I say a short prayer as I drop my rose into the water. I try to follow it with my eyes, but soon it has blended in with the others and I can’t tell which one is mine. The only person who keeps their flower is Trini. She holds it in her small fist like a torch. I watch her bring it to her nose and smell it several times. Every time she does I see a tiny smile flicker across her face.
On the ride back to shore I sit beside Luz. I put my arm around her and she rests her head on my shoulder. The wind pulls my hair away from my face and I feel like I did as a child riding the roller coasters at Coney Island. I put on my sunglasses and look out at the sparkling sea. A swimmer does laps along the breakwater, and I watch him pull his body through the waves as fast as a sailfish, jealous of the quickness of his flight. I wonder what it would feel like to be blessed with that type of agility, and if it’s possible for me to lose the burden of my body in any environment.
As we pull into the dock Luz sits up straight, separating her body from mine. She looks back at the sea.
“Do you think she’ll make it?” she asks.
“Make it where?”
“Back to Puerto Rico. That’s where she always wanted to go.”
I squeeze her shoulder, pulling her into my chest. I kiss the top of her head, right along the part where her hair splits into braids. “Yes. Of course she’ll make it. I bet she’s already there.”
She nods, as if my opinion makes it fact, and turns away from the water. I never see her look back.
I hold the dinner at my apartment later in the day. We eat stewed chicken with rice and beans that Graciela’s mother spent all morning making. After I serve the food, Scottie corners me in the kitchen to thank me for handling all the preparations.
“It’s good of you,” he says. “Especially since you’re not even family.”
I smile to hide my contempt. He watches Cristo and Luz from across the room, gesturing at them with his beer.
“I thought about taking them, but it’s just too much, you know? If they were mine, I’d have to…but since they’re not—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“Have you thought about Trini?” I ask him.
“Course I have. She’s my blood,” he says, as if that makes everything clear. “She’s my daughter, she needs to be with me.”
I watch Trini stacking paper cups on the floor. She knocks down the tower she just built and then starts building it again.
“She’s their sister,” I say. “They need to see her.”
“I know, I know.” He sips his beer. “And I’m all right with that.”
“Does that mean you’ll help?”
He looks at me like I’m speaking another language.
“You know, just bring her around sometime, or invite them over. Just help make it possible.” I lower my gaze. “I’m not saying you should raise them, but you can still make an effort to keep them close. It doesn’t take that much extra.”
He finishes his beer in one long swallow and places the empty can on the counter next to several others. He puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Sure, whatever you need,” he says.
“It’s not about me. I’m talking about what they need.”
He nods and flashes a smile that looks just like Trini’s. “Right,” he says, “whatever they need.” He slips behind me and disappears into the living room.
I’m still in the kitchen, cutting up lemon squares, when a hand touches my waist. I jump, knocking the dessert tray against the countertop. When I turn around Snowman is stepping away from me.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s okay.” I hold up the dessert tray. “I was just about to put these out.”
“Here, let me help.” He carries the tray into the dining room and walks around the room, offering lemon squares to everyone. Once he’s circled the room twice he comes back to me with the tray, which now holds the two remaining squares.
“You could have just put it on the table.”
“I didn’t think of that,” he says. “Sorry.” He takes a piece, offering me the last one.
“No, thank you,” I say, even though all I want is to taste the lemony sweetness in my mouth. But why even start, when I know that one won’t be enough?
He puts the plate down and reaches into his jacket, pulling out a small dark-blue book. I can just make out the words Alcoholics Anonymous on the spine, the golden script raised like Braille. Tucked inside the cover are several long white envelopes.
“Maybe this isn’t the time,” he says, “but I don’t know when would be.”
He hands me the letters, his eyes focused on the floor like he doesn’t want to embarrass me with eye contact. I flip through them slowly. One has my name written on the outside and the others are for Cristo, Luz, and Trini.
“I found them in Arcelia’s apartment,” he says. “The night she died.”
“So it’s true?” I take a step back. “You were there.”
“I thought everyone knew,” he says.
“I heard the rumors. But I didn’t know what to believe.”
“Yeah, well.” He scratches the stubble on his face, so pale I can barely see it. “She paged me. She knew she used too much. But it was too late by the time I got there. I found her body lying in the middle of the floor.” Instead of looking at me, he flips through the pages of the book.
“How’d you know to go to Sophia Street?”
He looks up. “I went to the new place first. When I didn’t find her there I knew something was off. Especially when I saw those letters. The upstairs neighbor ended up calling me, said she heard noises that sounded like a break-in. Luckily the new tenants hadn’t moved in yet.”
I look around the kitchen, making sure no one else can hear us.
“You think it was suicide?”
“Who knows,” he says. “What OD isn’t suicide?”
I notice his hands, the knuckles spotted with brown and white like his skin is peeling from a burn. For some reason I want to reach out and touch them. Instead, I place my hand on his sleeve.
