooden beads hangs on a wall. On the nightstand is an old photo of our big happy family at Christmastime. Lolo wears a fuzzy Santa hat and Lola has on reindeer antlers and a spongy red nose—he’s kissing her cheek. Grandpa Ted’s in this one, too, with me sitting high atop his shoulders and huge grins on our faces.

  Next to the pictures stand tall glasses of candles painted with intricate images of golden crosses and the Virgin Mary. Sheryl and I call this Lola’s Jesus table, and we used to dare each other to stare at the scarily realistic art.

  They notice me at the doorway.

  “You’re still awake, anak ko? Come, come sit with us,” Lola says. “Your mama and I are having a nice talk.”

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  Mom’s eyes are puffy from crying. She wipes her face and waves me over, but I don’t budge. She tries to smile at me.

  “I was just telling your lola that Oakland General offered me the job.”

  “They did? We’re staying?”

  “I wish it were that simple, honey,” Mom says. “I haven’t changed my mind. The Washington job is still the better offer.”

  “What about the auction?” I ask.

  “Lou, I’m doing everything I can to keep your land. I always have. I’m scheduling a meeting with the county to see what we can do. We’ll take it from there.”

  “When’s the meeting? Can I go?”

  “It’s probably best if not,” she says. “I should hear back from their office soon about a date.”

  Mom works so hard—going back to school, putting in extra hours. If we didn’t have my land anymore, maybe she wouldn’t have to struggle so much. But I can’t imagine letting it go.

  “Instead of worrying, why don’t you both join me in a prayer?” Lola says.

  She’s always trying to get us to go to Mass every Sunday, but Mom likes to remind Lola that even the Pope says you don’t have to go to church to pray, that finding peace in nature can act as church, too.

  “Oh, Mom,” she says.

  “You know, Minda, praying can simply be thinking and hoping.”

  Lola strikes a match and lights the candles. Mom kneels beside her and they clasp their hands. I stay planted.

  “Go ahead, Minda.”

  Mom closes her eyes, but it takes her a long time to say anything. I’m about to leave them alone when I hear her say, “I want to make progress and keep working hard for our family. For Lou.” Mom’s voice sounds firmer now.

  With their heads bowed and eyes shut, Lola and Mom stay in their own thoughts. The candles on the nightstand flicker and I slip back into our bedroom.

  * * *

  —

  If I can’t build anymore, then it’s time for a different plan.

  I wonder where she put that auction letter?

  Mom keeps all her important stuff locked in a filing cabinet: her passport, my birth certificate, her engagement ring from Dad, which she lets me try on. Sometimes she wears it around her neck on a chain, the diamond dropping low enough to touch her heart.

  I grab the key from under her mattress and unlock the drawer. Inside, there’s a stack of documents held together by a paper clip. I flip through it.

  The auction letter is on top, and under it are a notice of sale of tax-defaulted property, a notice to parties of interest, redemption amounts, rights of parties of interest after sale…

  I find what I’m looking for: County Tax Collector.

  I memorize the collector’s na
me and put the papers back where I found them.

  A little red box with swirly golden borders peeks out of the cabinet. I open it—the necklace chain’s there, but the engagement ring is gone.

  Someone’s footsteps near, so I lock the drawer quick.

  * * *

  —

  I shut myself in the closet to get eye level with my giant heart. Looking at the pictures always makes me feel better.

  There are some from my parents’ college days—Michael and Minda—M & M. The one I love most shows them with a skyline of hills and the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, looking so happy. She’s pregnant, his hand resting on her basketball belly. He’s gazing at her.

  I know my dad’s face, but I wish I knew his voice. If I had a genie’s lamp, I’d wish to hear him, just once. Mom says that Dad and Grandpa Ted had the same kind of warm tone, low and soft, good for storytelling.

  There’s a picture of Grandpa Ted and me wearing matching flannel shirts, getting ready to hike. I remember that day. We walked a long trail and he told me about Dad’s hobbies at my age: building the most complicated Erector sets, folding paper airplanes to get the tail just right, and drawing pictures of pretend cities—the same things I loved to do.

  I know Mom’s trying her best, but I’m the last Nelson, the only one who can save that land now.

  I flip open our laptop and search the name until I find an official-looking site. In a few clicks I finally land on Roger Rodrigo, County Tax Collector.

  There’s a number. I grab my phone and dial.

  “Please call back during normal business hours.”

  What do I need to make this happen?

  I glance around as if I’ll magically find the answer in my closet….My eyes meet the vision heart. And just like that, I do.

  We had a long night full of worries and tears, but the sun always rises—and I came up with a brilliant new plan.

  I sit at the kitchen table and watch Mom making coffee in her fluffy white bathrobe. Coffee tastes gross, but I love the smell of it brewing.

  “Oh, Lou, sweetheart.” Mom pours herself a cup. She grabs a glass of OJ and slides it to me. “I’m sorry for everything.”

  Mom doesn’t seem mad anymore for what happened to Sheryl, just tired. She takes a long, slow sip.

  “How’s Manang doing?” I ask. “Did you hear from Auntie yet?”

  “She’s better. She fractured her toe.”

  I feel so awful. Sheryl’s going to hate me forever. “Do you think she’ll still talk to me?”

  Mom pats my hand. “Why don’t you go talk to her? You have that secret cousin bond. Let her know how terrible you feel and that you’re sorry.”

  I nod.

  “I have to get ready for my shift, but Auntie’s dropping you off at the senior center. Dance practice today only. Understood?”

  That’s exactly what I’m counting on.

  I’m back in the closet with our laptop, putting the final touches on my next plan, when the doorbell rings and I hear Lola say, “Lou? You have a visitor….”

