This Side of Providence (15 page)

One night before going to bed, Cristo tells me he thinks Kim agreed to take us so they can get money from the state.

“She's going to file for temporary custody and collect checks like César's grandmother did when she agreed to take him in.”

He pulls the cushions off the couch and starts making up the bed.

“But she's not even related to us. Chino is.”

“Exactly, dummy, that's why it'll work. She'll get money because she's taking in kids she doesn't have any ties to. So she
ends up looking like this nice lady who's just trying to help.”

I put down my book to get our pillows from the closet. “I thought she
was
trying to help us.”

He shakes his head. “You know, for a straight-A student you're not always that smart.”

“Well, she is letting us stay here.”

“Yeah, right,” he says, making a face. “And she's letting us do all the dishes and take out the trash and eat cold chicken wings instead of giving them to the stray dogs to finish off. Sure, she's going out of her way to help us. A real fucking saint.”

He spreads the comforter over the mattress and tucks it in at the bottom. Then he climbs into bed with his English Reader textbook and opens it to Chapter One, even though we're three weeks into the school year and my class is already on Chapter Five. I sit down next to him, pulling my backpack onto my lap. I take out my math book and slowly peel off the recycled paper cover the teachers always ask us to put over our books. I pull out a thick white envelope from the inside of the cover, where I hid it back in June, right after they took her away. It has my mother's name written in block letters across the top, right under the printed words that say:
Women, Infants, and Children
.

“Here.” I hand Cristo the envelope.

“Where'd you get this?” he asks, turning it over to examine both sides.

“From the jar in the kitchen, where she used to keep it.”

“Hang on,” he says, sliding his finger inside the envelope to count the remaining checks. “I looked for these in the summer, when she first went away. I thought we were all out.”

His eyes narrow and for the first time since taking them, I worry that he might be mad.

“I didn't want anything to happen to them,” I tell him. “I was trying to help.”

“And you didn't think we needed them, after Lucho left?”

“Look at the dates. They weren't good back then.” I point to the place on each check where it lists the dates you can use them. “See, they're only good now. Two hundred each, for September, October, and November.”

He studies the checks like he doesn't believe me. “Does
Kim know you have these?”

I shake my head. “I didn't tell anyone. I knew you wouldn't want me to.”

“Good.” He tucks the checks back into the envelope. “You did good, Luz.” He smiles at me, and then tugs on one of my braids. I reach out and tug on a piece of his hair to get him back. Usually his hair is so short I can't grab anything, but now it's so long it's starting to curl.

“Wow, you need a haircut,” I tell him, hoping he doesn't take it as an insult.

“Yeah, I was thinking about asking Kim, but…” He runs his hand over the top of his head like he's checking a carpet for wet spots.

“What, you don't want her touching your head?”

“Nah, it's not that.” He shrugs. “I just don't want to owe her anything. Anything more.”

I guess he's talking about how she's letting us stay here and everything, but I'm not thinking about what we owe her or anybody else. We're the ones who lost our home and our mother and our baby sister. Why doesn't anyone think about who owes us?

I already finished my homework, so I put away my math book and pull out a novel by some guy named John Irving I found sitting on the roof of an abandoned car. I like reading about a family crazier than mine. For a long time we sit like that, reading together on the pull-out couch. If somebody passed by and looked in the window I bet we'd look like a normal family spending time together on a Tuesday night. Occasionally, when Cristo doesn't know a word, he leans over and points to it, and I say it out loud and he repeats it and then we go back to the quiet.

A little bit later his pager goes off, startling us both. He checks it without saying a word, then exhales and closes his book. He gets out of the bed and pulls on his sneakers and a sweatshirt.

“I thought you stopped working for Snowman.”

“I never said that.”

“But when we left Sophia Street, I just figured…you didn't
need to do it anymore.”

“Well you figured wrong.”

I hold my finger in the book to keep my place. “Is he paying you yet?”

“I'm keeping track of it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means I'm saving up, so we can look for a new place when Mami comes home. Something even nicer than before.”

Somehow I doubt that an eleven-year-old can make enough money running errands to land us a better apartment than Mami's welfare checks and Section 8 could, but I don't say anything. We all have our dreams.

“Cover for me, okay? If anybody asks where I am.” He shoves his backpack under the covers, trying to make it look like a sleeping body. “Tell them I fell asleep here so you covered me up.”

I cross my arms. “And what will you bring me if I do?”

He exhales. “What do you want?”

“A KitKat bar. Or maybe M&Ms.” I pause to think. “No, no, Skittles. Two bags.”

“I'll see what there is,” he says, and before I can thank him he slips out the door like a ghost.

