This Side of Providence (26 page)

Later I pass the flea market and see a Chinese man selling
encyclopedias. He gets my attention by saying he has something that will guarantee my kids will go to college.

“What's funny?” he says when I laugh. “You don't want your children to get an education?”

“If I had all those books, I'd live in a library.”

“Ninety-nine bucks for the whole set. Twenty-six volumes, that's less than five dollars a book. For your children, no? To invest in their future?”

“I only got one kid who reads.”

“Okay, okay. She like stories?” He pulls out a box from under the table. “I've got just the thing.” He hands me a book with a shiny white cover. “This has stories from all over the world.”

“How much?”

“Five dollars.”

“I only got two.”

“Take it,” he says, waving me away. “Give me the rest later.”

“I don't like to owe people.”

“Don't like to owe?” He has a wide smile on his face. “Who isn't in debt? To someone, for something?” He hands me the book. I see my face in the cover, my eyes so small I can't even see them. “Without debt, you have no life.”

I give him the two dollars and he bows to me. “Money passes between people just like knowledge. There is nothing to count, it just is.”

“
Gracias.
”

“Thank you for your time,” he says, kissing the dollar bills in his hand.

I zip the book into my jacket—Kim's jacket—and walk with my head down into the wind. I hear church bells ringing up the street and when I pass the church the clock says it's two o'clock. If I go now I can make it to school in time to catch my kids before they get on the bus. I can even meet their teachers and see their classrooms. One visit can't make up for all the time I been gone, but maybe it'll do something. At least show them that I care.

I take the shortcut over the highway and get there early, before the bell rings. The crossing guard watches me like she
thinks I'm gonna do something wrong. When I cross the street to get closer to the school she doesn't walk with me. She stands against the stop sign chewing bubble gum and talking on her walkie-talkie. The bell rings and the older kids come out first. They run like they're trying to escape. I wait for them to pass me, then I walk up the steps and stand by the front door. The doors look heavy. I see a teacher I recognize from when Cristo was younger and they called me into the school 'cause he pushed a kid down the stairs. I hide behind the open door, hoping she won't see me.

“You going inside?” A red-faced kid holds the door open.

I shake my head and walk down the stairs, crossing the street with the crowd. When I'm safe on the other side I look back. I stand behind the chain-link fence and scan the crowd for my kids. I see Luz walking alone with her head in a book. She doesn't stumble or slow down, even when she crosses the street to line up for the bus. When I call her name she stops and looks up. She doesn't see me. I say her name again and when her eyes find mine she looks confused, like she doesn't know who I am. I wave her over to me. She looks around first, like she's making sure it's okay.

“What are you doing here?” She looks worried. “Is something wrong?”

“I just wanted to see you. To see your school.”

“Oh. Well, school's over,” she says.

“I see that. But I still wanted to come by.”

Luz looks back to the bus line. “Cristo left early. He said he had to work.”

“Work?” I wonder what kind of work an eleven-year-old does.

“I think he had to help a teacher or something. I don't know.” She twists her braid around her finger and chews on the end. Like I'm making her nervous.

“Here, I got this for you.” I hand her the book, still warm from being inside my jacket.

“What's this for?” She takes it, but won't open it. “It's not my birthday or anything.”

“I know. But I thought you would like it. Stories from
around the world.” I cough into my sleeve. “You like stories, right?”

She turns it over and flips through the pages, like she's checking to make sure it's real. “Thanks.” She's looking down when she says it so I can't tell if she really means it.

“I'm sorry about the last book I got you,” I tell her. “The one I sent from inside. They didn't have a lot of choices.”

“That's okay,” she says. She tries to smile but she still looks upset.

The wind whips my hair into my eyes, making them burn.

“Well, I should go,” Luz says, “so I don't miss the bus.” She takes a step away from me.

“
Espera. Por favor.
” I reach out and tuck a loose piece of hair behind her ear. It's just an excuse to touch her. “I know you're mad at me. 'Cause I left you with Lucho, and then she left. Or maybe you're mad from way before that.” She looks at me but don't say nothing. “But you know what? I'm kinda pissed off, too. Here I am waiting all these months to get back to my kids, and now two of them aren't even with me. That sucks.” I try not to look at the other kids as they walk by us. “But I keep telling myself that it's okay because it's not gonna be like this forever. It's just a temporary thing, okay?”

