Letters from Heaven / Cartas del cielo (4 page)

I tell my mom about a dream I had where a tiny tornado picked me up and lifted me inches off the ground.

“I was spinning around and around,” I tell her. “Like I was dancing to a rhythm that gets faster and faster until it's out of control. Then, all of a sudden, the wind stopped blowing and, boom! I fell to the floor like a ripe mango . . . I couldn't get up and I started screaming, but nobody came. And then I woke up.”

“
Cielo
,” she says tenderly. “I'm always near you.”

“I know.”

When I get to school, I see Karen and Silvia down the hallway. From afar, they look like a perfect ten: tall and skinny Karen and Silvia, short and chubby. They say hi to me as if nothing had happened. Well, maybe nothing did happen.

“What did you do this weekend?” Karen asks.

“Cook, go to the supermarket and wash a never-ending pile of dishes,” I tell them.

All of a sudden, I realize I sound like an old lady. “And I also watched a couple of shows on TV,” I add.

“And you didn't go to the studio?” Silvia asks.

“No,” I say. “I don't think I'm going to dance anymore. I don't really like it that much.”

They both look at me, shocked. I try to seem indifferent so that they won't notice that I'm lying. The truth is, I've loved to dance ever since I was
born. They both know this because I can never wait in line without dancing. And if there's music playing, something inside me moves, even when I don't want it to.

“What about you?” I say, changing the subject. “What did you do?”

“I spent the weekend reading one of the Secret Society books,” Karen says. “It was so good I even skipped dinner . . . I forgot to eat!”

“That never happens to me,” Silvia says, rubbing her round stomach. “Speaking of food, Celeste, did you bring anything good today . . . like
cangrejitos
?”

“Not today, sorry,” I tell her. “Grandma hasn't written to me in the past few days, so I don't know what to make.”

Silvia and Karen give each other a look.

“Celeste, you worry me,” Silvia says. “You have to accept that your grandma died, forever . . . ”

I feel a burst of anger inside of me and I know that I'm not in control of what I'm about to say.

“Look, Silvia, I've always worried about your big fat belly and the amount of candy that you eat every day, but I never tell you what to do. So do me a favor, and leave me alone!”

I immediately feel horrible about saying that. But I'm so sick of her comments. What does she know about what's happening to me?

The rest of the day goes by in a fog. Between the neighbor's dogs that won't stop barking and my weird dreams, I haven't been sleeping very well. Now Silvia and Karen are in the corner whispering; probably talking about me. And to make things worse, Amanda is coming my way with a toothy smile plastered on her face.

“Celeste, you've missed the last three dance classes,” she says, running her fingers through her long blond hair. “One more and you won't be dancing in the recital.”

“I'm not going to dance anymore,” I tell her. “So don't worry, you no longer have any competition.”

“Competition? Seriously? You think you're
my
competition?” she says. “Oh, Celeste, you are so wrong.”

“Get lost, Amanda,” I tell her, trying to hide the fury in my voice.

“No, Celeste, you're the one that has to go,” she tells me. “Go back to your country!”

I'm so mad I don't even know how to respond. I shove her and she pretends to fall to the floor and cry. I know she's faking it. But if by chance I really hurt her, that's even better.

I'm surprised to see that Lisa has come to pick me up. At least I can see one smiling face on this awful day. I run to greet her and she gives me a hug that nearly knocks me to the ground.

“Hey, beautiful,” she says. “How was your day?”

“Don't ask,” I tell her.

“Well, let's talk about something happy . . . What did you cook last night?”

“Chicken with
mariquitas
and a salad,” I tell her. “Doña Esperanza showed me how to season the chicken and Mami helped with the frying.”

“How yummy!” she says. “Something told me I should've stopped by last night . . . ”

“It wasn't anything special,” I tell her. “Besides, we've been eating so much chicken lately, that I think we're going to start laying eggs.”

“I'm sure your grandma will teach you how to make some new dishes soon,” she says. “Look at how much you've learned already!”

My mouth drops open. How does she know? I think for a minute that maybe she's the one writing the letters . . . But it can't be. I'm sure they're in Grandma's handwriting.

