Val Vega, page 2
Umberto texts back right away: your chariot is en route! :)
Over on the couch, Des has fallen asleep—clearly in no condition to drive. She was Will’s ride too, so they both have no safe way home. I walk over to them.
“Hey, Will,” I whisper. “My uncle’s on his way. We could give you guys a ride.”
Will looks over at Des. “I … think that’s a good idea. I’ll wake up Des.”
That’s my cue to leave them alone. While I’m searching the pile of jackets on Kate’s bed, I hear Des shout, “No way!” My stomach twists. Des is so angry she doesn’t even want a ride home from me.
I walk back to the living room and find Will helping Des to her feet. I take a deep breath and walk over to them. “Des, I’m really—”
“Shut up,” Des says, pointing at me with a drunken sway. “We’re coming with you. But it’s your uncle who’s helping me. Not you, Two-Face.”
“Okay,” I say. It’s been two months since she said my name. All I am to her is Two-Face.
We walk outside and wait on the front porch, Will with an arm around Des, who’s chewing gum, loudly. I stand in awkward silence with my best-friend-slash-unrequited-crush, while they hit on my former-best-friend-who’s-not-speaking-to-me.
It’s a relief when tío Umberto pulls up a few minutes later. He salutes with a tip of his fedora. I hop in the front seat and ask if we can give Will and Des a ride.
“But of course,” Umberto says. “Great to see you two.”
We pull onto the twisting roads. The only sounds are the hum of the motor and the occasional bubble bursting from Des’s mouth.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Des,” says Umberto. “How are things?”
“Fine,” Des says.
Silence again. Des’s gum-chewing gets so loud I can hear it from the front seat. Uncle Umberto shoots me a quizzical look. I shake my head at him with a clenched-teeth face. Thankfully, he gets the drift. We drive another few minutes in silence.
Umberto pulls up in front of Des’s house. “First stop, Madame Desiree’s abode!”
“I’ll get out here too,” says Will. “It’s a short walk. Thanks, Mr. Olmeda!”
They get out of the car, Des leaning on Will for support. I feel a pang of jealousy—of both of them. If only I could figure out a way for everyone to get along with everyone else, then everything would be better. Des and I would be friends again, and Will would realize I understand them in a way no one else can.
Uncle Umberto pulls the car back onto the road. “Des didn’t even say good-bye. Was that just because she was drunk?”
I slump in my seat. “She doesn’t talk to me, like, ever. I kind of deserve it.”
“What happened?”
I look out the window, torn between embarrassment and desperately needing to talk to someone. Will is too wrapped up in their crush on Des. I can’t talk to Des because she’s the problem, and Kate’s never been someone I go to for advice.
“There are a few people—some of the girls on the team,” I say, “who said Des was really moody. Like she’d be happy one second and the next she’d be angry. Someone said it was like she had multiple personality disorder, and they started counting her personalities. They’d even do it in front of her. We’d be at the diner after practice, and Des would say something, and somebody would go ‘Seven!’ or ‘23!’ And Des had no idea what was going on.”
“And you participated in this?” There’s disappointment in the softness of tío’s voice.
“Of course not,” I say. “But I didn’t tell her. One time she even asked me what the deal was with all the numbers, and I acted like I didn’t know. Then Kate told her what was going on, and that I knew about it, and Des sent me like thirty texts saying she couldn’t believe I’d do that to her, and that I was a terrible friend. And she blocked me on, like, everything, and now all she ever calls me is ‘Two-Face.’ And to be honest everything she said is true. I lied to her. I do act like a different person depending on who I’m with. I’m two-faced.”
“It sounds like a hard situation,” Uncle Umberto says. “What do you think you should have done?” He’s doing his Socratic thing, which is totally not what I was hoping for.
“I probably should have told her what was going on. Or told the others to stop. Or both.”
“And why didn’t you?”
“Because I knew it would just hurt her feelings, and the team would say I snitched, and everyone would be pissed at each other, and it all seemed like more trouble than it was worth.”
