Look Both Ways in the Barrio Blanco

by Judith Robbins Rose

  Moving around the Dahls’ fake tree, I searched for the best place to hang the ornament shaped like a nutcracker. I hadn’t known what a nutcracker was until Miss took Rosa and me to see that ballet.

  Cody had shrugged when I’d asked if he was jealous that he didn’t get to go with us. “It’s not my favorite ballet.”

  It was weird that a boy would have a favorite ballet. Later, I’d wish I’d asked what his favorite was.

  Backstage I’d introduced Rosa to Nadine Robert, who played the Sugar Plum Fairy. “Madame Robert, je vous présente ma sœur.”

  Nadine had kissed me on both cheeks and said my French was wonderful.

  Miss thought so, too, although she wouldn’t speak French with me when other people were around. She said it was rude. But we practiced whenever we were alone.

  I gave up looking for an empty spot on the front of the Christmas tree. I moved another decoration from where Cody had hung it so I could put the nutcracker smack in the middle.

  Then I looked at what I held in my hand. A picture frame. The writing said Baby’s First Christmas. An angel peeked lovingly into a bassinet. The photo was of a sleeping child. A lump rose in my throat. I glanced around to see if anyone was reading my thoughts.

  The baby had creamy skin. Long brown lashes lay across his round pink cheeks. I could tell by the date stamped on the ornament that it was Cody in the picture. We were born the same year. If Miss had been my mother, then this picture could be —

  No, don’t think about that. Mamá’s coming home soon. I need to wait for Mamá.

  She had finally admitted that Abuelita was dying.

  I loved Abuelita. When I was little, she’d hold me on her lap and tickle my tummy. She used to sneak cookies to us before dinner. If Mamá found out, we’d all just laugh.

  Since moving to Colorado, we’d only been to visit Abuelita once. Coming back, Rosa and I had to ride alone on the bus for more than a day. But it took Mamá weeks to get home. When she finally did return, we saw the evidence of the crossing on her worn and beaten body. Papi forbid us to ever return to Mexico.

  “It’s too dangerous,” he’d said. Abuelita had never even seen Suelita.

  But when Abuelita got sick, Papi couldn’t stop Mamá from going to her.

  Rosa and I still talked about living with our parents on Abuelita’s farm when we grew up. A place we could be happy, be together, without ever having to worry about our parents getting deported.

  I loved Abuelita. Really.

  BUT — if she had to die — I hoped she’d die soon.

  That’s terrible to say. Wrong to even think. I hated myself for thinking it.

  But I needed Mamá to come home. Because sometimes at night, I’d lie awake imagining life in Miss’s big house, cooking and gardening with Cody, making movies with Ethan. Cody and I would ride the bus to high school together. Then I’d go to Michener University. When I graduated, I wouldn’t be cleaning houses. Someone else would clean my house.

  The only way for that to happen was if there were no Mamá. No Papi. Mamá needed to come back so I’d stop thinking bad thoughts.

  In my hand I still held the sparkling angel frame. I hung it on a branch at the very bottom of the tree. Way in the back.

  After dinner I felt Rosa’s eyes on my mouth as I chewed each sticky sweet bite of the pecan pie. She couldn’t have any because Miss had taken her to get braces. Nuts weren’t allowed.

  “Has anyone teased you about your braces?” Miss asked Rosa.

  Rosa pulled her eyes off my mouth and focused on her. “Why would they tease me?”

  “Kids used to laugh about my braces when I was a teenager. They don’t do that anymore?”

  “No,” said Rosa.

  “Yes,” said Ethan.

  They looked at each other.

  “If you have braces, it means you’re rich,” said Rosa.

  Ethan looked at me. “Then your family’s rich, and we’re not.”

  “Ethan,” Miss warned.

  “You’re getting braces,” Cody said to Ethan.

  “When we can afford it,” said Miss.

  While Ethan made a face at Cody, I asked, “Miss, why didn’t you buy Ethan’s braces first?”

  The word for her look is dumbfounded. “I didn’t buy Rosa’s braces. There’s a program for families without insurance.”

