Treasure of the World

by Tara Sullivan

  I sag into their embrace, glad they’ve forgiven me. After a few minutes, Mami gets to her feet. “Now, let’s finish packing so we can get home before full dark.”

  And I want to say that we are home, but I realize this isn’t true anymore, so I get up from where I’ve been sitting and help Mami, César, and Abuelita pack.

  For a little while, I feel uncomfortable, trying to process everything they’ve told me. But eventually their happiness at having me back and my happiness at finally being home safe and knowing that Daniel is alive covers over the awkwardness like clouds covering the moon. We all know it’s still there, but, for the moment at least, none of us can see it.

  With four of us working, we manage to empty our old house in under an hour. Then, Abuelita and I carrying packs balanced on our shoulders and César and Mami maneuvering the heavy pushcart, we walk together through the deepening dusk across the mountain to César’s house and our new home.

  * * *

  When I see it in the distance, one lighted window in a row of mining houses, not off by itself like our old house, I get a strange feeling inside. The lights are welcome, and the fact that it has a good tile roof instead of just a flimsy sheet of tin leaning into an overhang of the mountain makes me happy. But knowing that from now on I will have to call this unfamiliar house my home leaves me feeling strange.

  You’ll get used to it, I tell myself.

  But I know it’s not only the house I’m going to have to get used to.

  It’s a nice house, I think as we walk in the door. With two rooms, it’s bigger than ours, and better made too. I get the feeling that this is the kind of house that the wind will go around when it howls across the mountain at night, instead of whistling through it by a hundred tiny holes. César looks a little sheepish as he moves Mami’s things into the one bedroom. I try not to notice. Then he points to the far corner of the main room. There’s a cot along one wall that I assume is for Abuelita and a pile of blankets in an alcove. I move to put my stuff there, figuring it’s where I’m going to sleep. But when I get there, I see that the alcove already has someone in it. When I see the little figure sleeping there, rolled up in the alpaca wool blankets, I drop my things on the floor and have to walk outside.

  Standing in the freezing night air, I take gulping breaths to calm myself.

  Somehow, I’ve been able to manage the thought of César being my new father: my father is dead, after all. But I had forgotten, on the walk across the mountain, and in hearing all about Mami’s marriage, that César has a daughter too. Daniel is alive. The thought of suddenly having Belén as a younger sister is, for some reason, too much for me to bear.

  I stand out there in the dark, clutching my stomach. After a few minutes, César comes out of the house and stands beside me.

  “Ana,” he says softly, “I know this must be hard for you.”

  I stare down at my hands. I refuse to cry in front of my former boss.

  “This all happened very quickly,” he goes on in his low, gravelly voice. “When we brought your brother to the hospital, at first they wouldn’t admit him because your mami was already in debt and they didn’t think she could pay. I tried to vouch for her, but they would only let me be a guarantor for the payment if I was legally connected to Daniel.” César puffs out his cheeks. “Moving him down the mountain jostled his wounds. He was bleeding, turning blue. We thought he was going to die. Your mami and I found the hospital chaplain and had him marry us on the spot.”

  I stare at César.

  “I felt responsible for not finding Daniel in time,” César goes on. “I needed to make it right. I know the proper way to do these things is to take them slowly. For there to be a plan and a party. To involve family and friends. But there just wasn’t time for any of that.”

  He reaches out a hand. Instinctively, I flinch away.

  César lowers his hand without touching me.

  I feel terrible. César has never been anything but kind. It’s not his fault men’s hands scare me. I want to apologize, but the words can’t make it out around the lump in my throat.

  “You were only gone for a few days,” César finishes gently, “and you came home to find your whole life changed. I know it’s a lot to get used to. But it’s going to be okay now, Ana. Your family is safe with me, and so are you. I promise.”

  15

  I believe César’s promise for about two hours. Then I wake up in the middle of the night and I hear him and Mami whispering about Daniel.

  “. . . you’re sure your cousin can take him?” Mami is saying.

  “I called her from the hospital phone,” César’s low rumble answers her. “It’s all set up. She can’t catch the bus until Friday, but then she’ll take him with her right away. He’ll only have to be here tomorrow night.”

  Their conversation continues, but I have trouble hearing them over the rushing of blood in my ears. I’m furious. I feel betrayed. We’ve only just gotten Daniel back, and now they’re sending him away? César said my family would be safe here, and then the first thing he does is kick Daniel out of his house? Why? And why is Mami going along with it? Is César abusive, like Papi was? Does she feel like she has no choice? Rage is a fire inside me, and long after their voices settle out into even breathing, I lie awake, hating the world.

  * * *

  Next morning, Mami and César leave before dawn so that they will get to the hospital as soon as it opens. I pretended to be asleep until after they had gone. I’m too angry to talk to either of them.

  Standing by the cook fire, I find myself staring over the mountain in the dawn light, thinking back to that morning, which seems like forever ago now, when I joked with Abuelita about God’s view. Though His view hasn’t changed, mine certainly has. Before, our house sat alone on a barren crag by a used-up mine shaft. Now it’s in a long row of miners’ houses just a fifteen-minute walk from El Rosario. Before, there was total silence unless I decided to break it. Now there is a cheery bustle of half a dozen families starting their day. Before, I lived with my old family. Now I live with my new one. In some ways, it’s as exciting as getting new shoes. But just like getting new shoes, it doesn’t fit yet. I wonder how long it will take to break me in to this new reality.

