I tell him my appetite is fine. I don’t want to hurt myself or anyone else. Seeing Manny or being in the same space with him doesn’t set me off. It did when we were in the rental. But now I feel better when I can see him.
Dr. Fuentes says he’d like me to try counseling before we go with meds.
I tell him I don’t have a problem with meds.
He doesn’t, either. He just wants to try counseling first. And as long as things don’t get worse in the next couple weeks and I start feeling a little bit better after that, we’ll hold off on the drugs. He’ll be in contact with me and Dr. Chapman to monitor the situation.
In the truck Wendy asks me how it went.
“Well,” I start, “Dr. Fuentes says…” I take a deep breath.
“It’s all right,” she says, patting my back for support. “Whatever it is, you can say it.”
“Turns out I have this thing,” I say. “And the official diagnosis is … oh, what was the terminology he used?”
“Take your time, Teodoro.”
“He did all these tests—a whole battery—and he came to the conclusion that I am”—I suck in a deep breath—“batwack loony!”
“No, Teodoro!” She covers her mouth.
“Oh, yes. And compounding that situation is, I am bananas.”
“I knew it! I knew you were bananas. And…?”
“And several times, he used the term cray-cray.”
“You are the cray-crayest, Teodoro Avila.”
We laugh for a bit.
And then I take a deep breath. And let it go real slow. “Wendy?”
“Yeah?”
“I need to do this over.”
“Do what over?”
“This conversation.”
I get out of the truck and close the door. Then I open up and climb back in.
“Hi, Wendy.”
“Hey, Teodoro.”
“Now you ask me—”
“Got it.” She clears her throat. “Hey, buddy. How’d it go in there?”
“Thanks for asking. Um, Dr. Fuentes thinks I got some PTSD-style symptoms from being around my brother. No meds for now. But I’m seeing Dr. Chapman tomorrow. Once a week after that. We’re going to try and talk it out.”
She smiles at me. “That’s really good, Teodoro.”
“I think so, too.”
Wendy takes the slow, winding way back on Valley Drive.
I spend the whole ride telling her all the stuff that started the day Manny told us he was joining up and going to war. How that changed us. How losing the most important person in my life for all those years changed me. How being afraid I’d never see him again changed me.
I tell her everything that happened after he came home. I tell her why I moved out—why I had to move out—and why I’d do it again. I tell her about the road trip and about what it was like—what it was really like—the night Manny fired that gun, and what it was like seeing him in the hospital.
Wendy pulls into the farm and past the shack. Wendy parks the truck.
“So,” I say, “I’m sorry I wasn’t up front with you, it’s just—”
“You don’t have to explain, Teodoro. You’ve been through a lot.”
“You have, too, Wendy.” I smile at her and say, “Families, right?”
“Families,” she says. “Tell me about it.”
I grab the door handle.
Wendy pulls me back and into a hug. And she says she’s sorry.
I tell her she doesn’t have anything to be sorry about. And I thank her for taking me to see Fuentes today. It wouldn’t have happened without her.
“Time to get to it?” I say.
“I’m ready,” she says. “You ready?”
“I’m so ready. Let’s go!”
FRIDAY, JULY 31, 2009
Time flies. It’s been a couple weeks since I filled up my red folder with stickers. After that, we moved on to physics. The beginning concepts weren’t too bad. Then Wendy said I needed trigonometry and the Pythagorean Theorem at my fingertips for physics. I got tripped up on the trig and had a little setback in the ol’ academic confidence. So she broke the work down into small bits and took things real slow.
Today, we take a welcome break.
Because tomorrow is the big day.
We’re standing in the shack, making a list of all the detail stuff we need to finish up.
And I cannot stop smiling, thinking about the work we’ve done on this shack these past weeks.
We painted inside and out. We even painted the floor after days of sanding the splinters away till it was smooth.
