Surviving Santiago (19 page)

We arrive at the corner, and Frankie hands me a helmet. “He doesn't go much, but now he's really sick. Spitting up blood.”

“Does he have tuberculosis?” Like Sofia's father?

“No, cirrhosis. Do you know what that is?”

I shake my head. Frankie adjusts the chin strap of my helmet. My insides go from zero kilometers to a hundred when his fingers brush my skin.

“It's what happens after you drink for years. The liver turns to scar tissue, and blood can't get through. So it comes out everywhere else.”

“I'm sorry. That must really hurt.” I envision Papá's liver turning to a wad of useless collagen.

Frankie shrugs. “His choice, his consequences.”

“But you're still praying for him.” I climb onto the seat and wait for Frankie.

“What else we can do?”

I expect Frankie to take me to McDonald's like he told Tía Ileana, but we go straight to the apartment. He parks in a motorcycle space and helps me to the ground.

“What about lunch? And the movies?” And why is he
spending the day with me if his father is dying?

“I have to be where my family can reach me,” he says. “But I have some surprises.”

Upstairs in the apartment, he takes a package of rolling papers from his back pocket. Then he shows me a well-stocked refrigerator and pantry. Good, because I'm broke.

“I brought the double feature, too. My uncle loaned me
El Padrino
and
El Padrino II
.”

I switch to English because it's been two days since we practiced. “I love
The Godfather
.”

“Yeah. Lots of bang-bang.” He makes a gun with his thumb and index finger. Then he lifts me up and kisses me.

“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask as soon as my feet return to the floor.

“What? I kiss you all day.”

“No. Your family. Don't they need you to be there?” I hope they don't, but if it were Papá in that situation, I think Tía Ileana would make me stay home rather than go out and have fun all day.

Frankie shakes his head. “He sleeps all the time.” He pretends to raise a bottle to his lips. “Drinks and sleeps. And pukes.”

With Frankie and his little sisters watching? Frankie pulls me to him, and I hug him tight. My friends and I had wanted to give Boomer in
St. Elsewhere
a hug when his wife died. Now Frankie's father is dying, and I'm hugging Frankie for real.

And could my father be that far behind his? I have to find out.

I lead Frankie to the sofa, sit, and pat the place next to me for him to join me. When he does, I press my body against his and rest my head on his shoulders. He brushes a strand of hair from my face.

“I'm worried about my father, too,” I say. “He says he drinks to get to sleep. But now he's drinking more and more and it doesn't seem to make much difference.”

“You mean it doesn't affect him?” Frankie fumbles with the top button of my shirt. I grab his wrist and move his hand to my shoulder. My body is revved up, but I know where this is going. The word
inoportuno
sticks in my mind. Inappropriate. The wrong time.

“No, Frankie.” His hand stays where I put it, even though he could have thought my “no” meant his question rather than his roaming fingers.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “It's hard to put them out of your mind when they get like that.”

“It's so scary.”

“Not anything a kid should see. They ought to think about that before they do it.”

The one time I watched Papá puke from drinking totally freaked me out. It happened in Madison on a Saturday in early spring, after the snow had melted and it was still light outside at five in the afternoon. Yet another newspaper had rejected one of his articles that morning, and
his friends had taken him to their favorite Mexican restaurant to console him. They brought him back while I was sitting in our tiny living room doing my homework, and he let loose like a burst sewage pipe right after they came through the door. I screamed, and Mamá shoved the guys out of the apartment. I remember her screaming, too, and beating their muddy feet with a mop. They weren't even supposed to be there; she had banned them from the apartment for bringing Papá home messed up once before, when I was asleep but my brother wasn't.

“Your poor sisters,” I say.

Frankie takes a deep breath. “I'd do anything to save you from the same thing.”

I stroke his hand, which still rests on my shoulder. At least I can go back to Mamá and Evan and forget about Papá. But not if I want a father who takes care of himself and loves me.

“About your father.” Frankie's voice is gentle. Patient. “You said he drinks more and more and nothing happens.”

“Yes.” I pull on the loose thread of my belt loop.

“Mine went through that stage, too. For years.” He touches his crooked nose. “That's when I really wanted to kill him.” His jaw trembles, as if he's trying to swallow but can't. “Now it looks like he's gone and done it to himself.”

I stare at the little bits of hair on Frankie's upper lip and chin. Some of the skin along his lower jawbone is
still smooth like a boy's. I let go of my belt loop and touch his baby skin with my index finger. “Last night Papá said, ‘Just shoot me.' Like he wanted to kill himself, too.”

