I haven’t read your e-mail. I’m not going to. But tell Grandma and Grandpa I figured out what was wrong with the washer here, thanks to them. Tell them I said thank you for the letter.
It’s ten o’clock in the morning back home, and Mom’s probably at work, making beds or moving old people around. Or—maybe not. Almost instantly, there’s a ping, meaning I got a message back.
Let me call you. Please.
She must be sitting beside the computer at work. Maybe she’s not even working. Maybe she’s just waiting to hear from me.
No, I write back. But I don’t hit send yet. I’m not ready to talk, I add. I think about Mom running behind me when I was learning to ride a bike without training wheels. I think about her straining to make happy chatter in the car while we’re driving to see Dad at the VA, and then in the car on the way home. I think about how she said she’d fix the flat tire herself, when she was driving me to the airport.
But I’ll send you a message every day, so you know I’m okay, I type. And then I send the message.
I feel powerful, for once in my life. Like I’m taking control.
Or have I just proved I’m not quite as cruel as Avery—just almost?
Avery, Outraged Again
Is Kayla right outside my room actually laughing? Is she really that heartless? When I’m in so much pain?
I want to slap her.
But more than that, I don’t want to get up.
I burrow deeper into my bedding and cry harder.
Kayla, on Day Three of the Longest Weekend Ever
“What is that?” Mr. Armisted asks behind me.
I turn around, knocking against the skillet handle in front of me.
“Um, a grilled cheese sandwich?” I say, and instantly hate myself for making my answer sound like a question. I mean, I know what I’m making here. And Mr. Armisted should be able to see for himself.
Friday and Saturday, I ate at restaurants—100 Montaditos again, and Pans, and I even found a McDonald’s. But that was getting really expensive, and I was getting tired of being the only person sitting alone, while the tables around me overflowed with happy families and boisterous groups of friends. So I had the brilliant idea this morning to stop at a grocery store I found on Calle de Atocha, the street that leads up from the train station. I found out they have bread just like the bread at home, except it’s labeled BIMBO, with an image of a cuddly teddy bear on the wrapper. (I guess “bimbo” means something different in Spanish than in English.) I looked around for American cheese—I would have even paid extra for Kraft singles, instead of the Supervalu store brand Grandma and Mom always buy. But I couldn’t find any cheese that was orange, so I got this stuff called manchego instead. I know this grilled cheese sandwich won’t taste like the ones at home, but I told myself back at the grocery store that at least no one would stare at me while I ate it.
I hadn’t expected Mr. Armisted to come off his balcony. I hadn’t expected Avery to come out of her room. At least, not to talk to me.
The past two days, it’s been like all three of us are ghosts haunting this apartment. We pass through. We don’t speak. We don’t even look each other in the eye.
But now Mr. Armisted’s looking at me and my grilled cheese sandwich.
“Um, it’s okay if I use the stove, right?” I ask.
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Armisted says, waving away my question. “It’s just . . . that smells good. I . . . I couldn’t figure out what it was.”
He sags against the half wall that separates the kitchen from the living room. I wonder when the last time was that he ate anything. It’s only been three days since Avery saw her messed-up birth certificate, but Mr. Armisted kind of looks like he’s aged thirty years. He’s got hollows in his cheeks. His eyes are red and puffy. His shoulders slump like he’s lost the ability to hold them up.
He doesn’t look rich and handsome and powerful anymore. He just looks sad.
I slide a spatula under my grilled cheese sandwich and transfer it to a plate.
“You want this one?” I ask. “I’ve got more bread and cheese. I bought a lot.”
Mr. Armisted’s eyes flood with tears.
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you. I . . .”
He looks down at the sandwich almost as if he’s forgotten how eating works. Then he walks down the hallway toward the bedrooms, still carrying the plate and the sandwich with him.
“Avery!” he calls. I hear him knocking at her door. “Come on out. Kayla’s making grilled cheese sandwiches for everyone.”
