Make Your Home Among Strangers (21 page)

—Look, I shouted as I stood up and moved to the door. I was trying hard to hold off on crying until the car ride home. I said, Can you just
not
tell my dad I was here? Please?

He rushed into the room, a fork in his hand—another thing I didn't understand.

—Mamita, he said, you know I can no be doing that.

I didn't want to respond, feeling the crack in my voice before I could hear it, but I said, I'll come back tomorrow.

He shook his head, scratched the back of his neck with the fork. He knew I was lying.

—Mañana es Noche Buena, he said.

His shoulders drooped as he looked toward the bedroom doors, still open to the plain, empty beds, and it was clear he knew a lot more about my life than I knew about his, and that he felt sorry for me, for my father. I didn't recognize either bedspread, couldn't tell which room belonged to which man.

—Tell him, just, that I called. That I'll come by tomorrow, I said.

Rafael lunged forward to the trunk. He went to tear a corner from the viewbook, then thought better of it and tugged a page from a magazine instead. He pulled a chewed-on pen from his back pocket and scribbled something on it, then handed the page to me.

—The telephone number here, he said. I think you no have it.

He took several steps to reach me by the door, then pressed the paper into my hand. I shut my fist around it and nodded, my other hand pushing against the bars. I ran down the burning concrete walkway, the heat somehow rising through my sandals, the car feeling like home base in a game I'd never played before.

 

17

MY MOTHER SAT ACROSS FROM
me and Leidy at the table as we picked at some bagged salad—a light late dinner in preparation for the next day and the onslaught of food that came with Noche Buena. They asked me what I'd done all day while they were each at work, but I only mentioned the branch library, where I'd stopped to check my e-mail and calm down after running from Rafael. I stayed there—dodging homeless people and a librarian with a plastic name badge slumping from her shirt's breast pocket that read
Hello, I am LIBRARIAN—
until it was time to get Dante at daycare, my mom having made me “volunteer” for that job (along with picking up Leidy at the salon an hour later) so she could go straight from work to Ariel's house, where she too was “volunteering,” though neither Leidy nor I knew what that really entailed.

—They have so much planned for this Noche Buena, Mami told us, a wad of lettuce in her cheek. They've had a lechón picked out since right after Thanksgiving. I heard Cari say that to the newspeople.

My mom talked about Ariel's pseudo-mom, Caridaylis, like she knew her, which she sort of did. They'd met a few times, and my mother watched live as Cari gave interviews, Mami's face occasionally showing up in the background of the newscasts she'd force Leidy to later watch with her. Leidy bitched about this to me the night before, whispering about it in our room while Dante slept in his crib. She thinks they're friends, Leidy had scoffed, and when I asked, Well
are
they, she'd rolled her body away from me to face the wall and said, Why do I try to tell you anything?

Dante smashed his hand into a hill of white rice, leftovers from the Chinese takeout Leidy had ordered during her lunch break at work.

—You guys realize it's the last Noche Buena of the century? I said.

My mom slapped her hands on the table. Dante jumped once in his baby seat, then swatted his hand, scattering most of the rice on the linoleum square demarcating the space under the table as
kitchen
rather than
living room
.

—That's right, Mami said. She shoved a chunk of dressing-saturated lettuce in her mouth and said, I hadn't even thought of that.

—Ugh, don't say it that way, Leidy said. That makes it sound scary.

When I'd logged on to change my mailing address back to the apartment—a new e-mail from the registrar's office warned that final grades would be mailed out after Christmas but before the new year—there'd been yet another warning on the Rawlings Web site preparing us for possible doom.

—It
is
kind of scary, I said. Isn't it?

My mom laughed.

—That's the kind of thing people worry about when they don't have
real
problems, she said. Then she put her fork down, looked right at me, frowned and said, Speaking of problems.

She then asked if this would be my first Noche Buena as Omar's ex-girlfriend. He'd gone to our party the year before, his very presence a welcome distraction from Leidy's pregnant body and the silver band she'd bought herself to wear not on her left but on her right ring finger (You can't outright lie about it, my mom had said exactly a year ago). All night, Leidy told people before they'd even asked, Roly wanted to be here but couldn't get off from work. Papi had warned her: The fewer details you give, the better.

