The Grief Keeper

by Alexandra Villasante

  She should look like me because we have the same hair and eyes and even the same lips. But Gabi is lovely, even having slept in a car all night. Fresh-faced and pretty, she’s got a face that you want to kiss—that’s what my father used to say. “¡Besos para todos!” he would say when he got home from a trip. Gabi would get the first and best kisses, then Pablo. I would get the last kisses, the half-hearted, tired ones.

  Indranie opens the door, telling us that she’ll have breakfast for us once we get upstairs. Every elevator we enter, every door we go through, Indranie has to put her badge in front of a scanner and wait for the red light to turn green. In a white room with a huge table and twelve chairs, we sit and wait for breakfast. When it comes, it’s almost as big as the table. We ate well at the detention center. Three times a day and sometimes snacks. All the puppy fat I had left on the carretera, I started to get back.

  But this breakfast is different. Cedar Hollow was sponsored by a restaurant called IHOP. A strange name: I hop. I could never figure out what it meant. But the commercials were amazing. A family of four—sometimes they were black, sometimes they were white—would sit at a table stacked with plates of food. Pancakes and sausage and tocino and fruit and whipped crema. And every person would have at least two drinks, so there was never a chance of them getting thirsty.

  “It’s like I hop,” I say as two men in uniforms push a cart of food into the room. We get two drinks too, one hot chocolate and one orange juice.

  Indranie laughs at our expressions, then pours herself a cup of coffee. “Eat up, girls. We have a lot of talking to do today. And a lot of thinking.”

  I hurry to keep up with Gabi. When I’m finished, when I can’t actually eat more, not when the food is gone, I ask for a cup of coffee. Whatever is going to happen next, I need to stay alert.

  “Can I have coffee?” Gabi asks. I am about to tell her it isn’t a good idea, but Indranie pours her a cup, passing her the milk and sugar.

  The plates are piled back onto the cart and removed. Only the smell of the honey-brown syrup from the pancakes is left in the room. Gabi has wrapped some bacon in a tissue and put it in her pocket. I frown at her, but she ignores me and at least Indranie doesn’t notice.

  Indranie shows us to the bathroom, where we swipe at our teeth with a paper towel to try to make up for not brushing them.

  “Why bother? It’s not like anyone’s going to kiss me.”

  “No seas grosera,” I say. We’re alone. Indranie waits for us outside the bathroom door. “Gabi. They have a proposal for us, una propuesta, ¿sabes?”

  She goes still, wary eyes watching me in the mirror. “What kind of proposal?” Her question is as careful and slow as if she’d just uncovered a snake in the grass.

  “I don’t know yet. But it doesn’t matter. If we can stay here and work, even for a little bit, it will make it better for us if we have to go back.”

  “Go back?” The fear in her voice is a knife in my side.

  “No, no, we won’t go back. I mean, maybe one day?”

  “We don’t need to go back. You said that Mrs. Rosen will help Mamá to come in a few months. Then we’ll all be together, here. In America.”

  I push down hard on the secret of Mrs. Rosen’s death. Now isn’t the time to tell her.

  “I know. But sometimes plans change, and we have to make the best of it, right?” Her eyebrows come together, a look I know well. “Let me find out what is happening and then I’ll tell you everything I can. Okay?”

  Gabi blows out her breath. “No, it’s not okay. What happened in the interview? Why didn’t we get—¿cómo se dice asilo? Did you tell them everything that happened?”

  “I told them what I was supposed to tell them. What Tía Rosa said to tell them.”

  She frowns fiercely, crossing her arms—and she is a tiny version of my mother again. It makes me ache for home.

  “This way might be better, faster than staying with Mrs. Rosen,” I lie. “You trust me, right?” I ask.

  “Of course. Don’t be stupid.”

  “Love me?”

  She tips her head to the side. “Depends. What day is today?” she asks, tapping her finger against her head like she’s thinking. I know she’s making a joke, but I don’t actually know what day it is. It scares me in a new way, like I am losing control of even the smallest things.

  “I don’t know,” I say, close to tears.

  Gabi wraps her arms around me. Can it be that she has gotten taller?

  “It doesn’t matter. I love you today and every day. Even though you are una peste.”

  I laugh and hug her. Peste was what Pablo and I called Gabi. She was forever our little pest, our hermanita.

  “Okay in there?” Indranie asks from outside the bathroom.

  Forever is over.

  Chapter 4

  What we are proposing,” the man in the heavy sweater repeats. I am trying to listen, but I am fascinated by his sweater. Why is he wearing it now? It’s not cold in this room, and usually large men are hot in spring, like the carnicero or the man selling paletas. The carnicero sweats even with the fan in his store on full power. I hate to think of him sweating on the lamb chops, the ground beef. I force my attention back to this man in front of me. My mind wanders when I’m nervous. I am very nervous.

  “If I could interrupt, Dr. Deng?” Indranie says after his third repetition of “what we are proposing.” She turns to me with a friendly smile. “You’re a smart girl, Marisol. You showed resourcefulness and grit, not only in getting yourself and your sister to the United States but also in escaping the detention center. I’m not saying those were good choices, by the way. They were dangerous. I hope you know that.”

