by Renée Watson
“Tourist stuff or real New York?”
“Both.”
“Okay, well, there’s the obvious: Times Square, Statue of Liberty. Oh, and people like to go to the top of the Empire State Building, but we like to go to the Top of the Rock. You get better photos there.”
Titus bends down to tie his shoes. “And Central Park is nice, but I like Brooklyn Bridge Park better. You can see Manhattan, and other than a few couples taking wedding pictures, it’s not that touristy.” We cross and walk the last block to school. The sidewalk is more crowded now that we are closer to school. We weave in and out of clusters of people and make our way into the building. “I don’t know. There’s a lot of stuff to do.” Titus says this so casual, like he is not talking about New. York. City.
“I need you to get a little more excited for me,” I tell him. “You get to go to New York for whole summers. What do you do when you go back to visit?” I ask.
“We mostly stay in Harlem and visit family.”
“So what should I do in Harlem?”
“You’ll like 125th Street. There’s a lot of shopping there. And maybe you and your cousins can go skating at Riverbank State Park,” Titus tells me. “I don’t know. Just whatever. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Everything is a big deal in New York.”
Titus shakes his head. “You’re going to wear your dad out. I can see it now. You and him going all over the city.”
“I can see it, too,” I tell him. “And I can’t wait.”
8
This has been the longest week of my life. We leave for New York tomorrow night, and it’s been torture having to wait. Mom’s been fussing at me all week because every free moment I have, I’ve been on my phone or laptop looking up things to do and making my lists of places I want to go. I have all the things Titus suggested, plus seeing a Broadway play. But more than going to any of those places, I want to sit on the stoop of Dad’s childhood home. I want to see the schools he went to, the playgrounds he played on. I want to find something to bring back for my Suitcase Project.
Mom and I are in my room packing for the trip. She’s just finished oiling my scalp with coconut oil, so now my room smells like the scratch-and-sniff stickers I used to trade with Titus. He hated the smell of the coconut ones, so he always gave me his.
Mom made a list of everything I need to bring. “Don’t forget to take some chewing gum in your carry-on. Just in case your ears bother you when you fly,” Mom says. “And remember to bring some of those word puzzle games you like in case you get bored on the plane.”
“I don’t think I’ll need them,” I tell her. “I’ve packed some books.”
Mom says, “Well, it’s better to have them and not use them than to not have them and wish you had packed them.”
Dad calls out from his office, “The plane has TV. She’ll be fine.”
Mom slides the word puzzles into my bag and whispers, “Just in case.” She opens my closet and pulls out five sweaters. “Now, you’re going to need to layer yourself. Tank top, T-shirt, sweater, scarf, coat.”
“That’s way too many clothes. I’m going to be too hot.”
“In New York’s February, there’s no such thing as too hot.” Mom folds my sweaters and puts them in my suitcase. “And I bought these for you,” she says, handing me five pairs of leggings. “You’ll need to wear these under your jeans.”
“Mom—”
“Honey, will you tell her how cold New York is in the winter?”
“Listen to your mom,” Dad says. I hear his door close, and that’s a signal to me and Mom that he’s tired of hearing us fuss at each other.
Mom closes my door, too. She sits on my bed and motions for me to sit next to her. I don’t know what’s about to happen, but my heart starts to tremble because Mom’s face looks so serious all of a sudden—not like she’s annoyed with me, like a moment ago, but like she has something important to tell me. “Amara, I know you are planning on having a lot of fun. And you will. You’ll remember this trip for the rest of your life. But I need you to do something while you’re there,” she says. “I need you to make sure your dad and grandpa have some time alone. They need to talk. Now, you can’t force a conversation but you can encourage them to spend quality time together. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” I say. “I can do that.”
After Mom leaves my room and I am in bed, not sleeping (because who can sleep the night before visiting New York City?), I lie awake thinking about what Mom asked me to do. The only other time Mom trusted me with something so important was the time she let me wear one of her necklaces made from red gems for my school’s fancy Rose City Scholars Tea. She pulled the jewelry out of a velvet pouch and talked with me about how I had to take care of it, how it’s only worn on special occasions. I was proud that Mom trusted me with something so precious, but it also made me nervous.