—I haven't really talked to Omar, I said.

Leidy bobbed between the table and floor, piling now-dirty rice onto a paper towel.

—He called here today. Like three times, she said.

—What? When?

—Why didn't you say something sooner? Mami yelled as if Omar were
her
boyfriend.

—Jesus, relax, Leidy said. He called around six? Then when you were in the shower, around seven. But he didn't say it was him. I was like,
Hello?
, then he hanged up on me.

That didn't sound at all like Omar, who always made a point of being charming with my mom and sister.

—Did you talk shit about me to him? Leidy said.

—What? No, why would I talk about you to Omar?

—¡Pero
Lizet
! Mami said. Go call him back! Right now! What is
wrong
with you?

—Mom, it's not a big deal.

—Of course it's a big deal! He loves you, he hasn't seen you in
how
long, he's calling here and you –

She sputtered like she'd run out of words, then found one more: Please?

—Fine! God! I said.

I pushed my plate away and stood, then said to my mom's smile, I'll be right back.

I grabbed the cordless, dashed over Dante's toys and around our overstuffed furniture, and locked myself in the bedroom. I sat on Leidy's bed just after I pulled the torn page Rafael had given me—folded into a tiny square—from the very bottom of my front pocket. I smoothed it out and rested the page on my knee, then dialed.

He picked up on the first ring. He even said, playing it off as one word, Hellolizet?

I had to keep my voice down, but I still couldn't help but say, Dad!

He paused and said, Yeah?

—Hey! Hi, sorry, hey.

I tucked my hair behind my ear, passing the phone between hands, the sound of a television show whirring on the other end. I said, Have you – did you call here before?

—What? he said. Then he coughed for a good five seconds.

—Never mind. Just that, Leidy told me someone was calling here before.

—But a few hours ago, he said. Right?

This was the closest he came to admitting the calls had been him. Right, I said.

—No, right. So, he said, you happy to be back?

There was an enthusiasm—a cheeriness even—that suddenly came to his voice. I heard a door shut on his end, the TV sound gone. He said, It was cold there when you left?

—Yeah, it was. Really cold.

I looked at my suitcase, still sort of packed, my clothes flopping out of it and over the edges like guts.

—So, he said. It went okay?

—What did?

—School! The semester! Did it go fine or what?

It was the first time anyone had asked me this in the three days I'd been home. I'd thought that Leidy and my mom were pretending they didn't care so as to hurt my feelings or to put me back in my place, but the conversation with my cousins at Fito's apartment showed me otherwise: it wasn't that they didn't want to hear; it's that they didn't even know to
ask
. That their idea of me had no room for what I was doing with my life made me want to fold in half—I told myself the pain was from eating nothing but salad for dinner.

—I think so, I said.

—Because I wouldn't know, because you never call me from up there.

—But you never gave me –

—Listen, he said. Do you have time tomorrow before your mother takes you to that stupid fucking party happening at her cousin's house?

I said yes, and in the other room, Dante began to whine.

Papi coughed some more, then said, Listen, I hate the phone. You know I hate the fucking phone, okay? You know the Latin American Grill we used to eat at?

The
we
meant the four of us. I said of course.

—The one by the
old
Publix, not the one by the new Publix.

—Dad, I said. I know which fucking Latin American Grill it is.

—Oye, he said. Watch it.

When I didn't say anything, he said, I thought people in college didn't talk like that. That's
vulgar
, no? Isn't that what you'd call it?

I was deciding whether or not to say, You're right, it
is
vulgar, when he said, Oh come on! Don't get so sensitive! I only say it because there's like fifty-five Latin American Grills all over fucking Hialeah.

I laughed then, and beneath it, someone shushed someone else on the other side of the closed door. Slips of shadow suddenly disappeared from the slice of light at the floor.

—No, you're right, there's a bunch of them, I told him.

