The Book of Unknown Americans(22)

We almost went back for my dad’s high school reunion, which my dad somehow got into his head that he didn’t want to miss. The reunion was on a Friday, so maybe, he told us, he could fix his work schedule so that he was off on Friday. We could fly there, go to the reunion, and then fly back Saturday night. He was usually off on Sundays, but if he took off Friday instead, he’d have to be back and work Sunday to make up for it. So one night would be the longest we could stay, but one night would be enough. He had decided. And it looked like we were going to try.

My mom was as excited about the trip as I don’t know what. She went to Sears to buy a new dress and had giddy phone conversations with my aunt about seeing each other again and what they would be able to pack into our eighteen hours on the ground. She started laying out her clothes weeks in advance even though my dad kept telling her she only needed two outfits—one to go and one to come home. “And why the hell do you have ten pairs of shoes here?” he asked, pointing to the sandals and leather high heels my mom had lined up along the baseboard in the bedroom. “Ten!” my mom scoffed. “I don’t even own ten pairs of shoes.” My father counted them. “Fine. Seven. That’s still six too many.” He told her that he intended to take only a duffel bag for our things because that would make it easier to get through customs. My mom said, “I’ll check my own bag, then.” My dad kicked the row of shoes my mom had lined up and sent them flying into the wall. He walked right up to my mom and held his index finger in front of her face. “One bag, Celia. One! For all four of us. Don’t talk to me about it again.”

A few weeks before the reunion, my dad called the number on the invitation to RSVP. The guy who answered had been the class president. He and my dad joked around for a minute and then my dad told the guy we were coming. According to what my dad told us later, the guy said, “We’ll roll out the red carpet, then.” When my dad asked him what he meant by that, the guy said that my dad would have to forgive him if the party wasn’t up to my dad’s standards. “We didn’t know the gringo royalty was coming. We’ll have to get the place repainted before you arrive.” When my dad asked again what the guy was talking about, the guy said he hoped my dad didn’t expect them all to kiss his feet now and reminded my dad how humble Panamá was. It didn’t take long for my dad to slam the phone down. He stormed over to my mom, who was washing dishes, and said, “We’re not going. If that’s what they think, then we’re not going.”

My mom said, “What?”

“They think we’re Americans now. And maybe we are! Maybe we don’t belong there anymore after all.” My dad went out on the balcony to smoke a cigarette, which he did whenever he was really upset.

My mom stood in the kitchen, a soapy pot in her hand, and looked at me, baffled. “What just happened?” she asked.

When I told her everything I’d been able to gather, she walked out to the balcony and closed the door behind her. At the commotion, Enrique came out of his room.

“We’re not going anymore,” I told him.

“Huh?”

“On the trip.”

“Are you serious?” Enrique asked.

My brother and I huddled together, listening through the front door. I heard my mom say, “Please, Rafa. He doesn’t know anything about us. We can still go. You’ll see. Once we get there … All your friends … And everyone will love you.” I imagined her reaching out to touch his shoulder, the way she did sometimes when she was asking for something. “Don’t you miss it?” she asked. “Can’t you imagine landing there, being there again? You know how it smells? The air there. And seeing everyone again. Please, Rafa.”

But my dad wasn’t swayed.

The following year, we talked about going back, too. My dad’s anger over being cast as a holier-than-thou gringo had finally simmered down, and my mom, who couldn’t bring herself to return the new dress she’d bought and who hadn’t gotten over the disappointment of not being able to see her sister after all, had been dropping hints ever since that she would still like to go even if the trip was only for one night again. She’d become a genius at turning any and every little thing into a way to talk about Panamá. She would get a mosquito bite on her ankle and point out the welt to us, reminiscing about the bites she used to get in Panamá and wondering aloud “what the mosquitoes there looked like now,” as if they were old friends. She would make rice and start talking about the gallo pinto at El Trapiche, which was her favorite restaurant, saying things like “I wonder how Cristóbal—wasn’t that the owner’s name?—is doing. Wouldn’t it be nice to find out?” We would drive over a bridge and suddenly she was talking about the Bridge of the Americas near the canal. “Do you remember, Enrique? That time we took the ferry back from Taboga at night and it was all lit up? It was so beautiful. Mayor, I wish you could have seen it.” She sighed. “Maybe one day.” And my dad would sometimes shake his head at her melodrama and other times would just stay quiet, like he’d fallen into the haze of a particular memory himself.

My mom’s birthday was September 22, so my dad finally gave in and made plans for us to go to Panamá. The Toro Family! One night only! Put it in lights! My mom worked herself into a froth all over again, conferring with my tía Gloria on the phone. My aunt apparently said she wanted to take my mom to the new mall and for a drive through Costa del Este, which used to be a garbage dump but now had been transformed into an up-and-coming area of the city, and out for sushi on the causeway, and afterwards they could hit the clubs along Calle Uruguay and yes, she realized they weren’t twenty anymore but it would be so much fun! Besides, she and my tío Esteban weren’t doing so well, she told my mom. He was never home. He spent the night at friends’ apartments. So she could use some distraction and someone to talk to. “Not a divorce!” my mom gasped. To her, there could be nothing worse. “No,” my aunt assured her. “Just problems.”