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “I hope you don’t feel like you could have done something.”
“I know,” he says. “Not then, anyhow.” He looks around the room, his eyes searching for something. “It might sound crazy, but I don’t think she wanted me to do anything, to help her or whatever. I really think she just called so I would get there first. So Cristo wouldn’t find the body. She was thinking about him in the end, not herself.”
I look back at his hands, trying to process what he’s telling me. I want to figure out which color is peeling off, the brown or the white, but I can’t tell. Nothing makes sense anymore.
“I just thought I should tell you,” he says. “That’s everything I know.”
“Thanks.” I tuck the envelopes into the shallow pocket of my apron. When my hands are empty, he offers me the book.
“You can have this, too,” he says. “Maybe the kids would want it.”
I take it from his hand, wondering what I could learn about my own compulsion from a book like that. He picks up the last lemon square and eats it in one bite. Then he uses a napkin to clean off the powdered sugar around his mouth, even though it blends in perfectly with his skin and I hadn’t even noticed it there.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said, back at the library,” he says. “About what kind of influence I want to have on him. I’m not sure how much good I have to offer, but I know I don’t want to be a bad influence. I know that much.”
“Is he still working for you?”
Snowman shrugs. “I have him going to the library mostly, just getting books and copying articles for me. I took him off the street.”
“That’s good to hear. I appreciate that. But I don’t think he needs to work anymore, not for anyone. He’s a kid, he needs to play baseball and go to the movies.”
“Understood,” he says, nodding his head slightly. He turns to leave, but stops himself mid-st
ep. “One more thing,” he says. “I was thinking about the pool. He’s a good swimmer, you know, and he loves it. I don’t think you should take that away from him just because I introduced him to it.”
“That’s entirely up to him,” I say. “I wouldn’t make that decision for him.”
“Okay, good,” he says. “It’s not a big thing, but it’s good for him, you know, the discipline, the repetition.” He tucks his hands into his pockets. “What I mean is, I think that’s something I could give him, like going to church or something. We could make it a routine. Don’t kids need that?”
I smile at him. “I’ll ask him what he wants to do.” I turn away, trying to end the conversation, but I can feel him step closer to me.
“And what about you,” he says. “What do you want from all this?”
I turn around. “What do you mean?”
He gestures toward the living room. “Is this just temporary or are you going to keep them?”
I pick up a wet sponge and wring it out over the sink. “It’s not all up to me. Even if I wanted to, the state might not let me. It’s complicated. And in the end, I just want to do what’s best for them.”
He nods. “And do you know what that is?”
I let out a small, hard laugh and tell him I’m still trying to figure it out. He wishes me luck and tells me to reach out to him if I ever need anything. He says it in a way that makes me believe he really means it; he’s not the type of guy to just say things to be polite.
I start to scrub the edges of the sink, even though I can’t see any stains. All I want is to stop and rest, but I know I have to keep moving in order to get through this. The answers will come, I do believe that, but I can’t control how and when. I have to give up control completely, and it’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever tried to do.
Later that night, after Cristo and Luz are asleep, I sit on my bed and read the letter from Arcelia. I haven’t given them theirs, and sometimes I think I never will. But then again, is it my place to decide? Who am I to stand between a mother and her children?
I’m surprised by how well-spoken she is in the letter, especially compared to how she came off in person. They say that prison is a waste of time, but it seems to have helped her (at least for a little while), and who’s to say how much more she could have done if it weren’t so hard to navigate the system, and so easy to slip through the cracks. Her letter is the answer I’ve been waiting for, but I have to read it several times before the words really sink in.
Dear Miss Valentín,
I’m writing to thank you for all you did for my son. You been a better mother to him in the past year than I been his entire life. I used to hate you for that, but not anymore. If I still believed in God I’d thank Him for bringing you into our lives. Instead, I’ll thank the Hartford Avenue School for putting you in his classroom, and your parents for putting you on this earth.
You don’t owe me anything, but I want to ask you a favor. For me, but also for my children—if anything happens to me. I want you to take care of them if you can. Raise them as you would your own children, showing them all the good things I didn’t see, but always wanted to believe in. I give you my blessing in this, and I hope no matter where I am you won’t let them forget about me. Maybe they’re Americans now, but we are all Boricuas on the inside, and I want them to be proud of that. They can only learn that from someone who is proud, too. From someone who has something to be proud of. I think that someone is you. I am ashamed of so many things I done in my life and I spent a lot of time hating myself for those things. I am finished with that now since I have run out of hate, even for myself.
I love my children, please believe that, and I wouldn’t walk away unless I thought that someone else could do better. They deserve more than I can give them. That is why I brought them to this country, and I don’t want to stand in the way of their success. A mother is supposed to teach her children things about the world, but my children taught me so much more than I ever taught them. Ain’t that a strange twist? But I’m proud of what I learned from my children. I am so proud of them. Please make sure they know that. I don’t have the time to list all the other things I want you to do, but I don’t think I have to. You know what I want for them already, and I bet you know how to give it to them. There is not much that I could teach you, is there?
