Make Your Home Among Strangers (42 page)

Later I would see that I was wrong about Leidy, wrong to think I wouldn't need her and that being a mom herself hadn't changed her in a way that would help us deal with Mami. I was wrong to believe the stories we'd been told about ourselves: that I was the only one bright enough and aware enough to have some kind of plan. But in the quiet of the apartment—feeling loud in its own way for coming after the riot of our fight—Leidy said, I
am
happy to see you, you stupid hoe.
You're
the hoe, I said back, and there we were, two hoes staring out a window, one thinking the worst of the fighting was over, the other glad to have the opening act out of her way.

 

31

SHE ONLY CAME HOME TO SHOWER
and to shit. She'll pee there, Leidy told me, but our mom drew the line at shitting in Ariel's house. It's disrespectful: that was Mami's answer when Leidy—in the gentle tone she'd learned to use with Mami over the last few weeks, as if coaxing a cat out from under a car—asked our mom
What've you been up to
and
Where've you been sleeping
. The day I'd seen our mother on national news was one of the last nights she'd slept in her own bed. She stayed up nights for the vigil, or slept at the houses of her fellow Madres or at the house across the street from Ariel's, which was made available to my mom and her crew after the home's owner watched them, from his front window, pray all evening through a rainstorm. His wife had joined the group after that, and now his house was host to a perpetual sleepover, with women snoring on his couch or underneath his dining room table at all times. He'd rented a tent, too, and it stood in his front yard, protecting protestors from the sun and rain and cameras in helicopters.

Leidy told me all this when she got back from her half day at the salon, Dante in her arms, marker all over his hands and cheeks. She'd already paid for the week of daycare—was paying a little less overall now that he'd turned one—so she turned down my offer to watch him after our fight. I was secretly grateful for the chance to shower and then sleep through the late morning, though falling asleep had been an accident. I'd only meant to lie down for a few minutes before figuring out what to do next, but my body demanded the rest. I hadn't slept well in Rafael's bed.

All afternoon, Leidy punctuated what she told me with
I just didn't want you worrying
, and the bags under her eyes and the grayish tint to her skin made me finally believe her. While wiping off Dante's face and then feeding him and then wiping him off again, she told me in one avalanche all the things I thought I'd have to pry from her. She just gave it all over, relieved to have someone to talk to, and I stoked the small fire of what remained of my anger with that thought: I could be anyone. She's so lonely, I could be anyone.

Leidy told me that in the days after what was my spring break, Mami's supervisor at the city left messages on the machine giving first and second warnings about missed shifts, and a few more days passed before Leidy caught our mom in the apartment and played these messages for her, asking—gentle again but blocking the front door—if everything was going fine at work. I told Leidy we should call Mom's supervisor, but Leidy sighed that she'd done that already, a week earlier. I got up from the couch and feigned wanting some water to mask how ugly it looked that I hadn't
asked
if she'd called but said we should do it, as if the idea couldn't possibly come to her on her own. From the sink I asked what he'd said, and she told me the only reason Mami still had the job at all was because her supervisor was Cuban, too, was in fact a Pedro Pan kid, sent alone by his family to the United States back when Castro first came to power. Of course he wasn't happy about her missing so much work, but he told Leidy that Mom was calling in, using the sick days and vacation days she'd stored up for years. I sipped my water, my heart stinging from the new fact that she hadn't used these days on me over winter break, but I tried to hide this from Leidy, who was spending almost half her paycheck on daycare and so had to deal with that kind of hurt every day. The supervisor told Leidy that he was relieved when Mami asked to switch to part-time—something Leidy didn't know until he'd told her, but she played along like she knew, to keep him talking—and that he so admired her work with Madres Para Justicia and what he'd seen her say on the news that he'd only hired a temp to replace her, had told Mami that when everything was resolved, she could have her old hours back. That's good news, I said, and Leidy said again: That's why I didn't say anything, no reason to worry you. It's all gonna be fine, she said. But we both knew that me showing up meant everything was more serious than she wanted to admit.

—I want to see Mom, I said.

—They did an Easter egg hunt today at the daycare, she said. I'm thinking I should try to get a part-time there.

The apartment looked the same as it always had, but when I'd poked into the fridge before showering, there was almost nothing in it. A carton of leftover white rice. Some jars of Publix-brand baby food—just the sweet ones, banana, peaches—and some Tupperwares filled with a couple different colors of mush. Half a two-liter bottle of RC Cola, which had gone flat. An almost-empty tin of Café Bustelo ground coffee.

—I have money from my job too, I said. Up at school. It pays okay, if we need it.

She nodded.

I said, Don't worry, okay?

—
You
don't worry.

She left Dante on the couch with me and went to the pile of papers on the table by the front door, junk mail and bills and notices I'd planned to look at after Leidy left, thinking I'd need them as clues. The fact that I'd thought about it in those terms made me feel ridiculous, though it had seemed like the right word considering how much I didn't know.

—Do you think we can go find Mom? I said. Down the street?

Leidy returned with a manila envelope the size of half a sheet of paper.

—This came here for you, she said, handing it to me.

Mostly what came to the apartment for me was credit card offers, but this letter was from California, from UC Santa Barbara. Postmarked three days before spring break had started, the envelope was sliced open at the top, very clearly opened. In it were all the forms I needed to complete for the internship—waivers, IRS papers, travel preference sheets, checklists I was supposed to consult and
retain for my records
. There was also a typed note from someone writing on behalf of Professor Kaufmann stating that they hoped getting the forms to me at my home address over break would help expedite their return. A postage-paid envelope, it said, was enclosed for my convenience.

—Are you switching schools or what? Leidy said.

