This Side of Providence

by Rachel M. Harper

  I see a girl ahead of me, her head in a book as she walks to the bus stop. She’s wearing a pink hat that looks familiar and when I see her brown skin, dark against the background of snow, I figure out I’m looking at Graciela. I want to say hi to her, but when I pass by she’s looking down so I don’t say anything. Her voice startles me.

  “Weren’t you even going to say hi?”

  I turn back to look at her. “Didn’t want to scare you.”

  “I don’t scare that easily.”

  I tuck my hands into my pockets. “Hi,” I say.

  She smiles. “Hi yourself.”

  I want to ask her about the book she’s reading, and what she wants for Christmas, and if this is the first time she’s ever seen snow. Instead I say, “You waiting for the bus?”

  “Yeah. I have a piano lesson.” She looks down at her feet.

  I want her to tell me something about Colombia, about how she likes the food here compared to back home, and maybe how long it takes her to braid her hair that tight, but the words won’t come out. Instead, I ask her where she’s going.

  “The east side,” she says. “The ride’s not too bad.”

  I nod my head. “Good thing you got your book.”

  “I always have a book. That way I’m never bored.”

  I watch the snow as it falls on her face and turns into droplets of water.

  “Well, have a good lesson.” I turn to go.

  “You in a hurry?” she asks.

  “No, not really.”

  “You could wait with me, just until the bus comes. It shouldn’t be long.”

  “Okay.”

  The snow keeps falling as we stand together at the bus stop. My sneakers are wet and I can’t feel the tips of my fingers but I hardly notice anything but her smile, as white and clean as the blanket of snow now covering our feet.

  It’s weird living in a house with two different moms in charge. I know Mami doesn’t really like it here, because she’s always closing her eyes and shaking her head or just walking straight out of the room. Sometimes I hear her talking to herself, repeating things under her breath like she’s praying. She and Kim don’t fight though. They usually aren’t even in the same room together. Mami told me she’s on a waiting list with some agency to get a nice apartment in a better part of town, but we just don’t have the money right now. She doesn’t know about everything I made working for Snowman and I’m not gonna tell her yet. I’m waiting to surprise her when we really need it.

  Most days she hangs around the apartment, but sometimes she has to go to meetings, usually with her parole officer and other people who want to help her stay out of trouble. It’s funny to have her here when I get home from school or the library, like she’s one of those moms on TV now. The kind that figure out the problem before you even tell them what’s wrong.

  One day in January I come home and she tells me that it’s time to pack up because we’re moving out. She says she’s on her way to a meeting, but that I should get my things together tonight so we’ll be ready to go in the morning. Sammy and Kim are away for the weekend, and when Mami leaves it’s just Luz and me in the apartment. Just like old times. I make macaroni and cheese for dinner and when we’re eating I tell her she needs to start packing.

  “I’m not leaving,” Luz says. She doesn’t even bother to look up from her bowl.

  “What do you mean? Mami says it’s time to go.”

  “For her, maybe. For you if you want. But not for me.” Luz jabs at the macaroni with her fork, stacking as many pieces as she can onto the pointy tips.

  “Don’t be crazy, Luz. You’re coming.”

  “I’m serious. I already asked Kim and she said it’s okay.”

  I push my bowl away. “You want to stay with Sammy and Kim but not with us? Kim’s drunk all the time and she doesn’t even leave her room. She can’t take care of her own son, but you want her to take care of you?”

  Luz nibbles on the macaroni at the end of her fork. “I’m just sick of moving around.”

  “We have to stay together. That’s what we promised.” I try not to sound like I’m begging.

  “I just want to stay in one place for a while, to be somewhere familiar. Why is that too much to ask?” Luz looks like she’s going to cry.

  “Mami’s more familiar than this place.”

  She looks down at the table. “Sure. But for how long?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t say that, Luz. Don’t even think that.” I might have the same thought, in the way way back of my head, but I’d never say it out loud.

