The Loose Ends List(43)

On the tram ride down, we all stand in a human blob in front of Mark so he doesn’t slide away into oblivion. Vito plops down on Mark’s lap with his oxygen tank, and Mark starts laughing uncontrollably, which ignites a chain reaction. Even the strangers laugh.

We get to the bottom, and it’s time for good-byes. Good-bye to the Corcovado. Good-bye to Gloria and the minister. Good-bye to my sorority sister and her adorable family. “Wave bye-bye to Uncle Babysitter,” Paige says. Wes kisses Grace’s plump little cheeks and rushes onto the bus, a hot mess. Good-bye, Vito and the Ornaments. Good-bye, Surfer Mark and Buffoon Burt. Good-bye, Wishwell, for now.

“Hey, Vito,” Dad yells as Roberta lugs the oxygen tank onto the bus. “Bob and I are going to practice our poker and get you good when we’re back on the ship.”

“Not a chance,” Vito yells back. “You’d better save your money, chumps.”

It’s time for the worst good-bye of all. Enzo puts his arm around me, and I look into his eyes. My lip trembles. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It’s harder to hold back than a sneeze, but I do it.

“Until Rome, beautiful Maddie,” he whispers. I nod.

There are no words.

He helps hoist Mark onto the Wishwell bus. I wave at the tinted windows and hope he’s waving back.



A guy with gold teeth stands to the side of the trolley entrance with a misspelled sign for the NORTH-ONELL PARTY. We all pile into a white van and set out past the brightly colored slums where people live in layers; favelas, they’re called. Gold Teeth tells us boring stories about the history of the city in a Portuguese accent so thick it sounds Yiddish.

“How do they let this go on?” Wes says. “Look at those kids begging. This is horrible. I wish we could do something. I feel so bad for them.”

“So stop the van and give them some money. That would help,” I say.

“Yes, but it wouldn’t solve the deeper problem of poverty, Maddie.”

“I doubt those four-year-olds care about the deeper problem of poverty.”

Wes furrows his eyebrows at me. “Oh, wow,” he says in a blatant attempt to change the subject, “look at how the poor people have found a way to bring beauty to the Favela with art.”

“And this is the upscale Copacabana Beach, home to the rich and famous,” Gold Teeth proudly announces. Crowds of people dot the white beaches between the busy streets and the sea. Sweaty girls around my age are drinking from a fountain on a volleyball break.

“Her name was Lola. She was a showgirl.” Uncle Billy belts out our family’s favorite karaoke song from Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits, and we all join in. Even Jeb’s singing. Gold Teeth chair-dances, and we sing the chorus again.

We speed past the crowds of people and fancy buildings, then more slums, and arrive at the foot of a steep rain-forest hill. We drive into the canopy, surrounded on all sides by massive palm trees, ferns, tangles of vines, and multihued flowers. Gold Teeth finally stops talking long enough to let us out. We buy Coca-Colas from a roadside shack and pile into two pimped-out mega Jeeps. I squeeze in between Mom and Bob, who smells of incense and lime. Bob tells us about his trip to Mozambique, where he almost died from a staph infection after he got a hangnail. I did not know death by hangnail was a thing.

We stop at an overlook and take pictures of the view of Corcovado below us, where Christ looks like a tiny figurine made of soap.

“Let’s do big trips like this every year, honey,” Mom says. “I think I have the travel bug.”

“Just don’t let it get into a hangnail.”

“Good one.” She puts an arm around me. “You know what? I think I’ve figured out why we all like Bob so much. He’s just like Grandpa Martin.”

“Mom, Grandpa Martin was a short, pasty white guy who liked golf and Civil War artifacts. I’m not seeing it.”

“Not looks or hobbies, Maddie. My father was quiet and kind and wise. He let Mother do her thing without complaining. He was always there, but he didn’t need to be seen.” She raises her eyebrows and nods toward Bob, who is taking a selfie with Gram and Aunt Rose.

“Whoa, Mom. You are so right. Bob is exactly like Grandpa Martin. I guess Gram does have a type.”



We stop again at a fierce torrent pouring down the side of a steep ridge. A crowd of American tourists blocks the view of the waterfall with their big heads, and we wait for them to pile into their tour bus. The forest buzzes with insect sounds.

“I need a little boost,” Gram says, taking my hand. She’s breathing heavily.

“It’s a magic waterfall,” Gold Teeth says. “Make a wish.”

This guy has no idea that our gram is dying. Mom stands at the edge with her eyes closed. She’s falling for this—she must really believe this magic waterfall will make everything better. I can’t stop wondering how many people like us have stood here wishing for miracles, only to have their wishes fall like bricks to the bottom of the swirling whirlpool.

Gram taps my shoulder and points to a nearby tree. A little monkey is sitting on a branch. We watch it peel a piece of fruit, then devour it intently. We all fixate on the monkey. It doesn’t seem to give a damn about us as it looks around and licks its tiny hands.

“We should give it a name,” Uncle Billy whispers.