The Same Sky(7)

“What about Fiji?” I said. I’d never been there either, but it sounded like somewhere different, somewhere no one would know me and what had happened to me.

“Austin,” said Jake firmly. “And my family can host the wedding. We’ll cater it ourselves, from our BBQ truck.”

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” I told Jake, my bighearted (and big-bellied) love.

“Say yes,” said Jake. “To all of it. Why not? We’ll adopt seventeen Chinese babies and live happily ever after.”

Why not, indeed? I shrugged. I’d studied English because I loved to read, but I didn’t really want to teach or get a PhD. The thought of starting something tangible with Jake sounded f*cking wonderful.

After all, in a world of countless perils, whom better to stay near than a man who could tame fire?





5




Carla


ONE MORNING, MY grandmother didn’t get out of bed. She had been moving slowly for some time, taking frequent naps, but I figured that was just what happened to people as they got old. She still woke each day before the sun, shaking Junior and me awake to serve us tortillas, beans, and hot coffee. (Fried eggs were a thing of the past now that we’d eaten the chickens, and the coffee grew weaker and weaker.) So it was a shock to squint against the rising sun, roll over, and find my grandmother beside me. “Mamita!” I said, shaking her bony shoulder.

“I’m sorry, my love,” she managed. “I’m going to sleep a little late today.”

“Are you sick?” I said, good and panicked.

“I may be sick,” said my grandmother. “I just may be.”

I sat up, kicking my brother. “Get up, you lazy ass!” I said.

“What did I do?” said Junior, rubbing his eyes, barely awake but ready to cry. He was a sweet boy, but so sensitive. I worried about what the world held in store for him. It was as if God had sent his brother Carlos to protect him like a suit of armor, but now Carlos was absent, and Junior was soft, exposed.

“You didn’t do anything,” I said, my fear curdling to anger. “You never do anything! Help our grandmother! Boil some water.”

“Okay, I will,” whined Junior. As he started the stove, I turned my eyes resolutely away from my grandmother’s wince. I stared at my brother’s American underwear, at the faded image of a dog named Scooby-Doo on his bottom.

It was a Wednesday, and when my mother called that afternoon, I told her about my grandmother, wrapping the telephone cord around my wrist, watching the street beggars outside the window. “Dios mío,” said my mother. “I should be there to help you, little one. I’m so sorry. And poor Mami …” There was a silence as she gathered herself. Her voice was stronger when she said, “Okay. I’ll send money right away.”

“Can you come home?” I asked hopelessly.

“You know I cannot. Listen, I’ll send as much as possible. You have to take her to the hospital. If you must take a taxi, take a taxi. Damn it, Carla.”

“It’s not my fault!” I said.

“I know, little one,” my mother said, softening. “I just … I was trying to save money. I’m worn out.”

I didn’t say anything. I tried to push down my anger, the sense that I had been abandoned, a fledgling left to founder in a disintegrating nest.

“How is Junior?” asked my mother.

“He’s fine,” I said, my words coming out frozen as I tried to hide the neediness burning in my stomach.

“Did you get the T-shirts in the mail?”

“Sure,” I said. I didn’t go to pick up clothes at the post office anymore. It was too dangerous. A girl with a package was a girl waiting to be robbed. But I didn’t tell my mother this. What was the use in scaring her? I had already tried, and she had not come home.

“And you are going to school?” said my mother.

“Sure,” I lied.


When the money came to the Western Union a day later, Humberto helped me lift my grandmother from the pallet into a taxi. As I stood, feeling helpless, he pulled me toward him. “I’ll stay with Junior,” said Humberto, his voice warm in my ear. Junior, drawing in the mud with a stick, looked up and beamed.

“Put on some pants!” I told my brother.

At the hospital, a doctor told me that my grandmother had an infection in her blood. “She needs to stay here, where we can watch over her,” said the doctor. In the hospital hallway, he went on, naming medications she needed. I told the doctor that my mother was in America and would pay for everything. But when he let me into her room, my grandmother had climbed from her metal bed and was sitting in a chair, dressed and ready to go. “Take me home,” she said.

I explained the doctor’s orders. She shook her head angrily. “They don’t know the first thing,” she said. “I’m fine.” I helped her down the hospital stairs and held her hand, a bouquet of bones. We rode the bus back to the village. I knew she was going to die.

When my mother called the following week, I told her what had happened. “You must come back,” I said. “You need to buy the medicine and make her take it!” I could hear my mother breathing on the line. “She just stays in bed all day,” I added. “I have to watch Junior and cook … it’s too much, Mami.” I bit my lip, a sob hot in my throat. For a moment, I let myself imagine that she would return. Her arms, her fragrant skin. “Please help me,” I whispered.