  I drop my eyes, hoping I look sorry.

  “But you are strong and willing to take risks. You are also here illegally.”

  I flinch at the word. It doesn’t matter that it’s true. It feels like a smack in the face. Indranie wants me to know how few choices we have. As if I could forget.

  “Even though your reasons may be good, you do not have permission to be here.” She looks down at the folder in front of her, but I know she’s not reading anything there that she doesn’t already know. “Your case for asylum has been denied.”

  A pain pierces my stomach so quickly and sharply that I think I will fall out of my chair. I take a deep breath and look at Gabi. She sits up straight, hands tight around her empty coffee cup. I wish I could keep her from the room, send her somewhere safe. Pablo would laugh at me for trying to protect her in this way. “Es casi una mujer,” he’d say. She’s almost a woman. But I refuse to see her that way. She can have a childhood, if I protect her.

  “Okay,” I say as calmly as I can. “But there’s some other form we can fill out? Something else we can do, right?”

  Dr. Deng and Indranie look at each other.

  “No,” Indranie says.

  My stomachache turns into a wash of acid.

  “At least, not officially.” Indranie’s smile is sad.

  Dr. Deng continues, “We’re developing a biomedical device that, we hope, can help soldiers who have been in combat missions and who come back with PTSD—”

  “Do you know what that is, Marisol?” Indranie interrupts.

  I shake my head.

  “PTSD stands for post-traumatic stress disorder,” Dr. Deng replies. “When these soldiers are subjected to stressful events that impact their mental health, they are often unable to function when returning from combat duty.”

  I look at Gabi to see if she is understanding any more than I am. She is drawing on a notepad—a racing car with wings sits on a cloud. When she wants to focus, she draws cars. She catches me looking at her and pushes the drawing away, her expression guilty.

  Dr. Deng continues, “These damaged soldiers are a burden to the VA system—”

  “They are not a b
urden,” Idranie says sharply. “They are the responsibility of the United States. Their well-being is not a burden.” She’s angry—I can tell. Dr. Deng can tell too.

  “Yes, of course. What I mean to say is that the resources we use currently are not adequate to help these soldiers. More must be done.” He turns to me. “Do you understand?”

  I nod. I think I do understand. If a lot of American soldiers are coming back from war damaged, there must not be many Americans who want to go to war.

  “You want me to be a soldier?” I ask.

  Dr. Deng’s shocked expression transforms into a wide smile. “No! Ha ha! Of course not! We don’t have child soldiers.” He pushes back a little on his wheeled chair.

  “I’m seventeen,” I say. “That is old enough.”

  “Marisol, what we need you to do is help us test a technology. Kind of like a medicine, one that would help our soldiers get better when their brains have had too much stress.” Indranie, unlike Dr. Deng, doesn’t use her chair on wheels to make a point.

  “More than stress,” Dr. Deng says. “They’ve had a severe traumatic episode, sometimes more than one. They suffer from overwhelming grief and shame, regret and anxiety. It makes it impossible for them to live normal lives. We’ve tried all of the approved treatments—talk therapy, EMDR, antidepressants, antianxiety, alternative medicine. But nothing works consistently. Until now.” For the first time, his smile reaches his eyes.

  I shiver. Now I know why he wears that heavy sweater. The vents in the ceiling have started to blow cold air over the table where Gabi and I sit on one side and Dr. Deng and Indranie sit on the other. Under the table, I rub my hands.

  Indranie must see me shivering because she takes off her gray jacket and puts it on my shoulders. It smells of perfume and cigarette smoke.

  Dr. Deng continues. “We call it the corticotropin transfer system, or CTS. It allows the chemicals, the stress factors—released into the body of a person suffering trauma—to be transferred to another person, a ‘clean’ subject without the same trauma burden. The memories of the trauma are intact—this is not some kind of mind eraser—but the feelings, deep depression, suicidal thoughts, and perhaps even homicidal thoughts that can be produced after severe trauma are greatly reduced. For the aggrieved person, in a matter of weeks it feels as if the trauma is in the distant past. Painful but vague. Remembered but distant.”

  “That’s good, right?” I ask.

  “It could be the difference between life and death,” Indranie says carefully. She pours a cup of coffee, adding milk and lots of sugar. She puts the cup in front of me and urges me to drink. I can’t think why she isn’t cold. She’s standing right next to me, and I feel heat coming from her, as if she has been running a long time, or sitting in the sun.

  “We’re in the last testing phase of the project. We’ve run all the tests we can without actually trying it on human subjects. The procedure works and it is safe,” Indranie says.

  “As far as we know,” Dr. Deng counters, and it occurs to me that they are like a married couple, or a brother and sister. They are silently having a battle, right now, in front of us.

  “What about me and Gabi? What is the proposal?”

  Another flash of silent argument crosses between Indranie and Dr. Deng. Then, Indranie sits down next to me, pulling our chairs close until the wheels clink together.

  “We want you to be the first person to try this. We want to test the CTS transference on you and another person. Someone who is suffering terribly and needs our help. Someone who wakes up from nightmares every night, has uncontrollable panic attacks. Someone’s daughter.” Indranie leans in close to me. I imagine, only for a moment, that I see tears in her eyes. But no, she is calm, a tranquil smile on her face. I know she desperately wants me to agree. But I can’t understand why she thinks I have a choice.