“Then I think ‘two-facedness’ is a misdiagnosis of the problem. You have some exceptional gifts, Val. When you’re with someone, you imagine yourself behind the eyes of the other person. You see the world from their perspective and meet them there—even if that perspective is vastly different from your own. But our greatest gifts can also be our greatest liabilities. You saw that Des was going to feel hurt, and you saw there would be strife on the team, but you didn’t go a step further and do something about it. The problem is you took the path of least resistance. And that path, though the easiest, is often not the one that gets you where you need to go.”
Umberto’s cell phone rings, his favorite Gloria Estefan merengue beat. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s work, I have to take this.” He gets work calls at all hours of the day. It must be morning by now in Istanbul. He nestles the earpiece onto his ear and says, “Yes, Patrece? … I know, they were rumbling about that before.”
The car picks up speed as Umberto listens. “Increíble,” he says, slapping the steering wheel. “Then say we’ll set them up with seats near the ceiling.” Umberto scoffs. “Well, it’s not like we can change their physiology. I’m not letting this derail us, not now. … Then we’ll build them an alcove!” He yanks off the earpiece, barely slowing as he turns the corner.
“Um, you have to build an alcove for someone?” I ask.
Umberto chuckles. “Luckily, I don’t personally have to build it.”
I think back to that weird conversation he had with Johnny. These people making these demands—are they connected to the “ticks” that Johnny was worried about? “Is everything okay, tío? I know your job is stressful, but lately it seems even worse.”
Umberto slows down. “I have a big meeting coming up, a major negotiation that I’m mediating. If it goes well, it will make a real difference in many people’s lives. If it doesn’t …” His voice trails off as we come to a red light, and he takes off his fedora to reveal his thinning hair. “You’re so young, Valeria. There are things I have to tell you. This might not make much sense now, but a time is coming, sooner than I’d like, when you may have to leap into a whole new set of challenges. You’ll find realities that are wondrous—but also harsh.”
“What are you talking about?” I say. “I know life is hard. You don’t have to tell me that.”
Umberto squints at the road ahead of him. “Right. We’ll talk after the SATs. I don’t have to leave until a week from Wednesday.”
“You’re leaving again?” I slump deeper into the seat. “I hate it when you’re not here. You’re basically the only person on the planet who understands me.”
Tío Umberto pats my knee. “Well, that’s not so bad. That means you might still find plenty of people who understand you on other planets.”
Kate sleeps over the night before the SATs for some final cramming. I wish it were Will or Des, but it’s good to have someone to study with. In the morning she wakes up before everyone else and even makes omelets for everyone, impressing Umberto and Mami.
The test is a disaster, my answer sheet filled with scribbles that will probably invalidate half my answers even if I got them right. At least it’s over.
There’s no sign of Umberto’s car, and Kate and Will both get a ride with Des’s parents, which is awkward, so I just avoid all of them and go sit at the picnic tables and doodle. Tío Umberto promised to take me out for ice cream as my reward for surviving the SATs. It’s a ritual we’ve followed on special occasions since my First Communion. We’ll have cookie’s ‘n’ cream ice cream cones with chocolate fudge and chocolate sprinkles. The chocolate sprinkles are essential. We’ll talk about the Yankees, then go home and stream a movie.
After ten minutes, I dial Umberto. No answer. I redial. After four rings, it picks up. At first I think it’s a bad signal, but then realize that strange sound is actually a high-pitched sob. “Hello?” I say. “Tío?”
“O Dios mío.” It’s Mami’s voice. “Dios mío,” she says over and over, in between sobs.
“Mami?” I say. “Qué pasó?”
“Ay, m’ija,” she sobs. “Umberto está muerto. Mi hermano está muerto.”
But we were going to get ice cream, is the first stupid thought that goes through my head.
Then a planet tilts inside my heart. It can’t be true. Tío Umberto can’t be dead.