  What now?

  In our living room, hands shoved into his pockets and peering around, is Jack Allen.

  I feel my face flush—not because of the giant bamboo utensils and huge painting of Jesus’s Last Supper hanging in the dining room, but because Lola’s grinning at him.

  “Would you like something to eat, young man?” Lola asks.

  I knew she was going to say that.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you sure? I made some bibingka. It’s a sweet rice cake, Lucinda’s favorite,” she says, although with her accent it sounds like “pay-bor-it.” “I’ll go get some, okay?” She flashes him a smile and goes into the kitchen.

  “Sorry, my grandma’s that way to everyone.”

  “It’s cool. I don’t even have a grandma.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Jack holds out a small plastic memory stick. “I edited some videos you can use.”

  He came all this way for that?

  “Gosh, thank you. It’s perfect timing. I’m putting together something important, and I could use some clips.”

  “Did you hear any news from Mr. K about that contest yet?” he asks.

  “What contest?”

  Lola carries in a tray of rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves and two glasses of milk. “You eat, you eat now, okay?” she says to Jack.

  “Oh, no thank you, my dad’s waiting outside in the car. But I’ll take one to go. Thanks!”

  “Let me invite your father in,” Lola says. With my back to Jack, I beg her with a look to stop, but he grabs a rice cake and hurries out. “You come visit another time, young man!”

  I peek through the window—he spots me and waves. Shyly, I wave back.

  Did Jack Allen just give me a gift? There’s one person who’ll definitely want to hear this.

  “May I please go to Sheryl’s now to see how she’s doing?” I hold the memory stick Jack gave me—I can’t wait to see what he made. Hopefully Sheryl’s not upset anymore so she can watch the videos with me.

  “Okay, but you eat first,” Lola says, shoving the milk and dessert in my direction. I unpeel the sticky leaf and bite into its sweetness.

  * * *

  —

  When I walk into my cousin’s house, Auntie Gemma’s in the kitchen doing a million things at once. The women in our family always look that way.

  “Hey, you,” she says. I was scared she’d be mad, but Auntie’s smiling. “Help me out?” She nods toward the sink. “Rice.”

  As a little kid, one of the first things I ever learned to do with my hands was the ritual of rice—washing it, cooking it. It’s the main side dish in our house for all three meals. I remember my first sleepover at Alexa’s. For breakfast we had waffles and bacon and eggs, and her mom looked at me curiously when I said, “But where’s the rice?”

  I scoop grains from a bag and pour them into a silver container. They whoosh in and it sounds like rain. Next I turn on the tap until the water skims the grains. That’s my signal to dip in. I pull and swirl the granules with my fingers and the liquid goes milky; rinse and repeat until the water goes clear.

  When I’m finished, I dry my hands and Auntie wraps a hug around me. She kisses my forehead.

  “How’s Manang doing?” I ask.

  “She’s a little upset that she can’t perform, but she’ll be fine. This is what your lolo would have called a lesson in resilience.”

  Sheryl’s had to practice so much to get over feeling anxious. After all that hard work, I’d feel bummed, too.

  “She wouldn’t have gotten hurt if it wasn’t for me lying, Auntie. I’m sorry.”

  “Your manang’s in her room. I’m sure she’d like to see you.”

  * * *

  —

  I knock on Sheryl’s door. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

  “Go away.”

  “Please?”

  It’s quiet until finally she says, “Whatever.”

  Sheryl sits in bed with her foot propped up.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “How do you think I’m feeling?” She grabs her hamburger pillow and clutches it.

  “I’m sorry about everything, Manang. And I’m sorry you can’t dance in the show.”

  She pauses, then throws the hamburger at me. “I’m kind of relieved. But don’t tell Mom or Maribel.” She looks at me and her frown turns into a smile. Thank goodness.

  I sit with her on the bed. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not as much. I just have a little limp.”

  “I shouldn’t have forced you to go out there. I got mad because I thought you were abandoning me.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I don’t know what happened. I think I got jealous of
all the attention you were getting….And then you said that thing about not having anyone—no sisters—remember? Maribel and I think of you as our sister. We always have, so that hurt.”

  “I’m lucky,” I say, putting my arm around her. As an only child I might get lonely sometimes, but cousins are the best.

  “Did your mom freak out?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m even more grounded now. Probably through the entire eighth grade.”

  “Sorry, Lou.”

  “But can I tell you my new idea?”

  She gives me her uh-oh look. Someone knocks.

  “It’s not locked,” Sheryl says, and Auntie pokes her head in.

  “I’m dropping Lou off, unless you want to go hang out, maybe help with some of the final touches onstage? I already told Miss Jovy you won’t be dancing.”

  “Oh, I hate it so much that I can’t perform,” Sheryl says, and I try not to laugh.

  Into my ear she whispers, “Tell me your idea when we get there.”

  * * *

  —

  The auditorium has the energy of a popcorn machine. Dancers spin onstage, kids wander in and out, and parents stand on tall ladders, hanging a huge Bayanihan banner from the rafters.

  I sit in a back row with Sheryl and Gracie and Alexa, who came by to hang out, too. Sheryl and I caught them up on everything. They feel just as disappointed that we can’t build anymore.

  “What else can we do?” Alexa asks.

  I find a picture of Mr. Roger Rodrigo on my phone and show them. “This is the county tax collector.”

  “And?” Gracie says.

  “And I’m going to convince him to cancel the auction.” I smile. “People only get the things they want when they’re bold and take action, right?”

  “How?” Sheryl says.

  “By showing him my house. I’m going to try to buy us more time for Mom to come up with the rest of the money or for me to finish building—or both.”

  The girls glance at each other.