America Is Not the Heart

by Elaine Castillo

  The phone at the salon rang again, and she leapt for it, not even thinking that it might be a client. Hello—uh, hello Mai’s Hair and Beauty, Hero amended.

  Hero?

  Hero felt herself slacken with relief. Jaime? Do—

  We’re at Kaiser, Jaime said.

  * * *

  Adela had woken up in the middle of the night to pee, only to notice Boy unresponsive next to her. She’d called 911, and the ambulance had sped the two of them to Kaiser, Rosalyn and JR tailgating in the Civic behind them, Rosalyn wearing her sweatpants and Hero’s Baguio T-shirt, an old pair of oversized tsinelas not safe enough to drive in. Boy had a heart attack overnight, and then another one in the early hours of the morning. They called his death at 7:29 a.m.

  Hero broke the speed limit to follow the directions Jaime gave her to Kaiser, and by the time she parked in the visitor’s area, her hands were stiff and burning-sore, on top of the customary cold-weather ache in the joints that started in November and lasted until March. At the front desk, she gave Boy’s name, then remembered that of course Boy wasn’t his real name, but she didn’t know his real name. She was aware that she’d started alternately babbling and freezing, claiming that she was there for the grandfather of Rosalyn Cabugao, the husband of Adela Cabugao, was there a Cabugao that had been admitted the night before—and then Jaime and Isagani appeared next to her, both of them in security guard uniforms. She’s with us, Jaime said to the receptionist.

  You work at Kaiser? was the first thing she said, addressed crazily to Gani, thinking to herself that she hadn’t even known, Rochelle hadn’t said anything about it when they’d last talked, had that been part of why they’d gotten back together, was he giving up DJ-ing full time, or.

  I just started last month, Gani said gently. Jaime hooked me up.

  Come on, Jaime said.

  Rosalyn, Adela, Rhea, and JR were in the hospital room with Boy, eyes closed on the bed. Later, Hero found out that their insurance only gave them access to a shared room, but a Filipina nurse who knew Rhea had given them a private room that was going unused. Adela was holding Boy’s hand, murmuring prayers, stroking his face. Both Rhea and Rosalyn were sitting in chairs next to the bed, blank with shock. JR was the only one crying, his face stern, wiping angrily at the tears slipping down his cheeks.

  Rosalyn, Jaime said. Rosalyn didn’t look up. He went over to her, knelt down and put his hand on her knee. Rosalyn. Hero’s here.

  Rosalyn looked up at Jaime, the misery on her face childlike, their noses an inch apart.

  Hey, Jaime said quietly. I said, Hero’s here.

  It’s okay, Hero said from the other side of the room. Lola Adela, I’m so sorry.

  Adela didn’t look up from her prayers, but nodded slightly in Hero’s direction, her eyes fixed on her husband, prayers unfinished. Rosalyn joined her grandmother at Boy’s side, hands creeping up to clutch at the blankets around Boy’s feet, feeling around his toes and heels, salvaging for some last living part of him, somewhere, anywhere.

  Rosalyn, Rhea said, eyes on her daughter, coming to life, her voice strained and hard. Rosalyn, don’t cry on him. Rosalyn. Don’t let your tears fall on—

  Rosalyn shouted, I KNOW!

  JR was still crying, far enough away from the body so as to not incur the wrath of Rhea’s superstition. Hero knew the rule, too. No tears from the living on the bodies of the dead, or the person crying would soon follow. Rhea, usually so hostile to superstition, to anything that smacked of her mother’s work, was now observing the tradition like a hawk. But Hero couldn’t blame Rhea for wanting Rosalyn and JR to be safe; Hero would have said the same.

  Jaime put an arm around Rosalyn’s stomach, holding her back or holding her up. Let’s get some water. Come on.

  I’m not leaving.

  Hero wants some water. Let’s go.

  Hero came up next to Rosalyn, didn’t know whether she should touch her. There’s a vending machine outside, she told Jaime over Rosalyn’s head. Jaime’s teeth looked like they were clenched, trying to pull at Rosalyn’s body without being rough with her. Rosalyn. Come on.

  Rosalyn let herself be walked out of the room. At the vending machines, Jaime bought a Pepsi, then a Dr Pepper. He handed the Dr Pepper to Hero, cracked open the Pepsi and held it up to Rosalyn, who hadn’t moved. Drink something, Jaime said.

