With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
The Rising
I can’t sleep the night before graduation. It’s almost midnight. As of tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be a high school graduate. And since it was my eighteenth birthday a week ago, I’m officially an adult.
Unfortunately, all I want to do is snuggle in ’Buela’s lap and ask her to fix my life for me. To make the decisions. To make it all easy. Everyone’s words swirl in my ear. ’Buela. Julio. Angelica. Ms. Fuentes. Aunt Sarah. Chef Amadí. Chef Ayden. Tyrone. Malachi.
Babygirl sighs in her sleep and I get up to touch her cheek. She’s so peaceful and I know I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight. I tiptoe past ’Buela’s bedroom and walk downstairs into the kitchen. Set the oven to 350 degrees. Grab flour. Butter. Salt. Dried oregano. A beer I planned to use to braise a steak.
Julio once told me my mom loved to bake. Aunt Sarah has confirmed it’s true, although none of the recipes she’s ever sent me mention them being my mother’s. I mix all the ingredients together.
I’m going to have to tell ’Buela what I decided to do about college. And I’ll need to make some plans for the fall. Tyrone still wants to discuss a new custody schedule, and I think I’m going to let him have more days with Babygirl. The ServSafe test results come back in a week, and I’m sure your girl did well. I’ve never studied harder for an exam.
The bread still has twenty minutes to go, and I’m nodding off when I hear a knock on the door. At this point it’s past midnight. I grab one of the knives from the butcher block and walk quietly toward the peephole.
Standing on the front stoop is Julio. A whole month earlier than usual. I crack the door open and I think I must still be dreaming. But he sweeps me up in a hug and there’s his old, familiar scent: Old Spice, loc lotion, and something I’ve always called his “island scent.”
“What are you doing here? We didn’t expect you for a month,” I whisper.
“What, you didn’t think I would miss my only girl’s graduation?”
I almost nod. I did, in fact, expect just that.
“Is everyone sleeping?” He tugs his suitcase into the living room and I close the door behind him. His bag is bigger than usual. I walk into the kitchen and he follows me, stopping at the doorway.
“Couldn’t sleep, huh?” he says, rocking on his heels.
I check the oven. Still a bit more time while the top of the bread browns.
Julio and I are both standing. “You want to sit and join me, I can cut you a slice of bread in a bit.”
But he’s shaking his head before I even finish my sentence. “No, no, I couldn’t. Did Mami cook today?”
“What, don’t tell me you’re gluten free,” I joke. “’Buela didn’t cook today. You’re stuck with my food, and I don’t know if you heard, but I’m a pretty good cook.”
There’s a long pause. “Emoni, don’t you ever wonder why whenever I visit I don’t eat your cooking?”
Of course I wondered. I was just too in my feelings to ever say anything.
“Your grandmother says your food reminds her of Puerto Rico. But for me? Your food doesn’t make me think of back home, it makes me think of the home I had here. Every single one of your dishes makes me think of your mother. It kills me to see memories of her face every time I take a bite of something you made. It kills me to be here in Philadelphia, and every street corner reminds me of her. I always think with time it will get easier. But it hasn’t.”
I’m stuck. Julio and I have never talked about my mother, and although my appetite for the bread is crushed beneath his words, my hunger to say the thing I’ve never said blossoms.
I walk to the sink and wash my hands. I look at my father. “I should be so angry at you. You abandoned me over and over. Why haven’t I ever been enough to make you stay?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets again. His long locs swing as he shakes his head. “It was never you, Emoni. I tried. Every year I came I said this would be the year I stayed and helped to raise my daughter. But you didn’t need me. Moms did such a good job while I was gone and I wasn’t built for a place like this. I miss the ocean. I miss the warmth. I miss having a real purpose. There are so many tough reminders for me here.”
“But wouldn’t there have been good memories, too? If you stayed long enough to make some?”
He nods. “Quizás, Emoni. Quizás. I want to keep on trying even though you are too grown to need me. I know you got a lot of changes coming, and I was thinking maybe I could stay for a while this time and help you with Emma and the bills. That could work, right? While you get used to what’s coming next?”
And maybe the trying has to be enough. I take the bread out the oven and slice a piece for myself. I sit down at the table and take a bite. My father watches me closely for a moment before he reaches over and breaks off a corner. He closes his eyes. For a moment I think he’ll set the bread back down. But after a long pause he pops the bread between his lips and begins chewing. I reach across the table and cover his hand.