Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa (12 page)

 

 

It's Monday, and José has driven me to a local Internet café. I'm
thrilled
to discover that in fact, I haven't gotten a single e-mail from Noah.

Out of sight, out of mind?

Okay, not totally fair. I mean, we've been playing a mean phone-and-text tag that is as much my fault as his. He does call. I do hear his voice mails. Yet . . .

Yahoo mocks me.
You have 0 new messages
.

I could put an end to this. I could take my father up on his offer—for a thousand reasons that have nothing to do with Noah, even. And then I could see him.

I wouldn't be going home “because” of him. And I'd have other obligations while I was there. In certain ways, it would be the perfect solution.

Mom wouldn't mind at all. She's doing much better; gardening with Rosa and playing board games with the girls at night. Smoking slightly less. She'd be fine, and anyway, I'd only be gone for a few days.

Lucy would want me to go, I'm sure of that. In no uncertain terms. No one in that house would mind having a little bit more space, even for a short time.

“What are you going to do?” José asks from the next terminal over.

I'm surprised; I hadn't realized that he had any idea what was going on in my head. “You heard about my dad's offer?”

He nods. “If I were you, I'd want to go home and see my man. I mean, if I were a girl,” he adds sheepishly.

I shrug, try not to dissolve into hysteria at the description of Noah as a “man.”

Is there something wrong with me that I'm not desperate to see him? We had a good relationship—
have
a good relationship, I remind myself—but it hasn't been too terribly hard to be without him. And there's no denying that the text messages and voice mails lack a certain urgency.

Besides, the girls, Ade and Izzy, are halfway to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame by now, no?

“It's awkward to break up the summer that way,” I say lamely.

“Well, I mean, didn't you already do that? Break up the summer? When you came here?”

Touché. He's right, of course. The whole freaking summer was completely turned on its end. But I still have no idea what to do.

 

José drives me to the mall, promising me a “real native Puerto Rican experience.” I refrain from pointing out that we have malls aplenty in Westchester. He pulls into the parking lot, kills the ignition. “Anything you need?”

Somehow I don't think I'm going to find it here. Though a pair of white denim capri pants could go a long way toward soothing my soul.

We walk down the halls of the shopping mall, which is vastly different than what I am used to back home. Every third shop is a CD store, a sports store, or a Wet Seal-type clothing store. Payless-style shoe stores line the perimeter as well. Had I known about this place, I could have kept myself in velour track pants, denim skirts, and platforms
all summer long
. . . and for a reasonable price.

Still, I'm glad that my father sent my own clothes to me.

We stop at a Wal-Mart; I buy several huge bags of various types of gummy candy and two celebrity tabloids. My favorite pop singer—pregnant! Good stuff. José shakes his head ruefully at my purchases.

“Anything you want?” I ask him. I nod at the end-cap displays. “Doritos—four for a dollar! Come on, it's on me.”

He laughs. “I'm not hungry.”

This is not true. I tear open the fizzy cola bottles and he palms half the bag, swiftly, before I can even protest. “This way,” he says, leading me past an electronics store, a dizzying flash of lights and blipping sci-fi-style noises.

“Where?”

“We're supposed to pick up Lucy. Her shift is over in twenty minutes.”

I forgot that Lucy works at the mall. I wonder if I have, like, brain damage or something.

She's a “sales associate,” as they seem to be called, at one of the Wet Seal outposts. I see her immediately as we approach the store: she's standing at the front wearing a floral skirt, tank top, and the platform flip-flops that are all the rage here. She's talking to a customer, holding out a pair of embellished jeans, pointing out the detailing at the pockets. The customer is smiling.

Lucy is smiling.

She speaks rapid-fire Spanish, offers to start a fitting room for the girl. As she leads the customer to the back of the store, she grabs at a halter top that she explains will be
perfecto
with the jeans.

She seems comfortable, confident, competent. In control, like the Lucy from home, but softer, cheerier. She comes back from the dressing room and spots us standing in the entrance of the store. Her face falls, if only a minuscule amount. There are a million hidden messages in that expression, one of which is that she was expecting José, but me? Not so much. And that while she may not wish me bodily harm, she's not exactly ecstatic to see me. I can read all of this in her face in a split second. But I don't mind because I've got her number.

Sometimes? When she thinks no one is watching? Lucy smiles.

 

Marisa is waiting for us on her front steps when we get home. She gives Lucy the full-body press, which Lucy returns. “Good day?” she asks.

“Good day,” Lucy says.

I nod. It wasn't bad.

 

On Tuesday my mother and I go to San Lorenzo. I've never heard of San Lorenzo, in fact have a hell of a time finding it on any Puerto Rican map, but as it turns out, it's the name of the town where my grandmother grew up. Or rather, the village.
Village
is definitely the more apt term.

The surrounding environs of San Lorenzo are known for producing tobacco and sugarcane, or so I read in
Fodor's
. San Lorenzo itself, near as I can tell, is known for scraggly-looking hills and semi-abandoned housing in various states of disrepair. Not to diss this place or anything, but it's hard to imagine San Lorenzo as a major source of export income. And if this is what it's like now, I can only imagine the thriving metropolis it must have been while my grandmother was growing up.

God, and I spend all my time bitching about the suburban dysfunctions of Westchester. At least I have a car.

