Everyone Knows You Go Home

by Natalia Sylvester

  “And this is very important: if someone finds me, then Yessica becomes the one who can call time. Nobody else can say when the game is over, okay? You hide until one of us says so, understand?”

  He nodded and whispered, “Do we start now?”

  “On three. ¡Uno, dos, tres!”

  Elda pretended to cover her eyes as he ran off. She watched him dash to the hallway, undecided between the linen closet and the bathroom. Neither of those places would be good enough.

  She spun, wondering aloud where he would go as she meandered toward him. He ran down the hall, past the bathroom and into her bedroom. She counted to eight and heard her little boy drop to the floor and shuffle beneath the bed.

  “Ready or not, here I come,” she whispered. Elda headed straight for the kids’ room. She opened the closet and cleared the floor of all their shoes. She carried Claudita’s sleeping body to it and covered her with a bedsheet and a fortress of dolls and teddy bears, keeping her head free so she could breathe. Her daughter could sleep through an earthquake. She prayed tonight would be no exception.

  In the kitchen, she found Yessica trying to peek through the blinds without daring to touch them.

  “Here,” Elda said, placing a set of keys in her friend’s hands.

  “What’s this?”

  “Take them. If they come for me and Omar . . . the birth certificates are in a lockbox under the bathroom sink. The key is this little one here,” she said, trying to keep her hands from shaking as she singled out the small bronze one. “Martin and Claudita can stay with their grandma upstairs at first, and then maybe . . .” She had contemplated this possibility for years, but now that she had to say it, she couldn’t.

  Yessica took the keys and held her. “It won’t come to that. I’ll see you soon.”

  Alone again, Elda paced the apartment, pretending to still be looking for Martin. Even after Omar returned with a cold can of soda in his hands, sipping by the window as if this were a movie he couldn’t turn away from, she couldn’t stay still.

  She prayed that by now, Martin had fallen asleep, bored with their game of hide-and-seek. She tried not to imagine him watching her feet from under the bed, holding his breath, waiting and wondering when it would be safe to come out again.

  CHAPTER 37

  The surgery hadn’t worked. There were still pieces of the tumor left behind, growing with a vengeance after the attempt to out them. Isabel was the first Elda called with the results. She didn’t ask what next, because she didn’t have to.

  “I’d like to be the one to tell Martin and Claudia,” Elda said. “Just not yet. Not until I’m ready.”

  She sounded so small and distant, and in the silence that followed, Isabel thought of Omar. He had been right all along, about so many things.

  “Being ready is worthless,” he would probably say. “Like learning to swim without water.”

  Isabel warned Elda not to wait too long to tell the family. “Delaying can make things harder,” she said, then found herself wondering for whom. Was it the doctors? Her husband? Eduardo? She felt tiny spasms of anger bubbling inside her.

  “I wish you hadn’t told me,” she finally said. Keeping a secret like this from Martin, even for an hour or a day, was too much to ask of any wife.

  “Then I didn’t. There.”

  Isabel stood next to the open door of the linen closet in the hallway, staring at the numbers on her phone screen as the call ended. It hadn’t even taken a minute. Perhaps this wasn’t really happening, she thought. Perhaps it was all a test she was failing.

  It had been the same with Isabel’s father. In the end, he grew so sick his bones became brittle as a bird’s, and she had wanted nothing more than to embrace him, but feared that she would break him. Purple stretch marks and bruises that refused to heal tattooed themselves all over his body, but it was the fractures he feared most. The first time she saw an X-ray of her father’s rib cage, it struck her that this was all we have to protect our hearts. His was full of hairline cracks, tiny rivulets of pain. He said it almost hurt too much to breathe.

  That night, she crawled into bed and rested her head on Martin’s chest, wishing she could close her eyes and find she truly believed the same things he did. That they were happy. That everything was, and was always going to be, all right.

  In the inevitable clarity of morning, she was overcome by guilt. It was Saturday, and an owl hooted in double beats outside her window. A branch, stirred by the wind, made the sunlight dance in and out of her eyes through a crack between the wall and the blinds. It’d been months since she and Martin had spoken about anything but prescription doses and doctors’ orders, and even if they had, she was too tired to remember it. Everything had been blown out under the glare of Elda’s tumor, so Isabel tucked away any minor grievances to focus on staying strong for her. She knew she was not alone in this; anytime she asked Martin if he was okay, he nodded as if he couldn’t imagine a reason why he wouldn’t be. They floated around one another, breathing the same air, occupying the same space, keeping content as their lives coexisted side by side, and Elda’s seemed to slip through their fingers.

  What a fragile thing it was, to feel connected.

  She sat up in bed and swung her legs to the floor, letting the feel of the carpet fibers against her feet turn small and needle-like. Everything was more focused now, everything impossible to ignore. She thought of the second time Omar visited, how he had asked her to pluck from memory the moments that had defined her and Martin’s year. When she tried doing this now, all she had were flashes of Eduardo and Claudia, Elda and Omar. Here was the family she would never have had without Martin, without him. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost sight of him.

  She got out of bed and found Martin in the kitchen, eating a slice of ham wrapped in a tortilla over the sink. Eduardo’s was the only bedroom still frozen in dreams and silence.

