I still don’t know how to talk to my father. I don’t want him to know what I know. There is so much I want to say, but I can’t. There are times the secrets feel like strangling vines. Is it considered lying when you hold something locked up inside you? What if the information would only cause people pain? Who would benefit from knowing about Olga’s affair and pregnancy? Is it kind or selfish for me to keep this all to myself? Would it be messed up if I said it just so I don’t have to live with it alone? It’s exhausting. There are moments it almost comes out, like a flock of fluttering birds in my throat. But what kind of person would I be if I told my parents? Haven’t they suffered enough? Isn’t that why Amá never told us what happened to her on the border? I know she’d die with that story still inside her, partly out of shame, but mostly to protect us. And why would Olga need to know that about herself? Apá was her father, no matter what.
—
Apá is drinking coffee at the kitchen table while Amá is in the shower.
I pour myself a cup and sit across from him. The sunlight pours in from the blinds.
“Buenos días,” he says, without looking up.
“Buenos días.” I squirm in my chair, thinking of how to talk to him. “Apá,” I finally say.
Apá looks up, but doesn’t respond.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you drew, that you were an artist?” I wonder why I’m so nervous speaking to my own father.
Apá scratches under his mustache. “Who told you that?”
“Mamá Jacinta. She showed me your drawing of Amá. It’s really good. Why did you stop?” I twist my napkin in my hand.
“Because there was no point. What was I going to do? Sell my drawings? It was a waste of time.” Apá stares at the slices of sunlight on the table.
“It’s not. It’s not at all. How could you say that? It’s art. It’s beautiful and it matters.” My voice gets loud, even though I don’t mean it to.
“Julia, sometimes in life you don’t get to do what you want to do. Sometimes you have to deal with what’s given to you, shut up, and keep working. That’s it.” Apá gets up and places his cup in the sink.
—
I always look forward to seeing Dr. Cooke, even though I often leave her office feeling like someone ripped my chest open.
I never in my life thought I would like exercise, but Dr. Cooke insisted that it would help me feel better—something about endorphins and releasing stress. I swim nearly every day at the YMCA. I used to hate swimming, but now I find it soothing. Life is funny that way. I stopped worrying about all the bacteria and secretions in the water and learned to enjoy it. There’s something about it that makes me feel free. I haven’t lost any weight, which is fine by me, because my body is tighter and healthier, and I like the way it looks. I have more energy, too. Even on the days I’m kind of lazy and don’t want to go, I make myself do it anyway because I never regret it when I’m finished.
Today Dr. Cooke wants to talk about my relationship with my mom. That’s probably our number-one topic.
“How have you and your mom gotten along this week?” She takes a sip of water. She’s wearing bright red linen pants, black sandals, and a white wraparound shirt. Her hair is pulled into a tight ponytail. What I like about Dr. Cooke is that she never seems to judge me. I can be my whole self without being afraid. Even when I admit to something that I think is shameful or
embarrassing, she doesn’t scold me or look at me like I’m a leper. I wish everyone could be this way. I don’t understand why people can’t just let others be who they are.
“Mostly okay. We went shopping and we didn’t fight, which is unheard of for us. I think I can tell that she’s scared and doesn’t want me to go away, but she never says it directly anymore. It’s like she’s trying so hard to be supportive, but it also makes me crazy when she doesn’t say what she means. I feel like I can tell right away what she’s thinking. She’s terrified that I’m going away to college. I know her, and I can just sense it.”
“And why do you think she’s holding back this time?”
“Because she doesn’t want to push me away anymore. I think she’s scared, you know? I think she finally is beginning to understand that I’m never going to change, and she’s learning to accept it somehow. I guess I’m glad, in a way, that she’s trying so hard. I’m trying, too.”
“Sometimes it’s difficult for people to adjust to new ideas, particularly if they come from a very different culture. I can imagine that perhaps your mother doesn’t mean to be so repressive; that to her, it’s a way to protect you.”
“I guess so. Probably.”
“Especially after the trauma she experienced crossing the border. Do you ever consider talking to your mother about what happened to her?” Dr. Cooke writes something in her notepad.
“No, I can’t. I promised my aunt I would never tell her. Besides, what can I possibly say to her to make it any better? I’m not sure what the point would be.”
