by Caela Carter
No, they’re from my dad.
All of this is from my dad.
He once stood at a window, twelve years old, just like me, and ate pastéis de nata while the breeze played on his face and a castle loomed in his vision.
I close my eyes and let everything wash over me. I feel closer to him than ever.
Thirteen
Does Anyone Miss You as Much as I Do?
MINUTES LATER I’M FINISHED WITH MY pastries and my head is down on the table in the nest of my arms. I’m so tired I don’t even have the energy to walk to my new bed. I’m kicking my foot against the inside of the kitchen chair to try to make myself stay awake.
The kicking beats out a rhythm for me.
Stay-a-wake. Stay-a-wake Stay-a-wake. One kick per syllable.
I just have to hang on long enough for Leonor to get back with the Wi-Fi password. Then I can message Julia, fall into my new bed, and not move until an entire day passes.
Mom comes down the little hallway, still mumbling to herself.
I pick my head up.
She’s saying something like “Turn to the right, left, stairs. ATM. Market in downtown. Map by ATM.”
She looks at me. “Come on,” she says. And turns.
I don’t move. I don’t think I can move.
Mom turns back around. “Come on,” she says.
“Where are we going?” I ask. Even my words sound foggy.
Mom’s got her hands in her purse again. Her lips are still moving. She’s not looking at me.
“We have errands to run,” she says.
I’m not sure if it’s how tired I am or how far away I feel from everything I know, but I almost start crying. I can’t run errands right now. I can’t go back into that beautiful maze. I’m so tired I’m not even sure I’m awake anymore.
I stay calm, of course. Like I always do. For my mom.
“Errands?” I say slowly.
“We need food,” Mom says. “We have none in the house. And we need to get you some things for school. Of course we need euros. I have a list of what we must accomplish today.”
I try to get out of my seat, but I almost fall over.
Mom rushes to catch me.
“Oh, Alma,” she says, much more slowly. “Are you sick? Or just tired?”
I’m not sick but I’m also not just tired. I’m worried. Worried that I have no details on this mysterious grandmother and no idea what life will look like here. Worried that Julia will never talk to me again.
But Mom has been clear. I’m not allowed to worry. I’m not old enough to worry.
“Tired,” I say.
“Oh, honey,” Mom says. She has her hands on my shoulders, sort of holding me awake. Then she steers me around toward the hallway and front door.
“I don’t think I can make it to the store,” I say.
“I hear you,” she says, rubbing my shoulder.
She pushes me past the front door and turns me into my new bedroom.
“Huh?” I say.
It’s a question, so she doesn’t answer it. But I can tell she’s not going to make me run errands. She’s going to change the schedule for me. This is not like Mom-from-before-Adam-left or after-Adam-left. This is a whole new Mom.
She pulls back my new bedspread. I fall into the bed. Mom sits next to me, making the entire mattress tip toward her so that I’m curled around her.
I’m a baby again. I’m so young I’m actually too young to worry. Or at least too young to have the words we use for worrying. I’m pretty sure I’ve always worried, even before I had any of the words for it.
Her hands go in circles on my back.
“Mom,” I say with my eyes still closed. “When do I get to meet her? When do I find out more?”
“Soon,” she says.
“When?” I say.
“As soon as you’re ready,” she says.
It takes me a long time to get the next words out through the darkness of my almost-sleep.
“I’m ready now.”
“Well, right now, you’re almost asleep.” She takes a deep breath. “Alma,” she says. “I’m very hungry. I think you’re going to wake up starving. There’s a little store downstairs, like a deli. I’m just going to run down there and pick up some sandwiches or something. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Would that be OK? I’ll lock the door and I’ll . . . I’ll draw a map. So you can find me if you need me. OK?”
“OK,” I say.
She could do anything she wants right now as long as I’m allowed to sleep.
“You’ll have a nap, we’ll have a nice lunch, and then we’ll go exploring. OK, sweetie?”
