America Is Not the Heart

by Elaine Castillo

  Hero squirmed. Okay lang, Tita, I—buy my own, she said, thinking of the small drugstore across from Roni’s school, close to Magat, and on the other side of town from the strip mall where the restaurant was located.

  Paz, already in the middle of the transaction, pushed them into Hero’s hands. You have to be careful. You don’t know what anyone—be careful. And. If anything happens, don’t hide it. Don’t take care of it on your own. We’ll help. Okay?

  Hero stared back at her and once again felt that upsurge of affection for the grim practicality of a nurse. Okay, she said.

  Around Christmastime, Roni got the chicken pox, which worried Paz and Pol, since apparently she’d had it before and should have been immune. Hero’d had it when she was around Roni’s age, and she remembered the mind-cracking torment of the itch, Lulay slapping at her hands every time Hero tried to scratch. It came just when Roni’s skin was the best it’d ever been, with eczema flare-ups only when she ate the things Adela had asked her to avoid, or when she had a particularly stressful day at school, or when she saw Gloria’s car pull up to the driveway, bearing food.

  Hero herself felt an itch under her skin rise when she saw the car, staring at it to make sure Gloria was the only person inside, feeling icy terror close up her throat when she saw a male figure in the passenger seat, helping carry in a tray. Hero hurried up the stairs, and stood outside Paz and Pol’s bedroom door, where she knew Roni was barricading herself. She didn’t try the knob, didn’t care if it was locked or not. She stood outside, leaning against it, and nearly fell backward half an hour later, when Roni opened the door, having heard the car drive away through the open window. Ow, Roni said. You’re on my foot.

  Hero spent Christmas at home with Roni, watching anime movies in the living room and occasionally telling her not to scratch. Roni’s chicken pox meant that Paz and Pol had, extraordinarily, both taken their Christmas holidays instead of working for the extra overtime, and were trying to put together a small plastic Christmas tree that one of Pol’s coworkers had sold him—a small business he had on the side—saying it was much easier and less messy than real Christmas trees, and you could reuse it year after year. They only had the standard ornaments that came with every tree, a couple dozen small, vinyl-shiny red apples.

  Rosalyn called to wish them a Merry Christmas, then asked Hero to pass the phone to Roni so she and Jaime and everyone could wish her a Merry Christmas, too. Hero eavesdropped on the conversation, and heard Rosalyn tell Roni she was sorry she was so sick, chicken pox was the worst but it would get better soon, and everyone at Rosalyn’s house for the Christmas party this year missed her. Did she want Rosalyn and Jaime to come over later with food? Roni said they had plenty of food, and they were all watching Ranma ½ and it was really good, and they even had a tree for the first time, and the decorations were pretty. Then Hero watched her give more or less the same report to Jaime.

  When Roni gave Hero the phone back, no one was on the line, Jaime in the middle of passing the phone back to Rosalyn.

  Uh, hi, hold on, um. Let me go to my room. Are you alone?

  No, Hero said. They didn’t have a cordless phone, and the cord was stretched enough as it was, from the kitchen to the living room. Okay, Rosalyn said. She started laughing. I didn’t have anything to say, really. Just. Merry Christmas.

  Merry Christmas, Hero said.

  We’re going to the city for New Year’s again, you coming?

  I don’t think Roni’s gonna be better by then.

  Okay, mom. If you wanna come, let me know though. Tell Roni I hope she feels better.

  You already told her.

  Tell her again, but cuter.

  You’re, Hero said and stopped, aware people were listening. Okay. Merry Christmas.

  Merry Christmas.

  They hung up, and Hero put the phone back in the kitchen. When she came back, Pol was trying to string lights onto the tree, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Do you need help, she asked, but Pol waved her away. Paz had given up on the project, eating bibingka on the couch with Roni, scrutinizing the television. There was a space between them, and Roni looked wooden, like she wasn’t used to her mother being relaxed next to her, or being next to her at all.

  The phone rang again, and Hero sighed, knowing it was probably Rosalyn again. I can get it, she said, making her way back to the phone. Hello?

