This Side of Providence (25 page)

“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 blonde 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

N
othing 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 shelter'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.”

“Let me tell you who's not on my side. My ex. The bastard only lets me see her two times a week.” I point two fingers at her, a peace sign, even though all I can think about is war. “Two times. Not even overnight. This is my daughter I'm talking about. My baby.” I sit back in my chair and lower my voice. “She came out of my body, you know. My body, not his. That ain't right.”

“I understand that it's difficult, but all you can do is take care of the things you control. Keep going to meetings, check in with your parole officer, and most important of all: stay healthy. If you get run-down you're not going to be able to handle any of this.” She closes her file. “Next week let's focus on getting you a job and a nice place to live, okay? You have to show them how much you've changed. After that, it's all going to fall into place.”

“Okay,” I say. “I can do that.” But in my head I'm thinking,
How can I show them I've changed on the inside?

She walks to the office door. “How are you feeling, aside from that?”

“Shit, I don't know. It changes minute to minute.”

“That's normal,” she says, making herself smile, “for you to feel confused and overwhelmed. You have a whole new reality to get used to. Sometimes it takes a while.” She puts her hand on the doorknob. “Why don't we talk about that when you come in next week, okay?”

She gives me her card with my appointment time written on the back. Then she puts her hand on my shoulder and escorts me to the front desk. She's trying to be nice, but all I can feel is her nails through my shirt, the tips filed like claws.

“I'll see you then,” she says, smiling at me.

I say okay but I'm already thinking it's gonna take a miracle to get me back here on that exact day and at the right time. I never been good with dates or numbers aside from money. A week seems like a lifetime now that I'm back on the outside. And who knows how many lifetimes I'm gonna get.

I keep forgetting to go back to the pharmacy to pick up my meds, so I end up missing a lot of doses. As soon as I get the pills I'm back on track, but I liked those days when I didn't have to take them. I felt like a normal person again. Inside I used to tell my counselor how much I hated taking all them pills. How it was hard to think of myself as different. Sick. On the outside I don't know who to talk to like that. I have a case manager and a doctor and an advocate at the shelter, but I don't have any friends. Or a lover. Everybody else is getting paid to listen to my problems, and knowing that makes it hard to open up.

Cristo asks me questions but I don't know how much to tell him. He already does more than he should. Every time I bring home my meds, he counts them out and organizes them in the fancy pillbox I get from the doctor. He watches me while I take them—one by one with milk so I won't gag—and then he puts a big red check on the daily planner he got from his teacher. He carries that thing in his backpack like it's keeping him alive.

One time when I'm at the CVS, I run into Snowman on my way out. He's buying an ice cream bar at the checkout counter, even though it's twenty-five degrees outside. The cashier keeps asking him if he's serious. Snowman takes off his gloves and pays for it with exact change. He spots me in line and stops. I can see him look twice at me. Like he can't believe it's me.

“Hey.” He nods at me. “How's it going?”

He approaches me slowly, like I'm an ex-girlfriend he thinks might make a scene.

I shrug. “It's going.” I tuck the bag with my meds under my arm.

“I guess that's better than it not going,” he says.

“You're right about that,” I say.

He looks me up and down. “You look good.” From anyone else it would seem like flirting, but he's just making an observation.

“Thanks.”

He looks exactly the same. Pale and cold, like that statue in
Prospect Park of the man who settled Rhode Island.

“So how's business?” I ask him.

He unwraps the ice cream bar slowly, not answering me.

“I mean, with the houses and shit,” I say. “The rentals.”

“Business is good. It's a good time to own.” He takes a bite of the chocolate shell, which cracks like a piece of ice. “Hey, I fixed up your old place. Redid the floors and painted everything. Got a new fridge. It looks real nice inside.”

“Oh yeah?” I make myself smile, even though I feel sad just thinking about it. “I guess that means you rented it.”

“Yeah, they're moving in next month,” he says. “A young couple with little kids. I could have doubled the rent after fixing it up, but I decided to give them a break, you know? Since they're just starting out.”

“I'm starting out, too,” I tell him. He looks at me real hard, like he's trying to see something that isn't there. “Starting again.”