  “Let’s go out for breakfast,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist and kissing the back of his neck.

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere. Someplace new.”

  “Where?” he said again, as if the question were a different one.

  They got dressed, and she drove. It was the reverse of what they normally did; Martin always went for his keys, and by default she would enter his car through the passenger’s side. She had told him once she missed looking out the window, and ever since they had settled into this unspoken arrangement.

  Now, as they pulled out of the garage, Isabel felt the promise of adventure. Before it all changes, we’ll have this, she decided. Just a drive alone, down the same roads of every night and morning, seeing what the other sees. In that moment, she felt it could be enough.

  She got on the highway and rolled down the windows. Up ahead she could see a terra-cotta tiled roof shaped like a square along the frontage road, so she got off before she might pass it. The restaurant had a towering wood-and-stained-glass door that splayed open to reveal a courtyard full of white linen-covered tables and lush, glorious palm trees. A mariachi band migrated through the space, which was so large that the sound of trumpets and guitars nearly faded when they reached the far end.

  “Party of two,” she told the hostess. Even this felt indulgent. The morning began to feel magical and make-believe.

  They were seated at a small table, pressed against an adobe wall. Its porous, uneven, beige surface made her think of a fort, the kind of place that ends up in Texas history books. The leather-clad menus were uncomfortably large.

  Isabel browsed through the brunch items, trying to think of something to say to her husband. The obvious—“It’s been so long since we’ve done this”—felt like a waste. Looking at him over the rim of her menu, she noticed he was sitting up straight, chest proud and rigid. To the many families and couples seated around them, she imagined they looked like they were on a first date. There was a stiffness to how they sipped their glasses of water, a delicateness as they placed their napkins on their laps. Perhaps Martin noti
ced it too, because after they placed their orders he leaned in close, elbows on the table as he intertwined his fingers, and just smiled at her.

  Isabel felt her face grow warm. She looked down at the table, at his hands. “Did you know that how you hold your hands never changes? It’s practically instinctual.” She rubbed his right thumb with her own. “See? You put your left hand over your right, without even thinking.”

  He tried switching, interlocking right over left. “You’re right. That feels weird.”

  It was nice to have shown him something new. It’d been so long since she had felt there were parts of her unknown to him, and she’d begun to feel like a barren field, unworthy of exploring. That was the thing about sharing your life with someone. Curiosity brought you together, but that enchantment is not infinite. There were only so many pieces left of the person Martin fell in love with that he had not yet seen. She kept them inside herself, safe and warm, knowing that when they slipped out of her they’d be gone forever, and one day she would run out, left with nothing to give him but everything she’d become, everything he already had.

  “We’re full of habits we never realize we’ve formed,” she said.

  He seemed intrigued. “Tell me more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our ticks. Not the annoying stuff. Like, I know I leave my socks on the kitchen counter and I’m trying to get better about it . . .”

  She had noticed both of these things and thought they were cute.

  “But the quirks. You know that glass of water you bring to bed every night? You ever notice you take a few sips walking over from the kitchen, but then you don’t drink from it again once you put it on your nightstand?”

  “No way. I get thirsty.”

  “For about five seconds.”

  Replaying every evening in her mind, she knew he was right. “You gargle to the beat of Salt-N-Pepa.” She put her hands up, knowing he could never top what she’d just said.

  “Wait, wait. What?”

  Isabel shrugged and began rearranging the forks in front of her. “When you brush your teeth. You gargle, and swish, gargle, and swish. Always for the same exact amount of time it takes to sing the chorus of ‘Push It.’”

  His mouth twisted in disbelief. “Show me.”

  “Here? No.”

  “I’m not buying it until you show me.” He inched her glass of water closer.

  “It’s just like . . .” She looked over her shoulder. No waiters coming, no diners watching them. Just a small window to explain.

  She took a small sip and hummed to the beat of the chorus. Head back, gargle, pause, swish. Head back, gargle, pause, swish, swish.

  By the time she mimed him spitting, Martin had lost it. He laughed so hard he clapped and sat back in his chair from the force of it. Isabel started to quiet him but couldn’t help joining in. She spit a little as the air rushed through her mouth. People were staring now, and she didn’t care. Look at this couple, they would think. Look how much fun they have, just the two of them.

  “Your turn. Another,” she said when she had nearly caught her breath. The waiter refilled her water, and she chugged it, choking back tears.

  “I can’t beat that.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  He traced the rim of his glass as he thought about it. “When you yawn, you squeeze your nostrils shut as you cover your mouth.”

  “I knew that one. It’s because when we were little, Claudia convinced me that our nostrils get permanently bigger with each yawn. Next, please.”

  “Shit. Okay. Um, first of all: my sister is evil. Second of all . . .” He turned his head as if he had caught a whiff of something over his shoulder, reminding her of another quirk.

  She gasped. “You bite the inside of your left cheek when you’re thinking hard. That’s three.”

  “Are we keeping points now?”

  “Maybe.”

