Living Beyond Borders

by Margarita Longoria

  “Thanks, Raven,” I say, and I swear he nods.

  I’m in a better mood when I return to camp. Mom’s at the propane stove, mixing Spam with eggs. We eat, and finally I ask what I’ve been wondering about since we got back to the campsite. “Why were you and Aunt Ceci fighting last night?”

  “It’s nothing,” Mom answers. “Don’t worry. Your aunt just gets on my nerves. You know how she is. Always acting like she’s better than me.”

  It’s true. My aunt—how do they say?—se cree mucho.

  “Why is she like that?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. She’s always been jealous.”

  She doesn’t seem jealous to me, just stuck-up and always gloating.

  “You know what?” Mom says. “This place is beautiful, and I’m not letting anyone ruin this trip.”

  We don’t have a chance to say more because the Suburban pulls up. Mom and I have just finished breakfast, but it’s really lunchtime. She points at the skillet. She’s made enough for everyone, so they grab tortillas to make Spam-and-egg taquitos.

  “Sleepyheads,” Papá Grande says, “you missed the wolves.”

  “Did you get pictures?” I ask.

  Fonzie hands me his phone. “Dozens!”

  I scan the pics. All I see is a field.

  “You have to zoom in,” Fonzie explains.

  I zoom.

  “See those grayish dots?” He’s pointing. “That’s them.”

  I squint, trying to make out the shapes, but they look like wisps of lint to me.

  Fonzie takes back his phone. “I wish I had a real camera.”

  “But we got a good look with the binoculars, eh?” Papá Grande still has them around his neck.

  “Seeing wolves is one of the highlights of visiting Yellowstone,” Aunt Ceci says, sounding like a travel brochure. “Too bad you missed it, but I guess you needed some beauty sleep.”

  She’s looking at me, but she’s really talking to Mom, who makes a big show of rolling her eyes. I can tell Aunt Ceci wants to sass back, but before she can say anything, Fonzie starts rambling about Yellowstone being the first national park of the United States.

  It’s a long history lesson. He’s still talking while we drive to Dragon’s Mouth Spring, a place where mud boils. The whole place stinks like rotten eggs, but I get used to it. I’m actually fascinated by the boiling mud, the way it gurgles and pops.

  * * *

  ~

  On the way back to camp later, we stop at a valley to take pictures of bison, all the while listening to Fonzie explain the difference between bison and buffalo, coyotes and wolves, elk and moose. He moves from one topic to another. No breaks. The entire day, his voice, but I don’t mind. I’m actually impressed.

  “How do you know all this stuff?” I ask.

  Aunt Ceci answers. “He’s taking all AP classes. He’s already at the college level. Tell her your SAT scores, mijo.”

  He’s suddenly shy. “No, Mom.”

  “Tell her.”

  “No. Leave it alone. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Well,” Aunt Ceci insists, “let’s just say he can go to whatever college he wants.”

  Again, she’s looking at me, but she’s really talking to Mom, and what she’s saying is My child is smarter than your child because I’m smarter than you.

  I know Mom understands the real message, but she just shrugs. Good. She’s not letting Aunt Ceci win.

  * * *

  ~

  The next day, we go to Old Faithful, a geyser named for the fact that it shoots steaming water over a hundred feet into the air every ninety-two minutes. At least, that’s what Fonzie says. We find a good viewing spot and wait. It’ll still be a while, but soon the place is crowded with people speaking dozens of languages. Mamá and Papá Grande always mix a little Spanish with their English, but for some reason, they’re speaking only Spanish now.

  “What’s up with them?” I ask my mom.

  “I guess they want to seem international,” she says.

  I get it. Sometimes it’s embarrassing to be American, to be Mexican American, when so many potential compadres are stuck in border detention centers. This country . . . does it love or hate me . . . love or hate my kind? I’m always wondering.

  Suddenly everyone aims their cameras and phones at the mound before us. It’s bubbling over. Then nothing. We keep waiting. The suspense! Then it bubbles up again, and there’s a big spurt, followed by a bigger spurt, followed by a gushing stream of water, shooting into the sky. The magnitude! There’s this collective “Wow!” and I realize—the sound of amazement is the same in every language.

