Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa (7 page)

Dora bounces in her seat. “But I have to . . .” She looks at me, trails off.

Rosa nods. “
No es un problema
. I will do it just this once. Go—you can wear the pink skirt.”

This is apparently extra-fabulous news because Dora beams and skips off.

From the direction of the bathroom, I hear the water in the shower turn off. A few moments more and Lucy is in the kitchen, wrapped in a robe, her hair piled high in a terry-cloth turban. “I got it, Mamá. You can go.”

“
Gracias
. I have work, then.” She turns to my mother. “You'll be okay?”

“Of course, Rosa. We have the grocery list, so Emily and I will take care of that. We might as well make ourselves useful. You've been so generous in taking us in for the summer.”

Rosa is quiet for a beat. Then, “Of course.” She grabs her keys, shouts her good-byes to everyone—“Tell José dinner at seven”—and is off.

Lucy hovers over me. I tap my spoon against the bottom of my cereal bowl, unsure of what she wants. “Can I . . . do something?” I ask.

“No, it's just, I have to clear the table when you're through.”

“Oh,” I say awkwardly. So she's been waiting for me. “
Oh
. I'm almost—”

“No rush.” She cuts me off. “I'll just load
the dishwasher
once you've eaten.”

It hits me more fully: Dora was covering for Lucy while she showered; Rosa was covering for Dora while she dressed. And now Lucy's waiting. For me. I'm not sure about this. On the one hand, they could have just told me to rinse my dish when I was done.

On the other, I'm horrified to realize that it wouldn't have otherwise occurred to me.

 

Lucy insists on taking her sisters to church camp herself, but my mother decides she wants to tail her. “This way we'll be able to do it on our own eventually.”

We dress quickly and head out to the car. “Couldn't we, like, just get directions when the time comes?” I ask.

It's not that I have anything better to do today. Mom's got a grocery list and some errands to run. (Being this close to the beach and knowing that I'll be spending my afternoon at the dry cleaner's is torture.) But one look at Mom's face—deep lines and grayish pallor not improved by chain-smoking—and I decide to keep my gripes to myself.

She's actually laughing now.

“Directions?” Apparently this is pee-in-your-pants hilarious.

“What?” I ask. “I don't get it.”

“That's because you've never driven in Puerto Rico, sweetie. Directions are useless. You either know the way or you don't. Haven't you noticed that there aren't really any street signs around?”

“Well, I haven't been driving myself,” I point out, easing into the passenger's seat.

“No, I guess you haven't,” my mother allows. “Anyway, the thing is, if you're from around here, you know the main roads, and you can sort of feel your way from there. But otherwise you're screwed.”

I start back, my seat belt snapping as I twist.

Screwed?
Not typical language for Professor Goldberg. But I don't say anything.

“So if we're going to be here and get around, we have to feel our own way. I'm sure it will come back to me eventually—some things you just don't lose—but for now, tailing. At least until the main roads become second nature again.”

“A lot has probably changed, though, right?” I ask. “I mean, the roads can't be exactly the same.”

My mother becomes quiet for a moment, wistful. “They haven't changed that much.”

I sense that there's more meaning in what she's saying than she's ready to share.

 

We follow Lucy as she takes the girls to church camp. It's not far from us, though my mother is completely right. Puerto Ricans drive like maniacs. No one has heard of a turn signal, and street signs are totally nonexistent. Technically my New York license is valid here, but by day three I've sworn to myself that I will never get behind the wheel on my own. It seems to me that I have two choices: one, to remain on good terms with my mother and join her on her cultural renaissance or whatever she's doing here, or two, to forge blindly forward in a friendship with Lucy who has, up until this point at least, demonstrated the type of interest in me that one might feel toward a new strain of toenail fungus.

To Lucy, I'm a curiosity and not necessarily a welcome one. I'm an
interloper
and utterly housebound at that.

I suppose these two choices are not necessarily mutually exclusive. But they are equally dependant on some rather specific action. And I'm just not the type to take action.

I don't think.