“OK,” I mumble.
And then I’m out.
I’m in a deep sleep and almost immediately dreaming of Julia and summer days and headstones.
I’m not sure how long the knocking goes on before it wakes me up and I’m back in Portugal in my bed with flowers on my windowsill and someone pounding on my double wooden door. It’s so strange that my dreams feel more real than when I wake up.
I figure Mom forgot her keys so I paw around on my new night table until I feel my glasses. I put them on but I’m still too tired to see clearly. I trudge down the hallway, bleary-eyed.
But when I open the door it’s not Mom standing there.
It’s an old lady.
She has dark, leathery skin and her gray hair is slicked back into a bun. She wears a black dress that’s all one piece as it falls from her shoulders to just below her knees. She wears black house shoes and has no bag.
She’s shorter than me. I’m looking down to meet her eyes. That makes this all feel even more dreamlike.
She looks into my face and then clutches both hands to her chest. My arms ache to mirror hers. Tears spring to the corners of her eyes and I want to reach out and catch them with my fingers because they are mine.
This woman with a high forehead and big brown eyes like a cat’s. This woman with the Portuguese smile I always see on my own face.
Her mouth is hanging open and her eyes are wide. We’re both frozen, staring at each other. She looks so much like me it’s like I’m looking at a mirror through a time portal.
This is my grandmother. This is my dad’s mother.
“Are you—” I start. I have so much to ask her. I have so much to learn.
But the woman interrupts me. “Alma!” she says in Portuguese. I mean it’s my name so of course it can’t just be in another language. But still, I feel like I’m hearing my real name for the first time.
I finally clutch my hands to my chest the way hers are clutched. “Yes,” I say.
“Flávia,” she says. She points to herself. “Avó.”
My heart falls.
She speaks Portuguese. My grandmother who I’m here to meet will only speak Portuguese. Anything I learn is going to have to go through Mom’s translation filter.
She points to herself again. “Flávia. Avó.”
This is the woman who raised my dad. Who named him Jorge Francisco Costa. Who cooked his meals and ran his baths and helped him with his homework. Who brushed his hair and sang him to sleep. Who birthed him.
Who maybe misses him as much as I do.
Flávia sounds familiar. Flávia is our landlady.
Our landlady is my grandmother.
We stare at each other for what feels like five full minutes. I don’t ever want to look away. I just wish we could talk.
“Mm . . .” Flávia avó is thinking and thinking. Finally she says, “Mommy?” then “Mercy?”
I understand she’s asking where Mom is. At once I’m proud that I can sort of have this conversation and worried because I don’t think I can tell her that my mom is out. Can I? Is she a stranger or my grandmother?
I fold my hands together and put my head against them. “Sleeping,” I say.
“Ah,” Flávia says. She hands me a piece of paper and points to her watch. It’s two thirty. “Três horas,” she says. “Sim?”
I think I und
erstand, so I nod.
She points to the stairs as if she’s going to leave. Then turns back around. “Três horas? Sim?” she says again. “Mommy aqui?” She points to the ground.
I nod. “Yes,” I say.
Mom will be back by three. I realize I probably wasn’t supposed to meet my grandmother without Mom.
“Vemo-nos em breve,” she says. Then turns. But before she even takes a step, she turns back to me. She doesn’t move or say anything, just looks and looks. I look back.
It’s the most pleasant kind of torture. There is love in her eyes already. My blood is running with questions I can’t ask and I can feel them running through her blood too. After all, we have the same blood.
She makes a motion with her fingers indicating I should lock the door, then she’s gone.
I close the door, lock it, and lean against it, clutching the paper she handed me to my chest.
After a few minutes, I look at the paper wrinkled in my fist.
It’s only a few letters written in shaky black penmanship.
wifi: X9hg770l
Julia!
I sit at the kitchen table and open my tablet to Skype her right away. But then I remember that Julia is mad at me. Instead I send an email.
