I nodded.
I invited her in. But not with words. She looked around the room. She smiled at me. “I haven’t seen your father for a while.”
“He’s on his way back from Scottsdale.”
She nodded. “Yes. Sylvia told me your grandmother is sick.”
I nodded.
Her voice was soft. “I’m sorry. Maybe she’ll get better.”
“I hope so,” I said. “Sam’s just getting out of the shower.”
“Sylvia said you are a very sweet boy.”
I shrugged. I tried to imagine Sylvia saying something like that.
I don’t think either one of us knew what to say. We didn’t exactly know each other. It was clear that she knew something about me—but not much. I didn’t particularly care for being reduced to a sweet boy. My father saying things like that to me was one thing, but a stranger? Anyway, it wasn’t true. And why the hell was I thinking this crap while Sam was in the other room with a heart that would never be unwounded again? Maybe her heart would never heal. Maybe the hurt would live in her forever. So why in hell was I thinking such stupid and shallow things?
I had my head bowed. I was silent. I felt like an idiot. I felt her eyes on me. Sam’s aunt.
“Are you hungry?” Her voice was kind.
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I didn’t know anything.
She smiled. “Where’s your kitchen?” She looked up, and I knew Sam had walked into the room. I turned around and saw that strange and sad look on Sam’s face. I watched her and her Aunt Lina stare at each other for what seemed a long time. Something was being said. Something important. Something that had to be said without words.
And then Sam’s aunt was holding her. Silent tears falling down both their faces.
The world had changed. And this new world was quiet and sad.
Somehow we wound up in the kitchen. Sam seemed calmer. Too calm. She wasn’t a calm person, and it scared me that she could be that way. I kept studying her. And finally she said, “You’re staring. It’s creeping me out.”
I smiled. The Sam I knew was still there. “Sorry.”
Sam’s aunt opened the refrigerator. “Your dad keeps a well-stocked kitchen.”
“We like to cook,” I said.
“Call me Lina,” she said. “That’s what Samantha calls me.”
I nodded. She was like my Aunt Evie. She took charge. Sam and I had managed to hold things together. We’d managed—but it was hard to manage when you didn’t know what to do. Lina seemed to know exactly what to do. She had more experience with these things than we did. And right now, experience mattered.
“You like tortillas?”
“Yeah, there’s some in the fridge.”
“Not those,” she said.
Sam smiled. “You’ll make us some?”
“Sure, amor. I’ll make you some of my tortillas.”
Sam and I watched her as she made the dough, never measuring, just working out of years and years of memory. Like Mima. I guess there were some women who just knew how to make tortillas, who liked making them, who fed people with their art. I guess there were people walking around in the world who understood how to comfort people. Comfort, that was the word for the day. I liked that word better than death.
No one said anything. There was only the sound of Lina rolling out tortillas on the kitchen table.
I was thinking about Mima.
In the middle of all our silence Dad walked into the room. “I’m home,” he said. “Hello, Lina.”
“Vicente.”
“Tortillas,” he said.
Lina nodded. “It’s what I do. I make tortillas.”
Until then, I didn’t know that they’d even met. That they knew each other. God, I really didn’t know a damn thing.
My dad looked at Sam. “Hi,” he said.
Sam fell into his arms and sobbed. “I’m all alone now,” she kept repeating.
And Dad kept whispering, “No, you’re not, Sam. No, you’re not.”
And all I did—all I could do? All I could do was watch.
Dad and Lina (and Secrets)
DAD AND LINA were having coffee and eating tortillas in the kitchen. They were talking about funeral arrangements. They were talking about Sylvia’s insurance—whether she had any. And a will? Did she have one of those? Dad seemed to have all the answers. Yes, she had insurance. Yes, she had a will.
Lina was surprised.
Sam was surprised too.
“I have copies,” Dad said. I had a funny feeling that somehow my dad had helped Sylvia organize her life. She hadn’t been the most organized person in the world—judging from the way she kept her house. Could you think bad things about the dead? Was that allowed?
But then I got to thinking that it was strange to live one’s life and still be prepared for death. I didn’t get it. I mean, I got it a little bit. I mean, it was a good thing that Sylvia had left a will. Sam would be taken care of.
Lina and Dad started making a list of what needed to be done. I guess that’s part of what the living did—they took care of their dead.
Sam and I got bored. Or maybe we just couldn’t deal with it. But I was glad about the whole discussion Dad and Lina were having, because it seemed to calm Sam down. They were taking control. Adults could be good that way. Some of them, anyway.
And this thought entered my head: Sylvia was dead, and she wasn’t ever coming back. And there was nothing Dad or Lina could do about it; this was something beyond their control.
Sam and I slipped out into the living room, not knowing what to do with ourselves. I kept studying her face.
“Stop doing that,” she said. Maggie placed her head on Sam’s lap. “Tell him, Maggie, tell him to stop staring at me.”
