Running

by Natalia Sylvester

  “We had always planned that this would be temporary for Gloria. Just until I finished law school,” Amarys is saying.

  “And she graduates in May—” Gloria says.

  “Congratulations,” Papi says flatly.

  “Thank you. We just thought, with everything going on . . .”

  “It’d be better if we’re out of your way,” Amarys says pointedly.

  I hear Mami sigh and tsk. “Ay, Gloria. You were never in our way. Nunca.” The bangle bracelets she’s wearing clink against the glass of the table, and I picture her reaching across and rubbing Gloria’s forearm, the way she used to do to me when I was little and wouldn’t eat my vegetables. She had such a soothing way about her. I wish I could be in there right now, just to see it again.

  “De todas maneras,” Papi adds. “Some notice would’ve been nice. This is terrible timing, with the primaries in a matter of days. We won’t have time to find a replacement, and God knows Juli could use the help around the house.”

  “Tonio. I’ll be fine,” Mami says.

  But he’s not listening. He’s off on some rant about how after all these years, after everything we’ve done for her, this is how Gloria leaves us, just one day to the next.

  “That’s not how this went down, and you know it,” Amarys says.

  “I guess I can stay through the elections, if you need me,” Gloria says.

  There’s a lot of stirring. Amarys’s voice lowers to a whisper until finally Mami says that won’t be necessary.

  Papi tries to argue, but Mami only repeats herself. “That won’t be necessary. You need to do whatever’s best for you both. Right, Tonio?”

  My father doesn’t say anything.

  “That’s exactly what we’d discussed,” Amarys says.

  “It wasn’t an easy decision,” Gloria adds.

  This is worse than I ever imagined. Gloria’s leaving us. Today. Soon she’ll pack all her stuff into the suitcases she brought and her room will be left empty like she was never even here. And it’ll all be my fault.

  The tears come fast and quiet and unashamed. I can’t blame her for wanting to leave. A part of me never understood why she would want to live in our house and work for us when there are so many other jobs that wouldn’t keep her away from home all week. I even asked her once and she said, “Not everyone gets the same options. Some of us don’t get to do what we want. We just do the best we can.”

  For years I tried pushing what she said out of my mind. It made me feel guilty to think that, as much as I loved having Gloria around, for her, it was something she didn’t really want to do.

  Now she’s leaving because things I’ve done made it unbearable.

  They start coming out of the kitchen and there’s no time for me to move without them seeing me, so I step inside and face them.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say through tears. “If I hadn’t run away and Amarys hadn’t ended up on the news with me, none of this would be happening.”

  Papi nods and says, “Now you see there are consequen—”

  But he’s interrupted by Amarys’s laughter. It’s guttural and musical and contagious. “Mari! You should be congratulating us, not apologizing! Do you know how much I’ve missed Gloria?”

  I wipe away the wet mess I let drip all over my face. When I meet Gloria’s eyes, she’s beaming.

  “I’ll miss you,” I say as I hug her.

  “Well, you know where we live now,” Amarys says. “And our door is always open to you.”

  I can tell my father is silently fuming. I love how little Amarys cares. She leans in to wrap her arms around both me and Gloria and I let out a laugh that turns into a sob.

  I can’t imagine not seeing Gloria every day, but a part of me is relieved for her. This is going to be different now. This is going to be better.

  twenty-nine

  Our school has been shut down. And not just Grove High either. Classes on Monday are canceled across all Miami-Dade County public schools and a bunch of private ones because of the boil-water advisory. There’s an air of confusion everywhere, like we’re all trying to prepare for a hurricane that already came and did its damage.

  “I don’t get it,” Ricky says. “I mean, I’m glad that class got canceled but . . . would we get contaminated if we went inside? Are the schools unsafe or something?”

  “It’s logistics,” Mami says. “Look how much longer it takes me to make your oatmeal, or wash a handful of strawberries, just for you and Mari’s breakfast. Now multiply that times several thousand students and all their breakfasts and lunches. The school district needs time to figure out a plan B, that’s all.”