My mother—ever more fearless behind the wheel—navigates the winding roads leading up to the patchy hilltops. We're about an hour plus outside of San Juan and we haven't passed another car for miles. What I wouldn't give for a traditionally Puerto Rican misleading and indecipherable road sign. This is the countryside of B-level horror movies. I can see it now: we pop an unexpected flat, pull to the side of the road . . . the next thing you know some three-fingered circus freak is strangling us and abandoning us in a ditch. And shrieking at me in Spanish, of course.

It is possible I'm overreacting. Really this is just a ride in the countryside. The spooky, sparse, and totally unpopulated countryside, sure, but three-fingered circus freaks are in short order here.

At least, I haven't seen any of them. Yet.

“We're here.” My mother pulls her car into a makeshift parking spot, interrupting my reverie before I have a chance to take it to new levels of hysteria. She kills the ignition, steps out of the car, sighs. “
This
is where my mother grew up.”

I take in the landscape, which as I've mentioned is fairly ratty. The hills are covered with pebbly layers of dirt, and the foliage that adorns the non-grassy, non-knolls hangs lifelessly. It's like a neglected impressionist painting left to wither and die.

“Are you sure she grew up
here
?” I ask. I mean, it seems to me that we're taking a fair amount on faith. After all, it's not like we have a GPS system for confirmation.

My mother shoots me a look that basically means I should quit while I'm ahead. She has some insider's knowledge on the matter. “This is where Rosa told me to look. This is where they would come every year on my mother's birthday.” I can tell by her delivery that she's wistful, nostalgic; her mother's birthday ritual was just one more tradition that my mother missed out on when she came to the United States, met my father, decided to forsake her heritage.

Or whatever. I'm still a little bit unclear on the details.

I wonder when my grandmother's birthday was. If it was the summer, I can envision Dora, Ana, Pilar, and Lucy, hair piled high on top of their heads, sweat coating their upper lips, Lucy scowling and shifting her weight from one hip to the other as her grandmother soaked in the history. The view shifts in my mind to a winter tableau—same old same old, but with different weather. In my imagination Lucy's bundled in a coat that she resents even having to own, coming as she does from San Juan, where the temperature never drops below sixty-five degrees. Dora is wondering whether or not it's going to snow. (Hint: it's Puerto Rico; it's not.) It's maybe sixty degrees, a winter wonderland. They should seal that in a snow globe for me to take back to New York.

“It's a funny story, actually,” my mother says, breaking into my thoughts. “She was very young when she arrived here from Spain. She was separated from her parents and raised with extended family somewhere”—she gestures toward the hilltops—“up there. But no one ever knew exactly what day her birthday was. So she celebrated it every Easter.”

I raise my eyebrows. I don't know much about the Easter story per se, but it does feel weird to me that someone as devout as my grandmother would have the chutzpah to adopt the Resurrection as her own personal birthright.

“Because it's springtime. And so fresh start-y,” my mother clarifies, reading my thoughts and totally freaking me out. “Really, it's a nice sentiment.” She delivers this information with confidence.

Okay, so maybe it is a nice sentiment. For a brief and fleeting moment I am sad that I never knew my grandmother at all, much less became acquainted with this semi-whimsical side of her, an aspect of her persona that was forced to speculate on her own personal history. But she had an idea of where she'd come from that for all I knew was more satisfying than the truth.

Pretty impressive.

It occurs to me: for better or for worse, my mother rein-vented herself too. Was it, like her mother, out of necessity, personal preference? Or some strange amalgamation of both?

I glance at my mother and am startled to find tears running down her face. She cries silently, but steadily.

I'm not sure what to do. I've never seen her cry before, save for her mother's actual funeral. I was helpless then.

But now?

I don't know. I
really
don't know.

Her sobs are noiseless but full-bodied. Her shoulders tremble softly and her head shakes.

I have to do something.

I am not the “do something” type.

But I have to.

After an uncomfortable beat I reach out and take her hand. She lets me.

It's the only action I can think to take, but it seems to be right.

We slowly make our way over the hills, meandering without any real overriding purpose. Or at least, no purpose that can take any shape at this moment. The landscape is unvaried. There isn't that much to see. Except, there sort of is. We press on in silence, lost in our respective thoughts.

 

“Ready?” my mother asks after a half hour or so. She's mostly gotten her composure back. But I can still see the tracks her tears have cut through her makeup, and the skin underneath her eyes is red and puffy.

“Huh?” I'm completely distracted.

“Are you ready to go?”

I am ready to go. Of course. San Lorenzo has served its purpose. But all at once, I know what I'm going to tell my father.

Today may be one of the only times I've seen my mother cry. But it's also the first time I've ever been able to comfort her.

I'm not ready to leave Puerto Rico. Not right now.

No one could be more surprised than I am myself.

 

On the drive home I have an idea. “Let's make dinner,” I offer.

My mother glances at me quickly, not wanting to take her eyes off the road. “Rosa said she would take care of it.”

“We'll beat them home. It will be a nice surprise.” It's as much of a surprise to me as it would be to anyone. “We can make, um . . .” I pause, search my brain for the right word. After a moment, miraculously, it comes to me.
“Arroz con gandules.”

My mother raises her eyebrows. “You liked it?” She smiles, no doubt recalling the sight of me all but licking my plate clean the other night at Eva's.

“I liked it,” I confirm.

My mom reaches over, squeezes my shoulder softly. “I think it's a great idea. Rosa will be impressed,” she says.

“Except—I have one condition,” I clarify. “We have to add a New York twist.”

My mom laughs. “What's that?”

I shrug. “They're always calling me the
nuyorican
. I thought I'd spice things up a bit by making a
nuyorican
meal. Maybe
arroz con gandules
—with dirty water dogs on the side?”