all these women
here to take me
home.
At the house I help Camino out
of her torn top. I try & reach for her jeans
but it only forces her to cry harder.
So I slip her shoes off & help her sit on the bed.
I run to the bathroom to grab a towel
I use to wipe the mud off her feet.
The moment she lies on her back
she rolls to throw up on the floor.
“Shock,” Tía says. “Who knows how long
she was in the rain trying to think how to get away.”
Tía boils a cup of tea. Sits gently next to Camino,
gives her small sips as she pets her hair.
I want to help Tía but have no idea what to do.
& so I climb into bed beside Camino, on her other side,
tuck my chin into her shoulder.
Throw my arm around her middle.
Let her know she is safe.
I am in between dreams
in one dream Yahaira
wraps around me
like one of those strangler figs.
I imagine she is that tree
absorbing me I want to tell her
I am sorry I want to tell her
she is welcome but
before I get the words out
I wake up in another dream
in this one Tía has her face
close to my face
her face is covered in tears
I smell her warm scent of
chamomile & honey
feel her hands on my cheek
I am hers I am hers I am hers
she says & she is right
I dream my father
sits on the corner of the bed
his weight
on the mattress
on my heart
his head in his hands
he looks like an old man
he is not supposed to be here
he is gone he is gone?
When I wake up this last time
sun peeks in through the window
Yahaira is entwined alongside me
I can feel her heart against my back
I am sweating & I want to pull away,
I want to bury in the safety.
From the kitchen, I hear Tía’s soft steps slow
even from over there she knows I am awake.
I clear my eyes one more time
because I can’t tell if there’s a figure
in the corner or if it is just a wet pile of clothes
but when I squint I see
Yahaira’s mother dozing in a chair.
Fifty-Five Days After
The next morning I find Mami at the little table
in front of the Saints drinking coffee.
I do not sit down before I speak.
“She needs to come back with us. Not because
it’s what Papi wanted, but because it’s what she most needs.
What we most need.” Mami keeps her eyes straight ahead.
Her finger rubbing the smooth rim of the cup.
Mami doesn’t say anything in response.
She finishes her coffee, stands up.
She grabs her purse & drives out.
There was so much I had left to say:
That maybe a bad husband can still be a good parent.
That maybe he tried to be the best he knew how to be.
That he hurt her got caught up there’s no excuse.
But he is not here. He is not here. We are all that’s left.
Camino stumbles out of her bedroom looking like
she’s been run over by a train.
I know that Camino’s pride is like ironing starch
& she sprinkles it over herself until it stiffens her spine.
She didn’t tell anyone about the tuition bills.
She didn’t tell anyone about the man stalking her.
This whole time she’s swallowed her words like bitter pills
not realizing they were slow-drip poison.
I do not know what is going to happen next.
But I cannot will not leave without her.
Yahaira’s mother
comes back to the house
after midday.
& for some reason,
I am waiting for a lecture
on how I acted irresponsibly:
how I stole from her daughter,
how I need to return her money,
how I am no fit sister to her child.
I almost hope she does say
any of those things
so I can loose all the angry things
I hope to say back.
But Yahaira’s mother does not say anything.
She sits in the rocking chair next to mine
& our squeaking chairs
hold their own conversation.
I peek at her from the corner of my eyes.
She is a beautiful lady,
but the skin beneath her eyes
is smudged with exhaustion.
As if she feels my gaze on hers she speaks:
“You needed a mother,
& I wasn’t sure
I could be that to you.
Your mother & I were friends, you know,
we were good, good friends once.
I thought I would look at you
& see her betrayal on your skin.
See your father’s faithlessness in your eye.
I did it to protect myself.
I was so softhearted
when it came to your father.
I didn’t want the sight of you to undo me.”
Yahaira’s mother takes out a folder from her purse.
She passes it to me.
I scan the sheet quickly.
It’s an emergency appointment for a visa
scheduled for three days’ time.
I look up; the questions must be
shining from my eyes.
“With us, you’ll come with us.
You cannot stay here.
That man will come back.
Angrier, as they always do.
It is not safe. Your Tía agrees.
& it is what your father wanted.
The interview was scheduled
for late August anyway. I went
to speak with my cousin to ensure they could push it up.”
What I wanted. What I wanted.
