Sam smiled. “You’ll make us some?”
“Sure, amor. I’ll make you some of my tortillas.”
Sam and I watched her as she made the dough, never measuring, just working out of years and years of memory. Like Mima. I guess there were some women who just knew how to make tortillas, who liked making them, who fed people with their art. I guess there were people walking around in the world who understood how to comfort people. Comfort, that was the word for the day. I liked that word better than death.
No one said anything. There was only the sound of Lina rolling out tortillas on the kitchen table.
I was thinking about Mima.
In the middle of all our silence Dad walked into the room. “I’m home,” he said. “Hello, Lina.”
“Vicente.”
“Tortillas,” he said.
Lina nodded. “It’s what I do. I make tortillas.”
Until then, I didn’t know that they’d even met. That they knew each other. God, I really didn’t know a damn thing.
My dad looked at Sam. “Hi,” he said.
Sam fell into his arms and sobbed. “I’m all alone now,” she kept repeating.
And Dad kept whispering, “No, you’re not, Sam. No, you’re not.”
And all I did—?all I could do? All I could do was watch.
Dad and Lina (and Secrets)
DAD AND LINA were having coffee and eating tortillas in the kitchen. They were talking about funeral arrangements. They were talking about Sylvia’s insurance—?whether she had any. And a will? Did she have one of those? Dad seemed to have all the answers. Yes, she had insurance. Yes, she had a will.
Lina was surprised.
Sam was surprised too.
“I have copies,” Dad said. I had a funny feeling that somehow my dad had helped Sylvia organize her life. She hadn’t been the most organized person in the world—?judging from the way she kept her house. Could you think bad things about the dead? Was that allowed?
But then I got to thinking that it was strange to live one’s life and still be prepared for death. I didn’t get it. I mean, I got it a little bit. I mean, it was a good thing that Sylvia had left a will. Sam would be taken care of.
Lina and Dad started making a list of what needed to be done. I guess that’s part of what the living did—?they took care of their dead.
Sam and I got bored. Or maybe we just couldn’t deal with it. But I was glad about the whole discussion Dad and Lina were having, because it seemed to calm Sam down. They were taking control. Adults could be good that way. Some of them, anyway.
And this thought entered my head: Sylvia was dead, and she wasn’t ever coming back. And there was nothing Dad or Lina could do about it; this was something beyond their control.
Sam and I slipped out into the living room, not knowing what to do with ourselves. I kept studying her face.
“Stop doing that,” she said. Maggie placed her head on Sam’s lap. “Tell him, Maggie, tell him to stop staring at me.”
“I’m not staring. I’m just worried about you.”
“Well, I’m worried about me too.” And there was a moment of real grief in her voice. “I feel strange,” she said. “And empty. I feel empty.”
“And you sound tired.”
“It’s all that crying.”
“Crying is good.”
“But it makes you tired.” She kept petting Maggie’s head. “She’s gone, Sally. She’s gone.” She wasn’t going to cry, not then. I think she just needed to say it.
“Yes,” I said.
“I didn’t tell her I loved her.”
“She knew.”
“You think so?”
“Samantha, she knew.”
She nodded. “I want to sleep forever.”
“Sleep. Yeah, try and get some sleep.”
I watched her get up quietly and walk toward the spare bedroom, Maggie following close behind. Sleep, Sam, and when you wake, I’ll be here. I promise. I’ll be here.
I shouldn’t have listened in on the conversation. But I’m not really sorry. Dad and Lina were sitting on the back steps. And the door was open. I could hear every word. Both of them smoking cigarettes. Yeah, I could’ve just walked into the backyard and they would have changed the subject, but—?I just stood there, listening.
“Vicente, I’m so damned angry with her.”
“It doesn’t do much good to be angry with the dead.”
“I know that. Don’t you think I know that? She was driving. And she was drunk. God, who does that? Who pulls shit like that? She had a daughter.”
“Calm down, Lina. Just—”
“Just what?”
“Let’s just do this. For Sam. Her mother’s dead. It was an accident.”
“Her whole life was an accident.”
“So how long are you going to stay mad?” There was a pause, and I could picture my dad taking a drag from his cigarette. “You’ve been mad at her for how long?”
“My whole fucking life.”
“So you’re going to keep a grudge? She’s dead. Really? Let it go.”
“Just like that, huh? Just like that? You have no idea what my sister put me through.”
“Oh, I have a pretty good idea. I may not know the details, but I have a pretty good idea.” There was another pause, and then I heard my dad saying, “Promise me something, Lina. Just promise me one thing.”
“Promise you what?”
“Don’t tell Sam how her mother died.”
“You mean lie to her?”
“What do you suggest? Hurt her a little more? Is that what you want?”
“You know that’s not what I want.”
“Then all we have to say, Lina, is that it was a car accident. What’s so hard about that? And it was a car accident.”
“It’s a lie.”
“Promise me.”
I know I shouldn’t have heard that conversation. I should have walked away from the kitchen, far away from their voices. But I wasn’t sorry. I wasn’t sorry at all. As I walked toward the front porch, I wondered who was right, Lina or my father. I didn’t know my father was capable of lying about things that really mattered. But I thought I understood that Sam mattered more to him than the truth behind an accident report. I was glad I’d heard. It helped me. It was time for me to grow up—?even though I had always wanted things to stay the same. I wasn’t in charge of the world around me. My dad had spent most of his energies protecting me. Maybe there had been a time for that. Now the time for protecting me was coming to an end. But I wasn’t ready to be a man. That was the truth. And Sam wasn’t ready to be a woman. And I guessed a little more protecting wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Because Sam and I still needed it.
Lipstick
“I WANT TO GO home.”
I just looked at her.
“Will you come with?”
“Sure.” I knew I was wearing a question mark on my face.
“I need to get some things.”
“We’ll take the car.”
Sam nodded.
Sam stood outside her house for a long time, staring at the door. She handed me her key. I opened the door. I took her hand. “It’s okay,” I said.
“Nothing’s okay.”
“I’m here,” I said.
She looked around the house as if she’d never seen it. She walked toward her mother’s bedroom. The door was open. “She made her bed,” she whispered. She looked at me. “She never made her bed.”
I kept studying her.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry.”