“I’m not staring. I’m just worried about you.”
“Well, I’m worried about me too.” And there was a moment of real grief in her voice. “I feel strange,” she said. “And empty. I feel empty.”
“And you sound tired.”
“It’s all that crying.”
“Crying is good.”
“But it makes you tired.” She kept petting Maggie’s head. “She’s gone, Sally. She’s gone.” She wasn’t going to cry, not then. I think she just needed to say it.
“Yes,” I said.
“I didn’t tell her I loved her.”
“She knew.”
“You think so?”
“Samantha, she knew.”
She nodded. “I want to sleep forever.”
“Sleep. Yeah, try and get some sleep.”
I watched her get up quietly and walk toward the spare bedroom, Maggie following close behind. Sleep, Sam, and when you wake, I’ll be here. I promise. I’ll be here.
I shouldn’t have listened in on the conversation. But I’m not really sorry. Dad and Lina were sitting on the back steps. And the door was open. I could hear every word. Both of them smoking cigarettes. Yeah, I could’ve just walked into the backyard and they would have changed the subject, but—I just stood there, listening.
“Vicente, I’m so damned angry with her.”
“It doesn’t do much good to be angry with the dead.”
“I know that. Don’t you think I know that? She was driving. And she was drunk. God, who does that? Who pulls shit like that? She had a daughter.”
“Calm down, Lina. Just—”
“Just what?”
“Let’s just do this. For Sam. Her mother’s dead. It was an accident.”
“Her whole life was an accident.”
“So how long are you going to stay mad?” There was a pause, and I could picture my dad taking a drag from his cigarette. “You’ve been mad at her for how long?”
“My whole fucking life.”
“So you’re going to keep a grudge? She’s dead. Really? Let it go.”
“Just like that, huh? Just like that? You have no idea what my sister put me through.”
“Oh, I have a pretty good idea. I m
ay not know the details, but I have a pretty good idea.” There was another pause, and then I heard my dad saying, “Promise me something, Lina. Just promise me one thing.”
“Promise you what?”
“Don’t tell Sam how her mother died.”
“You mean lie to her?”
“What do you suggest? Hurt her a little more? Is that what you want?”
“You know that’s not what I want.”
“Then all we have to say, Lina, is that it was a car accident. What’s so hard about that? And it was a car accident.”
“It’s a lie.”
“Promise me.”
I know I shouldn’t have heard that conversation. I should have walked away from the kitchen, far away from their voices. But I wasn’t sorry. I wasn’t sorry at all. As I walked toward the front porch, I wondered who was right, Lina or my father. I didn’t know my father was capable of lying about things that really mattered. But I thought I understood that Sam mattered more to him than the truth behind an accident report. I was glad I’d heard. It helped me. It was time for me to grow up—even though I had always wanted things to stay the same. I wasn’t in charge of the world around me. My dad had spent most of his energies protecting me. Maybe there had been a time for that. Now the time for protecting me was coming to an end. But I wasn’t ready to be a man. That was the truth. And Sam wasn’t ready to be a woman. And I guessed a little more protecting wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Because Sam and I still needed it.
Lipstick
“I WANT TO GO home.”
I just looked at her.
“Will you come with?”
“Sure.” I knew I was wearing a question mark on my face.
“I need to get some things.”
“We’ll take the car.”
Sam nodded.
Sam stood outside her house for a long time, staring at the door. She handed me her key. I opened the door. I took her hand. “It’s okay,” I said.
“Nothing’s okay.”
“I’m here,” I said.
She looked around the house as if she’d never seen it. She walked toward her mother’s bedroom. The door was open. “She made her bed,” she whispered. She looked at me. “She never made her bed.”
I kept studying her.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry.”
“I can’t go into that room.”
“Then don’t. You don’t have to.”
I followed her as she walked into her bedroom. “It’s a disaster,” she whispered. “I’m a disaster.”
“Shhh,” I said. “No beating up on yourself. That’s my job.” That made her smile. She took out a suitcase, started packing a few things, then walked into the bathroom. I heard her sobbing. Then I saw why. Her mother had left a note on the bathroom mirror, written in lipstick: just because my love isn’t perfect doesn’t mean i don’t love you.
Sam fell into my arms. My shirt was wet with her tears. And she kept whispering over and over again, “What am I gonna do, Sally, what am I gonna do?”
Sam and Me and Something Called Home
WE SAT ON Sam’s bed, looking around the room. I’m not sure what we were looking for. She texted me. We did that sometimes, texted each other even though we were in the same room: I can’t live here.
Me: U don’t have to
Sam: where is home?
Me: I’ll be ur home
She leaned into me.
“Get me out of here, Sally.”
Before we left Sam’s house, I used my phone to take pictures of Sylvia’s last note to her daughter. I wanted Sam to have a copy. So she’d never forget. As if she ever would.
Dad and Sylvia
“HOW COULD THIS happen?”
