With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo

 

Farewells

The first two days of school are over and done with, and before I know it, it’s Saturday morning. Which means it’s visitation time.

For almost the first two years of Babygirl’s life, Tyrone’s parents wanted him and Babygirl to get a blood test. But Tyrone knew I hadn’t been with anyone but him and he never fought me on whether or not she was his daughter. Not that that mattered as long as he lived in his parents’ house. He could come here and see her, and he has several times a month since the day she was born, but it’s only been recently that he’s been allowed to bring her into their house. It seems his parents were convinced by recent pictures that her features are starting to look more like theirs. He’s taken custody every other weekend since the middle of summer and I’m still getting used to it. And she’s still getting used to leaving. It’s not fun for anyone.

Tyrone may be a lot of things, but at least he’s present. And although he was never on time for a date with me, on the weekends he has to pick up Babygirl, he shows up like clockwork. Which is why I’m not surprised when he arrives at eleven a.m. on the dot on Saturday.

“Hey, Emma,” he says, and crouches down with open arms.

“Daddy!” Babygirl sprints over and wraps her arms around him. He lifts her up and throws her into the air.

“You’ve gotten bigger in the last two weeks! You ready to see Grandma?” He holds her close when he speaks to her and she nods her freshly braided head. Tyrone’s mom doesn’t like seeing Babygirl in anything less than picture-perfect condition. Fuzzy puffs or “casual clothing” won’t do. It’s always a tight, clean hairstyle and Sunday-best-type clothes. She blinks up at her father like he’s a burst of sunshine sliding through a window. I’m not jealous of that look, not at all.

Tyrone turns to me and grabs the outstretched baby bag. “I’ll have her back right at seven tomorrow night. Anything I should know?”

I shake my head and lean in to give Babygirl a kiss on her cheek. Tyrone’s cologne drifts around me and I have to stop myself from inhaling too deeply. Damn, he smells good as fu—hell . . . heck.

I take a step back and stop secretly sniffing him. “Her snacks are packed in her bag. So is her favorite picture book. Anything else just text me. I’ll be at work this afternoon, but I can answer during my break. And ’Buela will be here all day. So you can call the house phone, too.” I’m babbling. I hope he didn’t notice.

Tyrone nods and bounces Babygirl against his chest. “You’re babbling. You know we have her favorite snacks at my house, right, Emoni? You don’t have to keep packing her juice boxes. And I know how to reach both of you.” He bounces Babygirl some more and she squeals into his neck. I swallow back the lump in my throat. ’Buela stands in the kitchen doorway, circling her wedding band around and around her ring finger.

“Hey, Mrs. Santiago. How you doing?” Tyrone asks on his way to the door.

“I’m fine, Tyrone. Thank you for asking.” ’Buela drops her good hand and walks with us to the front door. “Make sure to bring Baby Emma back in one piece,” she says, and reaches out for Emma. Tyrone hands her over without a fuss and ’Buela gives her a long hug before putting her back in Tyrone’s arms. “And you make sure to be a good girl for your father, okay?”

“Sí, ’Buela.” Babygirl nods seriously. But I know what’s coming.

We all smile. We open the door. Tyrone aims to walk through it, and just as he’s about to pull the door shut behind him, Babygirl realizes what’s happening. She’s leaving. And ’Buela and I are not coming with her.

Her tiny face scrunches up and she begins screeching at the top of her lungs. I’m sure the row houses on either side of ours can hear her through the thick brick walls. Everything inside me wants to reach out, snatch her from his arms, and shut the door in his face, let her know I won’t ever let anyone take her from me, but I force myself to be still. This has happened the other four times he came to pick her up. Tyrone looks at me and his full lips press into a thin line. He whispers to her quietly. I know from firsthand experience how Tyrone can sweet-talk a girl out of her fears, but his own daughter seems completely immune to his charm.

Babygirl continues trying to wrestle herself away from him, but he just keeps backing out of the door and whispering calming words. He scoops her bag more firmly onto his shoulder and strides down the steps. I watch as he buckles her into the car seat in his mother’s expensive Lexus. When the car door shuts, I can’t hear her crying anymore. Beside me ’Buela lets out a small sigh. We both watch through the open doorway until the car has pulled off and is out of sight.

“She’s going to be fine, you know?” I say to ’Buela.

She nods and pulls me to her. “She’s going to be fine,” she says back to me. I inhale the scent of her vanilla perfume and begin the countdown until seven p.m. on Sunday. Only thirty-two hours to go.

I straighten up and blink away the tears in my eyes. I shut the door. “How about I make some tembleque? I was thinking of infusing the coconut with lemon verbena . . . and maybe vanilla. I have a couple of hours before my shift.”

We walk with our arms around each other’s waists into the kitchen.