Um, no? I think. That wasn’t the plan. But I do have plenty. I butter four slices of bread; I assemble two complete sandwiches and slide them into the skillet.
While the butter and cheese are melting, I set the table and fill three glasses with water and dump carrots into a bowl. I really wanted to buy potato chips or the Doritos I’ve been craving to go along with my grilled cheese, but the grocery store didn’t have any.
What kind of grocery store doesn’t have potato chips?
The sandwiches are ready by the time Mr. Armisted returns to the kitchen. He’s clutching Avery’s arm like he thinks he needs to hold her up. Her hair hangs down over her face like a curtain; she’s swaying slightly.
Geez, I think. When was the last time either of them ate?
“It’s all ready,” I say brightly, like I’m Suzy Sunshine and I’ve totally forgotten that Avery wouldn’t want me for a sister.
I sound like my mother. My mother at the nursing home, when some resident is shouting obscenities at her, and Mom keeps smiling and explaining in her most patient voice, “Yes, I know it hurts to move into the wheelchair, but bedsores would hurt even worse.”
Mr. Armisted and Avery sit down, and I take the third chair. Avery pushes her hair back and picks up a carrot. She winces as she bites into it. It’s like she’s not sure her teeth work anymore.
Mr. Armisted chews, swallows, chews some more. He takes a long drink of water. He puts his glass down.
“This is good,” he says. “It’s okay that we took a couple days to . . . adjust. I think we all needed that. But we can’t stay . . . stuck like this. Tomorrow I’ll go back to work. You two will go back to your Spanish class, like usual. We’ll have a normal life again. Thanks to Kayla, we’re easing back into it. Eating grilled cheese sandwiches is normal.”
It feels like he’s just dropped something onto the table in front of us. I don’t know what to do or say. Now would not be a good time to mention that Avery has never gone to the Spanish class her dad is paying for.
But . . . I kind of want to. I want to punish Avery for what she said about me.
Avery lifts her head.
“This is not my normal life,” Avery says, and each word is like a knife thrust.
Mr. Armisted flinches, and his emotions are so naked and close to the surface, his face is like a war zone. I watch in fascination: Will he cry? Will he yell? Will he run back to the balcony?
Would he jump if he got out to the balcony?
It scares me that I think of that.
“I wasn’t even born in a normal way!” Avery says. “My parents aren’t normal! And now you’re getting divorced!”
Mr. Armisted clenches his teeth. He’s facing Avery; maybe to her he looks like this stern, totally sure-of-himself authority figure.
But I’m off to the side. I can see a muscle twitching at his jawline.
“Maybe ‘normal’ wasn’t the right word,” he says quietly. “I meant . . . good. Your life can still be good. Like . . . this grilled cheese sandwich is good.”
Avery looks down at the sandwich on her plate.
“She used white bread,” Avery says. “Who buys awful squishy white bread like this? Especially in Spain, where they have all sorts of good food?”
The muscle on Mr. Armisted’s jaw goes crazy. But he turns his head slowly toward me.
“Kayla,” he says in an unnaturally loud voice, “I apologize for my daughter’s rudeness.”
He faces Avery again. “Avery, you and I are going out on the balcony to have a little talk.”
“Fine,” Avery says, getting up so fast she knocks her chair over. “I didn’t want this food, anyway.”
They leave. For a moment, I just sit there, staring down at my sandwich. I haven’t even taken a bite, but I’m not hungry anymore.
I pick up my sandwich and throw it in the trash.
I throw everybody’s food in the trash.
Avery, on the Balcony
I don’t put my hands over my ears, but I might as well. I block out every single word my father speaks. I don’t want to listen to him ever again.
But my ears betray me. I hear the word “mother.”
“She finally called again?” I ask, too eagerly. “Has she . . . has she been trying to call me, too?”
I hate myself. It’s like I’m a puppy, jumping up and wagging its tail because Mom might be trying to get in touch with me.
