“I never knew that,” I say, gazing out at the campus across the field. They’re no longer brick buildings and libraries and dorms and labs I don’t remember the names of. No longer a blurry addition to a string of nearly identical schools.
This is part of my mom’s history. She was here. She made memories here, began her studies here.
“She loved this place,” Lewis says softly. It’s a tone I hardly recognize from him. Fragile, almost. “I think she was always sad she couldn’t come back, but—you know . . .” He trails off, not needing to finish the sentence. Of course I know.
We stand together a moment longer. I don’t know why this campus has Lewis pensive. We still haven’t talked about her, about what our family is facing—not quite. But this shared meditation, this quiet stillness is the closest we’ve come.
“Ready to head to the hotel?” Lewis asks abruptly.
“Actually, could we walk around some more?” I surprise myself with the question. But I’m not ready to leave yet. Not when I feel like I’ve just uncovered something to treasure.
Lewis’s face lights up. “Of course.”
We retrace the route I walked with the tour group. This time, though, I study everything.
This school isn’t part of my future. It’s better. It’s part of her past.
While we walk, I don’t just immerse myself in the scenery, the buildings, the trees, the endless gray of the clouds over campus. I imagine myself describing them. The words I’ll pull when painting the portraits my mom no longer remembers. Arboreal. Caesious. Austere. The details, from the incongruous architectural cross-section to the gentle curvature of the palatial library’s outer wall. I imagine myself in my house, the fireplace warming the front room while my mom listens. I’ll say every word I collect on this campus, but really I’ll only say one.
Remember.
Remember.
Remember.
Juniper
I WAKE UP to my phone vibrating on the nightstand in our cramped Connecticut hotel room. It’s not the half-conscious waking of confused dreams or sunlight through bedroom windows, either. The rattling noise throws my eyes open, my nerves rushing with instantaneous ugly energy. I’m a light sleeper, which Matt jokes is the least surprising thing about me. Honestly, I know what he means. Even unconsciously, I never want to miss a moment. It’s why I leave my phone on vibrate even though just one text could pull me from sleep, not to mention a call like I’m getting now.
Grabbing my phone off the bedside table, I check the name displayed. Marisa.
I quickly take in the numbers over her name. It’s 2:34 a.m. My oldest younger sister is not in the habit of calling me past midnight, which means this must be important. Careful not to disturb Matt, who’s predictably sound asleep, I tiptoe to the bathroom, ease the door silently shut behind me, and pick up.
“Marisa?” I say, squinting in the bright light. “Are you okay?”
Music crackles through my phone’s speakers, distant and thudding. I hear my sister shouting something incoherent through the noise, trying to get the attention of someone named Michelle. Michelle, presumably, hollers something back. They sound far from the phone, their voices a thin accent above the melody.
She butt-dialed me. I would hang up, except what the hell is my sister doing out at 2:34 in the morning? There’s no way Mom and Dad know about this.
“Marisa,” I try again, louder this time. “What’s going on? Can you hear me?”
The rustling of fabric scratches the speakers. “Yeah,” she says. “I need you to pick me up.” Her voice is slurred, her consonants lost under extended vowels. Okay—so it’s not a butt-dial. “Steve’s . . . house’s driveway.” Words run together, caught in her heavy breathing.
“What?” I turn the volume up on my phone, hoping it’ll make her easier to understand. I’ve never heard my sister so drunk before, and it spills worry through me.
Marisa sighs into the phone. Except it’s not a sigh. Her breath heaves, and I realize she’s sobbing. Panic rushes through my chest. I clutch the phone to my ear, feeling electrified through my exhaustion.
“Steve’s party,” Marisa gets out. “Pick me up from Steve’s party.”