  I’d never really thought about how much of our drinking water we rely on for more than drinking. Even brushing my teeth, I keep forgetting to use the bottle that Mami left next to our sinks. And Zoey—poor Zoey—texted me and Vivi this morning that her fish died. Her freaking fish. Then eight minutes later Vivi texted back that her grandma was in the hospital again and Zoey apologized like five hundred times. I told her not to feel bad, that she couldn’t have known. And besides, it’s okay to feel bad about more than one thing at a time. It made me wonder what’s going to happen to all our wildlife if the prescription chemicals in the aquifer somehow seep into their water. I keep thinking about the shrinking alligators in the Everglades. And what it’d be like if Papi and I never went back to spend time on the boat together. There’s no place quieter. No other place he ever acts like himself.

  I stir my oatmeal in its bowl. “Now is he going to issue a statement about the water crisis?”

  Mami shrugs and lets out a tiny huff. “I don’t know. It’s likely. That’s what I hear, anyway. His speechwriters were working on it all night.”

  “You’re not writing it?”

  “No, not this time. But your father really likes them. He says they’ve gotten him this far.” Her voice drops on the word says. She doesn’t sound too convinced.

  Sometimes I wonder what Mami would’ve done if she hadn’t decided long ago that her job was to be Papi’s rock. That’s what he’s always calling her. My rock, the strongest person I’ve ever known. The woman who has made all my dreams come true.

  But he’s never talked about her dreams.

  Mami raises the TV volume and points at the news with the remote. They’re reporting on the school shutdown, how they’re anticipating it’ll only last one day.

  “Only,” Mami repeats. “You know, not everyone can afford to take time off from work. Even if it’s only for a day.”

  Ever since I can remember, Mami has reminded us of the different ways we’re lucky. I’ve always thought it was a count-your-blessings kind of thing. That we have food on our table. A roof over our heads. Two parents who are still together, who love and support us. Today it makes me think of Vivi, how she no longer has her home or her parents to really count on, and none of it is her fault. It doesn’t seem fair that we got to be so lucky while she’s so un . . .

  We finish breakfast and I start putting the plates in the dishwasher while Mami cleans the table. My brother dashes off to his bedroom without even clearing his dirty plate. Of course. I’m about to say something but when I glance at Mami she looks exhausted, like her body is aching just holding itself together.

  “I’m going to lie down and watch an episode of Lucy,” she says. “¿Quieres verlo conmigo?”

  “Of course. Do you even have to ask?”

  In her bedroom, we watch the one where Lucy and Ethel switch places with Ricky and Fred. They go looking for jobs while the men take over things at home, and Lucy and Ethel end up working at the chocolate factory. They can’t keep up with how fast the truffles keep coming out of the terminal.

  I lose it when Lucy starts stuffing her hat and shirt and face with chocolate. It’s a classic, and it never gets old.

  “Ayyy,” Mami says, in that high-pitched, soft way she sighs when she’s been laughing too hard. “The things she gets herself into just to prove a point.”

 
; I tell her that it’s my second favorite episode, after the one where Ricky promises Lucy she can be in his show if she can learn the choreography.

  “He doesn’t think she can handle it. And she almost doesn’t. But it’s one of the few episodes where she finally gets to be in the spotlight, and she’s so good. She just needed Ricky to get out of her way.”

  Mami rests her head on her hand and tousles her hair. “It’s timeless. Do you know how they were in real life? Lucille and Desi?”

  I shake my head no.

  “She was crazy about him. They were going through some tough times in their marriage, so when this opportunity for the I Love Lucy show came around, she insisted that they cast Desi as her husband, because she didn’t want them spending any more time apart. The studio didn’t think a Cuban would be a good fit for the role. They thought it wouldn’t be American enough. But Lucille told them she wouldn’t do it without him. She put everything on the line so they could be together.”

  “That’s so romantic,” I say, though it also makes me sad. It reminds me of Mami, how she’s sacrificed so much for Papi, but people only see him.

  Mami looks distracted. “Maybe after all this is over we’ll take a trip to California. See the original studio. Just us girls? Ricky and Papi can go to Miami Beach for a week while all the tourists are gone.”