  “She hasn’t even been home a month,” Luz says, “and here she is, already leaving. Is that supposed to be encouraging?”

  “Listen, she’s trying to make us a family again.” I grab onto the table, needing to hold something solid.

  “Why can’t we do that here?”

  “Why can’t you give her a chance?”

  Luz drops her fork into the bowl. The macaroni splatters onto the table, a few pieces hitting my arm. “Give her a chance? How many chances should one person get?”

  “This is our mother we’re talking about. Not some lady in the street.”

  Luz opens her mouth to say something, but stops herself. She puts her dish in the sink and walks out of the room without saying another word. I sit at the table alone, counting the pieces of spilled macaroni. I pick them up with my fork, eating every cold, greasy piece like it was medicine. Like I have to take it.

  I don’t remember anything from the day Mami left me in Puerto Rico. I don’t remember saying good-bye to her or driving to the airport to watch her plane take off. I don’t remember driving home alone with my father. But I do remember other things, things from after she was gone. I remember sleeping by myself on an air mattress in the corner of my father’s bedroom. I remember counting the cracks in the ceiling, how I never got past twenty-one. I remember waking up early and eating breakfast alone in a dark room. I remember eating dinner with my abuela, sitting together on the couch as we listened to the announcer’s voice on the radio, calling a local baseball game. I remember being scared whenever the phone rang, breaking the silence of that empty house. Mostly, I remember missing my mother.

  I finish the macaroni and drop my fork into the bowl. I get why Luz is upset, but she acts like there weren’t any good times. Did she forget all the birthday parties and holidays and trips to the store for new clothes, how Mami would buy us things even when she was wearing the same coat she first had in the Bronx? Or what about eating pasteles at Christmas and watching late-night TV shows with the sound turned down, how Mami used to laugh like we were in the studio audience? Or last year on Mami’s birthday, when we woke her up with frozen waffles for breakfast and iced coffee and then sang this song Trini made up, and how Mami laughed so hard she spit her coffee through her nose, and then later she let Luz do her hair and makeup. Does none of that mean anything?

  I get up from the table and start washing all the dishes by myself. I could go into the living room and drag Luz back in here to help, but I figure it’s better to give her some time to cool off. The way she’s acting you’d think Luz was the one Mami left behind when she moved here from Puerto Rico. That she flew by herself all the way to New York when she was five. That she was the one traveling alone on the plane, landing in a strange smelling airport with her belly twisted up from the grease, perfume, and cigarettes, her head pounding from the noise. But it wasn’t Luz, it was me. So why can I forgive her?

  When I got off the plane I didn’t recognize anything. All the signs were in English and I couldn’t read them. At home I was learning how to read, but in New York, I was suddenly stupid. No one ever said that, but I knew. Why else would I just stop understanding? I knew there was something wrong with me. First my mother leaves, and now this. After I walked through the gate, they told me to wait behind some ropes in this special area and my mother would come find me. I didn’t believe them, but I had nowhere else to go. And then I saw her, this lady with dyed b
londe hair running up the walkway and calling my name. She looked so happy. She was supposed to wait until they checked her ID, but she just slipped under the ropes and grabbed me, picking me up and kissing me all over my face. I didn’t even recognize her really, this skinny pale woman who hugged me so tight I thought I was gonna pass out, but she smelled familiar. She was smiling as tears fell down her face, and suddenly I recognized her as clearly as if I was looking into the mirror.

  This lady is your mother, I thought to myself. You came out of her just like your hand grows out of your arm. If you lose her, you lose everything that tells you who you are.

  Luz is already asleep when Mami gets home later that night. I turn off the TV, which makes the whole room suddenly dark, and wait for her in the kitchen. I hear her stumble around in the hallway until I turn on a light. She freezes like a cat, like I caught her doing something wrong. I blink against the brightness, and it takes me a few seconds to recognize her.