With horrible rising dread, I understand what’s happening. My sister wants to come home from a house party, where she’s drunk and overwhelmed and in tears. Not good. Really not good. I hurriedly comb my thoughts for memories of whoever this Steve is. Marisa and I go to the same school, but I hardly know everyone in the junior class. I dredge up the recollection of driving the two of them home from school last year. They were sophomores and partners on a Macbeth project for English. I wonder if he’s the mysterious boyfriend she’s been keeping a secret. Under the harsh light, I feel queasy.
“I’m not home, remember?” I explain patiently. “I’m in Connecticut. I can’t come pick you up right now.”
Marisa’s sobs come harder. “Jessie said boys only like me because I dress trashy,” she says breathily, and this time it’s less like she’s talking to me than like she’s talking to everybody and nobody and I’m there to hear her.
“Jessie isn’t a good friend,” I tell her calmly, or as calmly as I can. “I’m sorry she said that.” Jessie and Marisa have been friends since third grade, but really frenemies. Jessie throws birthday parties without inviting Marisa. Marisa routinely ditches Jessie to have lunch with other friends. Their social-media relationship is fraught with “accidental” unfollows and passive-aggressive comments.
“So you’ll pick me up?” She’s heartbreakingly hopeful. “I can’t ride home with Jessie. Everyone else here is drunk.”
I restrain my frustration. She’s not listening to me. “I can’t,” I repeat, slower this time. “I’m in Connecticut. You have to call Mom.”
“I can’t call Mom!” Her voice explodes into my ear. Her sobs have stopped, and I can practically hear her fuming over the line. To be fair, I wouldn’t want to call Mom if I were in Marisa’s position. It’s not even that Mom will be that mad. Dad, yes. But Mom’s anger is a firework. A bright bang, then smoke drifting to the clouds. She has too much to do to stay angry.
The problem with calling Mom is she’ll tell Tía and Tía will tell the whole family. Second cousins in different states will hear a Ramírez daughter snuck out and got drunk at a party. Great-uncles will offer lectures and advice next time they’re in town. Family gossip is an epidemic with the only cure the next scandal.
“I need you,” Marisa pleads.
“Marisa, you’re not understanding. I can’t—”
She cuts me off. “God, Juniper. You’re so selfish.” The line beeps, the call disconnecting.
She hung up on me.
Selfish? It’s not like I’ve never heard it before from my family. Studying instead of working in the restaurant, hanging out with friends instead of distant family in town, considering colleges out of state. I’m the most selfish Ramírez there is.
Still, it stings. I remember other requests, other drop-everythings, other obligatory kindnesses. Searching countless cardboard boxes in the garage to find old photos for Tía. Planning Marisa’s thirteenth birthday party. Driving her home with Steve instead of doing homework or having Froyo with Matt or whatever I wanted that afternoon. I don’t remember my family calling me selfish then.
But I don’t remember them thanking me either. I’d reached up to what I imagined was generosity, only to find I’d done nothing but reached the normal, unremarkable, expected standard for family contribution. Every time, I would hide my pride and my futile frustration, my fear that the love I thought would be unconditional was becoming . . . kind of conditional.
By now it’s turned into a truth not worth fighting, like things that hurt tend to do. As long as I am doing one thing for myself, I won’t be the daughter or sister my family wants. Eventually, I learned not to think about it, to keep my eyes on the road ah
ead.
I’d like to ignore my sister right now, but I can’t. Even if I can’t drive her, I need to make sure she gets home safely. If she weren’t a drunk teenage girl on her own, I’d call her a Lyft, but I don’t want her in some stranger’s car.
Without hesitating, I call my home phone. I know the ringing will wake up the whole house, and I don’t care. When I explain, neither will they.
My mom picks up, her voice hushed but hyper-focused, the way mine was when I took Marisa’s call. “Juniper?” There’s rustling over the line. She’s sitting up in bed. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s Marisa,” I explain urgently. “She snuck out. She went to a party and she needs a ride home.”
I hear my dad in the background. He wants to know what’s going on. My mom’s voice becomes distant while she explains, then returns to normal volume. “Has Marisa been drinking?” She sounds casual, like she’s trying to lull the truth from me by pretending the question is inconsequential.