  I’m not sure I heard her right. It takes me a moment to piece it all together, and I wonder if she even knows what she’s just said. “You mean, this summer?”

  She stiffens. Her smile is replaced by the one she wears for the press and, I now realize, for my father. “In the fall, of course. Sometimes I forget about the election and make plans as usual. But you and I can still go to California. And Papi and your brother . . . well, they can spend the day getting to know DC before we move.”

  I thought I was the only one who’s been trying not to think about us moving to DC. I told myself it’s so I wouldn’t jinx anything; Papi’s always saying we should never assume a win is in the bag. But I can’t get over how relieved Mami sounded when she said after all this is over. After all this is over in the summer. After all this is over and life can go back to normal. After all this is over and he’s lost.

  “I guess. Yeah, that’s fine,” I say.

  “¿Cómo está Vivi? I tried calling her mom but I got her voicemail.”

  I shrug and look down at my arm. I press my finger against a mosquito bite and make a little curved cross with my nail. “Not great. Nobody will talk to her at her new school, and her Abuela’s not getting better . . .”

  “¿Qué le pasa?”

  “A lot of vomiting. A lot more than last time. She almost got dehydrated. They sent her back to the hospital this morning so she can get an IV.”

  “I see. And how are you?”

  “I miss her.”

  “But you’re making new friends. With Jackie and her little group?”

  “They’re not that bad, Mami. Jackie just wants to make a difference. You’d think Papi would love that about her.”

  She lies back on her pillow and looks up at the ceiling. “Maybe. If things were different.”

  I’m surprised she’s not fighting me on this. It’s like one version of her left for the campaign trail this weekend, and another, more laid-back version came home. We binge several more episodes and though Mami insists I take the extra day off school to catch up on my homework, she lets me bring my books and binders to her bed and keeps the show on in the background. The theme song comes on for the fifth or sixth time when Didier texts to ask what I’m up to. He and the crew are shopping for a new sound system for the walkout on Friday.

  We’re passing by your house in 15. Come with?

  I sit up in Mami’s bed. “Can I go to Dadeland Station with Jackie and them? Didier can pick me up.”

  She reaches for her phone and holds it against her chin.

  “Did you finish your homework?”

  I nod. I have one more reaction to balance for chemistry, but I’ll be done with it by the time they get here.

  “I’ll have to talk to your father.” She hurries out of the room toward the bathroom with the phone already pressed to her face. I wait for what feels like forever, convinced that Papi will say no, in which case, I’m screwed. The unspoken rules have always been that if Mami says yes but Papi says no, it’s no. If Mami says no and Papi says yes, it’s yes. When I was little this system usually worked in my favor. Thinking about it now, I’m embarrassed that I used to laugh whenever Papi overrode Mami’s decisions.

  When she comes out of the bathroom her face is flushed and her eyes are bloodshot, but she gives me a huge smile and says, “Okay. Bueno. You can go—”

  I squeal. Even though I’m worried about her, I can’t help it.

  “But,” she adds, “but I need to meet everyone first. Por lo menos un par de minutos.”

  A couple of minutes saying hello in the driveway? “Yes, totally. That’s fine. Thank you, Mami!” I give her a hug and rush up to my room to change and text Didier to come get me.

  thirty

  Mami loves to tell the story about how Abuelo grilled the first boy that came to pick her up for a date when she was fifteen. First, he leaned into the driver’s-side window and asked to see the kid’s license. Then he told him to come inside for a few minutes.

  This isn’t a bus stop. Bájate del carro and come inside and say hello.

  “He wasn’t about to let me just hop into his car and drive away,” Mami always says. The story goes that Abuelo told the kid all about how in Cuba, he’d had to ask Abuela’s parents for permission to take her out, and even then, they had chaperones. Abuela spent the whole night daring Abuelo to kiss her in front of the chaperone, just to see the look on her older cousin’s face. And that’s how he knew he would love her forever.

  Here Mami was, on her first date, and Abuelo was talking about falling in love for eternity. Mami was mortified.