  “Why don’t you take Ethan there?” I asked.

  “I make too much money.”

  “Ha!” I said to Ethan. He made another ugly face.

  “Boys, time to do the dishes,” said Miss.

  They both groaned. Rosa stood. “I’ll help.”

  As they cleared the table, I whispered to Miss, “Are you mad that Rosa gets her braces for free?”

  “Why would I be mad?”

  “It’s unfair. You’re an American and you have to pay.”

  She smirked. “We only think we want fairness. We should be asking for grace.”

  I didn’t understand. Teachers, parents, and grown-ups all over the world are always telling kids to “play fair.” How can fairness be bad? And grace? I’d heard of grace at church. Miss was always reminding me to be gracious when I’d forget to thank her for stuff. I’d thought maybe grace meant being polite. But that didn’t seem to fit. I asked, “What is grace?”

  Miss thought. “When you get something wonderful that you don’t deserve — a blessing you haven’t earned.”

  Usually she was good at explaining things. But not this time.

  “I don’t get it.”

  She patted my arm. “Think about it.”

  Miss handed a red gift bag to Rosa, but before Rosa could open it, Miss said, “That’s for Carmen. For her new baby. What’d she name him?”

  “Mateo,” said Rosa.

  Miss nodded and smiled.

  “Can we open it?” I asked.

  “No!”

  As Miss tore the paper off my present to her, a smile spread across my face. Then she smirked, examining the doll I’d bought at the drugstore. “How nice!”

  “I got you a doll because your name is Doll!”

  Ethan snickered. “Our name is Dahl. D-A-H-L.”

  I blushed, suddenly remembering all the times I’d seen her name on TV, written underneath her face while she reported the news. Why hadn’t I paid attention?

  “Guys,” their mother warned as Cody started giggling. They were laughing because I didn’t know something. But it was funny. I giggled, too.

  Then Rosa started. And finally Miss.

  Many moments later she wiped her eyes. Then she picked up two small boxes made of shiny red foil and tied with green ribbons. She checked the tags and held one out to Rosa and the other to me.

  Just as my hand touched the box, I glanced at Miss. Something in her face made me hesitate.

  Rosa ripped off the ribbon, opened her box, then pulled out a ring. “Miss!”

  As Rosa flew past me to hug Miss, I tore open my own box. Then I paused. In the glow of the Christmas lights, the ruby sparkled. My birthstone. Pink. It meant more than just hope. A promise fulfilled. I stared at the ring on its bed of cotton until the image got blurry. Miss loves me.

  I slipped the ring on. It fit. Like it was made for me.

  Miss sent the boys away so we could have the conversation. She explained that she was giving us purity rings. By taking them, Rosa and I were promising not to be alone with a boy. Then her face wrinkled up. “Will your parents mind me giving these to you?”

  “No, Miss!” Rosa and I answered together, clutching the rings to our chests.

  Rosa’s ring had an amethyst in it. Purple. For sorrow? I was glad I got the pink one. With Mamá gone, I needed all the hope I could get.

  That night in bed I left the curtain of our window pulled back so I could still admire the ring on my hand in the light from the streetlamp.

  Papi had thought the rings were pretty when we showed him, but when Rosa explained that they were “purity rings,” he got upset. I didn’t understand
why. He was as worried as Miss about us getting pregnant — not that he had any reason to worry. But maybe Papi thought Miss had crossed la línea. That the gifts were too personal. Maybe he thought Miss was acting too much like a mom.

  And that made me angry. Doesn’t every kid deserve a mom? Don’t I deserve a mom? The word for how I was feeling about Miss is called defensive.

  At least Papi didn’t say anything about making us give the rings back.

  I turned my hand back and forth so I could watch the ruby sparkle. I didn’t need a purity ring — I didn’t know any boys I wanted to be alone with. But the ring meant something different to me than it did to Miss. A promise that she’ll always be there for me.

  A promise my own mamá couldn’t keep.

  I STUMBLED through the dark, tripping over packages and almost knocking down our Christmas tree. I had to reach the phone before it stopped ringing.