We hauled two-by-fours from the truck to the shack, Wendy on one end, me on the other. We measured, sawed, and hammered those things to make the frame for the canvas awning. We laid the frame flat on the ground and tacked one side of the canvas down. Then we walked around to the other side. Wendy sat her butt on the ground. She grabbed some of the canvas and pushed her feet against the frame and she pulled and pulled the canvas tight, while I hammered in nails. Wendy’s muscles are no longer a joke. Mine, either.
It took a couple days to get the canvas as tight as we wanted. A couple days to hang the finished awning frames on the front and back of the stand. We bolted them to hinges and then we had to figure out how to lift the awning toward the sky at twenty degrees and prop them up with sturdy, secure poles.
We busted Tio Ed’s budget when we brought in an electrician.
We hauled in refrigeration. And shelving.
We built a nice counter out of scrap wood, and we sanded and finished it.
We bought an old roaster from a farmer in Deming and hauled it back in the truck. We scrubbed the hell outta that thing.
Wendy made the stand sign, and I never mention it, but I think she’s at the very least a pretty darn good artist.
“Hey, Earth to Teodoro!” Wendy’s at the counter with a legal pad.
“What, Wendy?”
“We need cash for change. Propane for the roaster. We need tacks for the farm photos. And we need locks for the awnings.”
“Sounds like a trip to town.”
“Let’s go! Let’s go!”
SATURDAY, AUGUST 1, 2009
The group guys show up for our grand opening. Doc Fuentes, too. Folks from Luci’s office. Her friend who’ll be stocking the salsas. A couple high school kids—relatives of Hector’s who’ve been working the harvest with Manny and Xochitl. They all come out to celebrate.
Wendy’s sign is huge. It says LOPEZ FARMS CHILE SHACK. Red letters on a yellow background. Tío Ed loves it. Luci can’t stop talking about how bright the stand is inside—she loves the white paint—and she loves how much we opened the space up. She takes a designers’ photo of me and Wendy standing out front.
Fwoooot! A flame kicks to life as Tío Ed fires up the roaster. He opens the door to the big wire drum and says, “Just one box of chile. Any more and they won’t roast even. People will be home peeling bits of skin off chile with tweezers and cursing our name.”
Wendy flips the switch and the drum creaks and tumbles slow and steady. There’s a hissing sound as hot air forces moisture out of the chile. There’s crackling and popping. Sparks float into the sky. The smell of burning chile skin takes over the night. “That’s the smell we’ve been missing,” Tío Ed says. “But don’t breathe it in or you’ll be coughing all night.”
Wendy and I roast and box chile till we have enough to send home with everyone. We get a lot of compliments and people are all smiles as they take off. Tío Ed and Luci give us thank-yous and hugs and head back to the house. Manny and Xochitl say they wish Mami and Papi could have been here to see this. “They woulda been proud of you,” Xochitl says.
The way she says it hits me hard.
Wendy and I stay back and box fresh chile to sell for our first real day of business tomorrow. We talk through the routine. Make sure we got everything where it belongs. Finally, we drop the awnings and we’re standing real close as we lock up. Our eyes meet. We exc
hange tired smiles and a high five and take a silent walk to the house.
Wendy stops at the door. “Teodoro, there’s something I have to say to you.”
“Yeah, Wendy?”
She stares at her shoes for a second. Looks up at the sky. Then in my eyes. “It’s just that, Teodoro … um … We did that. We did that.”
I got so much more, but I just say, “Yup, Wendy, we did that.”
One more high five. Then she goes up to her room. And I go to mine.
* * *
Can’t sleep. I’m thinking about Xochitl. I have to talk to Manny. I wanna know if he thinks he’d be okay down here without her.
But if he doesn’t already know about the tour, and if he doesn’t feel like he’d be okay without her, I can’t tell him about the tour. If I did tell him, he’d feel rotten that Xochitl’s giving up the chance of a lifetime to stay behind with him. And Xochitl would never forgive me.
