“What do you think, I wouldn’t have noticed? I called more than once, you know.”
“I bet you did.”
Mom had been quiet at her end, listening to Dad and me bicker back and forth about whose fault it was that he was worrying. Finally, she got a word in. “We’re just glad to hear from you, honey. How are you doing?”
The gentleness in her voice did it. I burst into tears, right there in the Bolívars’ living room in the middle of all the unpacking. Everyone started tiptoeing out of the room. Except for Pablo, who came and put his arm around me and let me cry while he explained to my parents that I was fine. It had just been a hard weekend: the official ceremony in the capital, the trip up the mountains, the actual burial near his grandparents’ farm. Thank God, Pablo did not mention Los Luceros and Doña Gloria’s stories, given Dad’s present state of mind.
When I had calmed down, Pablo handed the phone back to me. “I’m sorry I worried you,” I said. “So much has been going on. Maybe I did forget to tell you.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry. I guess your old dad is turning into a real tyrant.”
Tyrant? That was not a word I could use lightly anymore. And Dad was hardly a tyrant. Just a worrywart, overprotective, pain-in-the-butt parent I was suddenly missing like crazy. “So you’ve already bought a ticket, Dad?”
“Don’t worry, it’s refundable. I was just going to come down if I couldn’t get ahold of you.”
“But I want you guys to come.”
“Oh, honey, really?” Mom didn’t wait for me to have second thoughts. “We’ll have to see when we can get a flight down,” she told Dad on his extension.
Dad cleared his throat. “I, ah, I . . . I actually bought tickets for everyone . . . in case we all had to come down.” He sounded a little embarrassed about it. From her end, Mom said, “You did?”—like this was news to her. “I just thought . . . ,” Dad tried explaining.
“We’ll have to rebook Milly’s return so she can come back with us.” Mom was already thinking of everything.
Tía Dulce peeked in the doorway to make sure I was okay. I motioned for her and everybody to come back. It was raining outside. This was the only place to sit all together and have a bite before we crashed after the long drive.
“I’ll ask Pablo’s family about hotels around here.” I practically had to shout into the receiver above the voices of everyone returning to the living room.
Mrs. Bolívar overheard me as she brought in a tray of tea. “Tell them they have to stay here.” Everyone in the room started chanting, “Sí, sí, que vengan aquí.”
“You hear that?” I asked.
“Where are you?” Dad wanted to know. “It sounds like a bar.”
“Dad! I’m in the Bolívars’ living room.” Actually, the house was quieter than usual. The TV was off. And instead of the crowds we’d had before, now it was just la familia, eight human beings, and one jabbering parrot brought in off the rainy patio. After a long bout of silence, Pepito was now screeching all the swear words Riqui had taught him during the dictatorship.
Dad had to repeat their flight information several times. I could hardly hear. “Love you, guys,” I said before hanging up. We always said that for goodbye. It struck me it was our way of asking for la bendición .
On the way to the airport, Pablo and I had picked up the van Dad had reserved with his credit card. It seemed huge. But it was the only size left, and Dad had wanted something where we could all fit with our luggage. Before I even got a chance to ask, Mom had mentioned inviting Pablo to come along with us.
The plan was to spend a few days in the city followed by a couple of days traveling through the interior, then back to a beach resort near the capital for fun and relaxation. Dad was going to get his wish after all. Not the rocky coast of Maine, but palm trees and white sand and a lot warmer waves.
Part of my plan when we traveled inland was to take my family up to Los Luceros to meet Doña Gloria. Her voice still sounded in my head. We’re counting on you, she had said. But how was I, Milagros—I was taking my name back!—supposed to bring more light to my corner of the world? In a little over two weeks, my corner would be Ralston High. How would I even explain Doña Gloria to Em and our friends?
Pablo’s hands were on my shoulders. “¿Qué pasa?” I guess I did look like I was about to fall over from sunstroke.
“Just thinking about Ralston,” I explained. “It’s going to be so weird going back. I mean, such different worlds.”