  I hope she remembers that as Didier’s car pulls into our driveway. Obviously it’s not a date, but it’s the first time I’ll be riding in a car that a friend drives. None of my other friends are seventeen.

  Thankfully, Mami’s changed out of her bathrobe into a pair of jeans, flip-flops, and a long, flowy cardigan that she pulls tight across her chest as we step out of the house.

  From the passenger’s seat, Jackie waves hello as she undoes her seat belt. The three of them get out and give Mami an air kiss on the cheek as they introduce themselves. “I’ve heard so much about you,” Jackie says.

  “Likewise,” Mami says.

  I don’t remember telling Jackie much about my mom at all, but I assume she’s just being polite. The five of us stand next to the running car, waiting for my mom to dismiss us.

  She breaks the silence in the worst way possible.

  “Didier. Can I see your driver’s license, please?”

  I start to protest, but Didier takes it out of his wallet without question.

  Mami takes a few seconds to study it. “A Scorpio, huh?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Honest and passionate.” He giggles as Mami hands him back his license. Jackie rolls her eyes and smiles at Crissy. I’m just glad this can’t possibly get any more awkward.

  “Okay,” Mami says. “Where’s your phone while you’re driving?”

  I guess I was wrong.

  “Out of sight and out of mind,” Didier says, without missing a beat.

  “And if someone texts you?”

  “I wait until I’ve pulled over.”

  “And if someone calls?”

  “I have Bluetooth?” he says, less sure of himself this time.

  “Fine, but stay focused. This is my baby’s life in your hands.” She pulls me so close, I feel my cheek smoosh up against her chest.

  “Ya, Mami. Por favor.”

  “Have fun and make good decisions.”

  I dart into the car before she can say another word. And she doesn’t: instead, she mimes putting on a seat belt through the window, just in
case my humiliation was incomplete.

  Didier pulls out of the driveway slowly. Everyone stays quiet until the moment my mom’s waving figure disappears from the rearview mirror.

  “Your mom’s cute,” Crissy says. “Not at all like I thought she’d be. I mean, she always seems so serious on TV.”

  “She has her moments,” I say, not wanting to reveal that I’m just as surprised as Crissy that Mami let me go out with them.

  “How’s she doing with all of this?” Jackie asks.

  I shrug and say she’s fine. “Why’d you tell her you’d heard so much about her, though? She’s going to want to know what I’ve told you about her.”

  Jackie looks confused. “I didn’t mean you. I just meant I’ve heard about her and her work. With the wage gap? Oh my god, tell me you know about this.” She turns in her seat to face me. I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Your mom was, like, one of the biggest pushers for making it illegal to pay men more than women for the same job.”

  “Oh my god, Mari, how do you not know about this?” Crissy asks.

  “Back in, like, 2002?” Jackie says.

  “You mean, before she was born?” Didier says.

  I’m so grateful for him in this moment. “That was a long time ago. My mom never really talks about that stuff.”

  “That’s super sad,” Jackie says, sinking back into her seat. “She should be proud of herself. So should you.”

  She’s right, of course. It’s like discovering Mami once had this whole badass alter ego, an alternate universe I never even considered. I try to ignore the guilt that washes over me as we pull into the Dadeland Station parking lot. I could’ve asked my mom, just once, what her life was like before she met Papi. I could’ve asked her what was wrong this morning, as she lay in bed looking exhausted and broken. But she would’ve dodged my questions and pretended everything is fine. I gave up trying to be real with her years ago.

  We meander through the parking lot behind cars that take forever to pull in and out of their spots. Dadeland Station is always packed, and parking is a mission. There are a few restaurants and nail salons leading up to the entrance of the shopping center, but other than that, it’s just a tower made up of several big-name stores like Michael’s and Best Buy and Target. It’s not exactly bursting with personality, though there’s a huge Romero Britto sculpture right outside the main entrance trying its hardest to make up for that. It’s a cartoon figure of a man wearing white-and-blue striped pants and a polka-dotted tux, spreading his arms and legs wide like a starfish. I don’t really get it.