It’s a thoughtful effort, though it doesn’t fool for me for an instant. I breathe in, preparing myself. “Yes, but—”
Mom interrupts me. “Gabriel, call Marisa right now,” she instructs Dad. “Keep her on the phone until I get there.” Her voice comes closer, addressing me again. “Where is she?”
“Steve’s house,” I say, quietly thankful Mom knows what to do. I knew she would.
“Who the hell is Steve?”
I don’t bother to recount the one project Marisa did with Steve over a year ago. Remembering the hedges in front of Steve’s house, the sequence of turns I took from the school, the trampoline in the yard on the corner, I fumble to pull the memories together into understandable directions. “It’s—on Pelham, off Peer. The white house with red trim.”
I hear doors opening and Mom’s footsteps moving from the carpet in their bedroom to the tile of the living room, her keys jingling in her hand. “If she calls you again—” Mom starts to say.
“I’ll tell her to wait for you there,” I finish.
I hear Tía’s voice over the phone, fuzzy and faint. “What’s going on?” She’s talking to my mom. “Where are you going?”
Hearing Tía, I remember I haven’t talked to her in days. The realization hits me with, not quite homesickness, but one of homesickness’s cousins. The consciousness of finding myself far from familiar things, from the routines and routine details of my life up until now. While I’ve talked to my parents on the phone every day, I haven’t eaten breakfast with my brothers, haven’t bumped my head on the cabinet in the bathroom, haven’t picked Malfoy’s hair from my clothes. I haven’t spoken to Tía except for one text—haven’t heard her voice.
“I have to pick up Marisa,” I hear Mom tell Tía. “From a party.”
There’s rustling over the phone. Tía’s voice comes through closer and harder. “How could this happen? Marisa going to a party at two in the morning?” Mom’s evidently handed the phone over to Tía, who’s now questioning me.
I grope for words. Tía is ruthless in an interrogation, and I don’t understand why I’m the subject. Nor do I have the emotional energy to muster either patience or resistance. I’m exhausted. “I don’t know, Tía,” I say honestly. “I wasn’t there.”
“Exactly,” Tía replies. I understand a moment late I’ve given her what she wanted. “Do you think this would’ve happened if you’d been home, Juni? Do you think your sister could’ve snuck out if you were here?” They’re questions, but really they’re points driven in with practiced precision.
Defensiveness gets the better of me. “You’re being ridiculous,” I reply sharply. It’s true, though. Had I been home, Marisa wouldn’t have been able to sneak out. Everyone knows I’m a light sleeper. But that’s not the point. “You can’t make this my fault. Marisa chose to sneak out. Marisa chose to get drunk. She’s the one you should be lecturing.”
“She’ll have her turn, don’t you worry,” Tía says. “Right now is your turn.” I roll my eyes, grateful she can’t see me. “We have to look after each other.” Her tone is softer now, heavier.
It pulls me to the cold tile of the bathroom floor. I put my back up to the door, tucking my knees to my chest.
“Marisa needed you to look after her tonight,” she continues. “Who will look after you when you are far away? Who will you call? You need your family, Juniper.” The bite is gone from her words, replaced entirely by the gentle persuasiveness of a person who believes wholly in what she is saying.
“I have to find myself,” I plead, feeling the enormous inertia of this conversation, the weight of having fought this exact fight with Tía tens, even hundreds of times before. Tears well in my eyes, partly because it’s nearly three in the morning and I’m curled on the floor of a hotel bathroom, and partly because I know how this conversation will end. For all Tía preaches about family, she never even tries to be the great-aunt I need. To encourage and respect my choices and the life I want. The futility and the loneliness overwhelm me.