  Because nobody calls at two in the morning to say hello.

  The sharp smell of pine burned my nose, and prickly needles scratched my face as I grabbed the handset. “¿Bueno?”

  Even while I said the word, I knew that things were not “good.” Before she spoke, before I heard Mamá crying, I knew.

  Abuelita is dead.

  Mamá talked, but I wasn’t hearing her. The screaming in my head was too loud. I gave the phone to Rosa without an argument when she put out her hand for it.

  Is this my fault? Did I wish Abuelita dead? And part of my brain asked the other questions. Is there time for Mamá to cross the border? Can she be home by Christmas?

  I helped my sister pack the suitcase she had borrowed from Tía. Rosa kept wiping her face on her sleeve. My eyes were dry.

  Rosa packed the perfume we bought for Mamá at the drugstore. I added another wrapped package to the suitcase — the sweater Miss bought for me and Suelita to give to Rosa for Christmas. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Miss also got a sweater for my sisters to give to me. I’d already sworn to myself I wouldn’t wear it until Mamá came home.

  Mamá had said Rosa was old enough to ride the bus to Mexico by herself, so she could attend Abuelita’s funeral.

  “You love Rosa more than me,” I’d accused into the phone.

  Mamá said, “You don’t want to come to the funeral. Your heart would break, mija.”

  “It’s broken already.”

  “Jacinta, you must stay with Papi. To care for Suelita. And what about Carmen? She needs help with the new baby. With Mateo. They all need you now. ¿Sí?”

  “Sí.” The word was sour in my mouth.

  “You are almost a woman, mija. A woman must be strong. Even more than a man.”

  Is Mamá stronger than Papi? I thought of how she had pushed him to come to America so that we could get an education. How she had gone to Mexico to care for Abuelita while she was dying, even though Papi said no. How strong do you have to be to watch your mamá die?

  I thought of how difficult and dangerous it’d be for Mamá to come home.

  Then I thought of Tía Carmen raising three children by herself. She could’ve gone back to Mexico with Victor. But even though she was scared about raising her children alone, Tía wanted education for her children, too.

  And I thought of Rosa. She was still a girl, but she’d been there for Suelita, who was a baby when Mamá left. To Suelita, Rosa was more like a mother than a sister.

  And Rosa had been there for me.

  I’d thought Miss was the most powerful woman I’d ever met, with strength in tones of copper and steely blue. But Miss’s strength had never been tested. Her creamy skin wasn’t covered in scars. I realized that there are many different shades to being a strong Mexican woman. As many colors as in Abuelita’s afghan.

  When it was time for Rosa to leave, I stood in front of our building and held Suelita while she whimpered. Snow fell in fat, wet clumps as Rosa climbed into Papi’s truck.

  Suelita’s tiny body shivered, but I felt nothing.

  Papi would drive Rosa to the bus station. Then he’d go to the first of his two jobs.

  Mamá and Rosa would spend Christmas burying Abuelita.

  I would go to Tía’s and care for Suelita and my cousins during winter break so Tía could work.

  We put aside our grief.

  We did what we had to do.

  I DIDN’T WANT to talk, but Miss didn’t care. She wanted answers. “Rosa went on a bus? By herself?”

  “Yessss. She comes home tonight.”

  Miss massaged her temples.

  The older waitress at Mom’s Diner ambled up to our booth. “Whatcha gonna have?”

  Miss took her hands away from her face. “Just coffee.”

  The waitress turned to me. “And what would you like?”

  She could tell that I’d been crying. By then I knew that waitresses were nice because they’d get bigger tips. I didn’t feel obligated to be nice in return, but it’d become a habit. I looked into her eyes. “Root beer, please.”

  I thought about the early days of going to Mom’s Diner. Miss was always telling me, “Sit up straight and look the server in the eye. It’s rude otherwise. It’s like telling people they don’t exist.”

  This lesson had been hard. I wasn’t trying to be rude. In Mexico, we lower our eyes as a sign of respect. I’d told this to Miss.