So I just ask him if he knows how long she’s staying down here.
Manny says she’s staying past the summer. “I was going to tell her I was doing better and she should get back home and get back in art school. Get singing again.”
“She has to get singing again,” I say.
“I know,” Manny says. “I want to tell her I’m fine. And I have enough support down here. But I’m not out of the woods. Not by a long shot. And there’s something different about having Xochitl and you down here with me … something I still need. I feel so guilty I’m keeping her here, T.”
I tell him not to feel guilty.
He says he wishes it were that easy.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 8, 2009
Just a full week of working the stand together and we’ve got this thing down.
Wendy flips off the light after another long workday. I hold the awning frame up for her to get outside. She walks past and waits for me to put the locks on.
I give her my arm, gentleman style.
“Why, thank you,” she says, wrapping her arm in mine.
As we walk, I can’t help thinking it’s only three weeks till I go home to SeaTac for senior year. And Wendy goes back to Vancouver for senior year. I already know I’m gonna miss everything about this. That chile smell floating off the roaster. Talking to customers. The sound of Coke bottles clinking against each other as I stock the fridge. The satisfaction of snapping the awning into place with Wendy, those end-of-the-night high fives.
I’m not ready for this night to end, so I sit down on the porch and ask her to join me. “I need you to say hi to someone.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.” I dial and click to speaker.
Caleb picks up. He’s talking fast. “Guess where I had dinner last night.”
“Where?”
“Your parents have been seeing so much of me, they decided to invite me for dinner. Your mom made these crazy green pepper cheeseburgers.”
“Seriously, Caleb?”
“Your parents are doing great and those peppers were amazing and they invited my whole family over next Friday. But there’s a problem. They’re out of the peppers, so you gotta get some sent up here, stat.”
I tell him I’m on it. Then I say, “Caleb Ta’amu, you are on speaker. And I’m sitting here with a nice lady who would like to say hi.”
Wendy says, “Hey, Caleb.”
Caleb says, “Hi, Barbara.”
“Barbara?” she says.
“I kid, I kid!” he says. “There are no Barbaras. Or other names of people who are attractive young women. Like Janice, for instance. Or Wanda.”
“You sure?” she says.
“I’m pretty sure that there’s only one name my boy ever mentions.”
She asks him what name that might be.
Caleb asks to verify that he is, indeed, speaking with Wendy Martinez.
“Yes, Caleb.”
“He only talks about you, Wendy.”
“All right. Enough with the chitchat,” Wendy says. “What’s the dirt on this guy?”
Caleb doesn’t spill any dirt. And pretty soon they’re talking about how best to throw a surprise birthday for Caleb’s sister and then all kinds of details about setting up a chile stand. That’s pretty much it. They just chat. Just two people talking about what’s going on.
Wendy hangs up and says, “He’s a great guy, Teodoro.”
I tell her it’s cool to hear them talking.
Wendy starts dialing.
I ask her who she’s calling and she says she needs me to know someone.
“Hey, Teodoro,” Megan says. “I’m Wendy’s piccolo-playing best bud.” She says it’s great to finally talk even though she’s pissed at me for taking Wendy away for the summer.
In this conversation, I learn that Wendy and Megan met in band in seventh grade and ever since then they’ve been homework buddies. Wendy’s the math and science superwoman and Megan is all about the writing and humanities. She says they’re the academic Wonder Twins. She talks about playing team sports at Skyview High with Wendy. She says they’re not in it for the competition. More for the conversation. And the costumes. Like superheroes and wild animals because they don’t always get a uniform. They see it as their duty to inspire their team while using dramatic absurdity to fluster their opponents. Playing time is not high on their list of athletic priorities.
Wendy tells her we have to go, and Megan says, “One thing, Teodoro. Wendy is extraordinary. So watch your step. Because if you hurt her, I swear I will come after you. And I will mess you up. And I can easily do that because I am a kendo practitioner. Just moved up to fourth dan, Teodoro, so … yeah…”
“Okay, I do not know what that means, but congrats, Megan! And I promise you, I will be a nice person.”
