Girl at War(31)

The remnants of a flower stencil peeked out from behind my desk, and I smiled with the thought that Laura and my mother might have bonded over their mutual distaste for my tomboyishness; Laura had put the blossoms on the wall and I’d promptly pushed my desk against the spot. When I’d chosen a denim comforter for my bed she’d sewn pink rosebuds in rows up the seams, and whenever she left the room I turned the comforter over to hide the flowers. Now, the roses were faceup again.

“Ana’s home, Ana’s home!” I heard Rahela shouting downstairs amid the heel-click of Laura’s cowboy boots. I slipped the envelope of my past life under my mattress and went downstairs.

“Hey, baby!” said Laura.

“Hi, Ma.”

The first time I called Laura “Mom” was an accident. I’d been playing with Rahela in the driveway when she fell and skinned her knee. The wound was filled with gravel and bled a lot and I scooped her up and ran inside, calling “Mama! Mom!” I found Laura upstairs folding laundry, the cordless phone tucked between her shoulder and chin. When I entered the room saying, “Mom, Rahel—Rachel got hurt,” she raised her head and let the phone drop.

“Sue, I have to call you back,” she said loudly at the phone now on the floor. I handed her Rahela and we went in the bathroom and bandaged her up, and Laura didn’t mention it, though she smiled at me for the rest of the day, as if she was wondering whether or not I had realized what I said. I had, and figured there was nothing I could do to take it back now. But for years onward, each time I said “Mom” or “Dad” a silent prefix of “American” existed in my mind. They were my American parents, and the distinction made me feel less like I was forgetting the other set I’d abandoned in the forest.

“I didn’t know you were coming home. I was just in town. I would’ve gotten you from the train.”

“I needed the walk.”

“Oh gosh, that’s right. How was your speech?”

“What speech?” Rahela said.

“Ana was giving a very important presentation at the United Nations,” said Laura. “Tell me everything! Did you take a picture?”

“Take a picture of myself giving a speech? No. It was no big deal.”

“Maybe if you had longer arms,” said Rahela.

“Huh?”

“Then you could take a picture of yourself.”

“But she wouldn’t have because she never humors her mother,” said Laura, feigning exasperation.

“You can have my name tag.” I dug the crumpled guest pass out of my pocket.

“Take what I can get,” Laura said, and stuck it to the fridge.

—

At dinnertime we met Jack for pizza and bumper bowling.

“What are you doing home, girlie?”

“Just visiting.”

“Remember, Ana was giving that speech today,” Laura said.

“I didn’t forget,” said Jack. He pulled me into a bear hug, and I liked that I would probably always feel little inside his embrace. “How was it?”

“Odd,” I said.

“Did they put sanctions on you? They’re putting sanctions on everyone and their mother these days.”

“I’m gonna give you all sanctions if you don’t come play,” said Rahela, squeezing between us on the bench.

“Surprisingly accurate use of the word,” I said. In the scorekeeping computer, Jack named us after Taxi Driver characters, and we all bowled terribly and laughed hard and for a few hours that was enough.

Going to bed was a different story. During my first months in America I’d tried to fend off the nightmares by avoiding sleep altogether. I sat up keeping watch, worried that someone would break in and slaughter Jack and Laura. Then when I tried to give in, I couldn’t get comfortable. A mattress and box spring was a stark contrast to the cushions of my Zagreb couch; my back hurt and I twisted beneath the sheets.

Most nights, I’d give up and tiptoe down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the family room, where Jack would be playing the guitar. When I appeared at the edge of the room he would sigh, then motion with his head for me to come and sit. A striped blanket hung on the back of the nearby armchair, and I’d pull it off and trail it behind me on my way to the couch. Jack would continue to play, swaying slightly as if to console himself.

Spring nights he’d lean his guitar against the sofa and flip on the television to watch baseball. The Mets were his team, a vestigial preoccupation from a childhood played out in the Italian ward of Newark. Muting the volume, we’d watch the silent game and he’d tell me the names of the players and their batting averages, explain foul balls and strikes and ground rule doubles. He repeated himself when I didn’t understand, and when he sensed me getting overwhelmed he stopped, content to sit quietly in the television flicker. Baseball lingo permeated my vocabulary, and though I knew I didn’t need to talk to make him happy, I learned more English by discussing the specifics of the game. Baseball calmed me down; every play and mistake had corresponding consequences, each scenario governed by a set of regulations I could memorize. It was a game I imagined my real father would love as well, the steady cadence of throwing and swinging as rhythmic as a whispered song, the innings’ narrative arc like a bedtime story.

When the Mets invariably lost, Jack would switch off the TV and return to his strumming and swaying. I’d lie down with my ear pressed to the leather of the couch and match my breathing with the vibrations of my father’s music.