Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (25 page)

When I get back to the apartment, I'm so exhausted—physically, emotionally—I can barely make it up the stairs. Yiota steers me to the bathroom so I can wash the dried tears off my face;
Thios
Labis is still at the hospital making arrangements. Yiota makes tea and tries to get me to drink it, but I'm too tired. I'm vaguely aware of her pulling my shoes off and draping a blanket over me, and then I'm asleep for hours.

When I wake up, I feel better, but I panic when I see the apartment is empty. I find a note on the fridge from Yiota, saying she's meeting her mother at the airport. I call her immediately, and she tells me that the hospital is keeping my dad for observation but I can go visit him whenever I want to.

I breathe. I drink about a gallon of water and eat a breakfast bar and text my friends. They're all being so sweet and offering to stop by or get my homework for me, but all I can think about is my dad. Who cares about stupid homework? Even the concerned text from Alex doesn't chip away at the shell of dread that's all around me. Because what if, what if, what if . . . ?

At the hospital, Dad's in much better spirits, even though he still can't sit up or eat regular food. “These drugs are fantastic, Zona. Did I tell you that already? It's like being in the seventies again.” He giggles like a little girl. “Or the eighties. Or the nineties!”

“Okay, Dad. Glad you're feeling better. Father Shares Too Much While Under the Influence, Scandalizes Only Child.” A nurse pokes her head into the room and tells me it's time for Dad's sponge bath. Definitely don't need to be here for that. “Dad, I'll go wait outside, okay?”

Dad is singing quietly to himself, which I interpret as a yes. Even though seeing him all trussed up in that room is still awful, he seems so much better already that I feel calmer and safer. And able to think more rationally about what comes next.

I spend the next few days setting up the apartment for an extra person to stay (Labis and Angela will take turns staying with Yiota at her apartment) and trying to make my dad comfortable after he comes home.

My friends keep touching base with me, but it's really my aunt, uncle, and cousin who are there, taking care of everything. It's amazing how, when you hear “Family means taking care of each other” enough times, you start to accept it as true—even though you believed the exact opposite for your whole life.

The change in
Thios
Labis over the next month is shocking: here, suddenly, is the cuddly man Yiota and Angela swore was hidden inside the stolid, gruff one I'd known before. I come home from school and he's made me a snack. He jokes with me. He even teases my father, especially when he has to carry him from the couch to the bathroom. (Dad insisted on ditching the bedpan after the first few days.) I can finally see how he might be Theseus's brother after all.

I can't help but feel guilty about accepting so much generosity—financial, physical, and emotional—from my aunt and uncle, though. I mean, I have a vague idea of how much this must be costing, and it's not like they're wealthy people. But every time I try to bring it up, or even buy groceries, they rebuff me. I don't want to insult them, but I feel like I have to do something to show them how grateful I am. To acknowledge that I could never, ever have gotten through this without them.

Finally, after weeks have gone by, I think of just the right thing: the blue box.

After dinner, while Dad is sleeping and before
Thios
Labis goes to Yiota's apartment to spend the night, I bring the box out from my closet. I remove the stack of my mother's letters and put them on the table, then leave the room so they won't feel like I'm watching them.

After about an hour, Angela knocks lightly on my door. “Can we talk with you?” she asks.

“Of course.” I roll off my bed, where I've been pretending to read but have really just been waiting impatiently for their reactions.

I go into the living room and sit down. “Before you say anything, I have something else to show you.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my mother's wedding ring, which I hand to Angela. “It was a gift when I turned sixteen, from my dad,” I explain, pointing out the engraving on the inside of the band. “They really, truly loved each other.”

Angela hands the ring back to me, and her eyes are wet. “We know,” she says quietly, smiling. “Her letters . . .
éla,
they are full of joy—in your father, New York, being so young and having a wonderful . . . a wonderful adventure. Thank you for sharing them with us.”

Labis clears his throat. “I miss your mother,” he says hoarsely, staring at the floor. Then he looks up at his wife, and then at me. “I miss my sister, you understand?” He puts the stack of letters, all neatly folded back into their envelopes, back in the box. He places the lid on it and strokes the top of the box softly. “And again, I must tell that I am sorry, Zona. For missing
you
all these years.”

“It's been . . . hard, trying to sort out my feelings,
Thios
Labis. But you don't need to keep apologizing—I forgive you. And I know my mom would, too.”

Angela puts her hand over her husband's, and I decide to leave them alone with their memories. I go out onto the terrace with my laptop, wondering if I have any e-mails from Hil and Matty. The sky is such a beautiful shade of blue that it looks fake. The sunlight bounces off the white buildings on our street, and I have to put my sunglasses on to see clearly.

There's one new e-mail in my inbox.

It's from Lilena.

She hasn't responded to my attempts to reach out to her since . . . well, since April. And now it's mid-June. It's not that I haven't thought about her, but there has been so much going on lately. And now here she is, appearing out of the blue.

