by Meg Medina
Dear Merci,
A deal is a deal.
Michael
Well, it’s not like he’s going to get points for being a conversationalist. But wow. Five bucks. I look across the room. Michael catches my eye. He grins, but then his scabbed lip cracks, and he winces and looks away.
“Who is yours from?” Jamie whispers, poking me with her pencil from behind.
I pretend to get back to work.
“I don’t know,” I say.
That night, Mami sends me over to play dominoes with Lolo. “Grands Day is next week,” she says. “No hard feelings allowed. Go make up with Lolo and Abuela.”
We’re in their kitchen while Abuela finishes making dinner. This is typical of how we say sorry around here. Food and dominoes. Breaded steaks are my favorite, so I’m eating here tonight by myself. No Roli. No twins. And Lolo gets to play his favorite game. It’s the perfect peace offering.
Lolo slides a double-five tile on the table and attaches it to the chain.
“Hey, cheater,” I say. “You put the wrong one down. You need a four to play.”
He looks more closely and pulls back his tile. “A four . . . you’re right.”
He pushes up his glasses and studies his options. “And how was school, preciosa? You haven’t told me a thing. Nothing special to report?”
I shrug. All week, I’ve been doing my best to forget about the soccer team. If only I didn’t have to do Lolo’s job and help take care of the twins, Mami would have signed my permission form. I would have been wearing a soccer jersey at school, too, and getting fist bumps all day for making the team.
I take a deep breath and dig in my pocket.
“Look.” I show him Michael’s note and explain about the money. Lolo can’t decode the message, so finally I just read it aloud.
“What do you think of that?” I ask.
“I think he’s a man of his word. That’s always a good sign.”
But Abuela stops mashing the meat with a mallet and turns to me. She arches her brow. “Quizá ese huevo quiere sal,” she says.
Maybe that egg wants salt?
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Sió,” Lolo tells her. “Merci’s too young for romance.”
“Romance?” I say. “Yuck.”
He scans his tiles for a move. “Paso,” he says, even though I can see a tile with four dots at the corner of his stack. He shouldn’t skip.
Abuela’s eyes linger on me as we play. “Too young? Time passes for all of us, viejo,” she says quietly. Then she dips the first piece of meat into the breadcrumbs and drops it, spattering, into the oil.
LOLO DOESN’T WANT TO GO.
He’s dressed in his tan pants with the pointy creases and a button shirt. His hair is neatly combed. But something is wrong. He’s pacing along the porch in his slippers.
“Leopoldo Suárez,” Abuela says, “get your shoes on. We’re going to be late for Grands Day. The children are waiting.”
He gives her an ugly look. “Leave me alone.”
Roli and I exchange glances. We’ve been standing here ten minutes, and Lolo is only getting more upset, though neither one of us can tell why.
“But, Lolo,” I say, “I made your name tags and everything. It’s like last year. You get to come to all my classes with me this morning and tell them about baseball. I’ll take you to the field.”
He pivots and walks away from me to the end of the porch.
“¡Viejo!” Abuela clips on her earring and loses her patience. “¡Por favor! This is important!”
Without warning, Lolo rushes at her. His face is bright red, and he’s opening and closing his fists. “I’M NOT GOING!” he shouts.
I’ve never seen Lolo talk to Abuela like this. Not ever. It’s Abuela who’s the yeller. But right now, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear Lolo was about to take a swing.
Abuela lets out a little yelp, and Roli jumps in between them in a flash, trying to hold Lolo back. “What are you doing?” he yells. “Stop!”
But Lolo shoves him hard.
“Get Papi,” Roli says, still trying to keep them apart.
I’m frozen to the spot for a split second, but then my feet are racing toward my house.
“We need your help with Lolo,” I shout into our kitchen window. “Come quick!”
In a flash, Papi comes running over. Mami is behind him, still in her slippers.
Papi steps close to Lolo and starts to steer Roli away.
“Cálmate, Papá,” he says quietly. “Take a deep breath.”