Chapter 2
Mami pulls into an empty space in the parking lot of the funeral home, utterly failing to line up the car with the white lines. As we walk across the lot, Mami grips my hand tight, the way abuela always used to. For a second, I wonder if Mami has somehow transformed into abuela, because that’s how everything seems now, like the universe is conspiring in every way possible to pull the rug out from under me.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the guy at the funeral home says at the door.
“He says he’s sorry about Uncle Umberto,” I tell Mami in Spanish. She nods through tears as he ushers us into the sitting room. I hold Mami’s hand and interpret as the funeral director writes down our info and asks about scheduling for the wake and the funeral. Interpreting for Mami is so familiar that it’s oddly comforting.
“Another important matter,” the funeral director says, “is the selection of a casket.”
The funeral director hands Mami a catalog, thick like an art portfolio. Mami looks at it, lets out a high-pitched sob, and drops the book to the floor. “No puedo más!”
I don’t translate that for the funeral director, just give Mami’s hand a firm squeeze.
“I’m so sorry,” the funeral director says, putting a box of tissues in front of us.
I hold Mami as she sobs, and I wonder why I’m not crying too. It’s like Mami and I are a single entity: my mother is the part that expresses our grief, and I’m the part that does everything else.
I bend over to pick up the catalog and lay it on my lap. I thumb through it, surprised that caskets are so expensive. Mami is always cost-conscious but she’d never get one of the cheapest ones—they’re too simple and unadorned, and Mami would want better than that for her brother. The mahogany ones are elegant, but the prices are over the top. Then I see one that’s deep purple with silver lining. It reminds me of tío Umberto’s fedora and has a bit of his flair. It’s not the cheapest, but it’s on the less expensive side.
“How about this one, Mami?”
“Ay, Val,” she says, looking up and smiling through her tears. “That’s perfect. This is the one we want.”
We talk through prayer cards and other details of the wake. When we get up to leave, the funeral director catches my eye and pats me on the arm. “Lo siento,” he says, with a thick American accent.
“Thanks,” I say, Mami leaning on me as we walk out the door.
The wake is the next day. I loosen the collar of my black button-down shirt. At least Mami didn’t make me wear a dress, but my formal pants and shirt are almost as uncomfortable. Miguel and I are standing in the parlor, on the far end from Mami and the casket. Mami is sitting a few feet from Umberto’s body, where a receiving line has formed. Our cousin is up front with Mami, arms flailing. “He was so young,” she says. “And so flaquito! How could someone so skinny have a heart attack so young?”
“I feel like we’re in a telenovela,” Miguel says. “All we’re missing is the dramatic background music.”
I chuckle. “Totally.”
Will and Desiree walk in, dressed in black and grey. They’re both here—together. I’d have too many feelings to count, if my heart weren’t too numb for feelings. Will waves awkwardly, then comes up and wraps me in a hug. A few days ago, my heart would have raced feeling the warmth of their body surrounding mine, but now we’re just two empty bodies pressing into each other.
“I’m so sorry,” Will says, pulling apart from me.
Desiree holds out a plate of homemade M&M cookies, her old specialty. “I brought these for you and your family.” I take the cookie tray and hold it like it’s a newborn baby. For the first time in weeks, our eyes meet without instantly dashing away from each other. “I’m sorry about your uncle, Val.”
My name. She actually said my name. “Thank you, Des, that means a lot to me.” For the first time, I feel a sniffle coming on—but I can’t cry yet, I need to take care of everyone else. I focus on finding a place for the cookies on the credenza.
“We should talk,” Desiree says. “Not now, but. When I heard about your uncle … Yeah, um, let’s talk. When you’re ready.”
“I’d like that,” I say, a tangle of appreciation and sorrow in my throat.
Des and Will hug me again, then walk toward Mami.