I can hear Angela in the other room now, fussing over Dad, who is almost certainly trying to get to his notes when she wants him to keep resting.

I'm afraid to open the e-mail.

But I'm not a coward. At least, I don't want to be. And facing things that are scary is an essential part of getting to the core of a promising story.

Zona,

I'm not really sure what I want to say. They haven't let me use a computer or my phone since I've been here, so I didn't get any of your messages until today. I wasn't sure at first that I wanted to even respond, because I'm still really mad at you. The only reason I'm even here is because of you. I can't believe what you did, I really can't.

But I guess the truth is that the real reason I'm here is because of me. Well, that's what they tell me, a million times a day, here. And maybe they're right. The doctors keep saying that if I hadn't gotten treatment when I did, I could've had a heart attack, which I don't know if I believe. But if that's true then I guess I should thank you.

But I don't think I'm ready to do that, either.

I know you called my mom because you were worried about me. I'm trying really hard to appreciate that you were concerned and not be furious that you couldn't just mind your own business. I really am trying to do that. But I hate it here, and I hate being treated like some kind of invalid or something, and I hate not being in control of my own body anymore. It still feels like your fault. And that makes me hate you, too.

But anyway, I wanted to tell you I'm working on forgiving you. I heard about what happened to your dad and I'm really sorry. I hope he's okay.

Lilena

I close the laptop. I don't really know what to think. I guess it wasn't realistic to hope she'd realize she had a problem right away. Or that she'd forgive me. But her words hurt. I don't want to take them personally—I know, deep down, no matter what anyone says, that I did the right thing.

But it sucks to be hated by anyone, and especially a friend who you took a risk for. It hurts just as much now as it did when I got that awful text from her.

I'll be going back to New York soon. Dad's much better, and our sublease ends in a few weeks anyway, so we'd have to find a new place if we were going to stay. Besides, Dad is itching to get back to work and not be fawned over by well-meaning caregivers, as much as I can tell he is touched by the attention. Not to mention the 360-degree shift in attitude from my mother's family.

Of all the people I've met—besides my cousins, of course—Lilena is the one person I imagined staying in touch with after leaving Greece. I see Alex at school, and we still text each other every so often; while I obviously like him, I'm not sure we'll talk after I go back to New York. Maybe we'll exchange the occasional Instagram message or something. I feel bad saying it, but worrying about whether or not he likes me and when I might see him again just stopped seeming important after dad's accident. When I think about how crazy I acted after that first kiss, I feel kind of silly. And while the other GIS kids are nice and we've had fun, I don't feel that connected to them, really.

Now I guess it's a wait-and-see situation with Lilena.

Saying good-bye to my Greek family is going to be even harder after everything we've gone through together with my dad. And then, going back to my old life, I wonder if the Zona-sized space I left behind is still there, or if it's changed. If focusing on myself the last six months—
experiencing
life instead of reporting on it—has changed me. If I'm different now and if anyone will notice. If maybe I
want
to be noticed. If maybe there's more to me than two best friends and a lifelong dream of being a journalist. Or if maybe there isn't, and if that's still okay.

“Dad. Stop admiring yourself and let's go,” I call. He is mesmerized by the sight of himself with his fancy new cane (he prefers “walking stick,” which I think sounds pretentious) and pauses in front of every reflective surface to pose with it. Which, in an airport, is a lot.

Tony snores, sedated, from inside his carrier, and I pat his furry head through the top panel before dragging him—along with the rest of our carry-on luggage—farther down the hallway.

It's seven
A.M.
on a Tuesday in early July, and we're going back to New York.

Back to sticky hot summer and Italian ice vendors on the street; back to searching for treasure at the Strand bookstore and reading the
New York Times
over cappuccinos in our tiny kitchen; back to Hilary and Matty and my journals full of article ideas. Back to reality.

But reality is different now,
I think as we find seats in the waiting area.
Now it's full of cousins and aunts and uncles and Greek phrases and strange new foods and a sense of freedom.

I had to turn my Greek cell phone in to be recycled, and it feels weird not to have it anymore, though I don't think there would be any messages. Yiota went back to Crete with her parents two weeks ago, and we had a massive Skype chat with the whole family several times so my dad could finally “meet” them all and I could say good-bye. We've promised to write letters—real letters, not e-mails—which I intend to put in the blue box with the others. Maybe my mother's letters will be less lonely in there that way. Eventually, there will be a new box.

I already said good-bye to Betony and Ashley, Nikos and a few other kids on the last day of classes, and we promised to keep in touch. Maybe that will actually happen. I don't know if they ever found out exactly what happened between Lilena and me—they never said so, and I never asked. I haven't heard from Lilena again since her surprise e-mail. I did write back telling her to take her time, and that I'd always be there if she wanted to get in touch. I hope someday she will.