“Maybe it’s a way for you to become closer to her, to let her know you understand a very important part of who she is, to show your empathy.”
“I don’t know. I mean, even though it’s not her fault, I think she feels ashamed. That’s why it’s a secret. Like, who am I to bring it up and hurt her again?” When I think about what happened to Amá, I get so angry I don’t know what to do with myself. How can people do terrible things to each other? What happens in someone’s life to make them think that violating someone’s body is okay?
“It’s something to think about. Maybe not now, but in the future. The same goes for Olga and her pregnancy. Perhaps one day you’ll be able to talk about it. When you’re ready, of course. It might help you both heal.”
“I don’t believe in keeping things hidden and buried—because sometimes it feels like poison pumping through me—but at the same time, I wonder if I’ll ever be ready to talk about it. I don’t know.” My lip quivers.
Dr. Cooke hands me the box of tissues.
“You have to look inside of yourself and decide what’s best for you. I’m only here to offer options, to give you the tools to make the right choices for yourself. You’re a smart young lady. I think you know you can overcome anything. Although you still struggle sometimes, I’ve seen you change in a short amount of time.” Dr. Cooke smiles. “That’s something to be proud of.”
I’m not sure what it means to be proud of myself yet, but I’m trying to learn.
—
The days feel endless as I wait and wait for my college acceptance (or rejection) letters. College is all I can think about these days, but no letters come in the mail.
Then, just when I’m starting to think that my applications were so bad the colleges didn’t even bother replying, there’s an envelope from Boston University waiting for me on the kitchen table.
Dear Ms. Julia Reyes:
We regret to inform you…
And then the letters just keep coming and coming. From Barnard College:
Dear Ms. Julia Reyes:
I write with sincere regret…
From Columbia University:
Dear Ms. Julia Reyes:
It is with very real regret that I must tell you…
From Boston College:
Dear Ms. Reyes: We are very sorry…
—
Lorena and Juanga take me to Lincoln Park Zoo to cheer me up on a warm and bright Sunday afternoon, even though I tell them I’d rather stay home sulking. I can’t believe I thought I’d get into those schools. Why did I have to aim so high? What made me think I was so special?
“Don’t be sad, Julia. We all know you’re as fierce as those beautiful ladies over there,” Juanga says, looking at the lions.
The largest one stares at me as if she were in a trance.
“You can always move in with us, you know?” Lorena says, adjusting her flimsy pink dress. “If things don’t work out.”
“I know, I know. I just really want to go to New York. I need a change. A new start blah-blah-blah.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Lorena almost sounds irritated.
“Ugh, stop getting sad, and let’s go look at the bears,” Juanga says, pushing us toward the building.
One of the polar bears just had twins, so there is a crowd of people hoping to get a good look. We worm our way through to the front and see one of the cubs nursing from its mother.
“Aw,” Juanga says, putting his arms around us. “Look at its little face.”
I put my head against his shoulder. “How’s your new boyfriend?” Juanga has been dating a hot guy from Hyde Park for about a month now. They met on the Red Line and have been in love ever since. He’s been happy lately, despite his parents being complete assholes. It seems like they kick him out every other week. They can’t get over him being gay, and Juanga refuses to
pretend he’s not. Even if he tried, it would just ooze out of him. He’s very much who he is.
Sometimes Juanga stays with his cousin, other times with Lorena. I would offer up our couch, too, but Amá would never go for it. Everything scandalizes her.
“Amazing. Lord, that man is beautiful,” Juanga says, fanning himself, as if he still can’t believe it. “I just need to move the hell out of my house so we can finally be a real couple. Can you imagine introducing him to my father? Gay and black? Ni Dios lo mande. He’d probably burn us at the stake.” He crosses himself and laughs. He’s kidding but not kidding.
—
The next day, right when I begin to consider a career in busking or garbage collecting, two thick envelopes arrive in the mail: one from NYU and the other from DePaul University.
I start screaming when I open them in the living room. Amá and Apá frantically run from the kitchen.
“What happened?” Amá looks frightened. “Is everything okay?” “I got in! I got in! I got in! I’m going to New York. I’m going to
school! And I got into DePaul! Holy mother of God!” I can’t stop
shrieking and jumping. Both schools are hooking it up with a full ride. NYU has accepted me with scholarships, with the condition of participating in a special study and pilot program for first- generation college students.