“Yo sé,” Pablo said quietly. Of course, he would know. He had looked so out of place that day in January when he stood in front of our class. “We are—what is it Jake and all of you call yourselves? The border people?”
“The borderliners.”
“Sí, los borderliners.” Pablo wove his fingers together. “We hold the worlds together. Without us”—he drew them apart—“everything falls apart.”
“I guess,” I agreed, smiling at the thought of “ los borderliners”—Jake, Em, Dylan. I couldn’t wait to see them! This year, we were going to be the new leaders of our class. Maybe we could work our own little revolution, why not? I mean, look at everything that had happened to me since the day Pablo leaned across the lunch table and asked where I was from.
Thinking about it now on the observation deck, I felt such gratitude toward everyone and everything that had somehow brought me to this moment in my life.
“Thank you, thank you,” I whispered, closing my eyes. It would have shocked Tía Dulce to know this is the way I pray.
The roar overhead grew deafening. The plane was coming in for a landing. “Vuelo de Nueva York,” the voice over the speaker blared. Flight from New York. Ten minutes early!
Down on the runway, everyone was in motion. The jet-way wasn’t working, so stairs were being rolled forward by several workmen. Small carts buzzed around like bumper cars at the county fair. In a totally time-warp moment, a donkey with two baskets of flowers strapped to its saddle— like those ornaments people put on their lawns—was led out on the runway by a man wearing a sombrero. They were followed by a combo of musicians in colorful peasant costumes. “What’s going on?” I asked Pablo.
“It’s for los turistas.” The country was trying hard to draw tourists after twenty or so years of being a war zone. Our own flight hadn’t gotten this kind of reception because we had made a connection through Puerto Rico and weren’t targeted as tourist material.
The musicians broke into a lively tune as the passengers began deplaning. The donkey guy bowed to each female passenger and handed her a flower. It was a little much, but that’s what I loved about this place. Stuff that was over the top in the States was no big deal here.
As each person stepped out of the plane, I felt a rise of anticipation, then a dip of disappointment when it wasn’t a member of my family.
But this time, the boy in the Boston Red Sox cap was Nate! He was looking around excitedly, probably thinking he was back in Disney World—the palm trees, the costumes, the little donkey. I waved, but he didn’t see me. Behind him came Kate looking oh-so-cool in a pair of snappy sunglasses and black capri pants with a hot pink belly shirt—stuff she’d probably gotten on her shopping spree with Grandma in New York. Mom and Dad followed, looking wonderfully like the same old Mom and Dad! I waved and hollered. But of course, they couldn’t hear me above the noise of luggage carts and the musicians playing.
That was it for my family, or so I thought. But then Dad turned to a familiar-looking woman emerging behind him. She was wearing a long, flowered caftan I had seen before. A pale, skinny man in an outrageously colorful Hawaiian shirt followed, a hand on her elbow.
Happy?! Eli Strong?! My hand froze in midair. And just then, Happy looked up and spotted me. She must have called down to the others, because suddenly my whole family began waving.
From the noisy reunion outside Customs, you’d think we hadn’t seen each other for months, not just under two weeks! So much had happened that we couldn’t wait un
til we were all in the van to tell each other about.
The biggest, immediate surprise was Happy’s presence. I guess Dad had called to confirm they were all leaving (on Happy’s credit card!), and Happy had invited herself along, adding that she was bringing someone special.
“That’s all she told us,” Mom said, picking up the story where Dad had left off. “We meet up with her at Kennedy this morning, and there she was with Mr. Strong.”
“Eli, please,” Mr. Strong corrected her. He really looked odd in his wild parrot-and-palm-tree shirt. Like the Mona Lisa with a mustache or something.
“And they’re gonna get married here!” Nate could not contain himself.
“Where?” I asked, though really the question could just as well have been why? when? what for?
“I’ve always wanted a wedding on a tropical island,” Happy said in a dreamy voice. I guess by number five she was entitled. She glanced over at Eli, whose fair complexion was already blushed under the sun. Did she really bat her eyes at him?