It's late now, and I know I should just turn out the lights and go to sleep, but I've never had to sleep alone. I'm just not used to it. I pick up Cristo's notebook and check over his homework. Most of what he's done is right, but almost all of the worksheets are empty. I go through them and fill in all the answers, copying his handwriting the best I can. I even mess up a few to make it look like he did it. When I finish spelling, I move on to math, then life science and history. It takes me almost an hour to finish what was probably every one of his assignments since the beginning of the year.

I flip to the back of his notebook and start doodling on the empty pages, writing my name in all different styles. Then I write all our names:
Cristoval. Trinidad. Lucila.
When I write my mother's name,
Arcelia
, it looks like a foreign word, something beautiful that I wouldn't know how to pronounce. I stare at it for a while and then without meaning to I start to write down
the first words that come into my head.

Mother.

Skinny.

Sick.

Gone
.

I stare at the list for what feels like hours. Then I start a new list, of things I remember from when I was Trini's age. Good things.

Pretty smile.

Wet hair.

Painted fingernails.

The smell of lavender.

The sound of her laughing, like pennies dropping.

I close my eyes. I can see her so clearly it's like I'm looking straight into a photograph. When I open my eyes I compare the two lists. I stare at the words for a long time. On a new page I write:
Why don't you do those things anymore? Why don't you laugh?

Next thing I know I'm writing a letter to my mother, asking her everything I've wanted to ask since I can remember. I wrote her lots of letters over the summer, but none were longer than a paragraph, and none asked her anything directly. The questions come so fast my hand can hardly keep up with them.

             
Why did you leave Puerto Rico for America?

             
Why did you take me with you?

             
Why did you leave Cristo behind?

             
Why did you stop cooking Spanish food?

             
Why did you stop eating?

             
Why can't you get a real job so we can live in our own house?

             
Are we homeless?

             
Why did you tell me not to tell Cristo they wanted me to skip a grade?

             
Why doesn't Scottie take us out anymore?

             
Do you still love him?

             
Do you love my father?

             
Do you love Lucho like you love a man?

             
Why did Lucho leave us?

             
Why did you leave us?

             
Is Papi still your husband, even though you left him behind?

             
Does he miss me?

             
Do you miss me?

             
Are my grandparents still alive?

             
Do I have any cousins?

             
Why do some people understand Spanish and others can't?

             
Do you think I'm pretty, even though I look like my father?

             
Do you have any pictures of him?

             
Do you have any pictures of me?

             
Why can't we come visit you?

             
Are you ever coming home again?

             
Can we still be a family, even though we don't live together?

             
If you die, will you still be my mother?

I read over the page, thinking about how to put those questions into a letter that I could actually send her. I read it one more time. Then, on a fresh sheet of paper I start a new letter.

             
Dear Mami,

             
How are you? We are fine. We are living with Chino and Kim because Lucho left. It is nice here. Their TV is huge and it gets over 100 stations. School is good. I am the class president again. I like my teacher and I like the fifth grade. My locker is near the library so I get all the best books.

             
I hope you come home soon.

             
Love, Luz

This is the letter I send.

 

       
S
HE SEES
the girl standing in the shower. The girl is older now, almost thirteen. Almost a woman. She touches the tiles on the wall, white with pink flowers. They are cool like metal. She is not alone. Her cousin is with her. He stands against her, his front to her backside. She can feel his penis against the small of her back. He is taller than her now, almost as tall as a man. She holds her breath as he enters her. She prays to leave her body. She stares at the tiles and imagines that she is in that field of pink flowers. When he is done, he cleans her body with a washcloth. The soap burns between her legs as he washes himself out of her. She doesn't even flinch. She is used to pain. She begins to cry, but he doesn't notice. She puts her face in the water to hide her tears. The water is hot. It burns her skin.

Arcelia

O
nce my numbers are up and I'm feeling better, the doctors start coming clean about how sick I really was. They say I had walking pneumonia and a low T-cell count and in a few more weeks I coulda died. I guess getting arrested saved my life. Maybe I should write those cops a thank-you letter.

Yeah, right.

But seriously, I am thankful for some things. Not to be in here—but to be alive. To be clean. To be more than a hundred pounds. Those are two of the things I put on my gratitude list, this stupid thing the counselor has us do in our group sessions. She says it's an important part of our recovery, 'cause every addict needs to find something to be grateful for when they're sober or else they're gonna go back to using. We're supposed to go to those twelve-step meetings too, but I can only handle so much God-talk in one week. I'm a good Catholic—I believe in God and all that shit—but I'm pretty sure He's got bigger things to worry about than keeping me clean.