I will ask you one more thing, to pray for me and my children. If there is a God, we will all have to answer to Him in the end. And we never know when that will be.
With sincere and endless gratitude,
Arcelia Perez De La Cruz
After finishing the letter, I lie in bed all night but never fall asleep. In the morning I get up early and make breakfast for Cristo and Luz. I have no appetite so I make myself a pot of tea while I wait for them to wake up. When they stumble into the kitchen I serve them each a large plate of eggs and fried potatoes, and watch them eat from across the table, sipping my tea. Luz notices that I’m not eating and asks me what’s wrong.
“I got a letter from your mother. They think she wrote it the night she died. Do you want to hear it?”
Luz looks at Cristo, who looks at me. After a few seconds, he nods. When I finish reading the letter Cristo asks if he can read it himself so I hand it to him. When he’s done he looks at Luz and then back at me. He gives me back the letter, which I place in the space where my plate would be. I’m suddenly aware of how quickly my heart is beating.
“Did she leave us something?” Cristo asks.
“Yeah, did we get a letter?”
I reach into my bathrobe pocket for their letters. “You each got your own.”
I place the letters on the table in front of them. Neither one moves, they just keep staring at me.
“There’s a lot of paperwork to fill out, and we’d have to meet with social workers and get the state to approve it, but if it’s okay with both of you, I’d like to do as your mother asked. I’d like you both to stay here permanently.”
“You don’t have to do that, Teacher.”
“I know I don’t. I want to.”
Cristo looks at Luz.
“I want to stay,” she says.
He looks at me. “I don’t want you to offer because you think you have to.”
Outside, I hear the roar of my neighbor’s lawnmower, and a few moments later, the smell of gasoline and fresh-cut grass. I hear someone’s radio, the slap of a basketball on the pavement, and farther away, the high-pitched laughter of young children. These smells and sounds are familiar, as is the sight across from me of Cristo and Luz at my kitchen table, eating what I’ve cooked for them; but something is fundamentally different about this moment, and I feel the reality of it like a throb in my chest.
“Listen to me, both of you.” I lean forward in my chair, my eyes shifting between them. “This isn’t about the letter, or guilt, or what your mother wants. This is about what we want. What you want and what I want.” I put my hands on the table to keep them from shaking. “I want you both to stay with me, to live with me, for as long as you want. Through high school or college or whatever. I don’t want to replace your mother, please believe that. I would never try to take her away from you. But I do want to adopt you guys. I want us to be a family.”
After a long silence Cristo places his hand on top of mine. We lace our fingers together.
“Okay, Teacher,” he says.
Luz starts to laugh. “You can’t keep calling her that, not if she becomes our mother.”
I look at Cristo. “You can call me anything you want,” I tell him.
“Even Vanessa?”
“That might be pushing it.”
“What about ‘Mom’?” Luz asks. “That’s what American kids say.”
“Mom is fine.”
“Or Auntie? Auntie Vanessa?”
“How about Tia Vanessa?”
“There’s no rush,” I say. “We have a long time to figure this out.”
They spend the rest of breakfast tossing around potent
ial names, getting more creative as the game progresses. By the time we leave for school, they’ve cataloged at least a dozen options, some sincere, some silly. After the first bell rings, I leave them in the front stairwell, like we’ve done every day for the last month.
“See you guys after school.” I wave at them from the bottom of the stairs.
“Bye, Miss Valentín,” Luz says, same as always.
“Later, Teacher.” Cristo runs up the stairs two at a time.
A smile breaks across my face that is still there when the second bell rings. I may not look any different, but I know I will be a different person from this day on, and probably a different teacher.
Certainly a different mother.
Cristo
A few weeks after my mother dies I find out I’m going to pass fifth grade. Mrs. Reed tells me I did much better than she thought I would and asks me if I want to take the test for Regular Ed over the summer. If I pass I can go into the same class as Luz. Graciela promises to help me study and Teacher promises not to be mad if I end up failing it, so I tell Mrs. Reed I’ll try. I don’t really want to do it, but I don’t want to disappoint Teacher even more.
I still haven’t opened the letter Mami left me from the night she died. I figure once I read it I’ll have to really say good-bye so I keep putting it off. I carry it around with me, though, and pull it out to read my name on the outside of the envelope, just to see her handwriting and to imagine what it says inside. Some days I think I’ll open it in a week or two, but sometimes I think it’ll be a few years before I finally have the guts, and sometimes I think I’ll never read it at all. I kind of like the mystery of wondering what else she wanted to say, something she had to write down and couldn’t say to my face. But really, I just like knowing I have it waiting for me whenever I need it, and I don’t want that feeling to ever disappear.
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