  Rosalyn’s head snapped up to Hero. How’d you get here? Did Jaime pick you up?

  I drove here, Hero said.

  Rosalyn pushed at Hero so hard the unopened Dr Pepper fell out of her hands.

  Are you fucking out of your mind? What if you— Then Rosalyn’s voice lowered to a whisper, with no less venom in it. What if you’d been pulled over? What if some CHP cop saw that you didn’t have a license and looked you up?! You could’ve been—

  You should drink something, Hero said, nodding at Jaime, who was now holding both cans.

  Go home now, Rosalyn ordered. Jaime, you drive her.

  My car’s already here, what am I going to do with it? Hero asked, exasperated. We drive to the city all the time. Don’t—

  I don’t care. Leave me your keys, I’ll get JR to drive my car home.

  I want to be here if you need me.

  I don’t, Rosalyn said. She turned to Jaime. Get her keys. Drive her home. Now.

  Rosalyn, Jaime said.

  If I see either of you still here in a half an hour, I’ll never talk to you again. I don’t care.

  Rosalyn stalked down the corridor, back the way they’d come. Then she turned her head and called to Jaime without looking at them: When you drop her off, go back to work. Your break’s been over for two hours.

  Hero glanced at Jaime, who stood there staring after her in his uniform, hair gelled, baton in a holster at his side, lanyard with ID hanging from his neck. A photo of him, much younger, unsmiling. JAIME CABRAL.

  I’ll stay in the waiting room out by the entrance, Hero said. They have to talk to the doctor and sign some papers, I’ll keep an eye out for when they get out.

  Hero sat in the waiting room and read the latest magazines without really understanding any of them, the bland, pitiless confidence of the English blurring into one unintelligible article; Vogue and U.S. News and World Report and Newsweek and Time and National Geographic. Jaime stood at his post by the entrance, sentinel-stiff, only occasionally talking to Gani when he made his rounds every hour and passed by Gani’s station on the other side of the hospital.

  Not more than an hour later, Jaime poked his head in and said, You eat breakfast yet? Gani got us some food on his break.

  They ate McDonald’s on the hood of Jaime’s car, a Filet-O-Fish for Jaime—I’m trying to be healthy, he explained—and a cheeseburger for Hero, chicken nuggets to share, and a large order of fries. Neither of them looked expressly at the entrance to the hospital, but both of their bodies were aligned on the hood in such a way that they’d immediately see anyone who left.

  As they were eating, Hero finally saw Rosalyn and JR passing through the front glass doors. Rosalyn spotted them immediately. She mumbled something to JR, who made his way over to the Civic while Rosalyn approached.

  What did I fucking say.

  We’re having lunch, Jaime said, wiping his hands with a napkin.

  Jaime—Rosalyn folded a hand over her eyes. Her shoulders slumped. Mom and Grandma are going with him to the mortuary. Then they’ll bring him home. The burial’s next Thursday at Redwood Memorial. In Fremont.

  I know where it is, Jaime said. Gani said Rochelle’s calling people.

  Okay, Rosalyn said. We’re going home to get the house ready.

  Hero looked through the rear window, into the car, where JR was in the passenger seat of the Civic, bent over, face buried between his knees. Can you drive?

  Rosalyn lifted her chin in a dismissive nod. You’re gonna go pick Roni up?


  Hero nodded. You want us to help you at the house—

  Rosalyn shook her head. Just. Come get some books and stuff out of my car. I was supposed to lend them to Roni today. She—we’re not going to open the restaurant for a while. Not until after the novena. Tell Roni—I don’t know. Tell her something.

  I’ll tell her the truth.

  Rosalyn’s face started to crumple, but she shook it away. Let me get you the stuff.

  Rosalyn popped open the trunk and started rummaging through the mess, cursing, pushing aside a lime-green sleeping bag that looked like it hadn’t been used for years and a stack of paper napkins.

  I know I put them in here. I promised Roni I’d lend these to her, I promised—

  Hero put her hand on the back of Rosalyn’s neck, thumb aching as it stroked behind her ear. Rosalyn shuddered and went still, hunching into Hero’s touch, then away from it, stiffly shrugging it off. Hero opened her mouth to say something but Rosalyn was already talking.