I feel that way about this trip now. Excited, but nervous, too.
When Mom takes us to the airport, I can tell she’s getting emotional. “A week is a long time,” she says. “I’m going to miss you two.”
Dad and Mom kiss, then he puts his mouth to her stomach and says, “Be good to your mom while I’m gone. I love you.” Dad rubs Mom’s belly. “And I really, really love you,” he says, kissing Mom’s lips again.
“Okay, okay,” I shout.
Mom wraps me in her arms. “Have fun, Amara, not that I have to tell you that.” When she lets go, she reminds me to chew gum during the takeoff and landing and tells us to call her as soon as the plane lands. “Call, not text,” she says.
Dad and I walk into the airport, check our bags, and get in the security line. The line isn’t too long, and Dad says this is why he likes to fly at night. “We’ll sleep on the plane and be ready for the day once we land on the East Coast,” he tells me. We get through security and sit down at our assigned gate. There are families seated with small children who are dressed in pajamas for the overnight trip. A few people are reading books, and some are watching videos on their phones. There’s a man who is bent over in the seat using his backpack as a pillow.
Dad and I sit near the ticket counter. “So do you have your must-see list?” Dad asks.
“Yep. Times Square, Top of the Rock, Riverbank State Park, Brooklyn Bridge Park, 125th Street, the Apollo, a play on Broadway—”
“You know we’re only going to be there for a week, right?” Dad laughs.
I smile. “There’s more, actually,” I tell him.
“More?”
“Well, I want to see your neighborhood, visit the places that were important to you when you lived there.”
A voice speaks over the intercom, announcing that it is time to board the plane.
Dad stands. “Ready?” he asks.
“Ready.”
We board and find our seats near the front because Dad upgraded to have more legroom so his long legs won’t cramp up. We get settled, seat belts on, snacks in the pouch on the back of the seats in front of us so we don’t have to keep opening the overhead bins to get our carry-ons. I take out the activity book Mom gave me just in case I can’t sleep and want to do a crossword puzzle.
After the safety demonstration is given, we take off. The lights dim, and a few flickers of light beam over seats where people are reading. Dad puts his seat back and puts his headphones on so he can watch his favorite late-night talk show. I hate to bother him, but I really want to ask him a question. I tap his arm. He pulls out the right earbud. “Yes?”
“You didn’t tell me what you’re looking forward to. Do you have a must-see list?” I whisper because the woman across from us has an eye mask on and looks like she is already sleeping.
Dad says, “Well, no, I haven’t really thought about that. I’ve just been focusing on what I need to do for work. And I want to make sure you have a good time.”
“But there has to be something you want to do or someone you really want to see,” I say. “Like, what’s something we can’t do in
Oregon that we can do in New York?”
Dad thinks for a moment. “Get a Jamaican beef patty. Yeah, we have to do that. It will change your life. I promise you.” Dad smiles just thinking about it. “I’ll have to take you to the Concourse Jamaican Bakery in the Bronx. Best patties in New York City.” Dad reaches for his earbud, and just before he puts it back in, he says, “And I have to take you to Canal Street and teach you how to haggle for good deals. You’ll like that. We can get some souvenirs for your friends.” For the first time Dad looks excited about this trip. “Get some sleep,” he says. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
I put my headphones on, but I am not really paying attention to the screen. I can’t stop thinking about all the things Dad and I will do in New York. I can’t stop wondering what it’s going to be like for Dad and Grandpa Earl to see each other for the first time in twelve years. How am I going to get them to talk to each other?
In all the ways I am like Dad, this is not one of them. There is no way I could ever, ever stop talking to him or Mom. I can’t imagine it. I have been mad enough to stop talking to them for an hour, a night, but never whole weeks and months and years.