  I turn when I hear a clatter of rocks. Belén comes up beside me. She’s still rumpled from sleep and rubbing her eyes. I remember the first day I met the little unicorn who dreamed so big and wanted to be so helpful when I was crying outside of school. I realize it must be a lot for her to take in too: a few days ago it was just her and César in the house. Now, suddenly, there are all these extra people filling her world, demanding to be a part of it.

  “Hi,” I say. Brilliant. Super friendly. I paste on a smile and try harder. “I hear we’re sisters now.”

  “Yeah,” she says, seeming a little unsure of herself. Her eyes meet mine. “Are you okay?”

  My smile freezes. Is it obvious, even to an eight-year-old, that it’s hard for me to be here?

  “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I stall.

  “You were trapped in the mine. You were lost. Everyone thought you were dead.”

  Oh. That makes sense. “Yeah, I’m okay now, thanks.”

  Belén squats down on her haunches beside me, and for a few minutes we just look over the horizon together.

  I decide to change the subject. “Come on,” I say, taking her hand and pulling her toward the house, “show me where everything is, and then you need to get ready for school.”

  Luckily, that’s all the invitation Belén needs to start zipping around like a hummingbird, telling me all about my new home. On our second lap, I lift the pot off the cookstove and bring it in with us, plonking it on the table.

  I let Belén chatter while I set the table with bowls and spoons because it’s easier than finding the words inside myself to grapple with all of this. I’m happy that my mother has found a safer, b
igger place to live. I’m glad there will be enough money so that Abuelita won’t skip meals so I can eat. I’m so relieved that Daniel has been found. And yet . . . Daniel is injured, and they’re sending him away. I can’t quite see this place as my home, and it’s just too strange to think of calling César “Papi.” All my feelings, the good and the bad, mix inside me until I don’t know what I feel anymore.

  I wonder whether Mami’s smiles are real or whether she feels mixed-up inside too. It’s hard to tell. She’s always had a thick shell covering whatever’s underneath that I’ve rarely been able to see through. I’ll have to ask her later, when we’re alone.

  When I lift the lid and take a sniff, I discover it’s a salty broth with potatoes and carrots. It smells amazing, but even as my mouth waters, a frown knots my eyebrows as I ladle it into three bowls. Is César so much richer than we were that he can have more than coca tea in the mornings?

  With a pang, I remember the huge breakfast at the posada. But thinking of the posada is dangerous in all directions: think forward, and I remember Victor and feel guilty for leaving him, hopeless and alone in that hovel; think back, and I remember Daniel and how I failed to find him in the mine before he was injured; stay put on the memory of the posada, and I wish I were there in that warm kitchen filled with familiar strangers instead of in this kitchen filled with strange family. No matter what direction my thoughts go, they lead to guilt.

  “Good morning, Abuelita.” I wake her.

  “Ah, good morning, Ana.” She pats my hand with her wrinkly one and fixes me with her knowing eyes. “Are you feeling better today?”

  My smile curdles on my face. “Maybe I will after breakfast,” I manage, and turn again to the table. You’re just going to have to get used to this, I tell myself severely. This is your life now.

  Abuelita gets up from her pallet and limps over to the table. She’s always creaky first thing in the morning. I hand her a bowl of soup. Belén hops onto an overturned bucket and I take the folding chair at the head of the table.

  “That’s Papi’s seat,” Belén tells me.

  I feel awkward sitting in César’s place, but I try not to let it show.

  “I won’t sit in it when he’s here,” I say cheerfully.

  Belén tears a small loaf of bread into sections and passes it around. I lift my spoon and take a sip. After not eating for two days underground, I don’t think I will ever take food for granted again. And yet, even though it’s delicious, eating like this, as a family, is putting me on edge.

  Memories of eating with my family, before it fell to pieces, flood me. Papi and Mami sitting together on the edge of their bed, eating and laughing as Mami teased him about getting dust in the house; Daniel, Abuelita, and me facing them, sitting on cinder blocks stacked against the wall. Our house was far too small for a table, so each of us ate with our plate in our lap. There had been bad nights, but there had been good nights too. Nights when Papi was sober and the price of mineral was high enough that he wasn’t worried. Those nights, he would tell us stories about his day, contradict Abuelita with science when she told her stories of ghosts and angels, and make Daniel and me recite something we’d learned at school.

  I always took this very seriously, paying close attention to the teacher and, as soon as he or she shared a fact I thought would be good to share, repeating it in my head the rest of the day so as not to forget.

  An equilateral triangle has three equal sides and three equal angles.

  There are four oceans: the Pacific, the Atlantic, the Arctic, and the Indian.

  Our first president was Simón Bolívar, and our country is named after him.

  Daniel never took it seriously. He would summarize something his teacher had said or, more often than not, make something up on the spot. I learned today that the earth is one million, five hundred, and twenty-three kilometers around the middle, he would say, lying with the straightest of faces.

