* * *
Ms. Pomeroy drove me to my house so I could pack a few things. I should have invited her in. It would have been the polite thing, but I didn't. She knew my father. Maybe she’d been to his house. Somehow I couldn't stand the thought of her looking down on our cramped living room and sagging couch. I didn’t want her making judgments on the kind of life my mother had been able to provide.
Instead I got out of the car and asked Ms. Pomeroy to pick me up in a half hour. That would be all the time I needed to throw a few belongings into a duffel bag and say good bye to Abuela.
I figured I wouldn't tell Abuela I was leaving until the last possible moment. That way she wouldn’t try to lecture me.
But as soon as I went into my bedroom, she appeared in the doorway, wearing one of her ever-present housedresses and smelling like homemade fry bread. "You’re really going?" she asked. "You’re going to chase after that man just like your mother did?"
I should have anticipated that Mom would have called her. I shoved socks and pajamas into the duffel bag. "I have a father and a sister. Don’t you think I have a right to know them?"
"You have a mother and grandmother who raised you.” Abuela’s voice cracked. "Don’t we have a right to you too, Lexi?"
I looked up to see tears rim her eyes and then spill over. I’d never seen Abuela cry. I stood frozen for a second, stunned by the change. She thought I was abandoning her, that I wouldn't come back. I went and threw my arms around her. "It’s okay,” I said. "I won’t stay away long. I'll go to college, just like we’ve always planned."
She hugged me, her body all the types of softness her words never had been. "Get it over with and come home,” she said. "Come back before they change you.”
"No one's going to change me,” I said. "I’ll always be your granddaughter worth her weight in trouble."
She held me for a moment longer, then stepped away. "You remember, when you put yourself above others, you also cut yourself off from them. Cut off. That's what death is.”
I didn’t know what she meant by that, but I was busy packing, and besides, you just didn’t want to ask Abuela to elaborate. "Nothing bad is going to happen to me,” I said.
I wasn't thinking clearly, I knew. I was bound to forget things I needed. I wished I had an actual suitcase, because suddenly there were so many things I wanted to take. Silly things. The shells I’d gotten from the Chesapeake, where my mother and I had gone on vacation. A cheap stuffed bear an old boyfriend had won at the state fair. The picture on top of my dresser of Lori and me sitting on Santa's lap. We’d been at the mall, and Lori thought it would be funny to get a picture, so we'd stood in line with a bunch of preschoolers for an hour. Every one of these possessions said "I love you."
I didn’t have room for any of them.
While I went between my room and the bathroom gathering things, Abuela gave more instructions. "Eat three meals a day. Real meals. None of those Californian supermodel meals. They don't eat actual food, just puffed air. Make sure you call us every day. Remember to say your prayers. And don’t start running around with boys. All the boys in California are gangsters. Or movie producers. And those are even worse.”
When I’d finished packing, I looked out the living room window. Ms. Pomeroy's black sedan waited out front.
I gave Abuela another hug. "I've got to go. You take care of Mom and make sure she stays out of trouble."
She held on to me, patting my back. “You remember who you are, Lexi.’’
"I will.” I knew that's what she wanted to hear. But I thought, How can I remember what I never knew?
I went outside without looking back. The screen door clanked a good-bye, and then I climbed into the sedan.
We drove back to the hotel, picked up Kari, and went to the airport. Ms. Pomeroy apparently had taken what I'd said about changing my mind to heart and didn’t give me time to reconsider. When we pulled into the airport, a private jet waited for us.
Ms. Pomeroy took my duffel bag as we climbed on the plane. "We’ll go shopping tomorrow to get you what you need. Clothes, shoes, makeup." She gave me an appraising scan. “Fingernails.”
Even though I’d been the one to suggest leaving right away, and even though Ms. Pomeroy was all smiles and promises about what a great job this would be, I didn't trust her.
It was the missing words. It was the fact that I knew responsible adults: my mother, my teachers—responsible adults followed a certain script. Any of them would have told me to think carefully about choices that would affect my life. Any of them would have said I shouldn’t rush through this decision. I had waited for Ms. Pomeroy to say these things and I’d formed answers in my defense. But she didn't question my reasons at all.
Which is why I had no doubt that she'd just as easily toss me aside if things didn’t work out.