Pablo looked over at me. I knew what he was thinking. We knew the perfect place for a tropical wedding, our cove.
Somehow, with so much news to exchange and luggage to load, we managed to get everybody in the van. Now I could see why Dad had chosen such a big one. We actually ended up strapping some of the suitcases to the luggage rack on top. Happy was not one to travel light—certainly not to her own wedding!
First stop was the new hotel in the center of the old city. The Bolívars had insisted we stay with them, but even if all the Bolívars moved in with friends and relatives, which is what they were planning to do to make room for their guests—even so, their vacated house would have been too small for all of us. I mean, Happy was used to a whole mansion just to herself!
Besides, Happy wanted the whole family to be together. It turned out that Aunt Joan and the girls would be arriving tomorrow, without Uncle Stan, who unfortunately was recovering from a hemorrhoid operation. (Thank you, Aunt Joan, for the details!)
Although my family ended up declining the Bolívars’ invitation, I asked to be allowed to stay with them until we left the city. Mom must have seen the glance that passed between Pablo and me, because before Dad could start in that this was a family trip and we had to stick together, she spoke up. “I think it’s a good idea. That way, the Bolívars won’t be completely offended by our not staying with them. Besides, I sure hope we’re not going to all stick together every minute. It’d be kind of nice to have a little . . . tropical time alone.” Mom flashed Dad a look not unlike the one Happy had given Eli. At least she didn’t bat her eyes at him.
I wanted to tell Mom and Dad everything that had happened, but my heart was so full. I didn’t know where to start.
I kept thinking about Ms. Morris’s exercise where we wrote down a couple of details that revealed our secret heart and soul. I had a hundred on my mind. The donkey on the runway, the squalling babies in the nursery at the orphanage, Riqui’s infectious laughter, the sound of Doña Gloria’s voice.
Someday, I kept thinking, I’ve got to write them all down!
I thought of these details as milagritos. That was the name given to the little medals Dulce had pointed out to me at the church in Los Luceros, pinned to the robe of the Virgin Mary. They were in the shape of tiny eyes or a foot or a heart or a house—a part of the body people wanted the Virgin Mary to heal or a symbol of some problem in their lives they needed help resolving. Each of these medals represented the milagrito, or little miracle someone was hoping would come about.
Just as my parents kept that box in their bedroom with my papers, I now had a memory box in my head. It was full of the little miracles that had happened to me in el paisito, the little country with the big heart.
One day, when I was ready to write, I would open that box.
Milagritos kept happening even after my family arrived.
My family’s first night, the Bolívars invited us all over for a feast, a kind of repeat of my first night in the country—hard to believe that had only been ten days ago! A huge spread was laid out in the open-air patio, including a roast pig on a platter with a mango in its mouth. “Awesome!” Nate exclaimed, but his little face got an I-THINK-I’m-going-to-throw-up look when he heard this was dinner. Dulce and Mrs. Bolívar absolutely refused help from anyone, except from Esperanza and me. We were allowed to serve, clear, and order anyone who stood up to help to sit back down or else.
“Wait till you taste Tía Dulce’s arroz y habichuelas, ” I said, squeezing in beside Kate. Supposedly, rice and beans had been our favorite food when we were both toddlers. We’d share a plate, picking up a bean and a few grains at a time with our hands.
“Who’s Tía Dulce?” Kate made a face, as if to say, I don’t know about you, but I don’t have an aunt named Dulce.
Pablo glanced over at me, a slight lift to one eyebrow. He must have noticed, too. Kate had been especially quiet since she arrived—not her usual parading of her Spanish expertise. A couple of times, I tried asking her about her trip to New York. Fine was as much detail as she seemed to want to share with me.
Before we ate, Mr. Bolívar offered a toast to his wonderful friends from Los Estados Unidos. He was so “emotioned”—as he called it—that after a few words in English, he just automatically started speaking in Spanish. What he said would have been corny if it wasn’t so totally true— how families were made with the heart, how out of incredible tragedy had come the miracle of understanding and love, how we were all a familia now. Kate glanced over at me uncertainly, then looked away, tears in her eyes.