 

The next few days pass quickly. The language barrier keeps me on my toes, and I can't help but wonder again what the deal is with those AP classes and placement exams.
Qué tiempo hace
, my ass. The
tiempo
is always the same in Puerto Rico: sunny, with a light breeze and little humidity. If it rains, it's only in intermittent pockets, and it never lasts.

By now I wake up on time, on my own. Even as an early riser, I find I'm the last person up—but at least now I'm in the ballpark. I come to breakfast to find Lucy, Pilar, Dora, and Ana gathered. But they're not waiting for me anymore, so that, at least, is something.

Their routine is well choreographed. Rosa is up first, before dawn even, and she gets breakfast ready. Once the girls are awake and settled with their breakfasts, she's off to get ready for work, a day shift as a nurse's aide at the local hospital. From there Lucy takes over: she makes sure the younger girls eat, reminds them to clear their places, and then washes up after them. Pilar helps Ana and Dora dress. And so forth.

Mom and I eat with the girls. We don't take over their self-appointed chores or tasks because that would disrupt the delicate balance that they've created. But we have taken on our own roles. We run the daytime errands, taking clothing to the cleaners, bringing appliances in for repair, and, most frequently, bringing home groceries for dinner. I still refuse to drive, but by the end of my second week I could find my way to the supermercado and back blindfolded. We do the laundry, to which I am contributing more now that my father has sent along some clothing. We start preparing dinner at five. By five thirty my mother goes to pick up the girls at camp. Lucy and Rosa are home, along with the girls, by six. By six thirty we eat. Sometimes José joins us. Sometimes he doesn't. I don't ask. Lucy mentions his girlfriend, a freshman at the local university. But she doesn't live in the dorm, so I have no idea where they spend their time.

The younger girls clear the dinner plates and head off to do their “homework” for camp. I have never attended a camp that required homework, but since it mostly seems to involve a lot of coloring, what do I know? Lucy disappears at night, usually to her room. I imagine she's talking on the phone to Rafael, Pia, Ramona, Teresa, or maybe even Ricky. Seeing as how he was so genuinely nice to me, it makes sense that I think about him sometimes. Since he's Lucy's territory, though, thinking is as far as it goes.

I miss talking on the phone at night. But Isabelle and Adrienne are away by now, and it's catch-as-catch-can. As for Noah . . . well, he never answers his phone, and I'm starting to wonder what it was we always talked about anyway.

Lucy and I haven't had a night at the “coffeehouse” since my first Sunday in Puerto Rico, which by now feels like it was ages ago. Sometimes there's a
telenovela
hour where we all gather around the television in the living room and I pretend to understand what the bosomy actresses are getting at as they wave their fingers and squeeze tears from heavily made-up eyes.

I think of asking my mother about the beach again or if maybe there isn't something else to be seen in Puerto Rico. But she's distracted, doing a lot of concentrated staring, so I settle for laps around the tiny pool and wondering what leg of their ride Izzy and Ade have hit. I'd call, but . . .

Well, I'd call, but I don't.

 

“You hate it here.”

It's been long enough that I've become fairly accustomed to Marisa's sneak attack visits. I don't know what she does all day in her house—but it may or may not involve spying, as it were, on me. She tends to emerge whenever I've just gotten comfortable, either on a lounge chair or on a raft in the pool itself.

Today I'm perched on that same lounge chair,
Us Weekly
cracked open but facedown on my stomach. I'm not so much on the dieting habits of supermodels just now. The day is bright but not sunny, and I'm soaking in the UV rays.

I wonder how you say
ultraviolet
in Spanish?

“You hate it here,” she repeats. She squints at me behind bug-eyed sunglasses. She's channeling La Lohan or an Olsen twin, with the oversized glasses and a ruffly pink dress that's at least three sizes too big.

“What?” I have the distinct impression that I'm being put in my place. By a fourth grader. Somewhere along the way, my life has veered horribly off course. Or at least my summer has. I should jump in the pool, duck underwater, and refuse to come up again until Marisa's gone home. But it's too late; obviously she's already seen me.