  “I’ll do it,” Gabi says before I can speak.

  “¡Cállate la boca!” I spit. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Gabi turns to me. “Neither do you. And I can do things as much as you can.”

  I trip over words in my frustration. “Gabriela—”

  Indranie puts a hand up, and we are quiet. “There’s no need to argue. Gabriela is too young to participate. It has to be you, Marisol.”

  I can tell Gabi wants to argue, and I’m relieved she can’t. I don’t have the energy to fight with her.

  “What happens to Gabi while I do this, this testing thing?”

  “She would be with you, both of you safe in a comfortable house with everything you need. Gabi would even be able to go to a school. I know how bright she is.”

  “And after the tests? What happens to us?” I ask.

  Dr. Deng answers. “The test period is one month. If we hit all our targets and everything goes well, we’ll know after thirty days if the transference project works as it’s meant to. Then we will launch a pilot program, which runs for a year. We can then recruit more immigrants who want a chance to improve the science.”

  Who want to live here at any price, I think.

  “But for you and your sister,” Indranie says, taking my cold hand in her warm one, “it would only be a month. Then, I will be authorized to approve your asylum request.” She squeezes my hand and smiles.

  “Not just for you. But for Gabi and for your mother. You will all be able to live and work here. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

  Chapter 5

  No. This isn’t what I’ve always wanted. I didn’t always want to leave my home. For a long time, it was enough to borrow books from Mr. Rosen’s library and watch Cedar Hollow in Mrs. Rosen’s kitchen. It was enough to joke around with Pablo, chase him through the streets, darting around the afternoon shopping crowd like silvery fish in water. We would walk around Parque Central, and he would tell me about his trip to America with Tía Rosa.

  “What’s the best part?” I’d ask him, like I always did.

  “Everything is so clean. No one leaves garbage on the street.”

  I’d nod wisely. “You would be arrested if you dropped garbage on the street, I bet.”

  “Por supuesto,” Pablo would answer, just as wisely.

  “What’s the worst part of America?” I’d ask. He always changed his answer. Sometimes it was missing watching his team play. Sometimes it would be missing Mamá and her pupusas. It would always be about missing home.

  “One day we’ll all go and you’ll see. It’s even better than that basura show you watch.” He always insulted Cedar Hollow. Instead of arguing with him, I’d push him over, then run as fast as I could, laughing, until he caught me.

  Those were good days, though I didn’t know it at the time. I just thought it was my life. But once Antonio came, Pablo didn’t talk to me as much. When Mamá started working a second job at the beauty salon, I watched Gabi at the Rosens’, where it was safe. And Pablo went out without me all the time. I barely saw him, so I didn’t notice the changes. Until Mamá asked me to find Pablo at el Club Atlético and instead I found myself stopped by Antonio at the entrance to the locker rooms.

  “Que guapita que estás, nenita.” He stood in front of me, cutting me off from my brother and his other friends.

  “I’m not a little girl,” I said. In the two years since Antonio moved to Santa Lucia, he had not stopped teasing me, making me feel small. Pablo would never say anything against him.

  “No, and not pretty yet either. But you will be. I can predict these things.” He brought his face closer to mine with every word he said. It was hard not to take a step back.

  My brother called to me, “¿Qué quieres?”

  “Mamá is looking for you. She wants you home. Now.” I tried to make it sound like a command, but it only made Pablo and his friends laugh.

  “Tell esa mujer that I’m busy,” Pablo said, turning away from me like I didn’t exist. Somet
imes, I hated Pablo.

  “Adiós, little sparrow. I can’t wait to see you all grown up,” Antonio said silkily.

  I ran then, not caring how stupid it made me look, or how the boys laughed.

  * * *

  Good days. Bad days. Which is this going to be? I shake my head to chase the memories away. I sit at the gigantic table and sign a stack of papers as thick as my hand, trying to read a few words on each page. Eventually, I just sign my name and my initials wherever there is a blank line.

  “This is for agreeing to a full medical checkup,” Indranie says.

  I sign.

  “This one says you do not hold the United States culpable.” Culpable. Culpable. Spelled the same. Means the same. Whatever happens to me, no one is responsible for it other than myself.

  “This one says that you will not discuss the details of the CTS project with anyone.”

  I stop signing. “What about Gabi?” My sister is next to me, head down, filling the notepad with drawings. She looks like she is not paying attention, but I know she is absorbing every word.

  “You two are a package deal.”

  Even Gabi looks up at that. At our blank expressions, Indranie explains, “You come together. There’s no separating you two. You don’t have to keep secrets from Gabi.” Which is so far from the truth.

  More signing, until . . . “This one is the first application for a green card. It’s a long process, but if everything goes well, we’ll be able to set you and your family up in no time.” I sign my name, the black ink glossy on the page. My name doesn’t seem important enough to mean so much.

  Indranie walks Gabi and me down a long hallway to a giant space filled with desks and computers. I am surprised it is so empty until I realize it is still early.