Page 31 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
WHEN MOM ASKS ME ABOUTdinner at the Valdecasas house, I don’t say,It was good, and go to my room as I might have done in the past. I can’t. Not anymore.
She’s been better lately, my mom. Gets in bed at night and out in the morning, rather than staying all day. But if there’s one thing the last few months have taught me, it’s that nothing is permanent. Nothing. Not moods or legs or minds or lives. And I want to do whatever I can to keep Mom’s mood on the right side of her bedroom door. To keep her from disappearing again.
I describe the entire evening. I talk about the food and the house and the Spanish and thecafé con lechewe drank after the meal. I talk about Che and Juli, their mysterious and fascinating careers in diplomacy. I talk about Valentina. I talk and talk, just the way I did to Manuel that first month of school. I figure it will make her happy, all these details, this evidence that her daughter does, in fact, have a real friend.
Instead of reacting with excitement, Mom is horrified.
I’ve just explained the way Valentina hides candy throughout the pockets of Manuel’s backpack on the days his parents are away. Mom puts down the wet rag in her hand. She says, very slowly, “You mean to tell me that this boy is being raised by a housekeeper?”
“No, no,” I say. “Not a housekeeper. She’s more like a second mom. And it’s only for, like, half of each month. Just while Che and Juli are in Colombia.”
Mom stares at me. Then she turns around and walks across the kitchen to the cordless phone, muttering something along the lines of “…and an only child, no less.” She picks up the phone and calls the Valdecasases and thanks them for hosting me and asks to speak to Valentina.
I start to sweat. I have no idea what she’s going to say.
“Valentina?” she asks. “Yes, hi, this is Eliot’s mom…Nice to meet you, too. Listen, next time Julie and Jay”—I cringe at her pronunciation—“go out of town, I’d love to host Manuel for dinner. Return the favor, you know?…Absolutely. One night, two nights, every night until they’re back…No, no, it would be no trouble at all. Whatever Manuel prefers. And while we’re at it, he’d be welcome to sleep over. Of course.”
She hangs up. “That’s all sorted, then.”
Then she ruffles my hair and walks away.
I stare after her. What just happened? Family dinner? Sleepovers? Onschoolnights? It’s unprecedented. Wendy has always been an open-door mother—the kind who volunteers to host every swim banquet and cast party and graduation brunch from September to June—but she draws a hard line when it comes to weeknight dinner. “This is our time,” she always says. “Our time together as a family.” But not anymore, I guess. Something changed her mind. Something aboutManuel.
PART II
The Cradle IslandOlympics
11
NOW
LAST NIGHT, MY EYES FLEWopen to a darkness so black I could barely make out the ceiling fan. I was sweating; the sheets stuck to my body like wet bandages. I rolled over and reached for my phone to check the time. Nothing. Dead.
If I had been at my apartment in New York, I would have simply rolled to the dry side of the bed and prayed for sleep to take me. But that night, I couldn’t count on prayers alone. My brother was getting married in three days, and our schedule until then was packed. I needed to sleep.
I decided to try something new. I wrapped the comforter around my shoulders, dragged it across the room, and opened the door to the porch. A gust of dark summer wind met my face. I waddled over to the twin bed pressed against the porch wall and collapsed onto it. My body went limp. Birds called in the trees outside. I shut my eyes and didn’t open them again until the sun rose over the harbor.
—
EVERY DAY UP HERE STARTSwith coffee. That’s our ritual: eight a.m., everyone in pajamas, lounging about Sunny Sunday’s many sofasand armchairs. Mugs in hands or atop makeshift coasters—discarded novels with covers decorated by dark overlapping rings. The buzz and drip of our plug-in pot in the corner. It had been the case for as long as I could remember, but in the past three years, coffee took on an enhanced role in my life.
Coffee was my lifeline. Coffee was my fuel. Coffee kept me awake, alive. Pure, dark cold brew was my favorite. No milk. No sugar. No ice. Nothing to taint the jet fuel guzzling into my system. My legs might jiggle ceaselessly, my fingers might drum on the plastic surface of my desk, but I didn’t care. Not if it helped me write.
That morning, I was the first on the island to rise. I took my coffee out onto the porch and set it on the railing. Watched the waves toss about in the lake. Though it was still early, Manuel would be up soon—in the old days, he had always beat me to the morning. Yet another aspect of his effortless diligence. Then the rest of the family would rise. There would be eggs scrambled and bacon fried and endless chatter about the coming nuptials, and Karma would force the eggs and the bacon onto me, and Wendy would have fourteen different things she wanted me to do to help decorate.
Mom had said that, back in Chicago, in the weeks leading up to the wedding, she collected everything we needed to properly celebrate. Some of it was already in storage on the island—foldable chairs, craft supplies, fancy linens and dishware saved for special occasions—but most needed to be brought on the jet. I didn’t see the haul in person, but I could imagine it: crates of champagne, bins full of flowers, long crisp garment bags around suits and dresses. Customs must have had a few questions.
My muscles vibrated with nerves and anticipation. I wanted to run. I wanted to dosomething.
In New York, everyone has a routine. It’s a necessity. The sheer density of choice packed into that city—of options, of plans, of things to eat or events to attend—is nothing short of eyeballmelting. If you try to live without structure, you’ll lose your goddamn mind. For me, I ran the East River every morning to expel the black thoughts that accumulated overnight.
Happiness, to me, isn’t a presence. It’s an absence. The absence of Worry. Of fear. Of sadness. Of the thoughts and compulsions that directed my life for so long. I’d worked hard to get to where I was now. I’d pulled myself out of the chaos of my own mind, and routine was the rope that got me there. Run, work, dinner, TV, bed. Run, work, dinner, TV, bed. That was it. Those were the rituals that checked all the boxes and kept me sane.
When I went back inside to make a second batch of coffee, I heard the door open behind me. I detached the boiling-hot pot and poured a careful mugful. Footsteps approached from behind. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. I would know his long, steady gait anywhere. Hide it inside a chorus of footsteps and I could still pick it out.
“Good morning,” Manuel said.
My back stiffened. In my mind I traveled back to the last day of three summers before, the morning I woke to find my best friend’s arm around me—our first and only spent tucked together in that way. I saw the fluffy white comforter, his tangle of dark curls. Felt our cheeks pressed into bare sheets, the pillows fallen to the floor. Heard him say, soft as the summer breeze, “Good morning.”