“I know who you are,” Tía tells me. “You’re Marisa’s older sister. You’re the girl who did her homework in the restaurant while her father cooked enchiladas, the girl who taught her brothers long division when they needed help in school. The girl who cut out paper angels to decorate her abuela’s room after she was gone. You’re a Ramírez. You don’t need to find yourself because you’re not lost, niña. You can never be lost if you have your home and your family.”
The tears in my eyes burn, fury flushing into my cheeks. “You know, I used to wonder why my dad moved to New York. Why he married a woman none of you had ever met. Why he didn’t come home for eight years,” I say, fuming. “Now I understand. The only way to have even the smallest stretch of freedom from this family is to leave completely. Don’t make me do it too.”
Icy stillness settles over the line. I know I’ve said outright what I’ve only hinted and half expressed for months. “Do you need to be reminded of what happened the second time your father tried to leave his family?”
The question knocks the wind out of me. It’s cruel of Tía to use those memories like weapons, to turn them on me. It’s unnecessary—my parents and I never need reminding of this guilt.
My parents had moved our family to Springfield to help run the restaurant while Abuela had heart problems. We’d been living there for six months when my dad found permanent help to take over, lightening the load for Tía and Abuela and giving my parents the chance to move back to New York. When they brought Tía and Abuela together to tell them, they weren’t expecting their stunned indignation. They’d thought we’d moved to Springfield for good. It turned into a huge fight, and the stress pushed Abuela’s heart too far. It was the night she died.
Tía blames us for it. Not that my father doesn’t blame himself enough on his own. As long as my parents run Abuela’s restaurant and live in her house, they will be reminded of the costs of trying to move on. Of being selfish.
I hang up the phone.
I don’t need to hear Tía’s guilt trip. I refuse to buy into it like the rest of my family. Fights happen in families, and it’s no one’s fault. Abuela died because she had a bad heart. Not because my father helped her and then tried to leave. Tía may try to convince me otherwise. She may even believe that my going away to college could set us on a course to another family tragedy.
I refuse to give ground to her accusations, to allow my abuela’s death be used against me. I won’t have something in the past dictate my future.
I put my phone on silent and return to bed, pretending it doesn’t matter to me if I have Tía’s support.
Maybe one day, that’ll be true.
Fitz
OUR CONVERSATION ON the Wesleyan campus continued to thaw the weirdness between Lewis and me. On the drive to New York City the next morning, I mention the Red Sox, and we pretty quickly delve into preseason hopes and predictions. In a way, it’
s brotherly, this banal banter. But I remind myself we’re not discussing the real, fundamental things I don’t know—what jobs he’s interviewing for, where he’ll probably live next year. Mom.
We take the scenic route toward Manhattan, where I’m touring NYU this afternoon. The interstate winds down the coast, the view breathtaking. The water glitters in the midday sun, flashes of light flickering from the waves.
I end up taking ten or fifteen photos on my phone, compiling my favorites into a text to Mom, who’s thrilled, of course. Any indication I might be enjoying the trip is undoubtedly cause for celebration. She recognizes the entrance to Southport Beach from a trip she took with her college roommates during her freshman year. They rented a tiny house with a white picket fence, went for ice cream in town, and one of her friends had a weekend-long fling with a local lifeguard—that part I didn’t need to know. But I’m quietly reassured she remembers the trip in detail.
We pass the sign for Sherwood Island State Park. Lewis slows down and glances over to me. There’s a familiar gleam in his eyes. “How much do you care about making your NYU tour?” he asks.
I imagine the desultory hour I’ll spend listening to the NYU presenter spinning off facts and figures irrelevant to me. Then I imagine watching the horizon over the water, passing the hour in the winter sun instead. “Not at all,” I say.
“Okay,” he says, looking decidedly pleased. “If we’re doing this, we’re going to need food.”
We continue on the turnpike to the sandwich shop and market I found on Google Maps. It’s perfectly Connecticut, with pale blue clapboard and bright red benches. While Lewis waits in the car, I pick up two BLTs, and then we head back in the direction of the beach.
Time of Our Lives Page 13
