Tell Me Something Real (12 page)

Barb sips her champagne and offers him a tender smile.
“Enough of this talk, my friend. We have more celebrating to do.”

She picks up the vegetables, and just before she rounds the corner, I dart back to the living room and tuck my hand into Caleb's.

Will it be like this? After Mom's gone, after some time passes, will we spend evenings marking milestones, smiling and laughing despite the grief? She is with us, just down the hall, likely knocked out by a combination of sleeping pills and painkillers. Adrienne and I take turns shushing the room, fearing we'll wake her up, not knowing which version of Mom we would see.

We divide into pairs: Dad and Barb, Marie and Adrienne, Caleb and me. I cling to him for the rest of the night, and if I could get away with it, I'd slide into his bed, certain his heat would sedate me enough to sleep.

The next morning, Mom acts as though nothing happened. She has that pre-Laetrile infusion mania, talking fast and breathless, fidgeting constantly. She's worse today, fretting over the visit, still anxious about the last time, the “sadist.” The only reason she agreed to go back was the promise that she would never have to see that doctor again. I can't bring myself to meet her eyes. She hasn't had a mood like that since right before the storm. The rain washed away her flashes of spite, or so I believed.

When it comes time to go to the clinic, I don't play hooky. I can't abandon them for the piano—not this time, our
last sleepover at the clinic during Dad's final days at work. Adrienne and I help Barb pack the Suburban, and I squeeze in between Marie and Caleb, aligning our limbs, my thigh pressed against his. I spend the entire ride glancing at our legs, at the hems of his shorts and my skirt, at the inches of bare skin, his touching mine.

I reach for Caleb's hand and weave my fingers through his. Barb distributes peppermints, something that is supposed to settle the stomach. He inches even closer, and all I want is to taste his candy-cane mouth.

Caleb's body is growing familiar: the scar on his knee from an early skateboarding crash, the pale half-moons at the base of his fingernails, the way he takes a gulp of air before kissing me. He is a swimmer even if he doesn't play water polo any more.

Barb pulls into one of the parking spaces reserved for patients, and we walk up the entryway stairs, passing a large bed of blooming flowers. A man, someone I don't recognize, empties a trash can.

Caleb rests his skateboard on the ground, nudging me with his elbow. “Practice while I'm in hell, okay?”

I trace the inside of his arm while it's still smooth and intact. Barb pulls him away. “We're running late, Caleb. Let's get upstairs. Vanessa, I'll check on you girls later. You know where to find us.”

I turn to follow Mom, but she raises her hand. “I'll be fine. Go play outside.”

She must have noticed my skepticism, because she reaches for me, gently, but I still feel skittish. “I'm sorry, I wasn't myself last night, but I slept well and I'm ready for my infusion. Now go with your sisters.”

She ascends the stairs slowly, gripping the handrail.

“You coming?” Adrienne hollers from the other end of the lobby.

We sling our backpacks over our shoulders and cut through the laundry room into the courtyard, settling in our usual places. Nothing seems to have changed. The landscape looks the same regardless of the season.

Adrienne spreads out her beach blanket on one of the old chaise lounge chairs. She reaches for her sketch book and colored pencils. She's determined to capture every view of the ocean. If she can't swim in it, she says, she'll at least document its beauty. Her art teacher loves her landscapes, and she flips to her latest drawing of the cliff adjacent to the clinic, which is storied to be an ancient site where humans were sacrificed to the gods.

She flips through her many portraits of Mom, younger, healthier portraits—memorials, really—and then the ones that capture the present. I can barely look at them.

“I don't know why you draw those,” I say.

“They're honest and she likes them,” Adrienne says as she stares at a particularly haunting sketch. “It doesn't really matter how they turn out. I just like sitting with her. Even if she's asleep.”

I drop my backpack and push the skateboard back and forth, getting a feel for the wheels on the concrete path.

“I'm kinda hungry,” Marie says.

“Let me check out the kitchen,” I say as I park the board on the grass.