“I’m not going!” Lolo shouts again. “¡No voy!” And then a string of bad words in Spanish trips out of his mouth, words I’m never supposed to say. You can hear them echo in our yard.
“You don’t have to go,” Papi says in a quiet voice. “No one is forcing you. Just calm down.”
Lolo gives Papi a nasty look, and hurries back to the other side of the porch again like an ogre.
Mami, meanwhile, brings Abuela to the rocker on the porch. Abuela’s face is pale and her hands are trembling. “Are you hurt?” Mami whispers. Then she looks up at Roli. “Are you?”
I’ve never seen Roli look like this. He tucks in his shirt and smooths his hair, but even from here I can see that his eyes are watery. The sight of him makes me scared.
“I’m fine,” he says.
Papi clears his throat. “I’ll take care of this, Ana,” he tells Mami. “Get these two to school.”
“But Papi. It’s Grands Day. Miss McDaniels and everybody is expecting Lolo —”
“Quiet, Merci.” Papi reaches inside his pocket and tosses Roli the keys. “Start the car for your mother,” Papi tells him. “You’re going to be late.”
Roli catches them and stalks off without looking back.
Now it’s my turn to stand there, teary.
“¡Ay, Dios mío! . . .” Abuela’s hand is still at her throat as she looks at me. “This is a disaster. Give him a glass of water. We can go in a little while when he’s calm.”
Papi cuts her off. “He’s not going, and arguing about it is getting us nowhere.”
“Maybe I should stay,” Mami says.
He turns to her. “It’s all right, Ana,” he says. “I’ve got this. Go.”
I’m upset the whole way to school because 1) I am Grandless and 2) nobody wants to explain anything.
“But why was he so angry?”
“Shh, Merci. Let Roli concentrate. We’ve had enough drama for one morning.”
“Did they have a fight? Is he still mad that I yelled at the twins?”
“Quiet, please.”
“Was he going to hit Abuela? Or Roli? He pushed him, you know.”
“That’s enough.” Her voice is sharp. “Not another word.”
I sit back and stare out the window the rest of the way, simmering. When we pull in, Roli hops out and grabs his backpack.
“Coming?” he says.
I turn my head and ignore him. He and Mami exchange looks as I stay put in the back seat.
“You go on,” Mami tells him.
I watch him walk up the path as Mami slides into the driver’s seat and adjusts the rearview mirror to her height. Then she turns to me.
“When you’re calm, you need to get out of the car, Merci.”
“I’d like to request a day off, please.”
“No.”
“But I’m going to be the only one without at least one grandparent here.”
“I doubt that very much. Families are very far-flung these days. Not everyone is as lucky as you are to have your grandparents close by.”
My mouth drops open.
“Lucky? How is what happened this morning lucky? Lolo was acting plain loco.”
“Do not use that word about your grandfather ever again.” She closes her eyes and sighs.
“Things happen over time, Merci,” Mami finally says. “We grow up and older. We need to respect how things change and adjust.”
Her words ju
mble out of her mouth and make me angry. “What are you talking about?” I say, cutting her off. “It’s all blah, blah, blah. Nobody will tell me what’s really wrong!”
The car loop volunteer turns to see what’s taking us so long. My face feels hot, and my eye is tugging hard into a corner.
“A school parking lot isn’t the time or place to talk about these things,” Mami says. “For now, what you need to know is that we’ve had a bad morning. It happens to people every day. Now, please don’t make things worse. Get out of the car. Try to put this out of your mind and make the most of your day.”
Of course, I do not enjoy my day.
It’s hard enough not to have fancy grandparents whose names are carved into the bricks. But it’s even worse to think about Lolo charging at Abuela with that terrible look on his face. Even when I’m having lunch with Hannah’s Nana, I can still remember his shout and the ugly twist of his mouth as he said he wasn’t coming.
