Out of the Box(30)

I blow on my tea. “Hate to say this, but I’m not sure how respectful it is if everything you say makes her fall apart.”

“Ellie,” she says, “right now, anything anyone says will upset her, so we might as well say what we think. She needs professional help. You can’t hold yourself responsible for fixing her. Or your father either, for that matter.”

We go around and around the same issues for another twenty minutes or so before I tell her I’m going to bed.

The chocolate has done nothing for my soul, and the chamomile hasn’t helped either. I stare at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time my parents were both happy. What comes up instead is the picture Facundo talked about, of his father playing the bandoneón and his mother clapping behind him. I imagine them, Andrés with his eyes closed and a little smile on his face, and Caterina grinning. I hope Facundo can hold that image in his mind rather than imagining their faces as they were killed.

I’d like to ask Facundo how he manages to smile, how he can know what he knows about his parents and his life and still find moments of happiness. I want to ask him why my mother, who has a home, work she loves and a daughter who gets straight A’s, can be miserable.

Christmastime, I suddenly remember. Right after my violin recital, my parents looked at me like I’d won the Nobel Prize, and they didn’t stop grinning all evening.

I close my eyes, clinging to that image, but more recent memories blur it within seconds.





TWENTY-TWO


Isail home from my bandoneón lesson on my old bike, humming the piece that Frank played for me. It’s by a Finnish composer. Who knew that tango was wildly popular in Finland, of all places?

I bump up onto the sidewalk and ride through the tiny park at the end of Jeanette’s cul-de-sac. As I swing off my seat in front of my aunt’s house, I spot Sarah next door, reading on the steps. I say hi, and she raises her hand in greeting but doesn’t look up.

I have to apologize, especially if I plan on staying here. I still haven’t decided one way or another, but the more I play my bandoneón, or sit in Jeanette’s garden, or ride my bike, the more I want to stay. I’ll definitely have to learn to cook in self-defense, but how hard can it be? Besides, I’d like to do something to earn my keep.

I wheel my bike through the gate at the side of the house and lock it up.

“Ellie?” Jeanette is at the front door. “Is that you?”

“Yup. I’m back.”

“That’s good,” she says, “because your mother’s here.”



She’s sitting in the kitchen, reading a magazine. Her face is red and tear-streaked, but worried rather than angry. Worry is okay. I can deal with worry. I smile big and fling my arms around her.

She hugs me back, but her face remains tense. “You’re looking well.”

I look down at my faded blue shorts and the old black T-shirt. My legs and arms are tanned, but other than that, nothing about me has changed—on the outside anyway.

“I’m doing great,” I say, hoping she’ll add now that you’re here on her own.

She closes her magazine and pushes it away. “Please sit down.”

I drop into the chair opposite her. Jeanette remains standing, but grips the back of the chair beside me and offers us tea or juice. Mom shakes her head, her face so serious that for a split second I wonder if Dad’s been hit by a truck or something. Jeanette doesn’t look grief-stricken though. She looks mad.

“I think it would be best for everyone if you come home,” Mom says.

I stare at her. “Now? In the middle of the summer?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Mom looks from me to Jeanette. Her lower lip quivers dangerously, and she closes her eyes. “I don’t want Jeanette turning you against me,” she whispers.

The words are like ice water down my neck, but it’s what’s left unsaid—I don’t want her to take you away—that makes my stomach turn. All my life, Mom has talked about how Jeanette saved her from their alcoholic father and crazy mother. Now she’s glaring at my aunt as if she were a kidnapper.

My mother is being totally irrational, and I know I should get up now and go around the table to where she’s sitting. I should put my arms around her, whisper that she’s mistaken, and hold her close while she cries. She’ll break down and tell us about her problems with Dad, the stresses at work, and her worries about me. I’ll prop her up, talk to her gently, and eventually convince her that no one could ever turn me against the mother who’s done everything for me. She’ll nod, eyes shut as she regains control of her breathing, and finally she’ll smile and say thank you. She’ll stay for a few days and return home alone, leaving me to enjoy the rest of my summer.