  There was a crackling of static. A standardized female voice was speaking, and at first Hero was confused, thinking it was a wrong number, but then the voice was saying it was a collect call from—and the recording fell away, and Hero heard a voice say, clearly and slowly, SOLEDAD DE VERA, and then the robot voice was back again, asking if Hero would accept the charges.

  She froze, the words stuck in her throat. The voice asked her again.

  Ye-yes, yes, I accept the charges, she said, even though later she told herself she should have asked Paz and Pol first. She called out once, in a voice too high, Tito Pol—it’s—it’s Tita Soly—and at the same time there was that familiar voice, raspy and deep, saying, Hello? Hello? Mang Pol? Mang Pol?

  Tita Soly, Hero managed.

  Another crackle of static, then, a shout, like the shout she’d given when Hero showed up at her door. Nimang—

  Hero felt her knees buckle. She nearly missed the chair, hunched on the edge of it. Naragsak a Paskua, Soly was saying. I called last year but no one picked up the phone.

  Hero closed her eyes. Naragsak a Pasuka, she said back, the Ilocano words feeling chunky and metallic in her mouth.

  Nimang, Soly said, soft. Kumusta?

  Nasayaat met. I’m. I’m fine.

  Really? Soly asked.

  Hero thought about it, and didn’t feel like it was a total lie. Really, she said.

  It’s good to hear your voice.

  You, too.

  Soly hadn’t ever been a talkative person, but that had been a gift to Hero. Soly had been the first person to bathe Hero’s body, making no comment on what she saw of Hero’s nakedness, the things written there, the things carved away. Now there was a sweet bashfulness between them, which, in that moment, Hero wouldn’t have traded for anything.

  Nimang, Soly said. Are you really doing okay? How is California?

  I’m okay. It’s okay.

  How are your hands?

  Hero went quiet, then cursed herself; she was probably worrying Soly. They’re fine. The same.

  You have to do the exercises regularly.

  I do, Hero lied. It’s fine. I also help take care of Roni.

  How old is she now?

  Eight.

  Soly was silent except for a long exhale through her nostrils, rippling against Hero’s ear. Listen, Nimang. I still try and talk to Mang Hamin, but.

  Hero interrupted her. It’s fine.

  I’ll tell them you’re doing well. I’ll keep trying—

  It’s fine, Hero interrupted again. She didn’t know if she wanted to hear about her parents; if there was news, if they were sick, if they were well, if they were asking about her, if they wanted to talk to her, to see her, if nothing had changed and they never wanted to see her again, if she was still dead to them. She didn’t know if she wanted to know, so she interrupted Soly before she could find out. It’s fine. You don’t have to tell them anything.

  Nimang, Soly said, then sighed, dropping it. Can I greet Manong Pol now?

  Hero turned to where she knew Pol had been standing, his back to the conversation in a show of privacy, at the border between the living room and the kitchen. When he got on the phone, he said, in the way that a person could say a name differently from anyone else in the world, simply because it was that name, in that mouth, passing between those two people, the deep-in-the-gut intimacy of siblings that Hero had never felt: Soly—

  * * *

  Roni still had chicken pox on New Year’s; they watched
the ball drop on the television to the tune of Roni slapping at the itchy spots, Hero making sure she wasn’t scratching them with her nails and causing scars.

  Pol was home, but he drifted between watching the television and making himself another coffee, saying what was the point of just watching a shiny ball drop. Paz had called around eleven to say she was on her way, but she arrived home half an hour after midnight, saying, Did I miss it, knowing she had.

  Early the next morning, when Hero woke around dawn as usual after having slept only a couple of hours as usual, she didn’t expect to hear her pager ring four times. She didn’t expect to hear a doorbell shortly after, and more than all that, she didn’t expect to see Jaime’s mother’s minivan in the driveway when she opened the front door. Jaime had rung the bell and run right back to the car, hurrying over to the passenger side, where he’d begun unbuckling the seat belt of a slumped-over Rosalyn.

  When Hero walked into the driveway after him, still wearing her house slippers, she could smell the alcohol even standing three feet away. What—what the.