  She’d said, “That won’t work in the United States. If you want people to trust you, you look them in the eye. Eyes are the window to the soul.”

  I didn’t like the idea of people seeing into my soul. It made me too vulnerable. But I’d learned to look the server in the eye.

  Once the waitress left, Miss and I had nowhere to look except at each other. We saw the misery in each other’s souls. Then we both looked away.

  Miss spoke. “What were your parents thinking? You know what it’s like in Mexico. Drugs. Kidnappings.”

  She said other stuff, but I didn’t hear it. Why am I getting a lecture? I’ve been here washing dishes and changing smelly diapers. Navidad had always been full of warmth, full of light. This year Christmas had been dark and cold. Empty.

  I’d been waiting for Miss to come back from her vacation so there’d be someone to pay attention to me. Instead she was worried about Rosa.

  By the time we left Mom’s Diner, I thought Miss was finally done talking. But after she drove me home, she parked outside our apartment and turned off the engine. Like when Pastor Federico clears his throat before saying someone has died.

  She stared at her hands on the steering wheel. “I had no right to say the things I did. I’m sure your parents do what they think best.”

  I saw Miss then. A woman who loved my sister. Someone who loved me. I started to tell her not to worry. I hadn’t listened to most of what she’d said anyway. For a moment, I thought she might even hug me. But in that second she exploded again. “It’s just stupid to send a child into a foreign country on a bus!”

  If lightning had hit the van, it would’ve been better. I wanted to say, Mamá ISN’T stupid! I wanted to say, Mexico isn’t a foreign country — it’s HOME!

  Mostly I wanted to say, What about ME?

  All those words fought to get out of my mouth at the same time. They stuck in my throat, and before any of them came, I jumped out of the van and ran down the stairwell to our apartment.

  I thought I’d feel better when Rosa got home. But when she came in with Papi, new little silver stars glinted from her ears. She’d spent Christmas with Mamá, and I hadn’t.

  I wasn’t going to speak to Rosa, but she pulled me into our room and closed the door. From her underwear drawer, she pulled out a wrapped package. The sweater. “I forgot to give this to you before I left to go to the — to Mexico. It is from Miss and me.”

  I shoved it back at her.

  She didn’t seem angry, or even surprised. She put the package on my bed, then turned to me. “Miss was right.”

  I snorted. Isn’t she always?

  “We are not Mexicans.”

 
Her words were plain, but I couldn’t wrap my mind around them. I shook my head like a dog with water in its ear.

  “When I was in Mexico, it was as though I had never seen it. It is dirty. A cat died, and was left in the street to rot and stink.”

  Can this be true?

  “I washed my hair in the sink, and one of our uncles yelled about ‘wasting water.’ The people have nothing. We would not know how to live there.”

  I forgot I wasn’t speaking to her. “You’re lying.”

  “At the funeral, people pointed and whispered, saying I was Abuelita’s rich American granddaughter.”

  “We’re not rich!”

  “Our uncles think we are. They want money to pay Abuelita’s doctor bills. Mamá told them we do not have it, but they saw my braces.”

  I sank onto the edge of my bed. “Your braces were free!”

  “Mamá told them, but they do not believe her. They say she is American now and does not care about family. They have to sell the farm to get the money.”

  Again I opened my mouth to speak, but my tongue was dry. In a moment — in less than a moment — the happy picture of our family living together on Abuelita’s farm vanished. The future was dark, scary, filled with only questions. If Mexico wasn’t home, I was lost.

  Like in that movie. Dorothy after the twister. Lost with no ruby slippers.

  I swallowed. “We’re Americans?”

  Rosa sat on her bed, looking at the carpet. “No. We are not Americans.”

  “W-where do we belong?”

  She looked into my eyes. Into my soul. “Here. In the barrio of northeast Maplewood.”

  Miss was right again. Our world was too small.

  The only good thing about Abuelita’s death was that Mamá could come home. I hung on to that the way a little kid in the deep end of the pool hangs on to his floaties. So he doesn’t drown.

  Papi sent money to Mamá.

  Then we waited.