Julia,
I really need to talk to you. There’s so much to tell. Please don’t be mad at me!
Please Skype when you can!
Alma
I hit send and then wander back toward my bedroom when the magical do-dooo-do-dooo of a Skype call ringing follows me down the hallway. I dive for my tablet and click on her icon.
“Alma!” Julia says, like it’s been three months instead of three days since we last saw each other.
Cool relief fills my rib cage. She didn’t disappear.
“Julia!” I say. I want to launch right into the news that I am living in Portugal and I just met my grandmother but I freeze.
I need to apologize.
I need to somehow say something so Julia she can talk to me about her Korean mom.
I don’t know what to say.
She rescues me as usual. “I thought you’d be in school today. Your new school,” she says. “I’m out sick.”
“School doesn’t start here yet,” I say.
“Really?” Julia asks. “In Florida?”
I laugh. “I’m not in Florida!” My voice is a lie again. It sounds excited. Thrilled. I’ve somehow erased the worry, even for Julia. “My mom surprised me and took me to Portugal.”
“To Portugal?” Julia exclaims. “Like to live?”
I nod. “Can you believe it?”
Julia purses her lips. “That’s really far away,” she says.
“I know!” I say. I can’t stop sounding excited even though I also feel the sadness that’s on Julia’s face. We’re so far away from each other now.
She readjusts her glasses. “Why?” she asks.
“Well, I have a grandmother!” I say. “I just met her. Her name is Flávia and . . . and . . . and oh my gosh, I have a cousin!”
“Like, on your dad’s side?” Julia asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Leonor. She’s my cousin. I didn’t realize it because my mom introduced her as my landlady’s granddaughter . . . I’ve never had a cousin.”
I don’t really even understand the concept of cousins. You aren’t sisters but you aren’t friends. How do I do it?
“Alma,” Julia says quietly. “I don’t understand. Why did she take you there?”
I think about everything Mom said on the plane. All about the ear infections and awful Mr. Perkins. But really, none of that was an answer.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe to meet my grandmother.”
Julia lowers her voice. “Or maybe he’s there?” she says. “Maybe we’ve been looking for your dad in all the wrong graveyards?”
Her voice sends all the blood in my body rushing to my head. My head is going to explode with possibilities.
It was Nanny who told me he was buried in Pittsburgh. Mom never even confirmed it.
Why would he be buried in Pittsburgh anyway? This is where he lived until he followed us back to the States. This is where his family is.
She’s right. She has to be. He’s here. “You’re right,” I say. “I’m going to find him in Portugal.”
I must looked dazed with joy because Julia says, “Must be nice.”
I remember her Korean mom. I think about how if Portugal is far from Pittsburgh, Korea is even farther. I don’t know what to say.
I could pretend I don’t know what she means.
Last time I did that she disappeared. If I do it again, she might be gone forever.
“You’ll get to search one day too, Jules,” I try. “You can go to Korea and look. And not in graveyards.”
“No, no, no,” she cuts me off. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s OK, it’s fine. Everything is fine with me.”
“Huh?” I say.
“I mean, you don’t know that she’s alive. No one knows if she’s alive and no one will tell me anything about her, so we can’t just say she’s alive.”
“I hope she’s alive,” I say.
Julia pauses for a moment, then says, “But whatever. The point is I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “My mom set me straight. You were right. Our situations are different.”
“Really?” I say. It’s so weird. She’s saying this right at the exact moment I realize how similar they are.
“Yeah,” she says. “I mean, my mom reminded me. I have so much to be grateful for. I can still miss my mom in Korea but . . . I don’t even know her, you know?”
I don’t even know my dad either. Not really. Not more than I’ve made up in my head.
But I don’t say anything.
“And now I have this family that’s totally intact. Adoption is joyful. I have to work on remembering that. You’re dealing with death and divorce and . . .”