  “Gracias, mijo,” she says, unzipping her coat. She leaves the scarf around her neck and hands me a small coffee cup from Dunkin’ Donuts. Her hands are freezing.

  “Here, it’s hot cocoa.”

  The cocoa is lukewarm and thick like pudding. It’s too sweet so I add some milk and heat it back up in the microwave.

  “You don’t have to drink it if it’s no good.”

  “No, it’s good. Thanks.”

  “Bring it out to the porch. I want to talk to you.”

  She walks to the back porch, lighting a cigarette as she goes. Another one of Kim’s rules she ignores: no smoking in the house. I bring the cocoa outside, my hands wrapped around the cup for warmth. The back porch is enclosed, but the heat doesn’t work, so it’s probably about forty degrees out here. I can see my breath, thick like the smoke from her cigarette.

  “Did you talk to Luz?”

  I nod. “She doesn’t want to go.” I lean against the door frame, wishing I had thought to grab a sweatshirt or at least pulled on my sneakers. Goose bumps break out across my arms like a rash. “She wants to stay here.”

  Mami exhales. “Why’s she think she got a choice?”

  I shrug. “Kim said she can.”

  “That what you want?” She takes a drag off her cigarette.

  “It’s for Luz to decide.”

  “I mean for you. Do you want to stay here, too?”

  I shake my head. “This isn’t my home.” I peel a chip of paint off the windowsill and flick it into the darkness. “I want to stay with you.”

  Mami sits down on the edge of an old recliner.

  “I want to tell you something first, before you decide if you want to come with me. Two things, really.” She holds two fingers out, like a peace sign. “First off, we need to find a place to live. Rent is expensive and since I’m not working yet that part isn’t going to be easy. We might need to stay at a shelter for a few nights, just until we find something more permanent. Is that okay with you?”

  I nod. “What’s the other thing?”

  I can feel the floorboards through my socks, warped and cracked from years of neglect, and suddenly I’m afraid to move. I picture myself falling through the porch and landing helpless on the sidewalk, like a baby bird knocked from its nest.

  She clears her throat. “I’m sick, Cristo.” She looks at me, as if that’s all she’s going to say. As if that is the whole story. I open my mouth but she holds up her hand to keep me quiet.

  “They found a virus in my blood, when I was inside, and now I take all these pills every day just to keep me healthy. It’s a pain in the ass and I wish I didn’t have to do it, but if I want to feel better and stick around for you and your sisters, it’s got to be part of the plan. Just like how I got to go to all those meetings and not drink anymore, it’s just something I have to do now.”

  I’m suddenly not cold anymore. I can’t even feel the part of my arm that’s leaning against the door frame or the splinters that are digging into my socks. “Did you get it from someone in there?”

  “No, sweetie.” She reaches out to touch my hand. “I had it when I got inside.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  She takes her hand away and coughs into her sleeve. “There’s no way to know.”

  “What is it, pneumonia? They told us about that in health class. Teacher said it goes away if you take the right pills.”

  She looks down at her hands. “It’s called HIV. Have they told you about that in health class?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, that’s probably a good thing. It’s not something people like to talk about. It’s a private thing, you know?”

  “So I shouldn’t tell anyone that you have it?”

  “No, not now. Let’s just keep it between us, okay?”

  “What about Luz?”

  She shakes her head. “Just you and me, okay?”

  I nod. It’s like the old days, when Mami and me had secrets from the world.

  “How long will it take for you to get better?”

  “They say I’m better already. A lot better than when I got there.” She puts out the cigarette and flicks the butt onto the ground. “But nobody knows for sure how you get better from something like this. You just keep taking your pills, every day without forgetting, and you hope for the best.”

  She stands up and we’re looking eye to eye, almost the exact same height. The door frame gives me a few inches, but I’m still catching up to her. Weird how I didn’t even feel myself growing.