It was like I was Roly and I'd cheated on her and she'd caught me: that's what her face made me feel. But now I understood why Professor Kaufmann had seemed baffled by me in lab since spring break—because I never returned these forms. I'd never even seen them, but in lying and telling her I'd been home for break, she thought I had.

—No, this was a job thing, I said. It's nothing.

—But then why's it from another college? You want to go even farther away?

—It was just for the summer, like a summer internship thing.

—So wait, you're not gonna
be here
this summer? You're not coming back?

I heard the panic, could sense beneath it all the times over the last few weeks she'd wanted to ask me this but hadn't, thinking
I
was keeping something from
her
.

—It's not happening anymore. Don't worry, I said. I promise.

She stood stunned for a second, then let herself deflate, flopping on the couch next to me and Dante.

—Oh god, I thought I was gonna die, she said.

She pulled Dante onto her lap and squeezed him. He tried to worm away, more interested in the remote control.

—You swear though? she said. You swear you're coming home?

I shoved the papers back in the envelope, some catching and creasing as they went in. I said it again, though I didn't mean it for the reasons Leidy assumed: I swear. I promise.

She kissed Dante, a big wet smack on his cheek.

—Who wants to go to summer school anyways, she said to him.

She stuck her finger down the back of his pants and pulled them away from his body, peered down into his diaper. The elastic band thwacked back into place, and she said, Okay, let's do what you want. Let's go find Mom.

*   *   *

Dante's stroller crunched ahead, his butt sinking into the cloth, the seatbelt harness too tight against his chest. He sat in a daze, eyes half closed in the sunlight. My eyes were partway shut, too—Leidy was smart enough to wear sunglasses—and through hazy slits, in the ring of black-clad bodies linked hand in hand in the street, I first saw my mom. Then, two women down in the circle, I spotted her again. The shape from behind of a third woman could've been her, too.

—I should warn you, Leidy said, she's gonna be weird.

—No shit, I said.

The mumble coming from the group as we approached suddenly snapped into something recognizable—a prayer, one they all knew. An Our Father or a Hail Mary maybe: I didn't know the difference, and they were praying in Spanish, which made it even harder for me to tell. The only place I'd heard those sounds before was whenever our parents dragged us to a church for some cousin's first communion or confirmation, or to see some newly born relative get baptized. Me and Leidy always seemed a step behind, everyone else knowing when to stand, when to sit, when to shout back at the priest up front. My parents were raised Catholic but never prayed outside of these instances, so it always disturbed me to hear those words pour from their mouths without a thought, like some language they knew but kept secret from us, some voice that wasn't theirs. And that's how it felt, once we were close enough to see which one was actually my mom—prayers falling from her lips, eyeliner wobbling across her closed, twitching eyelids, her hair pulled back into a tidy but shaking bun: that she couldn't really be my mom. That my mom wasn't there.

We stood behind her in the prayer circle, onlookers stepping out of our way thanks to the stroller and Dante and the sacred nature any little boy within twenty miles of that house had taken on. Strings of rosary beads snaked around their palms and dripped into the air below their joined fists. I wondered where my mom had bought hers, if one even buys a rosary or if they're given out at churches for free. We waited for the chant to end, and when it did (sort of—there was a natural pause and some of the women opened their eyes and looked around, but others didn't, and my mom was in this second group), I leaned close to my mom's bun and said, Mami?

She opened her eyes and turned, hands still holding other hands on each side.

—Lizet! she screamed.

And then the smash of beads against my back, whips coming from both sides. My face was in my mother's neck as she pressed her hands and the rosaries into me. The rest of the circle stood frozen and confused.

She pushed me away and held me at arm's length, then let me go.

—Es mi hija, she said to the women around her. Everyone! This is my daughter!

All the women in the circle gawked at me, like maybe I was a sign from God, or some evil visiting. Several of them whispered to their neighbors—only one or two words of shock—and I thought maybe I should twirl around or something, but all I did was pull my shirt down at my waist with both hands, which let me hunch my shoulders like a boxer readying for a blow. Mami tugged me closer to the circle's center.

—What are you doing here? she said.

—I came down for Easter. I came down to get you.

I worried someone somewhere was snapping a picture; Mami was grinning like this was a possibility. The circle collapsed in closer.

—Another gift this Easter, she said. I am so happy you are here for this.

My mom grabbed my hand and squeezed it too hard, like she'd either really missed me or was really mad: the kind of grip you'd throw on the shoulder of a misbehaving toddler as you dragged them around a corner to beat them. I had no idea what to make of her reaction and so searched for Leidy, to read her face and see if she was signaling anything to me:
Get out now
or
You're on your own
or
See, I told you
or
Oh my god you're bringing her back single-handedly!
I couldn't spot her through the ring of women, so I looked all around me and ventured, This is so great!

—Yes! Our faith is moving mountains. Do you want some water?

I tried shifting a little away from her, just to get her whole body into view, but the women around us made that hard to do. Their black clothes radiated heat, and some had cheeks so red and foreheads so sweaty that I couldn't believe they hadn't passed out.

—No, I'm okay, but can we – let's go home, I said to Mami.

The women all got silent and I said, Just for a little while. It's so hot. It's Good Friday. And I want to see you.

—I can't, she said. We're here praying, we can't stop. The court said yesterday that his family has the right to refuse his return, and we are giving thanks and praying it doesn't get reversed. Because the others, they keep calling.

—The others, I said.

—Janet Reno, Bill Clinton's people. They think they are bigger than the courts, than history. We are praying for God to intervene. He will. He has. We are praying all weekend and then Monday we're marching to the courthouse to thank the mayor, God bless him.

—From
here
?

—He says Ariel will stay, and he told the news that the federal government can't overrule him.

—I don't think the mayor gets to say that, Mami.