  Okay, Jaime said without greeting Hero, hoisting Rosalyn up by the armpits, which made her furrow her brow, looking at Jaime, smiling dopily, then lifting her gaze to Hero. She started groaning. Oh no oh NO—

  Happy New Year to you, too, Hero said, feeling hurt, and then ridiculous.

  She’s still drunk, said Jaime.

  Take her home where she can sleep it off, Hero said, and Rosalyn joined in, Take me home—

  Oh, now you wanna go home, Jaime muttered. Not like you were yelling at me to bring you here all night or anything.

  Rosalyn grinned blurrily, hopelessly at Hero. Hi, she whispered, bedroom-soft, then lurched violently sideward.

  Okay, okay, easy, no suka in the van, Jaime said.

  Rosalyn was still listing to and fro like she was on strings, head knocking right into the side of Jaime’s, skull on skull. He gritted his teeth, pushed her head back onto the headrest.

  What happened?

  She got into a fight with Janelle, Jaime said over his shoulder. She was making fun of two girls at the party. Saying something about lesbians. Rosalyn went off on her.

  Jaime hesitated, then: She, uh. She told everyone you guys were. You know.

  Hero slumped against the car door. Shit.

  Yeah. Jaime scratched the back of his neck. I think Rosalyn might’ve hit her if me and Rochelle hadn’t pulled her back. She wanted to come here all night, she was about to steal the keys to drive herself. I ended up taking her just to keep her off the wheel. I forgot Roni was sick.

  Roni! Rosalyn cheered, swinging from recognized word to recognized word.

  Hero almost reached out to brush the sweaty hair from her face, but her hand remained still and cold at her side. She should get home and rest, she muttered finally. I would help, but Roni’s still—

  I know, I know, shit, Jaime said, wincing. Sorry to blow your pager up at like five in the morning. I forgot. I’ll just take her home. She’ll be all right.

  Then, to Rosalyn: Come on, Princess Suka. One more stop. Legs in. Seat belt on.

  Hero chewed the inside of her lip. I can come if you need—

  Nah, you’re good, Jaime dismissed. She’s just gonna throw up and pass out. It’ll be like old times. You should get some sleep anyway.

  Jaime slammed the passenger door closed, then went to the driver’s side. Hero pushed herself off the car and followed him.

  You can page me again or call the house if you need. Anything, she added, too raw, ridiculous again.

  Jaime nodded and opened his door, but then paused for a minute, staring at the door handle.

  What, Hero said.

  Jaime sighed, rubbing at the inner corner of one of his eyes. He glanced at Rosalyn to make sure she wasn’t listening. She wasn’t, sleeping again, her mouth open and drool dripping gracelessly from it. Hero watched him watch her, then made herself stop. Old times.

  She’s a dumbass, Jaime said.

  Yes.

  You’re a dumbass, too, he added, turning back around to study Hero’s face this time.

  Yes, Hero agreed; quieter.

  Okay, Jaime said, after a long moment. Happy New Year. Tell Roni I hope she feels better.

  * * *

  Jaime stayed. Rochelle stayed, and because Rochelle stayed, Gani stayed—though that was tenuous, considering they’d only recently gone through a tough, not quite complete breakup. Maricris stayed, and Rosalyn said it was just because a rising pop star needed a makeup artist, and Maricris replied without hesitation, Yeah, and? which put Rosalyn genuinely at ease for a rare moment. But Janelle, Lea, and Ruben stopped coming to the restaurant; when Isagani left early sometimes, everyone knew he was going to meet up with Ruben for some gig, some party, which Rosalyn and the rest of them hadn’t been invited to. Rosalyn and Hero specifically, the rest of them by association.

  Rosalyn was more imperious than ever, her cheerfulness a carapace, but Hero saw the grief that came into her eyes when a young college-age woman came in, acne across her cheeks, asking if Rosalyn could do the makeup for her dance troupe of fifteen girls. Rosalyn’s skills were still in high demand and those skills were still the best around: stippling thicker concealer onto acne patches with a fine brush that looked like it might have been an oil painter’s, flesh-colored stripes along the back of her hand, hands deft and sure. Rosalyn was a professional, so only every now and then did it look like the work was absolutely, categorically killing her.