“I believe in those things, Celeste,” she says, sensing my surprise. “When people die, there's a part of them that stays here, with us . . . And they continue to talk to us and to teach us things.”

I listen. But I'm not sure what to think.

I can hear the barking all the way from around the corner. I never really know if the neighbor's dogs are saying hi or warning me not to get too close. I look at them from a distance, but Lisa sticks her hand through the fence and pets them. They immediately calm down, as if by magic, and they lick her hands. Just in case, I stick my hands in my pockets. They are safe there.

When I get home I see that the mail has been delivered. In between the bills and advertisements there is a single white envelope, handwritten and without a return address. I don't have to open it to know it's from Grandma!

My Dear Celeste
,

I'm a bit tired, but I know that soon I'll get the chance to rest. I don't want to say goodbye without first letting you know that you and your mother have made me so very happy. Your mother, so loyal and caring to me and so dedicated to you . . . Tell her I'm so proud of her. And of you, too, my beloved granddaughter. Of your good grades, your dedication to dancing, your interest in the stories of the past and, above all, your caring heart
.

How I'd like to be there to help you prepare these recipes! But I know you can do it. And I also know that if you get stuck, you will know to ask for help. Never be afraid to ask for help! Most people like to help. Remember that, always
.

Here is my recipe for ropa vieja, the dish you love so much. You will see how easy it is to make. (And don't be scared of the pressure cooker, it's not going to explode!)

Your grandma that loves you
,

Rosa

Grandma's letter leaves me feeling a bit sad. I wonder if this will be the last I receive. But I pull myself together and call Doña Esperanza to give her the news. After all, she's been waiting for this recipe for years.

“I got it!” I tell her. “I finally got it!”

“What did you get?” she asks, confused.

“Grandma's recipe,” I say, “to make
ropa vieja
!”

“I'll be right over,” she says and hangs up the phone.

In the kitchen, I start to hunt down the ingredients, but I'm missing so many! We don't even have skirt steak, the main ingredient. This really will be a poor person's meal.

In a short while, Doña Esperanza arrives with a mountain of things: meat, tomato sauce, peppers, garlic, cumin . . . She's like a walking supermarket!

“Let me see,” she says, ripping the letter out of my hands.

I love seeing her almost as excited as I am.

Between the two of us we start chopping up the vegetables. I slice the onions and, like always, I start to cry. But this time my tears are not entirely caused by the onion. I cry for my grandma, because I miss her, and for my friends, because they don't understand me. And for my mami, because she isn't here with us.

“What's wrong,
m'ija
?” Doña Esperanza asks me. “Is it the onion?”

“Yes and no,” I tell her. “There's this girl in school who's been making my life miserable. And to top it all off, ever since the letters from Grandma started coming, my friends treat me as if I'm crazy.”

“Well, what do
you
think?” she asks. “Do you think you're going crazy?”

“Sometimes . . . I don't know,” I tell her, wiping my face with a kitchen towel. “I like that Grandma writes to me . . . but it is a bit weird.”

“I wouldn't worry too much about it if I were you,” she says, putting the knife aside for a second. “As your grandma used to say, ‘everything comes and everything goes . . .' If I were you, I'd enjoy the letters and not worry so much about how they got here.”

My eyes burn. This time it's because of the onion. Doña Esperanza finishes slicing it and I start chopping the garlic. It has a really strong smell, but it doesn't make me cry.

When Mami gets home, she's surprised to see Doña Esperanza cooking in our kitchen.

“What's all this?” she says, looking at the valve dancing on top of the pressure cooker.

“
Ropa vieja
,” I announce, proudly. “It should be done in half an hour.”

Mami sits down at the table and watches us cook. But her break doesn't last very long. After a few minutes, Doña Esperanza takes off her apron and puts it around Mami's waist.

“Come on, Rosita, you can help us with the
sofrito
,” she tells her. “It's the most important part.”

I can see that Mami is about to protest, but Doña Esperanza puts the garlic in her hand so that she can add it to the hot oil.

I don't want it to show, so as to not break the spell, but for the first time today, I feel really happy.