  Here I am—with my family, but also with strangers, some from other countries, who carry other beliefs. In the past, maybe even right now, we’ve been at war with these people, but here, our governments don’t matter. All we care about is watching this enormous spout of water. Every ninety-two minutes, Old Faithful brings people together. We should gather the world leaders to see it. Maybe they’d stop fighting. How could anyone fight in front of something as beautiful as this?

  The geyser finally settles down, and the crowd thins out, everyone going in different directions. My grandparents’ Spanish has paid off because they’ve met a couple from Colombia and decide to join them at the Old Faithful Lodge Cafeteria for lunch.

  The rest of us go on a hike, but only fifteen minutes in, Aunt Ceci’s complaining.

  “Let’s go back,” she tells us.

  “No,” Mom says. “You can go if you want, but we’re gonna keep walking.”

  “But there’s nothing to see.”

  “There’s this Anemone Geyser,” Mom says, reading the sign in front of a formation that really does look like a sea anemone.

  “So what?” Aunt Ceci says. “We’ve already seen the main attraction.”

  Mom ignores her, moves along.

  Aunt Ceci huffs, then shifts to my uncle. “How about it, Paul?”

  “I think I’ll keep walking too,” he says, following Mom.

  Fonzie and I just stand there, watching this exchange.

  “You are not going with her,” Aunt Ceci says. She marches to Uncle Paul, grabs his arm, and forcefully stops him.

  “Whoa, Mom!” Fonzie says.

  My mom laughs. “You think I’m going to steal your husband?” That about does it.

  Aunt Ceci, not laughing, says, “You couldn’t steal him if you tried!”

  And now they’re going back and forth, verbally jabbing each other. Uncle Paul gets between them, holds them back because it looks like they want to throw punches. Meanwhile, Fonzie and I are going, “Mom! Mom!” trying to calm them down. People are stopping to look. It’s embarrassing, this telenovela right here at Yellowstone National Park.

  “Enough!” Uncle Paul says. “Let’s go,” he tells Aunt Ceci. And there he is, fast-walking back to the trailhead, Aunt Ceci jogging to catch up.

  When they’re out of earshot, I confront my mom. “What is going on?”

  Mom glances at Fonzie. She clearly doesn’t want to talk in front of him, but I have to know.

  “Why are you talking about stealing Uncle Paul?” I ask.

  “I’m just joking around,” Mom answers. “She’s so serious all the time.” She faces us, grabs our hands. “Sorry your parents are acting like children. But look. We’re in a beautiful place. Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

  Fonzie and I glance at each other. He has questions too, I can tell, but we decide not to push it. We follow Mom’s suggestion and try our best to forget about the fight. It’s awkward at first, but soon we’re stopping at every geyser and pool, reading every poster, and taking pictures.

  After a while, Mom finds a bench and urges us to keep walking while she rests. She closes her eyes and lifts her face to the sun. I can tell she wants some private time.


  Fonzie and I leave her there, go off by ourselves.

  “Is she okay?” Fonzie asks.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  So now we’re alone, and we walk quietly for a few moments. But soon he’s giving me a lecture about how this is a caldera, how there have been three massive volcanic eruptions in Yellowstone’s history, the last one over six hundred thousand years ago. We’re basically in the giant bowl that’s left behind. He must have researched before coming. I guess I could’ve researched too, but it’s a lot more interesting to hear about places when I’m actually there. This is the first time I’ve encountered the word caldera, but not from a book. I’m actually standing in one.

  Later that afternoon, we go to the Grand Prismatic Spring, a pool like a rainbow because it’s blue in the middle, then green, then yellow, then red. There’s a boardwalk, and as we walk along, Fonzie explains that the reddish arms of the spring are bacterial mats, that we’re actually walking on a giant petri dish. Then he talks about primordial soup, how all life began from these microbial hot spots.