I really hope I don’t make things worse. I mean, what if I get there and Grandpa Earl isn’t happy at all to see me? Because I will just be a reminder that the day I was born his wife died. And the day I was born he stopped talking with his son. This might not be a good idea at all. Talking with Grandpa Earl on the phone is one thing, but maybe in person, things will be different. Maybe he will see me and only be reminded of the worst day of his life. I hope Mom is right about this being a good thing for me, for Dad, for Grandpa Earl.
I look out the window at the night sky. The tiny lights twinkle and glow below. I know they aren’t stars, but I make a wish anyway.
9
When we get off the plane in New York, the first thing I do is call Mom. “How was the flight?” she asks.
“Good. We slept most of the way.”
“Okay, well, tell your grandpa and everyone else that I said hello.”
“Okay, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Amara. Let me talk with your dad.”
I give the phone to Dad, and he says a lot of “uh-huhs” and “yes, got its,” as we follow the signs to baggage claim. Of all the things Mom told me about New York, she didn’t tell me that JFK is huge compared to Portland’s airport. And the people. She didn’t tell me that there would be so many people coming and going, going and coming. She didn’t tell me I’d hear five languages in this one place.
After we get our luggage, we go outside to stand in the taxi line. It winds and twists and is just about as long as the lines at the Employee Store. The cold morning air stings my nostrils and chills my insides. I reach in my bag for my gloves. “Now you see what your mom was talking about, huh?” Dad asks. His breath zigzags in the air, making designs that quickly fade to nothing.
I nod and lean into him, resting my head on his chest. He puts his arms around me, and I get just a little warmer, but then the line moves so we separate. Even though my fingers are freezing, I take out my phone so I can take a picture of the line of taxis. The long trail of yellow cabs bends around the curve. I can’t see where the line ends. “My first photo in New York,” I say. Dad smiles. We get into the next cab, and for the first five minutes we zip along the freeway, making our way to Harlem, but then the car slows down to a stop and we sit and sit and inch our way through traffic for the next forty minutes. The constant jerking makes my stomach flip. “Dad, I don’t feel good.” It’s colder than cold outside, but all of a sudden I feel hot. I unbutton my coat.
“You might be getting carsick,” Dad says. Then he leans forward and says, “Easy on the brakes, please. I’ve got sensitive cargo back here.”
The driver doesn’t say anything.
I lean my head against Dad, think I’ll just close my eyes for a little bit. I can’t believe I’ve been in New York less than an hour and I’m sick.
“It’ll pass,” Dad says. He tells me to take deep breaths. I do, and it must calm me because the next thing I know Dad is shaking me and saying, “Amara, wake up. Amara, we’re here.”
I jump up. “We’re here? I missed the drive?”
Dad pays for the ride, and we get out of the car. Dad was right—just standing up and being on solid ground makes me feel better. Better, not good. We stand outside Grandpa’s brownstone. Dad doesn’t walk up the steps yet; he just stands here taking it all in. He looks around at the street, and I wonder what memories are coming back, what memories he’s pushing away.
All the brownstones look connected like one long building with many doors. They stand tall like a box of crayons, except all the crayons are shades of brown. The tree-lined sidewalk is narrow, and the street is stuffed with cars parked bumper-to-bumper.
“Well, this is where I grew up,” Dad says. “Many good times were had on this stoop.” He breathes in, out.
Grandpa’s home has a small garden behind an iron gate to the left side, where there’s a small table and two chairs. We stand there, just looking at the house. I try to imagine Dad as a little boy running up and down these massive stairs, sitting out here on hot summer days, shoveling snow off them in the winter. Dad says, “Let’s go in,” and starts walking up the stairs. I follow him. I think maybe I should ask him if he’s okay, but before I can come up with something to say and before we even make it all the way up the steps, the door opens. I don’t know why but I take Dad’s hand. An elderly man walks out, making his way down the steps. Grandpa Earl. He looks like the man in all the photos I’ve seen but older, more handsome, even. More real. He is real and walking toward me. I squeeze Dad’s hand, and he holds on tight to mine. I think he might be just as nervous as I am. I hear him take a deep breath.