She doesn’t say and a family that’s nowhere near intact.
“I’m just sorry,” she says. “I have too much to be grateful for to go on about that other stuff.”
“You’re not supposed to miss your Korean mom because you have a now-mom?” I say.
That sounds like the worst rule in the world. It’s worse than the No Questions Rule. It’s worse than telling me nothing.
It’s worse than any of my mom’s rules.
Mom never said I wasn’t allowed to miss Dad just because I had Adam.
“I can miss her,” Julia says. “But who am I even missing?”
“I miss my dad,” I say quietly.
“Of course you do!” Julia exclaims. “That’s totally different. You don’t know anything about him and . . . and he’s gone forever . . . and . . . it’s just different.”
“I think I get it now, Jules,” I say, almost in a whisper. “I get that it’s not that different.”
“But it is!” Julia insists. She squints and I can tell she’s searching for the right words. For the words her mom feeds her maybe. For the words that are all words and no answers.
“I just have to remember to be grateful,” she says finally.
“Grateful?” I say.
“Whatever, Alma,” she says. “You’re not adopted so you don’t get it. I’m lucky to have my parents. I have to remember that.”
I lower my eyebrows. I can’t tell if she’s saying what she means. It doesn’t sound quite right to me. Why should you have to be grateful for a family? That’s like being grateful for air.
Every kid deserves a family.
Fourteen
Where Did I Get My Music?
THE NEXT DAY, AFTER A LATE morning breakfast and some time unpacking, Mom tells me to put on my new sundress because we’re having lunch at my grandmother’s house. I already told her how I met Flávia avó when she came to give me the Wi-Fi password. I told her I knew she was my grandmother.
I knew she wouldn’t like it that I met my
grandmother without her, that I figured out by myself that she’s more than a landlady—but that was OK.
I couldn’t risk my mom lying to me. Not about Flávia avó. Not when my heart was on fire the minute I met her. Not when I don’t have the language to fact-check.
Mom grounded me from Wi-Fi for two days for opening the door to a stranger but otherwise everything was fine.
It turns out Flávia lives in the apartment on the bottom floor of the building we live in.
“Alma,” she says in the same happy voice when she sees us standing on her welcome mat. “Mercy.” Then she opens her arms but not toward me. Toward my mom. I’m shocked.
I guess somewhere deep inside I figured Flávia hated my mom.
I mean, it’s my mom’s fault I had to go the first twelve years of my life without her, right?
But they embrace and sway back and forth. It almost looks funny because compared to Flávia avó, my mom is a giant. Flávia starts speaking to my mother in Portuguese. They speak for a long time before my mom thinks to translate anything.
My heart is aching. It doesn’t feel all magical the way it did yesterday. Today it’s a familiar longing.
I already love this woman. I can tell she loves me.
I hate that we can’t talk to each other. There’s no way to connect.
Flávia breaks the hug with my mom and holds her arms out to me. Her eyebrows peak over her eyes like question marks. I nod. And then we hug.
She leads us through the dark hallway and into her apartment. The windows are mostly shaded by the taller buildings around us with no sign of the sunlight outside sneaking into the apartment, but I still love it. The walls are bright yellow and white with even brighter colored prints on them portraying animals playing and fruit bowls. There are fresh and dried flowers on almost every surface. Every table is covered in a lace cloth. It’s very cheerful-old-lady.
Did my dad grow up in this apartment? Did he have bright orange walls in his bedroom? Did he eat his pastéis de nata on a lace tablecloth?
Did he speak in that similar way Flávia does? Making all the vowels long and cheerful while clipping off the consonants as if they aren’t very relevant?
I wish I knew what she was saying.
“Aqui!” Flávia says when we reach the kitchen. She points to her table covered in dishes and platters. I spot fish croquettes, steaks of cod fish, something that looks like burgers. I see baskets of bread and fresh pastries. I see what looks like a thousand kinds of cheeses and olives.