Roberto, one of the cooks, smiles when he sees me at the door. I'm so glad he's manning the stove. He is the generous cook, much more so than the woman who works on the weekends, when we went hungry for hours, sometimes the whole day. Roberto looks as old as Dad, and his two sons, about Marie's age, are among our clinic friends.

“Hola,”
I say.
“¿Cómo está?”

“
Bien.
Very good. Hungry?” He slaps homemade tortillas onto the griddle, causing the butter to sizzle. “
Frijoles
again?”

“Por favor.”
I sit in the empty chair by the refrigerator.

“How's your mama?” Roberto asks with his back to me. He moves slowly between the large open pots on the stove and the counter covered with diced vegetables: carrots, onions, chilies, tomatoes, lettuce, and tomatillos. He rotates his broad body from counter to stove, tossing handfuls of vegetables into various pots. Soup, beans, rice, and stew.

“Worse. It's getting harder.”

He pauses and turns around. “I see this.”

Steam rises from the stove and Roberto flips the tortillas. He pulls three plates from the high shelves and scoops rice and beans onto them. Quickly, he moves the tortillas from the griddle, deposits them onto the plates, and piles
onions and
pico de gallo
on top of
carnitas
. “I carry.”

“Gracias.”

“Almuerzo,”
he announces when he sees Adrienne and Marie.

Marie hops off of the chair and runs to Roberto. “Eat with us!”

“I make
sopa
for your mama. Next time.
Mañana
.” He rests the plates on the metal patio table and produces forks and napkins from his apron pocket. “
Mis hijos
are coming soon.”

Marie beams. “Soccer!” The game is the only thing that distracts her from her saints.

“Thanks, Roberto.” Adrienne accepts a plate. “Come on, Marie. Eat.”

I linger next to him. “Thanks again.”

He looks down and smiles. He places a hand on my shoulder.
“De nada, mija.”

Roberto and Lupe bring such comfort. As I watch his heavy steps, I can't imagine life without either of them, two people I didn't know last year in a country I barely visited.

Marie quietly dips her tortilla in her beans. It's unclear if she understands the ritual of saying grace. Lately, she eats her meals in complete silence, explaining that she is praying.

I pick up my taco. The food tastes good, and who knows when we'll eat again. The kitchen is overwhelmed with patient lunches; then staff will get their break. Roberto's shift ends after supper. Later, we will fend for ourselves,
piecemealing together leftovers. During our first weeks at the clinic, I read a good portion of the
Boxcar Children
series. Inspired by the multitude of survival techniques applied by the orphans in the books, I rummaged regularly through the closed kitchen. It was easy compared to hunting for berries in the woods while living in an abandoned train car. A welcome distraction.

When we finish eating, I stack the plates to return to Roberto. Marie kicks her soccer ball across the lawn. Leaving her sketchbook on the ground, Adrienne stretches out on her belly and absorbs the sun. I wander into the kitchen, but Roberto isn't there. It's too hot to go back outside, so I decide to check on Mom. Maybe I can even dodge the hovering nurses and sneak into Caleb's room.

The infusion rooms are on the third floor, dedicated to those who require the most nursing. I wander upstairs and look away from any room with a door ajar, passing the private rooms with beds full of cancer. I follow the noise down the hall, listening for Mom's voice. A scowling doctor rushes past me. I hear unexpected crying and am surprised when I turn the corner to find that it belongs to her.

Mom reclines in a gurney with Guadalupe next to her. Her hospital gown is wrapped around her in a style that looks more like a kimono. A needle pierces the inside of her elbow, linking to a full bag of clear liquid, which drips from the sack, through the tube, into Mom at the same speed that my heart is beating. The heat leaves my body. Goose
bumps run up and down my skin, and I feel light-headed.

“
Mija
, you should go back downstairs,” Lupe says.

“What's wrong, Mom?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.” She wipes tears from her cheeks, but the IV tugs her skin, causing her to wince. “I just need to rest, sweetheart. Are you settled in?” I can see her veins through her cellophane skin. I imagine the Laetrile working its way through her blood, attacking the abnormal cells.

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

Lupe stands and gestures toward the door. “Come,
mija
,” she says. “Let your
mamasita
talk to the doctor. Let's find you a place to sleep.”