  “Maybe I can help,” I say. “I could put them in one of those pill boxes that César’s grandmother has and help remind you to take them. I could make up a chart on the calendar.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Mami says. “I would love that.” She wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug. I can feel her fists against my back, hard like onions. She doesn’t seem sick.

  “I think your father was right,” she whispers into my ear. “I should have named you Angel.” She bends down and kisses me on the side of my head, hard enough that I can still feel her lips when she takes them away.

  “Tu eres un angel,” she says softly. Her voice cracks and I hear her take a deep breath. She looks like she’s going to cry, but no tears fall. She is strong like Luz, and I wonder why all the girls in my family are tough like men. They act like they don’t need to cry. I could cry every day if I let myself.

  She leans into me and gives me another hug. I have to brace myself against the door frame just to hold the two of us up.

  Arcelia

  Nothing changes in the ghetto. A street don’t change. Flowers don’t grow from broken glass. Trash don’t bloom. They talk about how Providence is better now—how it’s been revitalized or some shit—but they don’t mean this neighborhood. They don’t mean my street. Everything’s exactly the same as when I left—same dogs, same corners, same men—so every time I go outside I remember what it was like. What I was like. The counselors tell you to avoid your old hangouts and any spots where you used to score, but if I do that there won’t be a street in Olneyville I can walk down. And half of South Providence would be off-limits, too. It was okay for the first few days, but by New Year’s I know it was too much to come back here. But what choice do I got? There’s nowhere else to go.

  Truth is I’m not tough enough for the street. Not anymore. On the inside, every day was in order—meetings, counseling, dinner, bed—so you always knew what was coming next. It’s like being a kid and having your mother tell you what to do. But the streets—that’s like being an orphan. Nobody cares how much TV you watch, where you stand, what you eat, who you see. Nobody checks to make sure you’re still there.

  In January we move out of Kim’s and into the shelter. Just Cristo and me. Luz don’t change her mind about coming and I don’t force her. Seems to me ten is old enough to decide something like that. It’s just for a few weeks anyway, till I get settled in a new place. By then I know she’s gonna want to come too, especially when I get her sister back. The shelt
er’s got house rules, a curfew, and bag check every time I come in or out. I figure it’s like a stepmom—one step off the street. Most nights we go to Oxford House for dinner, or St. Patrick’s if we’re on the other side of town. That’s the only way to get a hot, home-cooked meal. It’s not great, but it’s better than anything Kim ever made.

  I meet with Cece, my case manager at AIDS Care, and she gives me some clothes and toiletries and cans of Ensure for when I don’t feel like eating real food. Sometimes the pills take my hunger away and if nobody reminds me, I won’t eat for days. I don’t have my own room at the shelter so I carry the Ensure cans around in my duffel bag. I feel like a kid going to school every day, packing my lunch in the morning. Cece thinks I’m crazy for moving out of Kim’s place, but I tell her I don’t have no regrets. Back there I was too close to the old neighborhood, and too far away from being myself.

  “How long do you think you can last at the shelter?” Cece asks at my last appointment. She taps her manicured fingernails on the desk.

  “Long as I have to.”

  “And your kids?”

  “They’re okay,” I say, trying to sound like I believe it.

  “I just talked to the housing guy,” she says. She picks up a file and reads over her notes. “We’ve got a one-bedroom in Pawtucket that’s available in February, or you can wait for a two-bedroom in the West End. The schools are better in Pawtucket, but it’s a small place and we can only secure a month-to-month lease. It’s your choice.”

  “We need a two-bed,” I tell her. “I got three kids. And we need to stay in the West End, near their school. They been through enough changes.”

  She nods. “Okay, I’ll let him know to keep you on the list.” She stands up. “Anything else?”

  “What about my daughter, the one who’s staying with her father. Can you help me get her back?”

  She sits back down. “That’s not really my department, Arcelia. But with your history, it’s not going to be easy.” She tilts her chair back, lifting off the ground. “On the other hand, the state likes to see children with their mothers. Which is part of the reason you have your son. They’re on your side.”