  Lechon kawali, man—they say it’s a killer. Hero didn’t say anything. She reached out again. Rosalyn let the hand remain this time. Hero put a hand on the back of Rosalyn’s neck and stroked the curling baby hairs. Rosalyn still made no move to lean farther into the touch, her body taut, strangerlike, but Hero could feel the irrepressible flutter under her skin as she swallowed.

  I gotta go get the house ready, Rosalyn said finally, pulling away, voice hoarse. You—drive safe.

  * * *

  They brought Boy’s body back to the house in a white coffin, the lacquer flaking off of it, and kept him in the living room, shoving the couch out of the way. His face in repose was calm, heavily made up; there was a visible layer of mismatched foundation and powder along his nose and cheeks. Rosalyn looked ill when she saw it, but didn’t say anything.

  Hero brought Roni to the house in the evening, after making sure she finished her homework. She knew she wouldn’t be able to keep the girl out long, it was a weeknight, even if in a few days she’d be on summer vacation anyway. Some older relatives of Rhea met Roni and remarked on how mature she looked. Ang dalaga na siya, one woman marveled, which Hero disagreed with entirely, something under her skin prickling. Roni wasn’t dalaga. She wasn’t anything close to dalaga. It was only that the eczema on her face was mostly gone, that the scarring around her eyes and lips had disappeared enough to reveal that she had very dark lashes and a small, full mouth. That didn’t mean Roni was dalaga. But Hero wasn’t going to argue with a near-stranger at Boy’s wake.

  After dropping Roni off at home on the first night of the wake, Hero drove back to Rosalyn’s house, intending to sleep over. Many of the relatives and well-wishers had left, having been fed to bursting by Rosalyn and JR, who had begun cooking together the minute they’d arrived home. As per usual, no one who left the house was escorted out, nobody swept the floor, nobody let their tears fall on Boy’s body, and if anybody sneezed they were pinched by at least three or four people within arm’s reach. Boy’s feet faced the door.

  Jaime and Hero brought Rosalyn to her room. Despite her protests—she wanted to sleep on the floor in the living room with Adela and Boy, she said—in the end she went easier than expected. She’d been up since three in the morning, and had barely eaten anything all day; Hero knew the adrenaline would crash any minute. Jaime shoved her into the bed and told her to cover herself up with the blanket, she complained, and complained, and then fell asleep, mouth open, forehead wrinkled.

  I’ll leave in the morning to bring Roni to school, Hero said to Jaime. You?

  I’m gonna go check on JR.

  You’re staying, too?

  He lifted his chin in a nod. You want some coffee?

  I’m gonna try to sleep. Hero looked down at Rosalyn.

  Jaime followed her gaze, then nodded. Okay.

  When he left, Hero turned off the lights then felt her way back to the bed. She pulled back the covers, then thought better of it, climbing on top of them instead and turning her body toward Rosalyn. Rosalyn made a snuffling sound and rolled away, curling up into a ball of herself. For a long time, Hero stared at the knuckle-like bone in the middle of Rosalyn’s back, poking out slightly through her thin T-shirt.

  In the middle of the night, Hero woke up to an empty bed, only the radiant trace of warmth next to her any indication that someone had been there.

  All the lights in the house were off except for a small one in the living room. She tiptoed out. Jaime was asleep in an armchair, his neck bent at a painful angle, the abuloy box next to him on the pushed-aside coffee table. Adela was asleep on the couch, curled onto herself, face looking even younger than usual. Boy’s casket was still open and he, too, looked like he was sleeping. Rhea was sitting in a kitchen chair next to the casket, her arms crossed, eyes open and gaze fixed on Boy’s face. She made an abortive move with her head, sensing Hero’s presence, but Hero backed out of the living room before their gazes could meet.

  Hero went to the kitchen, but all the lights were off, Rosalyn wasn’t there. She went to the window, saw that the Civic was still in the driveway. She hadn’t left. Then she saw that the blinds to the sliding doors leading out to the garden had been pulled open. When she approached, she saw that the sliding door had been closed, but was left unlocked.