Miguel taps me on the shoulder and points to the door. “Check them out. The telenovela is over and it’s time for Cirque du Soleil.” Umberto’s co-workers are walking in. Patrece stands a full six-and-a-half-feet tall, her arms almost long enough to reach her knees without bending. Wasala is three feet tall, her head barely reaching Patrece’s waist, and her movements are oddly fluid, like she’s double-jointed everywhere. Then there’s Johnny, who came by the other night. Instead of his usual red leather jacket, he’s wearing a perfectly fitted jet-black suit. I’m no good at designers, but it looks expensive, an Armani or something. As Johnny walks in, he snatches off his sunglasses with a dramatic flourish.
“So they’re eccentric,” I tell Miguel. “They were tío Umberto’s friends.”
They come over to us. Patrece shakes my hand, and I feel a sudden rush of cold—not from her hand, but from the air around it, like opening the door of a freezer. Has it gotten colder outside?
“My condolences to you and your family,” Patrece says.
“Condolences to everybody,” Miguel says. “Condolences to the whole fricking world. It’s a worse off place without Uncle Umberto.”
“That’s truer than you know,” Wasala says. “Umberto’s passing will be felt in many spheres.”
“I’m not much of a people-person,” Patrece says. She says “people-person” the way people with a severe allergy to cats say they’re not cat-people. “But Umberto was exceptional. He was one of the most impressive beings I’ve ever had the honor of knowing.”
“Plus, he had a magnificent sense of fashion,” Johnny says. “These past few decades, very few people have been able to work a fedora, but Umberto pulled it off effortlessly.”
I want to be nice to these people because I know they cared about Umberto too, but am I supposed to be comforted by the eulogizing of his fedoras? I can’t wait for them to leave, so I can be alone with my family, the people who really knew tío Umberto.
“We knew Umberto with a depth you might not guess,” Wasala says, and it’s creepy how what she’s saying is like an answer to my thoughts. “We worked with him for years, through crises and triumphs. He possessed a remarkable ability to maintain his composure in the midst of adversity. He consistently exceeded expectations for a—” She’s cut off by a wide-eyed glance from Patrece. “For someone of his background,” Wasala finishes.
“We really must move on to pay our respects to Umberto’s corpse,” Patrece says, shepherding her colleagues away.
“Background?” I say. “Why would Turkish people have issues with Puerto Ricans?”
“Islanders,” Wasala says, as Patrece leads her to the casket. It’s almost cartoonish, a near-giant dragging a little person along behind her. “Terrible prejudice against islanders of any kind.”
They’re certainly a weird bunch, but tío Umberto always says—said—that weird depends entirely on where you are and where you come from. Part of me wants to know more about them, more about that other world in Istanbul where Umberto spent so much of his time.
The three of them hover at the casket. Wasala looks up at Patrece with a questioning glance. Then Johnny crosses himself and kneels to pray. Funny, I wouldn’t have guessed he was Catholic. The others follow Johnny’s example. Patrece holds her palm completely flat as she makes the sign of the cross, like a series of gentle self-slaps. Wasala’s motions are the opposite, an excessively fluid dance of her hand. Johnny stands, and the others follow. Just as they’re leaving, Patrece reaches into the casket and touches Umberto at the neck. What the hell? Mami has been touching tío’s body all day, but it’s just weird for a co-worker to do that.
Then something glints in the casket. Did Patrece drop something inside? I walk over to the casket. For less than a second, a gentle green glow pulses through the veins of Uncle Umberto’s neck. I lean in to look more closely, but Umberto’s neck looks normal now. It happened so fast—could it have been a trick of the light?
That weird conversation about the ticks. Umberto’s weird phone call in the car. Tío Umberto having a sudden heart attack even though he was completely healthy. And now a strange green glow in his body. Could Umberto have been involved in some sort of international espionage? Something that made someone want to kill him? Or, if he was a spy, maybe he faked his death and is really still alive?
I stare at his body, and realize I’m letting denial and wishful thinking carry my brain to ridiculous fantasies. Tío Umberto is gone, and I just have to accept it.
“You okay, Val?” Miguel says, coming up behind me.
I shake myself out of my stampede of wild thoughts. “I’m fine.”