I'm not sure quite what to say in response to Marisa.
Hate
is a very strong word, as they say . . . yet not entirely inaccurate. I am not overcome with affection for this place, that's for sure. I miss my friends, my brother, my father, the mother I had before all this started. My boyfriend . . . or the idea of my boyfriend—if only he would take my calls. I might be more open toward Lucy if only she showed the slightest modicum of interest in me.

“No, I don't.”

She raises one eyebrow at me. I'm
totally
getting grilled by a ten-year-old. Wow.

“Well, there's not all that much going on,” I admit. I actually feel guilty about admitting this to Marisa. I've stumbled into an alternate reality.

“There might be.”

“Might be what?”

“Might be more going on.” She points to my lounge chair. “If you maybe left the house.”

I peer at her disdainfully, then realize . . . she's right.

“You could be on to something,” I admit reluctantly. “But there's . . . you know . . .” I wave my magazine at her feebly.

She cracks a grin, pulls up her own lounge chair. Carefully, with great purpose, she plucks off her sunglasses and pulls her dress over her head, revealing a polka-dotted bathing suit. She positions herself just so on her chair, next to me.

“How come you don't hang out with Rosa's daughters?” I ask.

She wrinkles her forehead. “They're always at Bible camp.”

True.

She reaches over, swipes my magazine. “Who's splitting up this week?” She sighs and settles in.

 

After Marisa has returned to her house, I'm struck with a burst of inspiration. This is Puerto Rico. It's a Caribbean island. It's the origin of my misplaced cultural heritage. Somewhere in the recesses of my suitcase is a guidebook. I should Get Out. See Something.

But I refuse to drive by myself.

I head into the house to find my mother. Maybe this will be it, our opportunity to bond. She'll overcome whatever emotional trauma has recently been dredged up. We'll rediscover ourselves.

It will be like
The Joy Luck Club
, except in Spanish.

I find my mother in our bedroom, sound asleep. I check my watch: 1:30.

I don't think Rosa would approve. Which is probably why my mother is taking her nap
now
, when we're alone.

I sigh. The Spanish Joy Luck Club will have to wait.

 

Max, my wonderful, intuitive brother, surprised me, dropped a present in my package from my father. He wrapped it in my favorite pink terry-cloth pants, knowing that then there'd be no way for me to miss it—
Siddhartha
. A small, battered copy that I know for a fact he bought for two dollars at a used-book fair on the Lower East Side. It's his favorite book and a prized possession; my throat caught involuntarily when I found it grazing my J. Crew wedge espadrilles.

The book is dense, and it doesn't help that this copy looks like it spent a few years underwater before being blow-dried back to its normal state. I leave it lying on the nightstand in the bedroom for a few days, feeling guilt-ridden at my lack of appreciation for what was obviously a very personal gift. The guilt doesn't make me want to read it any more urgently, though. It's not until Tuesday night, when yet another dream of home wakes me, that I reluctantly slide out of bed, grab for it, and pad silently out of the bedroom and into the living room.

Siddhartha had it pretty good, I can tell. He was a sort-of hottie, and the back cover copy says that he had a “promising future.” I think I can relate. But he gave it up for a journey of spiritual enlightenment. Is Max trying to tell me something? From where I sit, spiritual enlightenment sounds way overrated.

A noise from the kitchen startles me. Before I can wonder what it is, though, I turn and see Lucy, shoes in hand, creeping in. She stops when she sees me.

My mouth drops open, but she holds a finger to her lips just in time, reminding me to keep it down.
Where have you been?
is my unspoken question, but she gets it.

“With Rafael,” she whispers. “We had coffee.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“We had coffee,” she repeats. “Sometimes we really do that.”

“Was it fun?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says, but she shrugs noncommittally and her body language suggests otherwise. I'm too overcome with surprise for this to really register, though. Obviously this isn't the first time I've seen Lucy sneak into the house, but for some reason, I just assumed . . . I don't know, I guess I assumed that when we all went to bed, she did too. It's one thing to blow curfew, but another entirely to sneak out altogether. My mind races; how many nights has she done this? For all I know, she's been out every night since I've arrived. I'm far too impressed to be offended at the thought of her partying without me.