  Two years ago—two weeks ago—all this lecturing would have annoyed me no end. I didn’t come here to learn anything. Just wanted to take pictures and forget about my dad. But I’m surprisingly interested in what Fonzie’s saying. I’m listening to his words and to his voice. It’s deeper now. I want to put a finger on his neck to feel the vibrations there. And, yes, I know he’s my cousin, that I shouldn’t feel this way. I’m sure God’s reading my impure thoughts, but I’m more embarrassed than afraid.

  * * *

  ~

  The next day we go to Mammoth Hot Springs, but it’s not until the last day, when we go to the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, that I finally learn—and see—the yellow stones for which the park is named. Fonzie explains that they’re rhyolite, a fancy word for hardened lava.

  The whole time, Mom and Aunt Ceci keep their distance. I still don’t know what their fight was about, but I don’t ask. And I can’t help but notice that in spite of everything, the change of scenery and fresh air is working miracles on Mom. She’s talking more, making jokes like she used to before Dad left. We’ve been eating takeout or frozen dinners for the past few months, but here she’s cooking again, and enjoying it. Aunt Ceci still annoys Mom with all her comparisons and bragging, but out here Mom’s fighting back. She doesn’t look defeated. She seems almost back to her old self, or maybe even a better self.

  * * *

  ~

  Finally it’s the last night of our trip. We’ve got three days of driving ahead; then we’ll be in the city again, back to internet access and all those reminders that things aren’t right in the world—stupid tweets from our celebrities and politicians, the latest shooting at some church or bar or Walmart, the detention centers along the border, and the drug wars, trade wars, and war wars. My screwed-up life in the house where my father no longer lives.

  But all of that can wait. For now I enjoy the moment.

  “It’s almost time for the ranger talk,” Fonzie says. The rest of the family decides to stay behind and pack so we can leave first thing in the morning.

  “You gatitos go along,” Papá Grande says.

  So Fonzie and I head to the amphitheater, but I don’t really want to go.

  “Maybe we can skip the talk tonight,” I suggest. “Maybe we can find a good place to see the stars.”

  Fonzie doesn’t argue, just looks around. We spot a picnic table in a clearing. We climb on it and lie back to see the sky.

  “So that’s the Milky Way?” I ask, pointing. Instead of a ranger talk, I get another Fonzie talk. He can’t resist telling me about the galaxy, how every star is a sun and how we’re looking at the past because it takes so long for the light to reach us. It’s interesting. It really is, but I’m going “shush,” and then more softly, “shush,” and then, whispering, “Let’s just look.” And we do. For the longest time. The stars seem to press against me, and I inhale, remembering the raven and the scent of time in the rocks and dirt, and I listen—to the breeze and the scuffling that no longer frightens me, and, out of nowhere, to Fonzie’s voice. Only, this time he isn’t lecturing, just saying my name.

  “Leti?”

  “Yeah?”

  He doesn’t answer. I can feel him thinking, deciding. Then he leans over, his face above mine. If he moves an inch closer, he’ll be in range for a kiss, but he’s waiting, as if asking for permission. I know kissing him would be so, so wrong. Then again, ever since we picked him up in Dallas, I’ve been wishing he weren’t my cousin but some boy I met at school. Why can’t he be a boy I met at school? He doesn’t move, and I don’t move, and we stay caught in this moment of indecision. I wish I could make it last—how we are both wanting and not wanting to act—but he turns his head suddenly. “Hear that?” he asks. Then there’s a light on us and familiar voices—Oh shit—it’s our family.

  Please, Earth, crack open and swallow me now.

  I never thought you could gasp for more than a second, but Aunt Ceci manages. Meanwhile, my grandparents are upon us, Mamá Grande grabbing me by the arm, and Papá Grande grabbing Fonzie by the ear.

  “Ow, ow!” Fonzie cries.

  When Aunt Ceci finds her voice, she says, “What’s wrong with you two? You’re primos. This is incest. Incest! Your babies will have webbed fingers and thirteen toes!”

  “We didn’t do anything!” Fonzie says.