We were sitting at the kitchen table, eating soup. It was cold outside, and it seemed to me that winter had come early this year.
I heard my dad answer Sam’s question. “People die in accidents all the time, Sam. Do you ever read those warning signs on the freeway? The last one I read said three thousand, nine hundred and twenty-one deaths on Texas freeways this year. Drive safely. Accidents are the cruel part of life. It’s part of the equation of this thing we call living. Accidents are normal, if you stop to think about it.”
“Well, that’s consoling,” she said.
I was glad she was being sarcastic. It was a good sign.
“I don’t have any explanations, Sam. In the end, life and death are mysteries.”
Sam just looked at my dad. “Which explains nothing.”
“Which explains everything. We say things to each other like: It’s God’s will.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No, I don’t believe that, so I don’t say it. I can’t say it. But some people do believe it. People say all kinds of things to try to explain what they can’t explain. All I know is that your mother and her boyfriend were killed in a car accident. That’s all I know.”
“So what am I gonna do now?”
“Well, you can live here if you want.”
“Can I do that? Don’t I have to go live with my Aunt Lina?”
“No.”
“No?”
Dad had a serious look on his face. When he was deciding, he had a specific look. “I need to tell you something, Samantha.”
He called her Samantha. This was serious. I wondered if he was going to tell her the truth about how her mother died.
“When you and Salvie were about six years old, your mother got arrested for driving while intoxicated.”
“She did?”
“Yes. I’m not trying to make your mother look bad here, Samantha. I’m not. Just hear me out. It was like this: She called me on the phone in the middle of the night. She told me she was in jail. It was the second of July.” He looked over at me. “You were having one of your slumber parties that night. I had your Aunt Evie pick you both up the next morning. You spent the Fourth of July weekend at Mima’s house. Both of you. I don’t know if you remember.”
Sam and I looked at each other. “I don’t,” I said.
“I do,” Sam said. “It was the first time I got to blow up fireworks. But that’s the only thing I remember.”
My dad nodded. “I got your mother out of jail. In the end, she got to keep her license. They weren’t as strict back then as they are now about that sort of thing. But I made your mom make a will. I guess you could say I gave her a lecture.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Believe me, you don’t really want to hear all the details.”
“I do.” Sam gave Dad one of her looks. “I do want to hear all the details.”
Dad shook his head. “I told your mother she could live her life any way she wanted. I told her that her life was none of my business. But I also told her that she had you to think about. She had a few choice words for me. I remember losing my temper with her. I know how to throw words around too. So I guess you could say we threw some words around that day.” Dad laughed. “The funny thing is, that’s when Sylvia and I became friends. At least we came to a sort of understanding.
“The point of the story is this—” There were tears running down my father’s face, and he looked straight into Sam’s eyes. “When she handed me a copy of the will she’d had made up, she said to me, ‘If anything should ever happen to me, Vicente, I’ve had you appointed as Samantha’s legal guardian.’ Your mother loved you very much, Sam.” He stopped. “And so do I.” He got up from the kitchen table. “I’m going to have a cigarette.”
Sam. Dad. Me. Home.
SAM AND I looked at each other. We were both crying, but, you know, just tears. Those silent things again. Then I said to Sam, “You’re going to have to learn how to clean.”
She laughed and I laughed, and I guess we needed to laugh, because we couldn’t stop. Were we learning to whistle in the dark?
When we finally pulled ourselves together, I said, “Let’s go sit with Dad.” So we sat on the steps as he smoked.
And then my dad said, “Anybody want to play catch?”
So we played catch all afternoon. Sometimes we said something. Mostly we didn’t. And everything in the world was calm again. All the tears were gone. At least for now. The tears would come back again—but we had this little piece of quiet that was helping us survive.
We were safe. We were home.
WFTD = Extinct
I SAT AT MY desk, staring at my computer. I wanted to write something, but I didn’t know what. I saw Sam’s text appear on my cell. She was sitting in the living room deciding whether she wanted to watch television.
Sam: Wftd = extinct
Me: ? Use word in sentence
Sam: My mother’s voice is extinct
Me: ☹
I knew why people were afraid of the future. Because the future wasn’t going to look like the past. That was really scary. What was Sam’s future going to look like now that her mother’s voice was extinct? What was my future going to look like when Mima’s voice left this world?
I kept hearing Sam’s whispers: What am I gonna do?
Me and Sam. And a Word Called Faith.
ON THE MORNING of Sylvia’s funeral, I lay in bed, thinking about things. I texted Sam: You awake?
Sam: Yup
Me: Did u sleep?
Sam: A bit
Me: Do you believe?
Sam: ?
Me: U know like faith?
Sam: No don’t have that. Want to but don’t. U?
Me: Don’t know
Sam: Ur Dad?
Me: Yeah think so. But not like Mima
Sam: Wish I had what she has
Me: Maybe we can learn how to get it