We say our good-byes, and I turn to Wendy. “She’s hilarious. And she’s got your back.”
“I love that girl,” she says.
“Wendy, whenever you mentioned practice, I always pictured you blowing into a tuba. I had no idea you were a jock.”
She tries to hide a smile and says, “I’m not one of those braggy athletes, Teodoro. I prefer to let my work on the court speak for itself.”
I bust out laughing.
Wendy does, too.
When the laughing stops, we’re looking out at the farm, over Valley Drive, up those craggy mountains and the biggest, starriest sky I have ever seen.
I bet that someday, when someone says the words New Mexico, this will be the image in my mind. This night. This sky. And Wendy.
She turns back and catches me looking at her. Her eyes are, like, shining and she says, “This place is really growing on me, Teodoro.”
“Me, too, Wendy.”
* * *
Late night. I get out of bed and go downstairs to get a snack.
There’s a light coming from Ed’s office. I sneak down the hall. It has to be Xochitl.
I’m not gonna tell her I know anything. I want to give her a chance to come out with it.
There’s no music. I knock. She’s surfing the web. I tell her I couldn’t sleep. Then I say, “Hey, what’re you doing after summer?”
“You know I’m staying here,” she says. “I’m not leaving Manny till he’s good.”
“How will you know when he’s good?”
“I don’t know, T.”
I tell her it sucks I gotta go back. Otherwise, I could stay with Manny.
Xochitl tells me not to worry and she’s got things covered down here. “Plus,” she says, “you have senior year. And U-Dub. You’re working hard and you’re going to be a big success.”
“Okay,” I say, “here’s the truth: Sometimes I feel like I’m a really bad actor playing the role of someone who’s good enough to succeed. What if I’m not good enough?”
“I think everyone who tries feels that way sometimes.”
“Do you? When you think about becoming a big star?”
She laughs.
“You know you think about it,” I say. “Your name in lights and all that.
”
“Yeah, I get scared sometimes. I feel like an impostor sometimes.”
“Is that why you quit so many bands?”
“Nah. I quit bands because I was trying to find the right thing.”
“I get that,” I say. “But maybe the right thing is you, Xochitl.”
She scrunches her face and looks at me sideways. “Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s true. And because I think you need to hear it.”
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 12, 2009
I wake to Manny standing up on his bed. He’s pointing his imaginary rifle at me. Trembling. Muscles tight. He opens his mouth to shout his instructions, but before he can, I slap him in the legs, hard. “Manny, wake up!”
I jump over and grab him so he doesn’t fall off the bed. “I got you, Manuel.” I say it loud and he comes to. “You’re at Tío Ed’s. You had a bad dream.”
He crawls back into bed. Pulls the covers over his face.
I get back in. Pull my covers up. And figure it’s best to act like it never happened.
So I try that for a minute.
But it sucks.
So I get up. Turn on the lights. Nudge Manny in the gut. “Hey, dude.”
Manny pulls his blanket back. He looks so damn sad. “I been taking my meds,” he says.
“I know you have.”
“The counseling is good. Group is good. I love the farm. It’s all going great.” He grunts and says, “I want this part to be over.”
“It’s gonna take time,” I say. “Just like it did for Tío Ed.”
The door cracks open. It’s Xochitl. “You guys okay in here?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“We’re good,” Manny says.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re fine, Xoch.”
“Okay, guys. Let me know.” She closes the door.
Manny says he can’t sleep and he could use a walk.
We head out with the crickets and stars. Down the driveway, out to the road.
I can tell he doesn’t wanna talk more about what happened because he asks me about Wendy.
I tell Manny he can’t tell a soul, but I hope to marry that girl someday.
Manny promises.
“If I ever do, you’re my best man.”
American Road Trip Page 19