I take a bite of a terrible airport breakfast sandwich and lean back in the hard plastic chair. I'm so tired—I was out late saying good-bye to Alex. I was a little surprised he asked me to meet him, since I've hardly seen him lately. Sure, we grabbed the occasional coffee after last period, and once he left a copy of the
New York Times
by my locker as a joke . . . but I was never able to get caught back up in the crush/dating hamster wheel of excitement. I wanted to—he's just as cute and funny as he always was. My friends think I'm crazy for not paying more attention to him. But none of that stuff seemed as important after my dad got hurt.

If someone had told me I'd meet an adorable guy in Greece and then decide I had better things to do than make out with him every chance I got, I wouldn't have believed it. But if I've learned anything this year, it's that life is full of surprises.

Anyway: last night. Alex asked me to meet him in a little park sort of near school, which couldn't have been more romantic.

“So, uh, going back to New York tomorrow, huh?” he said as we walked around in the warm night air. He took his glasses off and started polishing the lenses. He seemed anxious, which made me anxious, too.

“Yes, well, that's the plan . . . unless you're planning to abduct me?” I replied, trying to lighten the mood. “I have to warn you, my dad has no money for ransom. Although he does have a snappy new cane that he may use as a weapon if you get too close.”

Alex laughed and put his glasses back on.

“How's your photo project coming? I meant to ask you about it before, but I—”

“You and your dad are super close, huh?” he interrupted. He said it like a question, but I knew it wasn't. I stopped walking.

“Alex, look—I'm sorry if I . . . I mean, I didn't mean to . . .” I trailed off.

The truth is, I didn't know what to say.
I'm sorry being with my dad was more important to me than hanging out with you
didn't seem quite right. In fact, it seemed pretty lame. But that didn't make it less true.

“No, don't feel bad, Zona.” Alex plucked a leaf off the tree we were standing under and started ripping it up.
Is it possible I make him as nervous as he used to make me?!
“I just wish I had gotten to spend more time getting to know you. I mean . . . it sucks you're leaving. That's all.”

“Well,” I said with a smile, taking the shredded leaf bits from his hand and tossing them onto the grass, “I'm not leaving yet.”

I couldn't tell if he kissed me or if I kissed him, but we were suddenly just
kissing
; the familiar sparks shot up and down my spine like fireworks. We lay down on the grass and he wrapped his arms around me and I almost couldn't believe it was me, Zona Lowell, doing something so daring and sexy and exciting.

Being the story was definitely getting easier.

When we finally broke apart, it was almost midnight. I had to get back to the apartment, and I had a feeling that if I stayed things might go too far. We brushed ourselves off, kissed one last time, and then said good-bye.

I wanted him to turn back and wave as he rode away on his bike, but he didn't. And I knew for sure my time in Greece was done.

For the moment, anyway.

I feel the silver-tipped end of my dad's ridiculous cane tapping my foot, and I'm yanked out of my reverie.

“Hey, Ace. We're boarding. World's Most Spectacular Father-Daughter Team Anticipates Ticker Tape Parade at JFK, right?”

“Why do
you
get a parade?” I ask, pretending to be annoyed. “I'm the one who's had my whole life turned upside down. Shoved to the edge of a cliff and left to figure it out all by myself. All you did was do a bunch of research and get knocked around a little.” I grab Tony's carrier with one hand, sling my carry-on over my shoulder with the other, and shove my passport and ticket between my teeth.

“True,” he says, balancing on his good leg as he hoists up his computer bag. “But I'm still the only one who pays the bills around here. You wanna walk home?”

“Maybe I
will,
” I mumble around my mouthful of cardboard, but I'm smiling, too. We walk together toward the gate.

“Well, Ace, that would make for a hell of a good story.”

“Yeah, I think I'm all set in the ‘good story' department. At least for this year,” I reply drily.

“Ha. I'll second that.” Dad chuckles.

Then he stops and turns to me, taking my free hand in his like he used to when I was little. “Hey, Zona?” I look up at him, and he's smiling my favorite lopsided Dad smile. “I'm really proud of you,” he says. “I don't know if I've actually told you that. Sometimes I assume you already know what I'm thinking.”

Other passengers are swarming around us now, anxious to get to their seats. One bumps into me and gives me a dirty look.

“We should—”

“Don't worry about them; let 'em rush,” he scoffs. “I want to say this before we board, okay?”

“Okay.” I feel a little silly, to be sixteen years old and holding hands with my father in an airport.

“I just want you to know that
I
know how hard this experience was for you. Especially with my being mostly MIA and working all the time, and then with the accident . . . I pushed you to come to Greece with me because I knew you could handle it. And you
did,
Zo, and with such aplomb and grace and brains, and I'm just . . . I'm just in awe of you. I really am.”

I can feel the blush climbing up my cheeks. “Thanks, Dad,” I whisper.

He squeezes my hand, then puts his arm around my shoulder, leaning on me a little as we head to the gate with our tickets.

And after that, we're flying through the sky and all the way home.

Adío yia tóra.