Our counselor is this blond-haired white girl who says she's twenty-five but looks fifteen and is in college getting a degree in social work. First off, I don't get why someone would want to go to school just to study poor people. Can't you just hang out at the local Dunkin' Donuts and learn it all for free? And second, why is it that the people with the real problems—addicts, mothers on welfare, guys in prison—always get the student interns, but the wealthy folks on the east side who worry about their cats being depressed get the doctors with licenses and a shitload of
experience?

But, whatever, she's a decent kid. She don't preach, and she don't talk down to us. A few times we met alone and I felt like she listened to me—at least better than sober people usually do—and she didn't say anything dumb about how it was all gonna be okay. We didn't really do much besides talk but I felt better when I left and maybe for a few hours after. Usually nothing can make me feel good for too long, except drugs or eating a bunch of food that feels like home. The problem is when I start thinking about having three months left and being sick and missing my kids so bad I end up drawing pictures of them in my notebook when I run out of words. Then I feel pretty lousy all over again.

One of the things they're always saying in here is, “One day at a time.” Easy for them to say. They're not looking at one or two hundred of those days laid out end to end, knowing each one is gonna look exactly like the one before it. They don't have to count those days by marking the wall with lipstick or chewing gum 'cause someone stole your calendar while you were waiting in line for your meds. They also say, “We can't keep it unless we give it away.” What the fuck does that mean? If I give it away then I don't have it anymore, so how can I keep it? Sometimes I think I'm the only sober one in the group. At least I'm over here trying to tell the truth.

When a new girl joins the group—clean only four days—she sits in the corner and picks her nails the whole time. I tell her after how I did the same thing to get through my first meeting and she needs to stick it out 'cause even though she feels like shit right now it does get better. Not easier really, but somehow okay. Then I tell her all you have to do to survive is to make it out alive. She thinks it's cute—how I make it rhyme like that—and tells me she's gonna say it to herself over and over again to get through the night. I see her in the cafeteria the next day and we been talking ever since.

Her name is Candy and she's twenty-one and grew up in South Providence. She says she's only ever left RI twice, both times to buy drugs outside Boston. Pills were her thing—and coke when she could get it—but she don't drink nothing but
Diet Dr Pepper. She had a really good job dancing at the Pink Lady until she got jumped by a client and quit when the manager said it was her fault. She doesn't have any kids and she doesn't want any. She says it's hard enough looking after herself and her younger sister, who's still in high school and has to get by with a part-time job at Burger King and their grandmother's Social Security checks.

Candy's real pretty and she keeps touching my hand when we talk, in that girl way that means she wants to kiss me. Straight girls always like me—something about not feeling threatened—but nothing happens till a few nights later, when I bite into a peach pit in the cobbler and crack my tooth. By nighttime it hurts so bad I can't sleep, so I call to the guard and beg for some aspirin. She says I have to wait until morning to see the nurse so I bury my head in the pillow so nobody can hear me cry. One of the ladies in my room gives me a soda can to use as an ice pack but after twenty minutes it's not cold anymore and I end up drinking it instead, pouring it straight down my throat so it won't touch my tooth.

I guess I finally fall asleep 'cause I feel someone shaking my arm later and when I turn over there's Candy, sitting on the side of my bed holding out a bunch of pills.

“Here, I cheeked them during my detox,” she whispers. “They'll make everything go away.”

I swallow two dry and put the rest in my bra for later. I can't make out her face in the dark room but her hair is all puffed out and lit up from behind. It spirals away from her head like a child's drawing of the sun.

“How'd you get out of your room?” I ask her. “I thought you were in the locked wing.”

“I did a few favors for the guard. Now she's paying me back.”

I sit up to give her more room on the bed.

“No, lay down,” she says, pushing me against the bed. She keeps her hand on my chest. “You should rest.” After a few seconds she touches my face with her fingertips. “Which side hurts?”

“Right there,” I say. “On the top.”

She starts rubbing my cheek in small circles, real soft so I can barely feel her touching me.

“It should feel better in a few minutes,” she says. “Once it gets into your bloodstream.”

“I don't have a good sense of time,” I tell her. My eyes are used to the dark by now and I can see a little smile on her face.

“I'll know,” she says, still rubbing my cheek.

I don't remember who makes the first move, but next thing I know Candy is laying on top of me and we're kissing and taking off our clothes and trying not to make any noise. The pain in my tooth goes away and soon I can't feel anything except Candy's lips on my skin and the weight of her body pressed against me, pinning me to the bed. I forgot how much I like the feeling of another person's body against mine—the heat of her thighs; her strong, surprising tongue; the weight of her tits against my belly—it all feels like magic, like I never been touched before.