Mami was right about one thing at least. There are a few kids whose grandparents didn’t come because they live too far away. In fact, Edna’s grands aren’t here because they live in California, and Michael’s are in Minnesota. And Lena’s grandparents are all dead. So everyone sort of shares. When it’s time for art, Lena watercolors with Ari’s granddad, who wears a bow tie. Edna hangs around with Jamie’s Meme and listens to her long stories about being a student photographer in France when there were riots. I catch Jamie rolling her eyes about Meme a couple of times, though. I guess sometimes all grandparents can be embarrassing, or maybe we’re just getting too old for Grands Day, after all. Whatever. I stick with Hannah. Her grandmother wears a bright pink track suit because she’s a master runner in marathons. She shows us her watch that tells steps, distance, and calories.
All the grandparents are nice.
But none of them are mine.
That afternoon, when I get home from school, I change into my home clothes and wander over to Abuela’s house. I move a little like Tuerto when he crosses the street, cautious and listening for sounds as I go to the back yard. Not even the twins are around. I stand at Abuela’s screen door for a long while without knocking. Everything is quiet. There’s only the low murmurs from a radio on the windowsill.
“Lolo’s napping,” Abuela says when she finally comes into the kitchen and spots me outside.
She opens the door a little wider and hands me two cookies and an envelope. I can see she’s in her house clothes again, but her special pearl earrings are still on from this morning. “Give this to those nice people in the office,” she whispers. “A little donation from us.” Then she reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t go, Merci.”
I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR MAMI in the outdoor sitting area of the Lourdes Killington Residence in Palm Beach for over an hour. It’s a fancy place downtown where a lot of senior citizens live, if they can afford it. Last year, the fifth grade sang here near the holidays. After, we had hot chocolate and played checkers, even though it was a sunny day and over ninety degrees. Hannah almost fainted in her Santa hat that day. I’d be sweating to death now, too, except for the wind. The gusts are strong enough that a few of the plastic chairs around me keep toppling. The weatherman said there’s a small hurricane out over the water. It’s not coming our way, but at least it’s making a nice breeze.
Anyway, Mami said we should spend some time together, since she’s been so busy lately. She wants to make things up to me, she says. Soccer. The Grands Day disaster. But as usual, everything has gotten squeezed around her work. It’s Columbus Day weekend. A lot of people have gone away, but not us. Mami’s giving a talk, the one she’s been practicing for. It’s about how older people can work on their balance so they don’t fall. Mami tried to get Lolo and Abuela to practice last night by having them close their eyes and stand on one leg. She didn’t get far. I guess no one was in the mood. “We are not flamingos, Ana,” Abuela said, and sent her packing.
I wouldn’t have agreed to tag along except that Mami promised we could go to the bike shop after. It’s only a few blocks from here. I have about ninety bucks saved now.
I’m on a glider in the garden, listening to my music and letting the wind push the swing for me. Mami promised me it would be thirty minutes, but I should have known better. She always loses track of time. I shuffle my favorite songs and play them each twice. But when another fifteen minutes roll by, I decide to go inside and look for her.
The lady at the desk smiles and buzzes me in. She’s wearing khaki shorts and a blue polo shirt, like a camp counselor. Her name tag says HI, MY NAME IS GAYLE. She’s got art supplies around her and is busy cutting out cardboard pumpkin patterns.
“Good morning,” Gayle says. “Are you here for a visit?”
“No, miss. I’m looking for my mom. She’s doing a talk here.” I point to the flyer that’s pinned to the bulletin board. Mami’s photocopied face smiles down at us.
“Oh, yes. That’s happening in the O’Malley Meeting Room.” She uses her scissors to point down a long hall. “You walk straight down this corridor and through the double doors into the next building. Make a right at the first opening. You’ll see it on your left.”
Except for the handrails that run the length of all the walls, it would be easy to mix this place up with a hotel. Big potted plants. Fancy paintings. A chart pad on an easel announces the Casino Night later tonight and an apple-pie tasting tomorrow. A few people are sitting together in the living area, and a few others are at a table playing cards.
One lady waves to me as I go by. “Hello, darling,” she calls out, and I wave back.