“Yeah, I heard—” he cuts himself off. “Well. Cristo says you're doing better.”

“You talked to my son?”

He shrugs, taking another bite of the chocolate shell. It's dark against his white skin. “I see him around sometimes, in the neighborhood. He's a good kid.” I wonder if it bothers him, to be so pale.

“Course he is,” I say. “All my kids are good.” It's the truth, even if it's hard to believe some days. Even if I don't have much to do with it.

“Yeah. Well. I don't see the girls that much.”

“They like to stay close by,” I tell him. “But Cristo…he's like a bird.”

Snowman moves to leave, but I step in front of him. I lose my place in line but I don't care.

“So listen, you got anything else open? Any other apartments?”

He thinks for a long second. “Not right now, Arcelia. Not in this neighborhood.”

“I could live somewhere else. They keep saying that's better for me anyway. The counselors and everybody.”

“Can you afford to pay more?” He finishes the ice cream bar and sucks on the wooden stick like a toothpick.

“A little more,” I say. “I've got a case manager now, they can pay some of the rent. She called it a sub-city, or something like that.”

“A subsidy?”

“Yeah, that's it.”

“I can't always take that grant money,” he says, making a face like he really cares. “Where's she work at?”

This is it—the moment when I have to tell him the truth. If I want his help.

Finally I say, “ACOS,” using the initials instead of saying the whole name.

“What's that?” he asks.

There's no taking it back once I say it, like telling someone they have to move out, or that you don't love them anymore.

“AIDS Care Ocean State.” I say it real fast, like it's one word.

“AIDS,” he repeats, “like the disease?” He bites on the stick, which breaks in half in his mouth. I nod. “I didn't know,” he says.

“Neither did I.”

He spits the smaller piece out of his mouth, but keeps the bigger one, biting on it again. “You okay?” His eyes narrow, like he's actually worried about me.

“Sure, yeah. For now.”

He bites on this one until it breaks too. “I'll see what I can do,” he finally says.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “Appreciate it.”

The door opens behind him as a couple walks in, bringing the cold with them. I smell winter in the air as they pass by us. He turns to leave, but I reach out and touch his hand. It surprises me, how warm it is.

“Hey, Snowman, one more thing.” He looks down at where I'm holding onto him, then looks back up at my face. “If I ever come to you later and want something else. Not help with an apartment but…” I squeeze his hand. “Just don't give me anything, okay? No matter what I say.”

He keeps looking at me, his eyes clear like water. It's the first time I've ever really looked at him, and what I see is a surprise. He is a decent man.

“Okay,” he says. “Consider it done.”

He squeezes my hand back, almost like we're shaking on it, and then puts on his headphones and walks out of the store. From the street outside, I catch him looking back at me.

I got nothing to do for the rest of the day, so after I pay for my meds I go back outside. It's cold out, but the sun is shining. I stand in front of a Mexican restaurant for twenty minutes, imagining what I would order if I had the money to eat out. The sun warms the back of my head and it feels good to stand there and not have to move. If I was still inside and writing those gratitude lists I'd add this moment—Snowman, the sun, the smell of winter.

The sidewalks are empty. I keep my head down as I walk, wondering how my feet can look so small when my boots—Kim's boots—are two sizes too big. I step over a pink carnation with a broken stalk, lying in the middle of the sidewalk. I can't remember the last time I saw a flower. In Puerto Rico they're everywhere, growing like weeds at the side of the road. People always have them in small vases on the dining room table and you can smell them as soon as you walk in. But in the States I never see them, and the few times I did—before I got locked up—I never stopped to look at them. I knew it was a waste, since the drugs took away my sense of smell.

I turn around and walk back to the broken carnation to pick it up, wiping off the gritty slush from the street. I bring it to my nose. The fragrance is subtle, more like a flower shop than the flower itself. But it's nice to be able to smell it. I straighten out the stalk, trying to make it whole again. The weight of the bulb's head makes it bend slightly, like the breeze is trying to knock it over. I hold it together for the entire walk back to the shelter, my hand closed tight to hide the break.