I don't sleep at all that night, but when I get out of bed in the morning—an hour after Candy sneaks back to her own room—I feel good inside, like I slept for twenty-four hours straight. And I feel full, as if all those magazine pictures on my wall became real food and we had stayed up eating all night long and now I just got to wait for my body to fill up and realize I been fed.

It's October and I haven't had a visitor in over a month. It's like they all forgot about me. But I still get letters from Luz every week, bless her heart, lying to me about how great everything is. Or maybe she's telling the truth—which is even more fucked up. I don't want my kids to struggle, but if they have it too easy, they won't need me to come back. She says they want to come visit but there's no way I'm gonna let that happen. Knowing I'm in here is bad enough—they don't need to see it, too. Drowning in this ugly jumpsuit with my dye-job grown out and my bangs too long, my skin yellow under these fluorescent lights—who wants to remember that? If I let them come, this is how they're
gonna remember me—even when I'm free they'll still see me behind bars.

I finally get word that Lucho left. I can't say I'm surprised, but I wanted to believe she changed—or at least tried to. But I guess people don't change unless they got no other choice. No different than me really. Would I be clean if I wasn't locked up? No. Would I be talking to a counselor? No. Would I be eating three meals a day? No. People change when life makes them change. Simple as that.

I still don't like writing letters, but the counselor has me doing it every week. I feel stupid holding a pen and trying to come up with something to say. She keeps telling me to open up to my kids about my past. Tell them how I was hurt and try to fix the things I did to hurt them. If I do it now when I'm locked up, then I don't got to look them in the face when I tell them. Guess I'm a coward for needing to hide behind a letter, but other times I think I got balls just to put it all down. Either way, I'm telling them things they could probably figure out on their own. Kids don't miss shit. They were there for lots of fights between me and Scottie, and they got to remember something from the time with their father. They saw more than I wanted them to see and I know I can never make up for that.

When I find out my kids are living with Chino and Kim it makes me want to get out of here even faster. Once somebody saves your kids you pretty much owe them the world. I don't want to owe anybody that much. All Kim's talk about not being able to take all three—I knew that was bullshit. I guess it just took Chino a while to talk her into it.

I still don't sleep much, but when I do I dream about Puerto Rico. The scent of magnolia blossoms so strong I wake up still smelling them. I picture the sky at night and the feeling of the breeze, the sound of guitar music coming from somebody's open window. I remember the smell of fields burning to clear the old crops, and the sound the coqui frogs make when they're mating, loud like sirens. I don't think I had a lot of dreams before getting locked up—or maybe I just forgot them—but they're so real in here I wake up thinking I'm still at home. That I'm a little girl again, sleeping at the foot of my mother's
bed after another nightmare, the warmth of her body still held in the sheets.

Mostly I'm alone in my dreams, walking through the old parts of town, but other times I'm with my mother, picking mangos from the tree in our backyard. Once I dream I'm with my own children, showing them parts of the island they never got to see or were too young to remember. I wish those dreams made me feel better, but they don't really. Probably because I spend too much time trying to figure out if they're from the past or the future.

I know it's dangerous to even think this way, but some days I do have hope. Hope that I'll make it back to my kids so we can start a new life together. Hope that I can give them a home. Hope that one day I'll think back to these days—being locked up in here and even the time I lived in Providence—and they'll feel so distant and strange that I'll wonder if this, too, was all just a dream.

Without the drugs to block it out, my memory starts to slowly come back. I still have flashes, but they're longer now, like scenes from a movie I don't remember making, my childhood a story someone told me that I tried to forget. I tell the counselor what I see in the flashes. She asks where I am, who the man is, and why I'm not afraid of the boy, even though he ends up doing the same things to my body that the man does.

I tell her the man is our neighbor, a farmer with large, dark hands and a mustache he rolls into points with candle wax. He is also my father's boss, and later hires three of my brothers to build a fence around his property so the goats don't escape. He smells sweet like hay and always has fresh-picked carrots in his pocket, their bushy green stems like a bouquet of wildflowers, which he lets me feed to his horses one at a time. He tells me there are no words for what he does to me, so we can never talk about it. My voice is the second thing he takes from me—my memory, the last.

I tell her the boy is my cousin, the son of my mother's only
brother, and that he lives in the mountains but comes down to our village every summer to stay with us. He is a few years older than me and I love how he tells stories that make everybody laugh. He can make animal sounds so real my mother thinks there's a goat trapped in the closet. He is different from the man because he is just a boy when it starts, and he is part of my family. And he tells me he loves me. But it is still wrong. I know that. I feel it in the sickness in my belly every time he leaves my room. But I don't do anything to stop it. I don't want to fight him. I don't want to fight him and lose.