I look back at Mom.

“You heard Lupe. Go now, Nessie. Scoot.”

We walk down the tile stairs and stop at a door near the kitchen. The clinic must be close to capacity, because we rarely stay in staff quarters. The room is simple, a large white square with two sets of bunk beds, a painting of a dark blue dove against a pale blue sky, and a crucifix. Lupe gives me a tense smile before returning to Mom.

I sit down on one of the lower bunks and examine the underside of my arms, tracing my veins. I've seen Mom receive countless infusions, but each time is growing increasingly difficult to witness. I've never seen Mom cry from the pain, though.

I evaluate the room, relieved that we aren't placed in a
patient room filled with the odor of illness and rubbing alcohol, with steel trays and IV tubes.

Cheers and giggles come from outside, and when I return to the courtyard, I see Marie playing soccer with Roberto's boys. Two of the sick kids, a boy and a girl, join in, an easy game. Low impact. Nothing to tire them out. They run in slow motion, their legs moving cautiously. Marie is the fastest, but she doesn't show off her natural athletic abilities to the cancer kids. Marie understands disadvantage. She slows down and resists the opportunity to score over and over again.

Adrienne, who has resumed her sketching, looks up. “How is she?”

“Something's going on. She was crying.”

“Why?”

“She wouldn't tell me. Lupe said Mom was talking to her doctor.”

Adrienne's brow furrows. “Mom didn't say he'd be here today. I thought she had an appointment with him next week. Dad is taking her. He made a big deal about it.”

I shrug. “All I know is that she's up there crying and I don't know what to do.”

Adrienne meets my eyes. “There's nothing you can do. If she needs us, Lupe will come.”

I nod and press my fingertips on Adrienne's arm, into her warm skin, and release my hand, leaving a white handprint. “You're getting burned.”

“Whatever,” Adrienne says. “It'll turn into a tan tomorrow.”

I hop onto the board and follow the curving path around the courtyard, trying my best to take a sharp turn without falling. Finally, bending my knees and crouching down, I zigzag the board just like I've seen Caleb do dozens of times. I pump up the path, the wheels slowly thumping, calming me down.

It takes a second for me to figure out who is screaming, a familiar voice yelling, “No! You don't have my consent!”

A frantic wail.

Mom.

I don't remember falling off the board—the actual moment is completely erased from memory. My eyes fixate on my leg, which looks twisted and disgusting. Blood trickles down both knees, but my foot is bent in the most grotesque way. I can't breathe.

Adrienne hovers over me. I try to sit up, but she puts her hand on my chest. “Don't move,” she says, her eyes on me for just a second before searching the courtyard. I spot the soccer ball in the flowers.

“Marie! You need to go get help. Get Barb or Lupe! GO!
NOW!
” Adrienne shouts.

Pain pulses up and down my leg. I want to move, to stand up, to straighten my bones into their natural position, but Adrienne holds me in place. “I mean it. Don't move. You'll make it worse.”

Tears wet my cheeks and my whole body shakes from the pain. Marie rushes to me with Barb close behind.

“I'm here, dear one. The doctor is coming.” Barb says. She looks up. “How'd she fall?”

“She crashed on the skateboard and went flying.” Adrienne is more out of breath than Marie. “This is the perfect place to break a bone. There are what, three or four doctors on duty?”

A doctor, a man whom I've seen but doesn't treat Mom, appears and, without a word, touches my leg. I can't help but whimper. “Inside,” he says.

They carry me into a large open room and ease me onto a gurney. My good leg dangles off the edge, and the other rests in a straight line, a miracle. I can't concentrate on their words, just the deep pain. Something is wrong, torn or broken, where the muscle meets the bone.

Barb clutches my hand. The doctor holds a syringe between his fingers like a cigar. A pile of gauze and a tub of white paste rest on a metal tray. I focus on breathing, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, a calming trick Mom taught me.

I remember the screaming, not mine, but Mom's. “Where's my mom?” I ask Barb.

All of the muscles in her face tighten, and she frowns. “Don't worry, dear one.”