“We can work that out.”

I jerk up straight, away from Frankie. “No!”

But Frankie is laughing. “I'm just playing with you, Tina. Sometimes you've just got to laugh.” He holds his palms out. “Or you're going to be crying and miserable and have no life.” I realize that Frankie's right—and the reason he decided to spend the day with me rather than stay home with his family. “Anyway, your father has developed a tolerance, which means his liver is about twice the size of normal and three times as efficient.”

“How do you know this?”

“Looked it up at school last year. On account of my old man.” He stands, drops the rolling papers on the table, and heads toward the kitchen and the cabinet with our stash. “If he gets body slammed, his liver explodes. Otherwise, it's his last chance of having his show, chasing street crimes, and all that other stuff he does instead of paying attention to you.”

T
he rest of our weed, a pile of ham-and-cheese sandwiches, two bags of microwave popcorn, and a
Godfather
double feature help put Papá and his problems out of my mind.

“Can you get more
macoña
for tomorrow?” I ask Frankie as the credits roll on
The Godfather: Part II
.

“We, uh, can't get together tomorrow.” He avoids my eyes.

“But you promised.”

“I know. I . . . have to watch my sisters Monday nights. My mother works late.”

“You didn't tell me she works.” In fact, he told me that she didn't work—that taking care of a falling-apart family was her work.

“She's . . . a maid. Up in Las Condes. It's her
señora
's canasta night.”

What must he have thought, when I introduced him to Graciela? And what about his grandmother, with jewelry and a nice apartment? Then I think of my
abuelos
on Mamá's side, and the way we used to live when Papá drove his taxi before his arrest. We lived in an apartment—not a tin roof and plywood shack like where Frankie probably lives—but it had a leak in the ceiling, cold cement floors, and bedrooms even smaller than the ones in Papá's new house.

“I'm sorry,” I say as I caress the smooth part of his cheek again. The video clicks, then whirrs as it rewinds. “How about Tuesday?”

“Okay.” But then Frankie leans forward and covers his face with his hands, leaving my fingers in midair. After a few seconds, he sits up straight, facing me.
Making eye contact. “I have the day off. I'll pick you up in the morning.”

“And go to Papá's demonstration afterward?” I hug Frankie without waiting for the answer. “That would be so cool!”

“We'll see.” He nuzzles my neck. “You don't want to show up reeking of weed.”

“Good point.” I rub the short, wiry hair at the back of his head with the palm of my hand. The tape stops rewinding, leaving the apartment completely silent except for our breathing. “Anyway, I'd rather spend all day with you.”

“Enjoy the time while we have it,” Frankie whispers. He presses his lips to mine. The earthy taste of the
cuete
fills my nose and mouth. His warmth spreads through the middle of my body as if I'm melting into him.

I love you, Frankie.
I would say it out loud, except that our lips are attached to each other, our tongues touching. And when we stop kissing to catch our breath, I hear the words I've most wanted to hear.

“I love you, Tina. You're everything that's good in my life.”

C
an you love someone without loving yourself?
I ask myself that question on Monday, which seems forty-eight hours long rather than twenty-four. I can't believe I used to go days without seeing Frankie—now I can't stand even one day without him. And I decide that he
really does love himself. After all, he said once that he was the hope of his family.

After supper, I lie on my back in bed, staring at the ceiling. I used to imagine us riding off on his motorcycle, into our own secret world, but now I imagine him at home in my world.

How can I convince Mamá and Evan to bring Frankie to the United States so he can finally have the life he deserves?

C
HAPTER
17

Tuesday, July 11: 41 days until I go home

“¡C
HELO!”
A scream awakens me at dawn. I was half-asleep, imagining Frankie's body pressed against mine, and it takes me a while to recognize my aunt's voice.

She keeps shouting my father's nickname, but I get downstairs before Papá does. Tía Ileana stands in the middle of the front yard in her bathrobe, holding the newspaper. At her feet is a bloody bird—a parrot—its head twisted at an acute angle.

Sour liquid fills my mouth. I turn away from the carcass and swallow hard.

My father limps outside, wearing his pajamas and leaning on his cane. His hair sticks up, and his glasses are askew. He takes one look at the dead bird, mutters, “
Mierda
,” and lurches into the house. Tía Ileana and I follow him to the backyard. In the pale sunlight, Víctor flutters from branch to branch. Pablo walks upside down along the wire roof of the giant cage. Usually, I love watching Pablo do that trick—I imagine him clowning around just for me—but
this morning I ignore him. Papá pounds the side of his fist against the stucco wall.