“I know.” She looks away like she's bored.

“You're ten years old, and you think you know a lot of things. But I'm your mother, Luz. I could make you come with me. I could force you if I wanted. But I don't want to do that to my daughter. I want you to want to be with me.”

“Okay,” she says, leaning against the fence. “Can I go now?” She wrinkles up her face, looking just like Javier when he used to get mad if I stopped him on the way to the ballpark. My beautiful, angry little girl.

“I want you to know I forgive you,” I tell her.

“You forgive me?” Her face tightens up like she's confused.

“I was younger than you when my mother died and I missed her so much it made my belly sick. I threw up all the time. But before that, when she was alive and dying, I got so mad I used to sit outside her bedroom door and refuse to answer when she called me. I loved her so much, but I couldn't see her in pain.
I couldn't watch her die.”

Luz jams the toe of her sneaker into the fence, like she's gonna climb away from me. I put my hand on her shoulder. “It's okay to be pissed. I get it. But I'm telling you right now, it's gonna be different. I'll make things right and then you'll see. All of you are gonna see who I am.”

Luz tries to walk away but I won't let her. I squeeze my arms around her till she finally softens into me, like chocolate melting. She puts her face against my chest and I swear I feel my heart swell. I kiss her head and breathe in the smell of her shampoo.

“I like your shampoo,” I say into her ear. “You smell like a big juicy grapefruit.”

She laughs and tries to push me away. “You're silly, Mami.” Then she puts her head back down.

I hug her even tighter.
Mami.
A short, easy word. One she hasn't said in almost a year
.

Back in June, when I was inside, I went to my first twelve-step meeting at the ACI. Surprise, surprise—I hated it. The meetings on the outside are pretty much the same, and I don't like them either. They tell me to go to both meetings—NA and AA—but I like the snacks at the NA meetings better. And the people are just as fucked up as I am. I try going to one in Spanish but it's filled with a bunch of old men who hit on me during the fellowship break and offer to drive me home in cars that smell like their wives. The English meetings are better since they always follow the script. When a part comes I don't understand, I let my mind wander like it did when I was a little girl in church. Maybe that's the point—to get you thinking about something other than yourself.

The worst part is when they talk about God and how we need to follow His will and not our own. I gave up following God a long time ago, and He don't seem to have any real problem with it. They say if I don't want to use God I can choose anything else to be my higher power—a table, a chair, or some
other person—but I don't want to give myself over to any of those things either. I don't want to surrender. To me, that's like giving up. I'm tired as hell, but I still don't want to do that. I don't want to quit. Quitting means dying, as far as I can tell, and after all I went through I'm not gonna let that happen. It seems weak to admit you got no power over the addiction, and I don't want to be weaker than anything.

I keep going to different meetings so everybody will think I'm still a newcomer. That way I can always ask questions, and I don't have to remember anything about anyone else's story. I go to one meeting at St. Joe's and realize halfway through that I been there before, two years earlier for a six-day detox. During the break some lady comes up to me and tells me to just
keep coming back
, even if it doesn't make sense to me. I tell her I'll try, but really I just want her to leave me alone. She smiles and hugs me like we been best friends for years. I can't remember if her name is Karen or Kathy, but as she holds onto me in the middle of the room, I feel okay. Then she lets go and suddenly I feel light-headed. The bright fluorescent lights are shining down on me and I think I might faint.

“Are you okay?” she asks, holding onto me with both her hands.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I can't do this.”

She squeezes my hands as she holds them. “You don't have to do it by yourself, sweetheart. Remember that.” She hands me a copy of the big book of Alcoholics Anonymous. “Here, take this. I have another one at home. Just remember to keep coming back, okay? Even when you think it doesn't make sense.”

“That's what everybody keeps saying.”

She nods and rubs my shoulder. It's hard to let strangers touch me when I'm not fucked up, but I don't push her away. I know she's just trying to help.

“It's the truth,” she says, smiling at me, like she knows some secret I don't.

I walk out before it's over because I don't want to stand in the circle and hold hands with everybody and act like I think I'm gonna be okay. I know it's early—I only got out a month ago—but I don't know how long I can go on like this without
getting outside of myself. They tell me to do that by giving my will to God but I only know how to escape into the highs and lows of a good fix.

