One Speck of Truth

by Caela Carter

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve been so busy and the time change.”

  “I know, I know,” Julia says. “I’m just glad you didn’t make a new best friend in that new cousin you found and forget all about me.”

  My face burns. I don’t tell Julia that Leonor sort of is my new best friend. That I go to her apartment after dinner most days and let her braid my hair. That she knows Jorge is alive. That she knows I’m keeping secrets and she may not know what they are, but she knows, at least, that there are secrets to be kept. That it feels good to share this mystery with her because Jorge was—is—her uncle. He belongs to her too, in a way he can never belong to Julia.

  “Of course not,” I say.

  I don’t know what else to say.

  “How’s school?”

  I sound like an old person.

  “Never mind that,” Julia says. “Did you find him?”

  I smile at her. Maybe I can give her just a tiny bit of the truth.

  “Yes!” I say. “But you can’t tell anyone.”

  “Was he in the graveyard?”

  I think for just a second. It’s true that technically I found him online, but the first time I saw him was in the graveyard. I decide to tell the truth in a way she will think is just me being my usual weird self.

  “Really, he found me in the graveyard.”

  “He was in the graveyard? For real?” Julia says. “Right by your school?”

  “He was!” I say.

  She looks so happy for me. I beam back at her.

  “Tell me about it,” she says.

  I take a deep breath. I think about all the graveyards I searched with Julia so long ago. I think about all the headstones she read with me. I think about the JFC headstone behind my old house and how sure I was about so many things.

  I pretend my dad is that one. The one who was dead. The one who loved me so much and would have told me everything.

  “It’s small,” I tell her. “The graveyard is full of these big headstones, the size of small houses. They all have flowers and etched windows and all these fancy things. But not my dad’s. His is small. It just says his name. He must have been so humble.”

  “Wow,” Julia says. “That’s just like the headstone you thought was his all along.”

  My eyes burn. How can I be missing a headstone? I have an actual dad, but I’m missing a fake headstone.

  “I know,” I say.

  We talk for a few more minutes, until I’m yawning so much that Julia says we should try to talk tomorrow.

  I want to talk to her again tomorrow, of course.

  But eventually it’s going to be hard to keep up with all these lies.

  Today is the day, I tell myself the next afternoon. I’m done keeping secrets from Leonor. I hate lying to Julia. I hate being the sneaky one between my mom and me. Today I get answers.

  I’m walking to the shed, yawning after being up so late talking to Julia.

  Today I find Jorge planting a flowering bush with a few other guys. I watch him for a minute, which I always do, until he comes to a point where he can take a break in his work.

  “Alma,” he says. “Let’s take a walk.”

  My heart speeds up. A walk. He’s never said that to me before. Usually when grown-ups say “walk” they really mean “talk.”

  Maybe my answers are coming without me even asking the questions.

  We wind though the Portuguese-suburb streets to the front of the graveyard, then down the main path. It’s a beautiful day with a blue sky and the sun beating down on my head. There are a few other people—mourners or tourists—wandering between the pristine white stone grave-houses. I wonder if they notice me walking next to Jorge. I wonder if we look like father and daughter. If we look normal.

  “I have to tell you something,” he says.

  I hold my breath. This is it.

  “I’m not going to be here tomorrow,” he says.

  I let my breath out. “OK,” I say. “I’ll just come back next week then.”

  He shakes his head. He bends over to straighten a flower that was leaning out of its flowerpot in front of Gloria Lopes’s grave-house. But I think he just doesn’t want to look at me.

  “That’s not what I mean,” he says. “This job is over. The yard is all landscaped. I’m moving on.”

  “What?” I say, too loud for the graveyard. “Where are you going?”

  He shrugs. “It’s about an hour away in a town called Mafra.”

  “But—but—but—” I stammer.

  “I can’t help it, you know,” he says. “I have to go where my job sends me.”

  “But how will I see you?” I manage.

  “You still want to see me?” he asks, his eyes not leaving the flowerpot.

  Words rush to my mouth.

  Yes!

  Of course!

  Don’t you still want to see me?

  You promised to give me answers!

  I won’t let any of them out. I won’t let myself cry.

  He turns to look at me. “Alma,” he says, “this is really all I have to offer. Video games and a little guitar.”

  “What about your story?” I ask. “You promised me some answers. You said to trust you.”

  He shrugs. “I guess I can’t . . . I don’t know . . . There’s only so much I can give. Hasn’t this month been enough?”

  This month? He’s been gone for all twelve years of my life and he thinks a month of guitar and video games should be enough?

  I can’t cry.

  I can’t cry in front of this man.

  This man is not my dad. My dad was full of questions and answers. My dad was cooking food for me and kissing my forehead before I fell asleep at night. My dad was holding hands with my mom in a way I would have to pretend to be embarrassed about. My dad was the loudest voice at my soccer games and piano recitals. I knew him so well when I thought he was underground.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” he says. “Mercy said she was bringing you here, that you needed to get to know me . . . I was happy to be able to meet you without her involved. But you know me now. That’s really it.”

  “My mom didn’t say that,” I say. I’m being too loud. Way too loud. The tourists will stop and stare.