  She stepped onto the patio, arms going up instinctively around herself at the chill in the air. It was too dark, and the patio light came on immediately, the new motion sensor that Boy had installed for the house last summer. Hero slid her feet into slippers that probably belonged to JR, like boats around her feet. She stared out into the garden, saw nothing but rows and rows of plants, until, far out, next to the fence that separated the garden from their neighbor’s, under one of the old persimmon trees, she saw the lump. A figure in a lime-green sleeping bag.

  Hero made her way toward Rosalyn in the dark, seeing her own breath making white clouds in the air in front of her, stuffing her hands underneath her shirt, warming them against the furnace of her belly.

  Hero unzipped the sleeping bag, and only at the sound of it, the feel of cold air rushing in, did Rosalyn stir. The fit was too tight, Hero couldn’t zip up the sleeping bag again once she’d crawled inside. Rosalyn stopped her from trying. She reached out blindly and warmed Hero’s hands, putting them around her own waist, then opened her eyes; warm, wretched, awake, alive.

  He was old, Rosalyn said finally, hoarse from exertion. Hero’s gut clenched at the swelling around her nose and eyes.

  She went on: It wasn’t like—it was probably his time.

  He’s not. He’s not our biological grandpa, did you know that? Hero remained quiet, except for a small noise to let Rosalyn know it was okay to keep talking. I don’t really know the whole story. I don’t know who our actual grandpa is. I mean, grandma’s sixty-six, and my mom’s fifty-two. So. Do the math.

  He wasn’t our biological grandpa, Rosalyn corrected herself. She started crumbling. He wasn’t. Shit. I keep messing up.

  No—

  I keep messing up, Rosalyn went on, like she hadn’t heard Hero. Everybody’s being so strong and I’m—I yelled at my mom in the car over fucking nothing, over where to park at the grocery store—and she and Grandma are even getting along, just, like, getting shit done. She and Grandma and even JR, they’re just cooking all the food, collecting all the donations and sorting through the money, calling people to tell them—Rosalyn started crying again, folding her face into Hero’s neck.

  After a while, she brought her face up, streaked with tears and snot. Did you ever know anyone who died?

  Hero looked at Rosalyn’s eyebrows, not her eyes. Yes.

  Rosalyn’s voice cracked. Does it get better?

  Hero smiled weakly, brushing the wet strands away from her face, and Rosalyn half groaned, half sobbed. Oh, GREAT—

  I’m just trying to be honest with you, Hero said. You fucking picked your moment, Rosalyn sobbed
into Hero’s chest, but she wrapped her arms around Hero’s waist, her breath humid on Hero’s breasts. Hero kept her back to the cold and tightened her own grasp around Rosalyn, didn’t let herself fall asleep until she was sure Rosalyn had gone first.

  * * *

  Hero woke up just as the sun was rising. Rosalyn’s body was warm, but her face was cold, exposed to the air, her neck bent at a weird angle from resting on Hero’s arm, her torso curled inward like a pako, the tree ferns that Hamin used to love eating in a salad with salted egg—and at the sudden unbidden thought of her father, the face he’d had in her childhood, the twice-lightning rareness of the look he wore when he wasn’t entirely displeased with her, everything in Hero choked to a halt. But then the face vanished again, as quickly as it had appeared. A pillow, Hero decided, when her heart rate slowed back down. She climbed out of the sleeping bag. Rosalyn stirred, a moan of protest escaping, then she curled up into the warm space Hero had left, greedy for it.

  Hero made her way back to the sliding doors, tried to open them quietly, remembering that Jaime and Adela were asleep nearby. She wasn’t expecting to see Rhea, seated at the kitchen table, longanisa frying on the stove behind her. The bags under her eyes were prominent; in the end, she’d been the only one to stay up all night to watch over Boy.

  Hero thought of simply sneaking past her, into Rosalyn’s room to get the pillow she’d been aiming for, but there was no way of getting to the bedroom without crossing the kitchen. She swallowed, stepped forward. Rhea looked up. Oil in the pan spat.

  Is Rosalyn in the garden? Rhea asked.

  Hero nodded. She’s still sleeping. I’m going to get her a pillow.

  Were you out there all night, too?

  Hero didn’t say anything, didn’t know if she should nod. Rhea’s face tightened, then she stood and walked over to the stove without saying a word, turning over the longanisa. Hero left to get the pillow.