Dream Things True (41 page)

Beginning in September, Alma would live with cousins outside of Mexico City, but she would need to find a job to pay for bus fare, books, uniforms, and the rest of tuition. She would try to work after school so that she could spend weekends with her dad in Oaxaca. And she reminded herself that Oaxaca would be a great place to study anthropology. She even had discovered an institute where she could take Saturday classes and learn the indigenous languages of the region.

She wandered back into the living room. There was only one thing left to do.
Abuela
Lupe had insisted that they not disturb the
altarcito
—the corner of the room where all of the statues and images of the saints and the Virgin Mary were arranged around a perpetually burning candle. Alma thought it seemed silly and superstitious for
Abuela
Lupe to protect this altar with such devotion. If there were a bunch of saints up there praying for her family, would they mind being packed in a box for a few extra days? According to
Abuela
Lupe, the answer was a firm and unequivocal yes. So Alma had left this corner of the house untouched until the very last moment.

She stretched onto her toes and blew out the candle.

 

 

The Escalade was loaded. Selena tumbled around in the backseat as Isa ran her fingers along the smooth calf-skin leather.

“This car rocks!” Isa announced, settling into the deep cushions.

Selena reached up to the roof to release the small television screen. “Can we watch movies?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Evan replied, standing beside the open door. “Lots of movies. It's a long drive.”

Isa whistled loudly, and Pel
é
bounded into her lap.

“The dog? Really?” Evan asked.

“She's all my dad can talk about,” Isa said. “Every time he calls or writes, he asks about Pel
é
.”

“It's true,” Selena said. “He's dying to see her.”

Evan grumbled from the front seat. “My mom will kill me if she finds out.”

“Pleeeaaaasse,” Selena said, clasping her hands as if in prayer.

“Yeah, OK,” he said. “What's one more passenger?”

Selena hurled herself out of the car and threw her arms around Evan's neck. “I'm so glad you're back!” she said, her body dangling two feet off the ground. “I missed you.”

“Is the U-Haul ready to close?” Manny asked, from behind the trailer.

“I'll check inside,” Evan called out, prying Selena's hands from his neck. “Just to make sure there aren't any more boxes.”

He jogged toward the house.

“Alma, we're ready.”

He saw her sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, clutching a statue of the Virgin Mary.

“Are you OK?” he asked, crouching beside her.

“Yeah,” she said, looking up at him with clear eyes. “I was just thinking about this statue. She's called Our Lady of
La Leche
.”

“Can I see?” he asked.

She handed him a statue of a frail, white-faced woman with a massive gold crown perched impossibly on her head. She was covered from head to toe in draping gowns, with one exception: one of her breasts was exposed with a chubby little half-naked baby attached to it.

It was pretty weird.

“She's always been my favorite,” Alma said. “I guess now I know why.”

Evan thought about the story she had told him on the boat, about her mother and how she died. It was so terrible it made chills run down his back.

He sat down on the floor across from her.

“Where did it come from?” he asked, taking her free hand into his. “I mean, the statue.”

“I got it with my
t
í
as
in St. Augustine a long time ago. They saw it in a gift shop. They were totally obsessed.” She shook her head and sighed. “They made me wander around the streets of the tourist district asking where to find the Virgin
dando pecho
—breastfeeding.”

Evan smiled and his heart filled.

“Utterly humiliating,” Alma said. “Every time I said ‘breast' to a shop clerk, I felt my face turn bright red.”

Evan reached out to touch her cheek, trying to imagine her as a bewildered child, before she became this amazing, confident person. A person he couldn't bear the thought of being away from.

“Alma,” he said quietly, “you can't leave.”

“I have to,” she said, her voice faltering. “You know that.” She put the statue down between them and took his other hand.

“Let me marry you, Alma,” he said. “I want you to stay.” He leaned forward so their foreheads touched.

“We promised that we would stop trying to fix each other,” she whispered. “Remember?”

“I don't want to fix you,” Evan replied, looking down at their intertwined hands. “I just want to be with you—always.”

“I want that, too—more than anything,” she said. “But always can't start like this, not as a half-truth. And
not
here.” She leaned back and glanced up at the empty living room.

“It's just, I mean,” Evan pressed his hands tightly against hers. “Oh, God, Alma. What if you leave and you can't come back?”

“Please understand,” she said. “We can't get married to keep me here. And Gilberton, it can't be home for either of us, not anymore.”

“You're right,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. “I know you're right.” His head dropped and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Please just promise me we'll find somewhere else.”

“I promise,” she said quietly, lifting his chin so that he would meet her gaze.

“OK, then,” he said, opening his eyes to look at her. He stood up and watched Alma take the strange little statue back into her hand, and then he pulled her to her feet. “Let's get out of here.”

Acknowledgments

I always thought of myself as a practical person. That changed on the morning I sat down to start writing—of all things!—a novel. Believe me, I had plenty of other activities to fill my time. And every single one of them was more sensible than writing fiction. But, here I am, publishing a novel. Let this serve as just another reminder of how crazy-unpredictable life can be. It's quite a ride!

I'll start by thanking those who gave me the courage to do such a wildly impractical thing: Lee Taylor, my first reader. She is the least judgmental person I know, and she also happens to be a kick-ass sister. Elizabeth Friedmann, my extraordinary mom, and my first and best writing instructor. She'll never know how my heart soared when she first told me she loved this story. Carroll Ann Friedmann, who currently is my sister, but who just might become my guru someday. Her life is a beautiful example of how we thrive when we embrace the unpredictable. Mayra Cuevas, my critique partner. I'm not sure how it happened that we were born across an ocean from each other, because I'm quite certain she was meant to be my sister. (Clearly, cosmic error.) Without Mayra, Alma and Evan would still live in a tiny world filled with exclamation points, and this book would be gathering virtual dust in a virtual folder somewhere deep in the bowels of my laptop.

And now to the people who made my own teen years so vividly memorable that I have an endless well of experience from which to draw: Emily Arthur, who continues to bring extraordinary beauty into my life, Jamie Brigman, whose
18 Songs from JRB
—inexplicably—gave me this story, Cheryl Hall, Trey Tune, Holly Smith, Laura Kachergus, and Trip Nesbitt, my oldest friend, whom I love so very much.

For all the ways you made this novel better, I want to thank the talented Jita Fumich, Katie Beno-Valencia, Veronica Leon, Juan Ramirez (for his extensive knowledge of machetes), Araceli Martinez (for great stories and cherished friendship), Karol Ramos, and Erin Harris, who so gracefully took me on. And, while on the topic of grace, I'm just going to go ahead and say that my editor, Laura Chasen, is one of the most gracious and generous people ever to come into my unpredictable life. Having edited my work, Laura knows that I am a woman of
many
words. Yet, I find no words to express my gratitude to her for believing in this project and for shepherding me so gently through the process.

Most importantly, I want to thank Lorena, Lalo, Yehemi, Carlos, Loreli, Felipe, and every single DREAMer whose story I have ever had the honor to hear. My love and respect for them is what pulled me out of bed before dawn every morning to write this story. They have inspired me, again and again and again, and I am awed by their courage and tenacity. It is my most fervent hope that, after reading this book, more people will seek out their remarkable stories.

To Mary Elizabeth, Nate, Pixley, and Annie: Thank you for showing me every day how to love this wild ride that we call life. For more than half of the ride, I have been strapped in next to Chris Marquardt, a poet, a dreamer, and a just plain beautiful man. If I know anything about what it means to love and be loved, if I can say anything real about love's extraordinary power to overcome, it is because we taught these things to each other.
Pura Vida.