  The food finally came, the table filling with small bowls of salsa, sides of guacamole, and a large, round plate of chilaquiles that left barely any room for their eggs and chorizo. They moved their glasses and silverware around, trying to accommodate the many dishes. As the waiter left, Isabel could see the band inching their way toward them, one table and song at a time.

  “So?” she said.

  “I’m drawing a blank.” He took a bite of his breakfast, staring blankly at the table as he chewed. “Not sure if this counts, but, is it just me, or does Eduardo talk to himself a lot? Most of the time I just catch him moving his lips, like he’s reading to himself, except he’s not reading. But one time I flat out heard him talking. His door was closed, so I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but man, it was weird.”

  “He was probably on the phone,” Isabel said, wanting to move on to another subject.

  “It was charging in the kitchen. That’s the other thing, you’d think he’d sleep with the thing like any other teenager. But that day, I’m positive because he’d just gotten back from his school trip to Six Flags, and he was exhausted. He went straight to bed and left his phone charging. You weren’t home. You’d gone to get my sister’s car. But the kid was talking to himself, Isa.”

  “You mean on our anniversary?”

  “Yeah.”

  As if it were any day, and this is what he remembered most. She’d been too distressed by Omar’s arrival and sudden departure to notice anything odd when she’d come home, feeling raw from everything he had told her. Until this moment, she hadn’t questioned why he had cut his visit so short when he still had plenty of hours left in the day. She had never thought there might be other places he could go, other people he might see—or who would see him.

  “He was probably counting his reps. You know how Eduardo is about his workouts.” Her food was getting cold, and she didn’t want to think about it anymore. She felt like she had crashed from an incredible high, and now all she wanted to do was climb back up, make a home there, and pretend it was just big enough for the both of them.

  CHAPTER 38

  OCTOBER 1986

  It wasn’t just the word, it was that she so often felt like one. On the radio, on the evening news, in headlines struck in bold, capital letters, Elda was reminded that she no longer belonged anywhere. Sometimes she imagined herself not as an alien but as an astronaut, floating between worlds so far apart that her voice got lost in the middle.

  There was hope again, but she didn’t want it. For more than a year the government had bounced around plans to give papers to families like hers. Legalized, as they called it, as if a living person breathing this air in this corner of the world were against the laws of nature. In their big house on a big hill, the men and women of the House and the Senate threw together all their ideas on citizenship and who should have it. They tossed it back and forth among themselves, fixing this, bargaining on that, until Elda felt dizzy from chasing it in the middle. She was convinced she would never catch it.

  Tonight, the reporter with the perfectly wavy hair announced the government had agreed on a plan, and President Reagan would soon sign it. Elda clicked off the television, leaning against the blank screen. The set was warm, like the hood of a car, and she closed her eyes and took comfort in it. She didn’t need to hear the rest of the news, which promised to outline all the requirements and stipulations for a path to citizenship. Not much had changed from the original plan, and she had already memorized the details by heart.

  “Does this mean we can play now?” Martin asked.

  She opened her eyes and found him in the center of the room, with Claudita just a few feet behind him on the couch.

  “Only until dinner.”

  Martin pumped his fist in the air, and as usual, Claudita imitated his movements. She watched him in awe as he pulled out the cables and controllers from the bottom drawer of the unit.

  “Me me!” she yelled.

  His fingers moved swiftly as he powered on the game. A familiar, tinny tune came on.

  “I play Mario?” Claudia said.


  “No. You know I’m always Mario.”

  Elda chuckled and turned away from them as she searched the pantry for a jar of seasoning. This was probably not the best time to tell her son that they had, in fact, almost given him the same name as his favorite character. Poor Claudita would be doomed to play the thin little man with the silly mustache and green coveralls forever.

  She heard some rustling and muted grunts; the children were playing tug of war with Martin’s remote control. “Cuidado or I’ll take it back to the store.” That silly set had cost so much, Omar told the kids it was worth their next two birthdays and Christmases.

  The game resumed, filling the room with its bubbly sound effects. Elda’s favorite was when Mario shot balls of fire out of his perfectly circular hands—the flames bouncing happily across the screen—because the high-pitched whoop reminded Elda of her mother hiccuping. She told this to the kids as she rinsed a couple of tomatoes under the faucet.

  Martin paused the game. “Nah-ah. Really?”

  “Really. She goes like this.” Elda imitated her mother’s wide-eyed expression and covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers. “Whoop, whoop!” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Your abuela always acts surprised when she hiccups. Like it’s the first time it’s ever happened to her.”

  Claudita stared at her with a blank expression. Out of nowhere, she whispered, “Hiccups mean I love you.”

  “You think so?”

  Her daughter nodded. She climbed onto the couch, her bare feet sinking into the spaces between the cushions as she puffed out her chest. “Hiccups mean I love you,” she said, louder this time. She shot her arms into the air and her shirt rode up, exposing her soft, round belly.

  “Nah-ah! That’s stu—”

  “Martin Jose!” Elda said.

  “—pendous! Stupendous.”

  Elda narrowed her eyes at him, but she couldn’t help smiling. “My little boy, using such big words.”

  “It means awesome. Amazing.”

  “Amazing!” Claudita said.

  “Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”