—Come tomorrow. I don't have work but I need breakfast anyways.

This was his way of inviting me—of saying he wanted to see me. The difference between me and my mom and Leidy was that I could sometimes see between his words, behind what he said; I could sometimes hear the sad echo of what he wanted to say. It wasn't a skill I learned or that I could summon when I really needed it—sometimes I just had it, I suddenly just
understood
him. Whenever this happened, it was like getting a gulp of air after holding my breath at the bottom of a pool. I hadn't felt it since the day before he moved out of the old house, when he brought his leftover boxes to my room and shoved them against the wall, saying only, I don't need these. But he'd already written
Lizet Ramirez
on them in clear, thick letters using black marker, above a drawn-in blank square in which I'd write a Rawlings address he didn't know. I didn't say anything then—I didn't want him to know I understood his gesture, and him putting our house up for sale a month later would erase all the guilt I'd felt for staying quiet that day. But him keeping the viewbook, him showing it to Rafael, even if it was just to brag: I wanted to acknowledge that. I wanted to say something. So I forced out the words.

—Papi, I went by your apartment today.

—I know, he said. I was at work.

I pretended to cough like he had, tried again.

—I know, I said. I mean, I met your roommate. I talked with him.

—Who, Rafael?

—Yeah, who else? I said. He's nice.

—He's fine. He told me you came by. What's the big deal?

He shifted the phone to the other side of his face—the scratch of him losing his patience—and just as suddenly, it was gone: I was no better than Leidy or my mom at reading him. But he'd been right; I ended up needing every single box he'd given me.

So I said, I'll be there. Just tell me what time.

*   *   *

The next morning, just before leaving the apartment, I kissed Mami goodbye on the forehead as she was waking up, her car keys already in my hand. I whispered a reminder of the lie I'd told her the night before: that me and Omar were getting breakfast and talking things out, but I'd be back early, with more than enough time to properly shellac myself in hair gel and makeup for Noche Buena.

Before she pulled the comforter back over her face, she said, Be sweet to him, Lizet. He loves you so much. He knows you, you love each other.

—I don't know, Mami. I think it's over.

—Don't ever forget that, she said into her pillow. Be careful.

Leidy was already up, warming milk for Dante. I'd let both her and my mom believe it was Omar and not my dad on the phone.

—You want some more advice? she said as I walked past the kitchen. She gave me some the previous night, gems like,
Don't be the first one to say sorry unless he brings a present
and
Don't wear a black shirt because you'll look more pale.

—Not really, I said.

—So you're gonna break up with him then?

She turned away from the microwave, where Dante's bottle spun in a slow circle on a glass tray, and faced me.

—I don't know, I said. I forced a grin. Let's see if he brings a present.

The microwave beeped as she said,
There
you go! and nodded at me. She snatched the bottle and repeatedly throttled it up and down, her bicep flexing with each shake. With her other hand on her hip, she said, You do you, girl, you
gotta
do you, as I shut the apartment door.

 

18

I GOT TO THE RESTAURANT
by seven thirty, half an hour before my dad said to meet him, but it was a mistake to come so early: it meant I'd be at a table by myself for thirty minutes, different overweight waitresses asking me, You
sure
someone's coming? ¿Estás segura? I was groggy enough to be confused at their questions for a second, thinking,
Of course no one's coming! I made the Omar thing up!
I flipped over the laminated menu and thought of Jillian, of how whenever she was up against a due date, she'd spend all night alone at the one diner in town—a dingy place open twenty-four hours that was called, for no reason connected to anything Latino that I could discern, Manolo's—claiming she'd return only once she
finished this goddamn paper
. I imagined her sitting in a booth, her notes and books strewn over a sticky table as other overweight waitresses (white versions of the ones here at Latin American) poured her cup after cup of coffee but otherwise left her alone to work. She always went by herself; I never offered to come along and she never asked for my company. I sat up straighter, imagining Jillian's black hair cascading down my own back. I called a waitress over and asked, in Spanish but not inflecting it as a question, for a café con leche.