  “Shh,” Jorge says. “Yes, she did.”

  “My mom thinks you’re dead,” I spit.

  “What?” he says. “Since when?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But she does. My entire life she told me you were dead. Why do you think I was looking for you in a graveyard?”

  “Alma,” Jorge says, like I’m being ridiculous. He takes a step toward me and I flinch. I suddenly don’t want him anywhere near me. He doesn’t touch me and that’s when I realize he never has. Not one hug. Not a pat on the head. Not even a handshake.

  He pulls something out of his back pocket and hands it to me.

  An envelope. “Here, open this.”

  It’s a picture of me. My fifth grade school picture. There’s a note written in Portuguese but I’d recognize the handwriting anywhere. It’s Mom’s.

  “She’s been writing to me your entire life,” Jorge says. He’s wearing a goofy smile like he just proved me wrong about some silly childhood misconception. Like this is a small detail. Like this is nothing. “I don’t think she thinks I’m dead.”

  I stare at his face, his stupid smile, for just a second. My heart aches like someone punched it. I miss my fake dad. I miss Internet Jorge Costa so much. I can never look at that smile and feel warm and comfortable again.

  Then I turn and run.

  Twenty-Three

  Who Else Has Been Lying?

  WHEN I GET HOME, MY MOM is in the shower. It feels like the first good thing that’s happened to me in weeks.

  I throw down my backpack and sneak into her room and take her phone.

  There’s someone I need to confront even more than my mom.

  I almost call but then I think better of it. I text him. I write “It’s Alm
a. Call me” then I delete the text. That way it’ll look like he called to check up on me again instead of like I called him.

  He calls almost immediately.

  I don’t even say hello. I say, “I found him.”

  It’s a trap and he walks right in.

  “Your father?” Adam says. “She finally told you?”

  My face flushes red-hot. I didn’t know I could get any more angry today but now I am. I guess somewhere deep inside me I was hoping Adam didn’t know. I was hoping there was still one person I could trust.

  “You knew!” I yelp. “I knew you knew!”

  “Alma,” he says. “Calm down. It’s OK.”

  “No it’s not!” I say. “Nothing is OK. Nothing. You knew and you didn’t tell me. I always knew my mother was a liar, but you!”

  “What did she tell you?” he says, hushed.

  I sit down on the bed. I feel a disgusting sort of power. I am so right about this. I am so angry about this. It makes me care about nothing else. It makes me able to demand exactly what I want. Need.

  “Nothing,” I say. “You think she’d actually tell me something?”

  “What do you mean?” Adam says.

  “She never tells me anything. She only lies,” I say.

  “Calm down, Alma-bear,” he says. “Start at the beginning. Tell me exactly what happened. Everything.”

  “He met me in this graveyard,” I say. “This gorgeous graveyard with little houses instead of headstones.”

  I pause. I really did love that graveyard. I loved all the graveyards when the dad I was picturing was never there. Was never anywhere. Did I love graveyards because he did? This man who is basically a stranger? Do I still love them? Will I still hang out in graveyards? Will I even notice them anymore?

  My whole life has been about the death of someone who is alive.

  What am I going to do with myself now?

  “Oh, Alma. You were in a graveyard?” Adam says. “I don’t think you found him, sweetheart. Remember he has a very common name.”

  “I don’t mean I saw his headstone. He met me there. Alive!”

  “Oh,” Adam says.

  “My cousin helped me find him. He’s a landscaper and he was working near my school. It’s so . . . weird,” I cry. “I knew his picture from the internet. Or I knew a picture from the internet. I never thought it could be him. You always said that thing about a common name—”

  “Well, when I said that—” Adam tries, but it’s my turn. I keep talking.

  “But it turns out all these years I was staring at the right picture! Then Leonor emailed him and . . . we found him . . . So then she suggested we meet in this graveyard. And then we did.”

  “Alma, are you sure—”

  “And I asked him ‘Are you my dad?’ and he said yes. And then we played Sonic Soccer in Portuguese.”

  “Whoa,” Adam says. “Wait a minute.”

  But I don’t. I’m done listening to grown-ups who don’t tell me the truth.

  “And he showed me some guitar chords. And he showed me around the graveyard. And we played more video games. And then today he shows me this picture of me from just last year with a note from Mom. Do you know what that means, Adam? Do you?”

  “Honey, does your mom know about all of this?”

  “It means she knew he was alive. All the time she knew he was alive and she kept him from me.”

  It occurs to me that maybe she kept him from me because he wasn’t the humble and brave chef, comedian, soccer-and-piano superfan I always imagined him to be.

  But still. I should have known that. I should have known that the whole time.

  “Why did everyone say he was dead?”

  “Alma . . .” Adam says. Then stops.

  “You have to tell me,” I say. “Everything you know. You have to tell me now.”

  Anger is making me powerful. I can make him tell me the truth. I can force it.

  “Sweetheart, I can’t. Mercy has to—”

  “This is why you couldn’t adopt me,” I say. “Isn’t it?”

  “Alma,” he says as if it’s an answer. Alma has only ever been a question.