  “Not yet,” Aunt Ceci counters.

  “Not ever!” he says, and I echo, “Never!” realizing at this moment that I’m speaking the truth. I was never going to kiss Fonzie, no matter how much I wanted to.

  Everyone’s scandalized, except for Mom. She thinks it’s funny.

  “All this drama.” She laughs.

  And now Aunt Ceci’s in her face. “Is that what you call it?”

  Mom’s still laughing, but with this showdown, she doesn’t laugh for long. She leans forward, nose-to-nose with my aunt, and here we are again, witness to another fight. My grandparents and uncle are already getting between them.

  Aunt Ceci points at me. “She’s trouble. My mijo. He’s a good boy. He doesn’t lie. If he says he’s going to a ranger talk, then that’s where he’s going. She probably—”

  “¡Cállate!” Papá Grande says, and Uncle Paul scolds, “Cecilia!”

  But Aunt Ceci will not give up. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I knew she’d be trouble someday, just like her father.”

  That’s it. “What is she talking about, Mom?” Now I must know.

  “Nothing.”

  But Aunt Ceci explains. “Your father left your mother for another woman.”

  The breath goes out of me. “Is that true?” But I don’t really need to ask. I suspected it, have been suspecting it, ever since Dad started going to the gym at all hours but never lost weight or got fit. My eyes start to water, and just as quickly, Mom puts an arm around my shoulders.

  “What goes around comes around,” Aunt Ceci adds.

  “What does that even mean?” I cry, but as I say it, I start to understand. “Wait a minute.” I look at my aunt. “Was my dad your boyfriend first?”

  She nods. “Till your mother stole him.”

  “I didn’t steal him!” Mom shouts. “You drove him away.”

  “Well, I guess you’re the one who drove him away this time.”

  “That’s enough!” Uncle Paul says finally. He’s looking at Aunt Ceci. “This happened twenty years ago, and you’re still angry? How do you think I feel every time you bring it up?”

  He doesn’t let her answer because he’s stomping off, followed by Fonzie and then my grandparents. Mom and Aunt Ceci watch them leave. I hope they realize how stupid they are for fighting about this, for hurting each other, for hurting Uncle Paul and me. I feel like such a fool, thinking I’d found a pocket of peace on this warring planet.

 
“Thanks a lot!” I say to them. “This was freaking delightful!”

  And now I walk off. No. I run. I pass everyone on my way to camp, and when I get there, I duck into the tent and then the sleeping bag, even though I really have to pee. But who cares? I won’t sleep anyway. Not with these rocks stabbing my shoulders and this anger stabbing my heart.

  My mom comes in then. “Leti?” she says softly. But I turn away.

  * * *

  ~

  It’s still dark when Papá Grande wakes us the next morning. This time I don’t complain. I don’t say anything at all because I’m still too mad to speak. My uncle and my grandpa have pointed their headlights at the camp so we can finish packing. Mom and Aunt Ceci are ignoring each other, and everyone’s keeping Fonzie and me apart. We can’t even look at each other without a warning glance from someone—mostly from Mamá Grande.

  Then we head out, but we don’t leave the park just yet. We head to the Lake Yellowstone Hotel, which is by a lake. Papá Grande stops at a SCENIC OVERLOOK sign and a deck that faces east.

  “I want to watch the sunrise,” he explains.

  We line up at the rail, the water softly lapping beneath us. It’s cold and dark, but we wait.

  “Did we ever tell you how we fell in love?”

  I groan, but Mamá Grande begins, and I hear the whole story again—how the trucks picked them up, how they watched the sunrise on their way to Robstown, how beautiful it was when it gave its gold light to the fields. Again, no mention of the heat and bugs and blisters, of the reason they were picking cotton in the first place, because they were hungry and poor and of a time when Mexicans had few options. None of that. According to my grandparents, the cotton fields were as beautiful as any scenic spot along the roads of Yellowstone National Park, and when they tell the story, even though I know the harsh truths behind it, I imagine them working and falling in love while dancing in the clouds.