  Hero didn’t know what to say, how to make it better. She’d never lost friends over something like this, had never had that many friends to lose, or had friends whose opinion she cared about when it came to things like who she fucked or how often—I don’t fucking care, Rosalyn growled when Hero made the mistake of saying as much once.

  The only time Hero saw Rosalyn falter was with Adela and Boy. Rosalyn would be in the salon all day working, not even coming by to bug Hero with comic books like she usually did. She’d stopped coming to the restaurant almost entirely, throwing herself completely into her makeup work, booking appointments practically on top of each other so that she never had time to stop, let alone think. When she came into the restaurant it was tentative, as if she were afraid Janelle or Lea might be in the restaurant, waiting for her; as if she were afraid of how much she wanted Janelle or Lea to be in the restaurant, waiting for her. Hero had never seen her hesitate before the door of the restaurant before; she’d always strolled through its doors with the confidence of a dauphin.

  Hero tried to go to the salon once or twice during her own lunch break, just to see her, to take over some food, but Rosalyn would always be with a client and Hero couldn’t stand the rigid, polite smile that Rosalyn would give to her in that moment, the kind of smile Hero knew she’d given to Rosalyn every day for months when they’d first met. Hero gave up on the visits.

  Adela and Boy seemed to already understand that Rosalyn needed her distance, prepared for all contingencies in the manner of grandparents who’d done most of the parenting. So every day around lunchtime, Hero would watch as Boy silently made a plate of food: barbecue, pancit, rice, some kutsinta on the side for dessert, all the things that Rosalyn usually came by the restaurant to eat during her break. He covered it with two layers of foil, took either a guava or guyabano juice out of the drinks refrigerator, put that on top of the plate, then handed it to Adela, who just as silently took the plate and left the restaurant. She always came back quickly, empty-handed; Rosalyn wouldn’t have given her any time to talk, Adela would probably have had to leave the food at the reception desk with Mai. But by the end of the night, even if Hero hadn’t seen Rosalyn all day, she would notice that Adela had brought the plate back, empty, foil crumpled in a ball, juice box drained and collapsed in on itself.

  When Hero first saw the empty plate, her stomach clenched, thinking of all the times Soly had left
a plate like that on the floor beside the living room couch, all the times she’d half emptied it by the next morning.

  The closest Rosalyn came to talking about her friends’ reaction to her sex life was when she and Hero were in the car, parked just outside of Ed Levin Park, tucked into the foothills of the Calaveras Mountains that overlooked Milpitas. They’d been going there every now and then for months, late at night when the restaurant was closed, Roni was dropped off back home, and no one would miss either of them for a couple of hours.

  The first time Rosalyn took Hero up into the mountains, she didn’t say where they were going, steering them up Park Victoria Drive, then turning into a bumpy hill road, passing a sign for a horse farm. Huge pink mansions whose windows glowed with golden light punctuated the very tops of the hills, as far away as satellites, so that even as Rosalyn’s car climbed higher, the houses seemed to retreat still farther. Finally, they stopped in a small clearing that jutted out like a cliff edge; it was nearly midnight, and two other cars were already parked there.

  The view was of a Milpitas that Hero had never seen before, the small town cratered with dim lights, and then, beyond its outer edge, something that Rosalyn called the Coyote Creek lagoon: a minor kingdom of sloughs, creeks, lagoons, and salt ponds from Alviso all the way to the Bay, the blue-gray reflection of shallow water flicker-lit by the surrounding towns, mud and salt paths snaking through them like the carved handle around a mirror.

  Hero knew a makeout spot when she saw one. That first night, she’d opened her mouth to deflate the mood, to say something like, You must bring all the girls here, and then she’d stopped, knowing that Rosalyn hadn’t come here with any girls. The person Rosalyn had probably come up here with, for years and years, was Jaime.

  I don’t want you to think that just ’cause I told people stuff when I was drunk that means I expect anything, Rosalyn was saying now, her eyes on the steering wheel, hand still poised to take the key out of the ignition.