With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Phone Calls
I convince Malachi we only need to ride the train together, but he doesn’t have to get off, since he lives several stops after mine and it doesn’t make sense for him to get off only to hop back on. I can tell he wants to fight me on it, but we both know it makes no sense for him to be riding the train for an extra hour.
The smile he put on my face is still clinging onto my lips when I walk through the house door. “’Buela! I’m home.”
She rushes to meet me and at the sight of her wrinkled forehead, my smile loses its grip and falls off my face.
“’Buela, what’s wrong? Babygirl?” I make a move for the couch, but she blocks me with her body.
“Where were you? I expected you home half an hour ago. I’ve been calling you and it was going straight to voice mail,” she says. I take a breath. Whatever’s wrong can’t be that bad if she still has it in her to nag.
I drop my book bag. “I’m sorry. I went to get water ice with Angelica and a friend, and you know how the reception on my phone is when I’m on the train. I just lost track of time.”
“Yes, you did. Why didn’t you text me? I needed to leave for a doctor’s appointment fifteen minutes ago.”
“Another one? Is your hand acting up?” This is the second one this month. ’Buela had a lot of doctor visits when she got injured at work years ago, but never this many so often. ’Buela worked at the Macy’s on Walnut Street before it was even a Macy’s, back when it was a Wanamaker’s. She was a seamstress in the alterations department. She worked there for over thirty years, through several store transitions, from the first week she got to Philadelphia until the day she was injured on the job. The fingers on her right hand got caught in a machine, and even after surgery her hand was never really the same. I was still in elementary school and no one was there to pick me up. All the other kids had left before Ms. Martinez, our next-door neighbor, came to get me, explaining that ’Buela had been taken in an ambulance to the hospital. I was scared shitless then, because my whole life I’ve heard ’Buela say ambulances are too expensive and she’d rather catch a cab than ever call one, so I knew whatever had happened to her was serious.
When ’Buela finally called from the hospital she tried to sound normal and play it off as no big deal, even though her injury was serious enough that she came home with her hand bandaged and her fingers stitched, and she never worked in an official capacity as a seamstress again. And now my mind wants to jump to worst-case scenarios: her hand is giving her pain; she’s sick, really sick, and she doesn’t want to tell me. I’m scared of her answer. It’s probably selfish, but the first thought I have is: What would I do without ’Buela? She’s the starch in my spine, the only hand here to unfurl the wrinkles from my brows, the arms that hold me when I feel like I’m collapsing. I can’t imagine a life without her. My thoughts must show on my face.
“I’m fine, m’ija. It’s just a quick visit, a follow-up. Nothing to worry about.” She pats my arm. “I got worried because you were late, and Julio called. You know how my nerves get when I speak to him.”
I want to ask more questions about her doctor’s appointment, but the mention of Julio puts a pause on that conversation. My father is an activist, a big community organizer who holds monthly meetings and lectures at his barbershop in San Juan, so he’s often busy and yet he’s called twice in the last two weeks. But after how he left this summer, I’ve been avoiding him.
She drops her arm and I walk into the living room where Babygirl is bouncing along with some Bubble Guppies on TV. I still feel shaken up by ’Buela jumping down my throat with the news that she has another doctor’s appointment, and that Julio called again.
“You got to call your father back, nena. You know how he gets when you’re slow to return his call.”
“But he didn’t call me, he called you.” I bite my tongue when I hear the whine in my voice, but ’Buela doesn’t let it drop.
“Don’t start with that tone, Emoni. He calls me because he’s my child. And he asked for you to call him. Now you call him because you’re his child.”
I drop into a squat in front of my own kid. “Hey, Babygirl! Come give Mommy a hug. Don’t worry, when you grow up I’ll call you and you’ll call me and no one will summon anyone like they’re king of the world.” I keep my voice light and happy, holding out my arms to her. She quickly reaches for me.
My father isn’t a bad man. He helps a lot of people. He keeps kids’ books in his barbershop to help encourage the children in the community to read. He’s constantly bringing in public speakers to discuss Puerto Rican rights and community concerns, and around the time I got pregnant with Babygirl he began a food drive to help single mothers. But his passions confuse me. Although he raises money for his causes, he never sends any here. Although he cares about his community, his own family gets the short end of the stick. It’s like the best of him is reserved for strangers. And it mixes me up, like batter that isn’t fully blended so there are still hard lumps baking beneath the surface.
I force myself to take a deep breath. Babygirl smells like baby and soap, but her face smells slightly of old milk. I grab a wipe from her baby bag and clean her cheek. I let go of her so she can keep dancing. My hands fidget with the throw pillows and the plastic of the sofa cover as I try to get my emotions under control. I look to the living room doorway, where ’Buela stands with her arms crossed.
Thinking about Julio makes my skin itchy. He makes me want to scream; he makes my throat feel clogged. I love my father, but I also might be allergic to him.
I don’t say anything to ’Buela, and after a long moment she grabs her purse from the coatrack by the door. “Baby Emma had a small snack, but she’ll probably be hungry soon. Don’t worry about saving me dinner. I’ll pick up something after my appointment. Te quiero, nena.”
“Te quiero también, ’Buela,” I whisper to the closed door.