I almost started to cry a few times, too, but then Happy or Eli or Nate would ask me, “What’s he saying?” and my emotioned self would go out the window. Translating corny stuff was like when Em had to explain a dirty joke to me.
Meanwhile, Pepito began calling out swear words— which Mom wouldn’t let me translate for Nate at the table. In the middle of the meal: a crack of thunder, lightning— then rain began to pour on our dinner party, which was quickly moved into the small living room.
Nobody said a miracle had to be perfect.
There we stayed until late, finishing our meal, and drinking cafecitos. After a few shots of rum, Riqui and Camilo began talking in broken English about their revolutionary experiences. The Truth Commission. The hopeful but painful process of rebuilding the country. Nate had fallen asleep on Mr. Strong’s lap; otherwise, I think my parents would have insisted on leaving. Nate really was too young to listen to all this. As for Mom and Dad, they looked exhausted after getting up at four this morning in Vermont to make their New York connection. But this wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation you could walk out on. Kate was intent on listening, and turning and turning the new necklace I’d gotten for her on my first day here—a portable lazy Susan, at last. I figured it was a good sign she was even wearing it. At one point, I couldn’t stand the distance between us. I reached over and took her hand. She didn’t squeeze back, but at least she let me stay holding her hand.
Meanwhile, Happy sat at the edge of the sofa, shaking her head. “I had no idea,” she kept saying over and over. “Why, it’s like what my mother’s people went through in the Holocaust!”
“When we get back, we’ll have to call Senator Barney. He chairs the foreign relations committee,” she informed the Bolívar brothers. “I’ve given a lot of money to his campaign. Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Eli?”
“Indeed,” Mr. Strong agreed. “Terrible, terrible thing,” he added, I guess to show he had been listening.
Another milagrito.
It started out as the worst day. August 15, my family’s first full day in the capital, just so happened to fall on my “birthday.”
I hated my birthday. Was I really supposed to celebrate the day I was given away by someone who was obviously not celebrating having me be born? And it wasn’t even the day I was born! Every year, I’d always get wicked PBS, pre-birthday syndrome, which reached its awful climax on August
15. Honestly, I didn’t know why my family insisted on celebrating the day I was at my worst.
Since we were so far from home and away from our usual routines, I was hoping—against hope, I know—that everyone would sort of forget my “birthday.” But, of course, Mom and Dad told the Bolívars, and that morning I woke up to my whole family and all the Bolívars singing “Happy Birthday” and “Las Mañanitas” (a birthday serenade song) on the patio just outside my window.
I pulled the sheet over my head. Maybe if I pretended to fall asleep, they’d go away.
“Yoo-hoo! Milly!” Mom finally called. She knew I couldn’t sleep through the phone ringing on the first floor in Vermont. For sure, I was awake.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Dad joined in. Then someone was tapping at the window.
Grrrrrr! If I hadn’t been a guest staying at the house of the parents of the love of my life, I would have used some of the swear words I’d learned from Pepito this past week.
But I tried to be gracious when I came out and all my family, Kaufmans and non-Kaufmans, broke out into yet another round of each song. Pablo threw me a helpless look. He must have tried to stop this. Meanwhile, Kate was cheering like crazy. Great, I thought. Finally, Kate was being friendly, doing something I detest.
When I got a moment alone with Mom and Dad, I whispered that I wished they hadn’t spread the news around.
“Oh, honey! It’s your birthday. We want to celebrate you!”
“But it’s not my birthday. It’s not even close. Sor Arabia at the orphanage said I was probably four months old when I got left on their doorstep.”
“We told you that, honey,” Dad reminded me. I knew they must have, but it was funny how sometimes you didn’t register something your parents told you over and over until someone outside the family mentioned it once.
Meanwhile, Mom was all curious about the orphanage. “Sor Arabia? What orphanage? You mean the one you mentioned on the phone?”