I walk down the hallway quickly, trying to outrun the sound of their prayers. I try to quiet the noise in my head, but it just keeps getting louder. I look at every person I see along Broad Street, hoping to recognize someone or something familiar. I watch a line of cars pull into D.L.'s Funeral Home. My mother's funeral is the only one I ever went to. After that, I promised myself the next one I'd be at was gonna be my own.

Within seconds, the sidewalk is packed with mourners, men in dark suits escorting women with their heads down, sunglasses covering eyes that cried all night. I walk to the bus stop wondering why it's easier to celebrate the dead than the living.

 

       
S
HE SEES
the girl in the backseat of an old Buick. Waiting to go to the hospital. The interior is all white, the leather as soft as the inside of a shell. Her legs are spread. Her skirt is lifted up, high above her waist. The leather is hot on the backs of her legs. She doesn't want to give birth here, but the baby is coming. Her second one in two years. Her insides begin to ache. She's afraid of the pain. The car door opens. A burst of sunshine blinds the girl. Someone calls her name. “Mami.” A voice she recognizes. The girl squints. Her son comes into focus. He climbs into the car to sit beside her. Her eyes adjust. She looks at him. He wants to meet his baby sister. He tells her it's okay. She waits for her husband to arrive. Her son never lets go of her hand.

Miss Valentín

C
risto surprises me with a present on Valentine's Day. Other kids make cards, or bring bouquets of pink and white carnations, which they drop on my desk like late assignments, but Cristo gives me a solid chocolate heart the size of a plate. I need to get a knife from the teacher's lounge just to break off a piece.

“You shouldn't have gotten something so big, it's too much.”

“I know how you like chocolate, Teacher. Don't act like you won't eat it.”

I blush, embarrassed by how well he knows me. “I just mean that you shouldn't have spent so much money,” I tell him when we're talking after school.

“I have a job, you know.” He sits on the edge of my desk. “Speaking of jobs, since this holiday's named after your family, I think you should get the day off.”

“Oh really? I didn't think you knew my last name.”

“I know your name, Teacher. I just don't like to use it.”

I cut into the heart and hand him a waxy sliver. “So, how's school going?”

“It's going good,” he says.

“How does Mrs. Reed think you're doing?”

“She thinks I'm doing good.”

“Good, or just better than before?”

He bites on his fingernail to stall. “Better than before, I guess. But there's still time for me to do good.”

“How's it been with your mother back?”

He shrugs, looking down at the floor.

“I heard you're forgetting assignments again, turning pages in half-done. Is that true?”

“It'll be better once we have our own place. I can't keep track of my things there.”

“Kim didn't give you a desk? Or a bookshelf?”

He shifts against the desk. “There's not a lot of extra room. I try not to complain.”

I cut off another piece of chocolate. I don't want to eat this much in front of him, but I can't help myself. Why does this always happen, with even the smallest taste in my mouth? “How's your mom doing? It's got to be hard for her, to come back and have everything turned upside down.”

“She's okay.”

My mouth is full so I gesture for him to say more. He clears his throat.

“I mean she's good. She's going to a bunch of meetings and she has some job training class she's gonna take. She's really trying.”

I force myself to put the chocolate away in my desk drawer, though I continue to think about it during the rest of our conversation. I am beginning to think I am no different from her, or from any addict. The only difference is that my drug is legal.

“How are things at home?” I ask him, sensing there's something he's not telling me.

“All right.”

“It's got to be hard for her, moving in with another family like that.” He makes a face, but I decide to keep pushing. “How are she and Kim getting along?”

He stands up quickly and grabs his backpack off the floor. There's something he's not telling me.

“She's going to be all right, Teacher. I'm helping her, okay? Don't worry.”

“And who's helping you?”

He shrugs.

“Don't say you don't need help.”

“You're helping me.” He adjusts a stack of books on my
desk, neatening the row.

I pick up my bag. “You want a ride home?”

“No, thanks. I'm going to walk.”

“Come on, it's freezing outside. They say it might snow.”

“I'm going to the library first.”

“Well, I can drop you there if you want.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I'll be okay.”

“You sure?”

He heads for the door. “See you later, okay?”

I follow him out, locking the classroom door behind me. When I call his name from the hallway, he's already gone. I know he's lying to me, that much is clear, but what I can't figure out is why.