Dad’s face sags. His shoulders droop.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he says. “No. At least, I don’t think so. She . . . she needs time.”
“But you said . . . ,” I begin, trying to replay in my mind the words that surrounded “mother.” The words I’d tuned out.
“I said Kayla’s mother has been frantic,” Dad corrects me. “Kayla refused to talk to her, so Mrs. Butts sent a long e-mail explaining everything. But Kayla’s refusing to read it.”
It’s weird: I kind of want to cheer for Kayla: You go, girl! Let’s unite against our awful, lying, secret-keeping parents! We’ll show them!
But I don’t really want to unite with Kayla.
And we’ve got nothing in common. She wasn’t born from a surrogate mother. Her parents aren’t getting divorced.
Her mother isn’t ignoring her.
Kayla, Wandering Again
Are there rules for crying in public in Spain?
That should have been in the tourist information Mr. Armisted sent me ahead of time, instead of the brochures about the Alhambra and the Aqueduct of Segovia and the Prado. It’s like he lured me here with promises that Spain would be so, so different from Crawfordsville.
I forgot “different” could mean “worse.”
I had to get out of the apartment again. But now I’m wishing I’d just gone to my room and slammed the door. Because now I’m stumbling through Puerta del Sol with all its happy tourists and sunshine, and tears are streaming down my face.
I managed to hold back the tears Thursday night until I was alone in the blue room, I tell myself. And that was after I found out that my mother was a surrogate mother and Avery said, ‘Does that mean Kayla’s my sister?’ in that awful, awful way. Why can’t I stop crying now? Just because Avery didn’t like her grilled cheese sandwich? Who cares?
I do. I thought I was being so nice, making those sandwiches.
I thought I was doing better. I’d taken care of myself all weekend. I’d walked all over Madrid without getting lost. I’d “fixed” the washer. I’d gone grocery shopping.
I thought I was so much better off than Avery or Mr. Armisted. I was helping them!
But I guess it’s a crime to like white bread.
A wail comes out of my mouth, and I can’t stop it.
A woman pushing a stroller says something to me, but I can’t even tell what language she’s speaking. I shake my head and push past her. I dart down a side street, but it’s crowded with happy people too, shopping or sitting at sidewalk cafés eating or drinking or smoking.
What is wrong with the people in Spain, that they’re all so happy all the time?
I am pathetic. Even after Avery was so mean to me, I still made her that sandwich. I set myself up.
I cry harder.
I’m walking with my head down now, looking at the sidewalk. The manhole covers I pass all say BOMBEROS, and I don’t know what that means. Should I be worried about bombs, on top of everything else? I keep bumping into people, and I think they curse at me, but what do I know? I don’t understand Spanish. I don’t understand anything.
I have to get out of this crowd.
I glance around, and there’s a church up ahead. I remember how Mr. Armisted said a lot of the churches and cathedrals in Spain are tourist attractions, so they’re open pretty much all the time.
This church is a lot smaller and plainer than others I’ve walked past, so probably there aren’t that many tourists who want to see it.
Maybe I could sit at the back and nobody would bother me, because they’d think I was praying. Maybe I could pray.
Yeah, lot of good that’s done me, I think, as if I’m talking back to Grandma and Grandpa and the Autumn Years residents who are always urging me to pray.
It doesn’t matter. The church is a place to hide, and that’s what I need right now. I walk across an open courtyard and up the stairs. I pull back a heavy door.
The sanctuary is huge. There are statues and pillars and a dome and practically floor-to-ceiling paintings. And the ceiling is the equivalent of three or four stories off the ground.
I’m so stunned that it takes me a moment to realize that there’s a priest chanting at the front, and people lined up in the pews, repeating after him.
It’s Sunday. I’ve walked in on a church service.
Guilt twists in my stomach, because Grandma and Grandpa and several of my favorite Autumn Years residents told me to be sure to find a “church home” in Madrid, because that would make everything better. They just assumed that I would want to go to church every Sunday. And I hadn’t even thought about it until now.