  It took me a long time to realize that was what he was doing.

  Usually Daniel was the one to get sick, but I remember one day in particular, when we were about seven, that I had caught a fever. The walls of the schoolroom seemed to pulse in and out with my headache, and the light from the windows stabbed at my brain. By the closing bell I was sweating and weak and Daniel had to support me as we stumbled home. We were halfway there when I realized that I hadn’t learned anything and wouldn’t have anything to say when Papi asked me for a fact.

  In my fevered state, this seemed like the most horrible thing in the world, and I started bawling. Daniel held my burning hands in his cool ones, worry written all over his face, and asked me what was wrong. When I told him, he just shook his head.

  Don’t worry, Ana, he said, we’ll make something up together, and they’ll never know any better. I had stared at him, not knowing what to say. Daniel had winked at me. First lesson from Professor Daniel, he said, throwing one of my arms over his shoulders so that he could take most of my weight and get us moving again, always lie in odd numbers. They’re more believable.

  That night, when Daniel shared that he had learned that the temperature on the moon was negative 13.7 degrees Celsius, I knew why.

  “Ana?”

  My head snaps up at Abuelita’s voice.

  “What’s wrong, love?”

  Whatever is showing on my face is too much. Both of them are staring at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, pasting on a smile. Always lie in odd numbers. “That’s the third time I bit my tongue this morning.”

  * * *

  When breakfast is finally over, I stack the dishes in a shallow basin and leave them to one side to wash later.

  “Come on,” I tell Belén, “get dressed for school.”

  She bustles around the house, pulling on a colorful T-shirt and corduroy pants. When she reaches for her comb, I decide to make an effort at this big-sister thing.

  “Here,” I say, “let me help.”

  Belén shoots me a funny look but sits where I point and hands me the comb. I comb out her hair in long, smooth strokes and braid it into two plaits, like Mami used to do for me when I was little. She won’t be the little girl with crooked braids today, I think as I finish, a bittersweet feeling in my belly.

  Belén finds her notebook and together we walk toward the door.

  Abuelita pulls me into a quick hug as I walk out. “Now that we have a man’s salary again,” she whispers into my ear, “there’s no need for you to keep missing school. They won’t be back here with Daniel for at least another three or four hours. Stay at school if you like; I can tidy up here. You can help your mami and me as a palliri for a few hours every day when you’re done with your lessons, but you don’t have to work all day anymore.”

  I stare at her for a moment, stunned by the idea. Abuelita tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and gives me a big smile. “Go on now,” she says.

  Ten minutes later, in clean clothes, face washed, and hair freshly braided, I’m ready to go. I fold Yenni’s borrowed clothes carefully and put them in a bag, planning to return them this afternoon. The school is about an hour closer to her house than César’s house is.

  Belén is waiting for me outside the door, smiling cheerfully.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  “Off we go,” I say, butterflies in my stomach.

  I fall into step beside Belén. As we walk, kids bubble out of the other houses and join us. Belén is soon surrounded by a small pack of friends, the older ones towing or carrying their younger siblings. It must be nice for Belén to always have a group of kids her own age around. Daniel and I always lived so far away that we walked to school by ourselves. I imagine Daniel, lying against the white, white sheets of the hospital, and remember the thing I overheard Mami and César whispering about last night when I was supposed to be asleep. It sours my joy, and I walk a little faster to outpace the feeling.


  I’m the tallest by far and I feel like the one grumpy old llama in a herd of happy sheep. It’ll be better when you get to school, I tell myself. Then the little kids will go do their thing and you’ll be with your friends too.

  When we finally arrive, Belén picks up a stone and bangs on the door for us to be let in. When Doña Inés cracks the door open, the kids surge through in a chattering tide.

  I’m carried in with them and find myself standing in the courtyard. We’re barely in time for the morning scramble to get into lines for the anthem. I watch Belén and her friends find their places, then search for mine.

  But my line, Daniel’s line, is gone.

  My eyebrows pull together as I scan and re-scan the courtyard. But no matter how hard I look, I don’t find anyone older than eleven.

  “Where are all the older kids?” I ask Doña Inés, who’s latching the door behind me.

  “Oh,” she says sadly, “after the disaster at El Rosario, a bunch of work slots opened up. The older boys took them. I’m not sure what happened to the girls. They tend not to say. They just don’t come back.”

  I thank her absently, and glance over the schoolyard again.

  There is no one here older than me anymore. There isn’t even anyone here my age.

  The little kids jostle in their lines. It seems like a big game to me all of a sudden, and I see the school through old eyes. It seems like babysitting, not like an important step toward a better life. The teachers with their wide smiles that tarnish over time, every false comfort that slips past their lips corroding them further. The classrooms with their brightly colored posters that are fading day by day in the harsh light of the Cerro Rico. The kids, row after row of them, slowly getting older, slowly vanishing.

  I swallow hard. How had I ever believed that school was really a good way to get off the mountain? I always knew I was just buying time, that I’d never make it to secondary school in Potosí. I always knew that girls like me don’t really have choices. But it took seeing my line disappear to realize that I truly don’t have a place here.