For so long. How bittersweet
a realized dream can be flavored.
Does anyone ever
want to leave their home?
The fresh fruit that drops from their backyard?
The neighbors who wiped their snot?
Does anyone ever
want to believe they won’t come back?
To the dog that sniffs their heel,
to the bed that holds the echo of their body?
Is there relief in pretending it is temporary,
that one day it will be safe? That I will once again
wave to the kind school bus driver;
that I’ll hold Carline’s baby before he grows,
having never known me? They have no palm
trees in New York City, no leaves to shade me,
to brush against my cheeks like my mother’s hands.
There is no one over there, alive or buried,
who held me as a child, who cradled me close,
who fed me from their table, who wiped my knees when
I fell & scraped them. Here, despite the bad & ugly,
is my home. & now I wish that I could stay. Does anyone ever
want to leave the place they love?
While Yahaira & her mother run errands,
I join Tía on a round of the neighborhood.
I haven’t seen El Cero in days, but both
Tía & I keep our heads on a swivel.
The last house we visit is the house
of the old woman with cancer.
>
I pet Vira Lata & order him to wait outside.
I am nervous of what we’ll find behind the door.
But when Tía knocks, I see she also pulls a key out.
I look at her with a question in my eyes.
“One of the neighborhood boys installed a lock;
he gave a group of us copies so we could get in & out.
It’s safer for her that way.” Inside I see
the sheets have been changed recently,
& a vase near the window holds field flowers.
I put my hand on the woman’s brow
& she turns her head into my hand.
When I press my fingers to her stomach
the lump there seems to have grown smaller.
I shake my head at Tía; none of this makes sense.
She squeezes my hand.
Carline comes over that night.
She brings a small wrapped box
& wishes me a happy belated birthday.
I hold her tightly before I introduce her
to Yahaira’s mother; she had not met her at the funeral.
Carline must be surprised by the woman but does not let on.
She tells me Luciano has been breathing better,
& he even cried for the first time. His lungs:
clearer, stronger. I have hope he will live.
We do not say the word milagro,
but I know that like a flame,
Tía wrought a miracle & Carline nurtured it.
I squeeze her hand
& an idea spins in my head.
Tía refuses to leave here. She says she is needed.
But she is going to require help when I’m gone,
& she needs new blood to teach.
Carline’s house is packed to the brim with people
but here is a house that will sit mostly empty,
& an apprenticeship that she would be perfect for.
Having Nelson around the house would be helpful,
& Tía loves little more than a baby to cradle,
a family to feed.
I will broach the idea with Tía tomorrow,
the Saints in my ears whisper, sí mi’ja, sí mi’ja, sí.
Yahaira’s mother takes me
to the clinic to get a health report;
the civil registry office
to obtain a copy of my birth certificate,
to make a copy of her marriage record
that shows she is legally my stepmother.
We spend hours in the rental car
driving from here to there & back,
Yahaira sleeping in at home or helping Tía.
Zoila & I speak little on these trips,
but when I’m humming along to a song,
she turns up the radio.
& when her face was red from heat
in the clinic waiting room,
I used a magazine to fan it.
It is awkward, these familial ties & breaks we share.
But we are muddling through it. With Yahaira
brokering our silence when she can. & by letting the hurt
between us soothe itself quiet when she can’t.
I dress nicely for the consular agency in Puerto Plata.
I tug on my graduation dress, that was my priest meeting dress,
that is now my visa interview dress. I am clothed
in beginnings & endings. A lucky & unlucky garment.
But isn’t every life adorned with both?
We will see what this black brings me today.
Zoila sits in the interview room with me
as her cousin asks me questions.
When he asks about school, I tell him I want to study premed at Columbia.
The consular officer tells us
it will take a couple of days to process,
but he shakes my hand warmly & gives Zoila a wink.
My mother & Camino leave the house
every day preparing for her visa appointment.
I let them spend the hours without me.
I do not want to be a crutch for either of them to use to hobble.
Instead, I spend time in Tía’s garden,
& think of Dre with her tomato plants.
Twice Carline has come over, once with the baby,
strapped to her chest.
He is a small boy, & when I stroked his cheek
he opened his eyelids & stared at me.
This made Carline gasp. She told me the baby is five weeks old,
& she’s been scared this whole time he would not make it.
