The cab driver stepped out and popped the trunk. Blanche motioned to us, the receiving line, to help with her bags. Belén sighed loudly. Interesting. Tilly stalked forward, spine aligned like someone had shoved a metal rod up there, and I followed quickly, my own posture resembling that of someone who spent hours slumped over a keyboard.
Belén stood in front of her mother and paused, like she was trying to decide if she should kiss her or offer her a hand to shake. Blanche made the decision for her by putting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and kissing both her cheeks. Belén put her arms around her mother stiffly, in perhaps the most awkward embrace ever witnessed. I stifled a giggle, and caught Tilly glaring at me.
“What is your problem?” I whispered out the side of my mouth. She said nothing.
Blanche released Belén and turned to Tilly. “Matilda, darling, how are you?” Though I knew she’d lived in the US for decades, her voice was still delicately accented.
“I’m well, thank you, Abuela.”
Blanche rubbed Tilly’s arms. “I’m glad to hear that, sweetheart.” Then she winked at me, and I instantly smiled.
“And Tatum, let me look at you, dear,” she said, holding me at arm’s length and raking her deep brown eyes over me. It was oddly unnerving.
I stood stock still, the warmth of her hands on my arms, waiting for her to finish her assessment. She nodded once, let me go, and charged toward the house. The rest of us stood there in the June sunshine until Blanche shouted, “Come on, slowpokes!” I picked up the floral suitcase the cab driver had handed me and took off after her, Tilly and Belén reluctantly following.
Blanche was down the stairs already when I crossed through the front door. When I reached her room, I found her surveying her new digs, clicking her tongue. “I haven’t seen this in years.” She gestured with her little chin at the poncho. I wasn’t sure if she expected me to comment, but I did anyway.
“I think Belén thinks it’ll make you comfortable. Remind you of home, maybe?” I’d never been to Blanche’s house, but I thought it was perfectly reasonable to assume she might have some traditional Chilean pieces for her own home.
Blanche clicked her tongue again. “I’m sure she does.” What did that mean? There was definitely something underlying in Blanche’s words and tone. As I stood there trying to think of a polite way to pry without annoying her, Blanche turned and focused on me. The way she stared made me think she didn’t miss much; I felt totally transparent.
“You look melancholy, Tatum. Are you feeling down?”
I looked down at my body for the second time in ten minutes, and tried to see what she saw. My silver, beat-up gladiator sandals were laced around my ankles. My bare legs, not nearly as toned as Tilly’s, were thankfully tan, despite the fact I hadn’t spent much time in the sun. Next, denim shorts, strategically frayed at the edges, and a plain black tank top. I wasn’t trying to impress anybody. My chocolate-brown, shoulder-length hair was pushed back behind my ears, and I could feel my cheeks were flushed from the already-too-hot weather. I blinked at Blanche from behind the long lashes I’d been told I inherited from my mother. All in all, utterly forgettable, but melancholy? After the last several days, I supposed I ought to be, so maybe I was. I shrugged. “Maybe?”
She laughed. “At least you’re honest. So tell me something. Why am I here?”
“Belén invited you?” I stammered.
“Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you, dear.” Sarcasm on an old person was funny. “Why did she feel the need to invite me?”
I assumed Blanche already knew about my scandalous behavior, so I wondered why she was beating a dead horse. “Because she’s thinks I need a babysitter, and you drew the short straw.” It came out with more bite than I intended.
Luckily, she laughed again. “I wouldn’t call it the short straw. I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t think it was worth my time.”
Huh. So she thought this was a good way to spend her summer. Keeping watch over me. Curiouser and curiouser, this woman.
“I’m sure Belén told you all the gory details, so why do we need to rehash this?” I turned and started for the door, cheeks growing warmer, ashamed that another adult in my life was going to judge me, yet again, for something I didn’t do. I’d had about enough of that lately.
Blanche reached out and put a cool hand on my wrist. Her flowery perfume tickled my nose. “I want to hear the story from you. I know my daughter can give a . . . biased, shall we say, account of things. What really happened?”
I paused for a minute, considering. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to talk about my arrest for the millionth time, but something in the way she’d said “biased” made me doubt that Blanche was going to jump on the “Tatum is a juvenile delinquent” bandwagon.
My hesitation must have made her reconsider. She gripped my wrist a little more firmly, as if trying to send a signal. “Maybe now isn’t the best time. When you’re ready. And if you don’t ever want to talk, that’s okay too. But I’m a good listener.”
She raised her eyebrows meaningfully and let go. Baffled that a relative of Belén’s was actually going to let me make my own choice about something, I nodded and went to my room.
Abby emailed, asking again if she could give me credit for designing the logo on her website, which meant I needed to come up with a business name. Unlucky for me, being confined to the walls of our house the majority of my day gave me a lot of time to think about that. And lots of time to think meant I was lying faceup on my bed, staring at the ceiling, willing the design muse to take me. Everything I came up with felt too silly or immature, or just altogether not right. Anything that was a play on design or computers or pixels felt just plain oblivious. I wanted something special. Desperate, I started looking around my room for inspiration.
Piles of jewelry and cosmetics sat on my dresser in a haphazard fashion. Belén was forever nagging me to clean it up.
“How can you find anything in this mess?” she’d say. I ignored her tone. There was an art to my piles.
“I know exactly where everything is,” I’d retort, and she’d let it go. Until the next time she came into my room, anyway.