The phone rings after ten, waking me from a dream. A half-eaten bag of potato chips falls from my lap as I reach for the handset. A rerun of
Law & Order
plays on the TV.

“Hi, I'm looking for Miss Valentine, a teacher at Hartford Avenue School. Do I have the right number?”

“Yes, this is Vanessa Valentín. Is there something wrong?” I put the TV on mute. I can hear the woman sniff and clear her throat.

“My name is Kim Douglas and I'm Cristo and Luz—”

“I know who you are. The kids have mentioned you several times.”

“Okay, good.” She sounds nervous, like a drunk person trying really hard to act sober. “Well, I guess you know that I've been taking care of the two of them for a while now. Well actually just Luz for the last month…” She sniffs again.

“What do you mean just Luz? Cristo told me he lived with you.”

“He did, until a few weeks ago. Him and his mother moved out.”

They moved, that's why he wouldn't let me drive him home. “I see. I didn't know they had found a place.”

“They haven't yet.” She starts speaking slowly. “They're in
that shelter on Pine Street, the one that takes kids.”

“They're in a shelter?”

“Listen, that's not really why I'm calling. I've got a problem with Luz—”

“What kind of problem?” I sit up on the couch.

“Somebody called DCYF on me and now Luz is in the system. They took Sammy, too, my son, but he's back already. Luz isn't coming back.”

I try to stay calm. “What happened?”

“It's not a big deal. I'm a single parent, you know? And I work for a living. I can't always be around to keep them out of trouble. I'm not Wonder Woman, Miss Valentine.” By now I'm convinced her sniff is a nervous habit.

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to take her.”

“Take her? From where?”

“They didn't tell me. I've got the name and number of her caseworker. You can ask them all these questions.” She sniffs again.

I wrap the phone cord around my hand. “Why are you calling me? I'm just a teacher. I can't fix anything.”

I'm lying, of course, always my first instinct. I don't mention that I just got D-Rate status with the state, which means that in addition to regular kids I'm cleared to take ones with behavioral issues as well. Apparently my certification got pushed through because I'm a teacher. (Finally someone values this job.) So to request a child like Luz would be easy. But just because I look good on paper, doesn't mean I'll do a good job. And Luz is someone I already know and care about. It would break my heart to be another person who fails her.

“The kids are quite attached to you. They talk about you all the time.” I hear Kim exhale. Then sniff. “I just thought you'd want to know. I thought maybe you could help.”

I unwrap my hand and watch it fill back up with blood. Is she trying to make me feel guilty?

“But I'm not their family,” I say.

“The foster home she's staying at isn't her family either.”

I imagine Luz going to bed in a strange house and reading
under a lamp until she falls asleep. I picture Cristo living in a shelter, having to keep his backpack on so nothing gets stolen, and it makes me ill. I can see it all clearly, but it hardly seems real.

“There's one more thing, Miss Valentine. It's about their mother. She's sick, you know, with that liver disease that junkies get.”

“Hepatitis?”

“Yeah, that's it. I guess she's had it for a while, but she had never really treated it before. Now she's taking all these pills, AZT and Crixivan, things I've never heard of. I just found the bottles when she moved out.”

“AZT? Are you sure?” I recognize the name as an HIV drug.

“Yep, that one I know for certain. I'm looking at the bottle right now.”

Damn. If Kim has no idea what it means I'm not going to be the one to tell her.

“All I'm saying is…she needs help, you know? This is a tough time for her. I thought that if she knew that Luz was with you…instead of a stranger…that it might make it easier for her to accept. She's already lost the baby, you know.”

“I know.” I stand up to get a pen. “Give me the number. I'll make a few calls.”

She makes a joke about selling the pills if she can't get in touch with Arcelia, but I don't laugh. I tell her it's illegal to sell the pills from someone else's prescription. She claims she was only joking.

When I get off the phone with Kim I place the call to DCYF. No one answers, so I leave all my information on the caseworker's voice mail. I hang up and sit there for a while, letting it all sink in.

I watch the muted TV, men in fancy suits standing in wood-paneled rooms deciding a poor person's fate. I feel like the defendant as they wait for the verdict to be read, sick with fear and anticipation. It's hard to admit that I'm not in charge of my fate, and that the only thing I know for certain is that everything is about to change.