But his steady gaze on mine makes me believe
this babe was born a warrior & he isn’t going anywhere.
One morning, after Mami & Camino climbed into the Prius,
I walked down to her beachfront. Glancing sideways to make sure
I was not being followed, although I felt like I was being watched,
I stood at the water’s edge. I could imagine my father here.
This wide world of trees, & rocks, & water:
a kingdom he presided over. I could imagine him a boy,
in chancletas & a small T-shirt running here to dive,
& climb trees, & imagine a great big world.
I skim my feet in the water, with my face stroked by the sun
& pretend it is my father hands on my skin
saying sorry I love you welcome home goodbye.
I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you.
Say the waves. Say I.
The night after the consular visit,
Yahaira tells me she has someone she wants me to meet.
& since she can’t possibly know anyone in this callejón that I don’t,
I know she means in the United States.
“I’m excited to meet your friends when I get there,”
I say politely. Ever since the night with El Cero
it’s been more difficult to be snarky with her.
She shakes her head.
“I want you to meet her before we arrive,
& she wants to meet you too. My girlfriend, Dre.”
She says this firmly. Looking me in the eye.
& I know what she thinks. I will condemn her
for being gay. Homosexuality is complicated here.
I look at her right back. “We should video-chat with her.”
& she pulls out her phone, presses a name
from the speed-dial screen.
Soon, a dark-skinned girl with short hair fills the screen.
She smiles with all her teeth when she sees Yahaira.
“Hey, baby! Two calls in one day! Lucky me.”
Yahaira turns the phone a bit so the girl & I are face-to-face.
I pull back in surprise. Not because of this girl, Dre.
But because it’s the first time I’ve seen our faces like this,
side by side, almost pressed against each other.
I clear my throat, suddenly nervous; this is someone
my sister loves. If she does not love me my sister might not either.
“Hello, Dre,” I say; my English sounds a bit rusty.
Dre answers back, & asks me how I’m doing
in excellent Spanish. Thank God she speaks it.
Then she surprises me completely by changing locations.
I follow her via the screen as she walks into a bedroom,
then pulls away a grate that covers a window.
Yahaira whispers to me, “She wants to show you something
on the fire escape. She loves to grow things.”
When the body holding the phone heaves through the window,
I hear the loudness of honking cars & people yelling.
The screen flips so I see a planter against a railing,
then the little green buds aiming toward the sky.
Dre’s face again fills the screen. “Yahaira told me your
aunty is a healer & that sometimes you help. I thought
starting you a little
herb garden might help make you feel more at home.”
Moisture stings my eyes & I nod at Dre.
Then lean over to Yahaira, fake whispering in English,
“Where did you find her?
& is there a clone of her somewhere that I could marry?”
Fifty-Nine Days After
The night before we leave DR
we sit around the table,
the four of us
eating toasted cassava & butter.
Vira Lata sits at Tía’s heel,
the way he has since the night at the beach.
Mami says she thinks it would be good
if when we get back home
we return to the counseling sessions.
& I know it has scared her
how big the emotions
of loss have weighed on our shoulders.
Enough for me to disobey her
in a way I never have.
Enough for her to forget
the kind of woman she once was.
Enough for Camino
to thrust herself into unleashed danger.
Tía does not say much,
but she cleans crumbs
from the corner of Camino’s mouth
& she butters a piece of cassava
that she passes to me
like she has hand-fed me my whole life.
Sixty Days After
At the airport
Tía does not cry.
But I cannot stop crying.
I am a small child again
an ocean a big loss of stream.
But Tía, as Tía has always been,
is mountainous in her small stature.
& it’s all I need:
for her to be an immovable rock,
to know she will still be here
when I decide to come back.
Before I turn from her
she touches the string of beads
between her breasts & then taps her fingers
to my own heart.
The pulse of her heart
matching my own; a rhythm
neither time nor oceans can make offbeat.
& I know she is saying she is with me
& so are the Saints.
She stands in the terminal
until I walk through security.
Gives me a nod.
& I see her mouth:
“Que Dios te bendiga, mi’ja.”
I stop moving. How can I leave her?
She seems so small alone.
She is my home. I already miss her.
She shakes her head,
as if she can read my thoughts,
she shoos me with her hands.
Clap When You Land Page 17