“Well, hello,” Grandpa Earl says. Seeing him is like having a character from a movie or book come to life. He is here. Not just a smile in a photo, a voice on the phone. “Amara, you look just like my Grace. Just like her,” he says. He reaches out to hug me. Being in his arms feels like trying on a thick winter coat that fits just right. I ease up a bit. He is hugging me, so maybe he is not upset with me, maybe he wants me here. Grandpa Earl looks at Dad, says, “Son.”
Dad nods and takes our luggage into the house. Once we’re all inside, I realize how big Grandpa’s house is. On the outside it seems narrow, but once we walk through the door, I see that the first floor is wide and long and there’s a staircase leading upstairs and another one at the back of the room, leading downstairs. Grandpa Earl says, “So how’s my granddaughter doing?”
“Good,” I say, because I am too embarrassed to say I feel like I might vomit, that the taxi ride here felt more like a roller coaster.
“Well, you make yourself at home, now, okay?” Grandpa Earl says. “I know you’ve had a long flight. Would you like breakfast?”
Dad doesn’t answer.
I say, “Yes, please.”
Grandpa Earl goes into the kitchen. “On a cold winter morning like this, you need something to warm your bones.” He takes a canister down from on top of his fridge. The label on it says Oatmeal. I hate oatmeal, but I don’t say anything. Grandpa Earl grabs the canister that says Brown Sugar on it, and he takes milk and butter out of the fridge. I’ve never seen someone actually make oatmeal. Mom uses those instant oatmeal packs on days when she doesn’t feel like making breakfast, and she never puts sugar in it. Maybe I’ll like it this way. “I figured I’d put you in your auntie’s old room, Amara, and your dad can sleep in his old room. That all right with you … Charles?”
It isn’t until this moment that we realize Dad isn’t in here with us. He’s already gone upstairs. I look at Grandpa Earl and tell him, “I’m sure it’s fine.” I go upstairs to find Dad. The second floor has a room in the front that’s a smaller version of the living room downstairs. There are two armchairs and a small sofa that looks more like a cushioned bench. There are photos on the wall, so beautifully hung the r
oom sort of feels like a museum. I stand in front of a photo of Dad and Grandma Grace. He must be five or six, and Grandma Grace has her arms wrapped around him like she is giving him all the love he’ll ever need.
Looking at all these photos of Grandma Grace makes me wish she were here. I think maybe if she were still alive, Dad and Grandpa Earl would be talking and maybe we would have come to New York already and they would have come to Oregon to visit me. Maybe she would tell me about our family, our history. I wonder what it would be like to have a grandma who was not past tense but alive at the stove cooking breakfast, humming her favorite song, hugging me with all that love. I think of all my friends who have grandmas who sneak them candy when their parents aren’t looking, who let them spend the night and stay up late watching TV even when it’s way past their bedtime. I wonder, Would Grandma Grace be that kind of grandmother? Would her house be the mecca for family gatherings, where all the cousins and aunts and uncles come together to have summer cookouts and Thanksgiving feasts?
Would she tell me stories about growing up in Alabama? What stories would she share about living in Harlem? I wonder and wonder about Grandma Grace. I miss her even though I never met her. I love her even though I never knew her.
When I get to Dad’s room, I step inside, close the door, and whisper, “You’re not being very nice to him.”
“Amara, breakfast is going to get cold. Cold oatmeal is the nastiest thing in the world,” Dad says.
“Dad.”
“Come on. Let’s eat.”
We walk back downstairs.
I keep thinking about what Mom asked me to do. I whisper a prayer to Grandma Grace, ask her to help me.
10
After breakfast, Grandpa Earl says, “Would you like to come with me for my Sunday morning walk? I usually stop by Lenox Coffee and shoot the breeze for a while.”
“Sure,” I tell him.
Grandpa puts on a navy blue coat and a brown fedora. He slides his gloves on.