I sit down in an empty pew.
But the service is in Spanish, of course, and I can’t understand a single word anyone is saying. Anyhow, I’m pretty sure this is a Catholic church, and I’m not Catholic.
My mind wanders. I think about this woman who died a few years ago at Autumn Years: Bethel Smith. She’d tell her story to anyone who’d listen. Back in the days before smoke detectors, her house caught fire in the middle of the night. Her husband shoved her out the window to safety right before he ran deeper into the flames to try to save their three little kids. And just then, the roof collapsed. She lost her entire family.
“Prayer was the only thing that got me through that,” Mrs. Smith always said. “I’ve been clinging to the hand of God ever since.”
The thing is, Bethel Smith was one of the most cheerful people I’ve ever known.
For that matter, though she doesn’t talk about it all the time like Bethel Smith did, I know my mom prayed a lot after my dad’s accident. And she still does. I see her lips moving silently sometimes when we’re walking into the VA.
Well, yeah, my mother’s a saint. Of course she prays.
My mother isn’t a saint. She just has secret shame. I keep forgetting.
The priest at the front of this church is droning along as if he’s just saying words—as if even he’s stopped paying attention to what’s coming out of his mouth.
He’s probably saying, “Turn the other cheek.” And “The meek shall inherit the earth.” And “If someone sins against you, forgive them seven times seventy times.”
This makes me so mad I want to run up the aisle and start shoving things off the altar: candles, flowers, statues . . . .
Wait a minute. Didn’t Jesus do something like that once?
The story comes back to me—Jesus was mad at the money changers in the temple. So he threw their tables over.
If it was okay for Jesus to get mad, can’t I be mad too?
What is wrong with me that I’m thinking things like that in a church?
Everyone in front of me bows their heads and starts saying the same words altogether: “Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos . . .” I don’t recognize all the words, but I recognize the cadence. It’s the Lord’s Prayer: “Our Father who art in heaven . . .”
Yeah, well, that father image never really worked for me. I never saw my dad as strong and powerful.
My mom, maybe, but not m
y dad.
Do I think my mother was weak because she got pregnant? Because she wanted to get pregnant for the Armisteds?
I stand up and walk out while the congregation and the priest still have their heads bowed, before they get to the “Amen.” I’m pretty sure that’s rude and disrespectful in any church, any culture.
But at least I’m not crying anymore.
I walk back to the Puerta del Sol and I sit down near a statue I didn’t notice before. It’s a bear standing up against some kind of tree, like he’s trying to eat its berries. The tree seems too small or the bear seems too big; things are out of proportion.
I sit there and I watch the people walking by. I was wrong before. It’s not like everybody’s happy. That couple over there by the fountain—I think they’re mad at each other. The girl’s got her back turned; the boy’s looking away. The guy in the Winnie the Pooh costume—he’s got to be sweating himself half to death. He keeps shoving the head to the side like that’s the only way to get air. That group of teenage boys over there—I just saw one of them punch the guy next to him on the arm. But maybe it was just in a joking way. It’s hard to tell with boys.
And that group of teenage boys . . . oh, crap.
It’s the Bulgarians from my Spanish class.
Quickly, before any of them see me, I slip past the bear statue and scurry out of the plaza.
If I had a different life, if I were somebody else—Stephanie Purley, maybe—I would have rushed toward them. I would have flirted: Oh hey, funny seeing you here!
Not that I know how to say that in Spanish.
And anyhow, I’m sure my eyes are still red from crying, and I’ve got tear tracks streaked down my face. And it’s not like I bothered combing my hair before I stumbled out of the apartment.
I’m mad again, because I don’t have a different life. I’m not somebody else. I stomp back toward the apartment, back up the stairs, back through the door.
Mr. Armisted is in the kitchen, putting a box in the refrigerator.
The Summer of Broken Things Page 17