I go through the doors that say PHASE II. But when I get to the other side, I can’t remember if Gayle said to make a left or a right. I look down the hall and see a nurse’s station at the far end, so I decide to go that way and ask directions again.
It’s a little quieter in this section, and my sneakers squeak against the shiny floor. I notice a faint smell, too, like some sort of cleaner. There are rooms on either side of the walkway. The beds are empty in some, but in one, a man is asleep in front of a loud TV, his mouth hanging open. My feet slow to a crawl and then I stand there, staring at him, suddenly thinking of Doña Rosa and how she died by herself.
“Can I help you?” An aide steps out from the room across the hall and startles me. She’s wearing blue rubber gloves, and she’s holding bed linens and towels. The door behind her has a placard that says MRS. ETHEL BLAIR.
I can’t help but glance past her at a small lady who’s watching us wide-eyed from her bed. She doesn’t smile at all.
“I’m looking for the O’Malley Room,” I say.
“Oh, I’ll walk you there,” the aide says. “I’m heading that way.” She calls over her shoulder. “I’ll be back with your lunch in a little while, Mrs. Blair.” Then she pulls the door closed a bit.
“Are you visiting one of your grandparents?” she asks as she drops the linens in a rolling cart. She pulls off her gloves and drops them in the trash alongside it.
Abuela or Lolo living here?
I can’t imagine such a thing. Their house smells like garlic and onions and cinnamon. The sound of Abuela’s novelas drifts across the yard at night. Lolo’s shoes are always by the kitchen door. Who would cook dinner when Mami’s late, or watch the twins? Who would tend the garden?
I shake my head. “No, miss. My grandparents don’t live here. My mom is just giving a presentation, that’s all. She’s a physical therapist.”
“Ah.” She nods as we get to the fork in the hallway. “Well, the O’Malley is just over that way,” she says. “See it? Make a right up ahead.”
I’m still thinking about the man in his room and Mrs. Blair after we leave.
Mami and I are walking along the crowded row of new bikes inside the shop while the owner rents some beach cruisers at the register. Everything smells of rubber tires and new vinyl.
“How about this one?” Mami asks. It’s a purple one that matches the laven
der scrubs she’s wearing. “It won’t break the bank.”
I shrug. “I don’t like the flowers on the grips.”
She pulls out a few more, including a mountain bike, even though the terrain is flat as a pancake here.
Nothing seems right.
“What’s the matter?” Mami says. “You don’t seem very excited.”
I tap the tires of the bike nearest me and check out the tread, thinking back to the Sunday morning when Lolo fell to the pavement.
Do not tell Abuela, he’d said. Not a word.
And then, just as quickly, I picture Mrs. Blair in her bed, watching the world with those frightened eyes. The thought makes my chest squeeze.
“Do those people have nowhere else to go?” I blurt out.
Mami looks confused. “What people?”
“Mrs. Ethel Blair and the others.”
“Who?”
“The people who live at the senior center.”
Mami plucks at a price tag and pauses.
“Well, it depends. Some people live there because they want to be with others their own age who enjoy the same things. Did you see the activity board? I would get tired having a social life that busy. No wonder it costs so much to live there!” She drags out a bright yellow bike and shakes her head at the price tag. “I paid this much for my first car.”
“But it’s not all like that, Mami. I saw people who looked . . . alone and sick.”
I can see Mami trying to hold her not-that-bad smile. It’s like when she told us Tuerto was going to lose his eye after the fight with a raccoon a few years ago.
“Aging isn’t the same for everyone. Some older people need only a little support to be independent. But others need a good deal of help over time, Merci. And sometimes it’s more than their families can give them at home. They need to be somewhere safe.”
I glue my eyes on the bike, thinking about Lolo and all the ways he’s been acting strangely. I think again of Doña Rosa and the day she came over to complain about her son, who wanted her to move to an asilo de ancianos. “¡Qué horror!” Abuela said, shuddering. “Those terrible places.”