  “No!” I say. “Tell me. This is why, right? Because I had some dad I wasn’t allowed to know anything about? That meant I couldn’t have another dad who actually loved me?”

  “It’s so complicated, sweetheart.”

  “Answer me!” I say. “That’s why, isn’t it?”

  “Well, technically, yes, but—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I say. I can feel the power slipping away. Tears are close by. I’m nauseous now.

  “I didn’t know,” Adam says. We’re talking so fast. It’s like he knows Mom is going to be out of the shower soon. It’s like he knows we only have a little time. But really I think he’s matching my pace. “I didn’t know when I asked that, when I asked about . . . about adopting you. She didn’t tell me until after I asked. I didn’t know he was alive either. Not until she had to tell me I couldn’t adopt you without his permission.”

  “You should have told me!” I say.

  “I didn’t know!” Adam says again.

  “No!” I say. “Once you knew! Once you knew you should have told me,” I say.

  “I couldn’t!” Adam says. “It wasn’t my place.”

  I don’t have time to argue that. I have to get to the truth.

  “Tell me now,” I say. “Tell me everything you know.”

  “Alma,” he says. “Mercy has to—”

  “No!” I cry again. “My dad is alive. He’s alive. And she knew it. Do you think I can ever believe anything she says ever again? I need you to tell me everything.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

  “You wanted to adopt me. You wanted to be my dad which would make you just as able to tell me as my mom.”

  “What can I do, Alma? I’ll do anything. But your mom has to—”

  “You said you loved me! You said you loved me more than yourself! You said you loved me like your own!”

  “I did,” he says. “I do. I would have adopted you in a heartbeat. I do love you.”

  I’m crying now. I’m crying so hard I can’t yell anymore. I think he’s crying too.

  “Adam,” I say. “I can’t.”

  “Alma, sweetheart,” he says. “I know this is hard. It’s going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever been through. But your mother will tell you everything. You go tell her what you told me and she’ll tell you everything now. I can feel it. She’ll finally let it go.”

  “I can’t, Adam,” I say. “I don’t think I can.”

  “You have to, sweetheart. You’re keeping secrets just like her. You’re telling lies to keep those secrets. If you don’t break this habit, you’ll be doing that your entire life. It’s been so hard on your mother, such a weight for her to carry. And of course it’s awful for you too. You go be the honest one. You can fix the whole family.”

  “I can’t, Adam. I can’t . . . anything.”

  “You can’t what?” he says.

  “Something needs to happen,” I say. “Something I can know.”

  “Alma, baby,” he says. “What do you mean?”

  “When you told me all that,” I say. “When you told me you loved me like that. Like you didn’t know you could. Like your own . . .”

  “Yes,” Adam says. “I meant every word.”

  “I believed you then but I . . . I can’t. I can’t. I don’t anymore. I don’t think I can believe anything.”

  “Alma, my Alma. I love you. I do love you. You have to believe me.”

  And I try. I try hard to search my heart for some sign of love coming in. From Adam. Or my mom. Or avó. Or Leonor. Or Julia. But my heart isn’t working. It closed up shop. Nothing coming in, nothing going out.

  Nothing.

  Twenty-Four

  How Do I Stop Being a Sneaky Kid?

  LEONOR BECOMES THE FIRST PERSON IN my new truthful life. She helped me
find Jorge and I should have been telling her all along how he was disappointing me. I shouldn’t have been so sneaky. It feels weird to tell the truth. After school, we walk through the Cemetery of Pleasures even though I know he won’t be there. His name won’t be on the headstones and he won’t be wandering around admiring the landscaping. I need to see it for myself. To see the place empty. To know that he’s gone and that he really thought guitar chords and video games and the one stupid pastel de nata were enough.

  “I’m sorry I wouldn’t tell you anything,” I say when I finish the story. “I kept hoping he would change. He would magically start giving me answers. He would . . . be the dad I always wanted. I was afraid you’d point out all the ways he was disappointing me before I was ready to admit it. But he’s not. He’s not the dad I always wanted. I should have told you everything the whole time. You could have helped. I know that now. I’m sorry. Desculpa.”

  “See?” Leonor says, smiling. “You have been learning some Portuguese anyway.”

  I wonder if she can really forgive me this quickly.

  I look at her and try to open my heart. If she forgives me that quickly, she must love me. I try to let some of the love in. But I can’t. My heart is shut down for business.

  We keep walking through the graveyard. She stops to study a grave. One of the smaller ones that looks like it can’t be much bigger than a closet inside. Still, it has an etched glass over the stones where the windows should be. It has a little porch with a pointed roof. It’s small but it’s still too fancy for my dead dad who never existed anywhere except inside my head.

  “This place really is quite beautiful,” Leonor says. “I never thought to spend time in graveyards.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m weird.”

  I feel calm in this graveyard. Even though I’m so sad I didn’t know sadness this deep existed before, I still feel calm here. Maybe I always will.

  “We have to get to the bottom of it,” Leonor says. She pulls her jacket tighter around her uniform. There is a chill in the air although I didn’t notice it until I saw her do that. The sky above us is darkening already. We’re inching into the rainy season as Leonor calls winter. Back in Pittsburgh, it’s almost fall break.