“Que bueno, mija,” Amá says, even though she looks heartbroken. “I’m very happy for you.”
Apá gives me a hug and kisses the top of my head. “So you’re going to the one in New York? What about the one in Chicago, mija? That’s a good one, too, ¿qué no?”
“Yes, but I want to go to the one in New York. It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time. There is no better place to be a writer. I’m sorry, Apá,” I say, and squeeze his hand.
Apá nods but doesn’t say anything. He swallows and looks away.
For a second, I wonder if he’s going to cry, but he doesn’t.
Amá sighs and puts her arm around my shoulder. “Ay, como nos haces sufrir. No se si maldecirte o por ti rezar.”
“You know I don’t mean to, right? I’m not doing this to hurt you.
I want you to know that.”
“Yes, I know, but one day you’ll know how much it hurts to be a mother.”
“I don’t want kids, so, no, I won’t,” I say, trying not to sound annoyed. Amá thinks it’s funny when I say I don’t want to have any children. She never believes me. It’s as if she thinks a woman without babies is pointless.
“That’s what you say. You just wait and see,” she says, and walks toward the kitchen, fixing her braids.
—
As the end of the school year approaches, I become more and more restless. It’s hard to pay attention in class when I already have one foot out the door. All I want to do is be outside eating ice cream, looking at the sky, and listening to the sounds of summer approaching.
I see Connor most weekends. Today we meet at a street festival in Old Town. I don’t care for the neighborhood much—too yuppie and white for my comfort—but the festival is free and it’s outdoors.
As soon as it gets warm, it’s as if the city loses its damn mind. Everyone is excited about life again and wants to be out in the streets. Unfortunately, summer also means people start shooting each other more often. Well, it depends what neighborhood you’re in.
Connor and I wander around, looking at the crafts, most of which are terrible. I don’t know why anyone would want to buy a watercolor painting of the skyline, for instance, or a woodcarving of the Cubs logo, but I suppose there must be a market for such things.
The day is sunny and almost too hot for May. My new blue dress fits me a little tight in the armpits, but I like the way I look. I’ve never worn anything with flowers before. I was surprised I didn’t
hate it when I tried it on. Amá insisted it was flattering, and for once, I agreed. I’m glad I did, because Connor pretended to faint when he saw me walking from the train station.
We share a giant plate of greasy fries at a picnic table by the stage. I don’t know how a person can resist fried foods, because I’m a goner every time I catch a whiff of them. Suddenly, the Depeche Mode cover band starts playing “Enjoy the Silence,” one of my favorite songs ever.
“Holy shit,” I say to Connor, and squeeze his arm. “This song. I can’t take it. It’s too good.”
He smiles. “It’s pretty fucking great.”
The moment is perfect—the sunset, the fries, the music. I look at Connor, and a wave of sadness washes over me. I miss him, even though he’s sitting right in front of me. It’s hard to explain, but it reminds me of a haiku I once read: “Even in Kyoto—/ hearing the cuckoo’s cry—/ I long for Kyoto.” I feel like that a lot. I get nostalgic before I have to.
I know Connor said we shouldn’t overthink our relationship, and in my mind I totally get it—we’re going away to college, after all. That would make it hurt more in the end. Besides, I try to reason with myself, I should be excited to explore New York on my own. Here is my chance to be completely independent for once in my life.
Connor gets up from his seat and slides next to me.
“I’m going to miss you,” I say as he puts his arm around me.
“I’ll miss you, too, but we’ll see each other again. Besides, we have the whole summer. I’m still right here.” He smiles.
“I know, but what about after the summer?” I turn away. The sky is beginning to darken.
“I’ll visit you in New York, I told you.” Connor turns my face toward him.
I hate this feeling, the not knowing. These in-between places are scary, but then again, I understand that nothing is ever certain.
I begin to cry. It’s not just because of him, but because of everything. My life is changing so fast, and even though it’s what I want, I’m terrified.
“You’re beautiful, did you know that?” he says, and kisses me on the cheek.
I’m startled to realize that I believe him.
