Brighter Than the Sun, page 3
“Well,” Abuela says, leaning forward in her chair. “We should probably start eating.”
We’ve only just filled our plates with rice when the front door swings open and Luis steps into the house, wearing his old leather jacket and a white t-shirt.
“You didn’t wait for me?” he says as he approaches the dinner table. It’s been a few days since he last shaved, and even though he can’t really grow a beard, the scruff makes him look a lot older than nineteen.
“We waited for as long as we could,” Abuela says, nodding toward her left, where an empty chair is waiting for Luis.
“Not long enough,” he mumbles as he walks around the table to go sit at his spot.
Luis reaches for the spoon and starts serving himself some paella, which I’ve noticed is all rice and no shrimp. Mami would’ve rather switched up the entire menu at the restaurant than serve something like this, but my dad’s been trying to cut costs wherever he can, and I don’t think any of us can blame him for it.
It’s not every day that we get to go to bed feeling completely satisfied, so at first we eat quickly, eagerly. After a few minutes of sitting here in silence, however, Abuela looks up from her plate. Most days, it’s she who carries the conversation at dinner. She’s the one who makes comments about the food, or the temperature, or something that she saw on TV earlier, and who asks us all questions about our days.
She surveys us all carefully through her glasses, as if trying to decide who to interrogate first. But before she’s had a chance to make up her mind, Luis clears his throat.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, and we all turn toward him at the same time.
“Thinking?” Papi asks, lifting his eyebrows.
“About my future.”
Ever since he graduated high school over a year ago, Luis hasn’t been willing to talk much about the future. The idea of going to college had always been in the back of his mind, but when Mami got sick, it all went out the window. He had to put everything on pause so he could help out at the restaurant, but now there isn’t much to show for it. The business isn’t doing well, Luis hasn’t been able to go back to school, and with every day that goes by, the dreams he once talked about seem more and more distant.
“I—I want to apply to college.”
“That’s good,” Abuela says. “Very good, mijo.”
“It’s not good,” Luis replies. “We don’t even have money to pay for the application fees.”
A heavy silence falls around the table, because there’s nothing any of us can say—no way for us to convince Luis that what he’s saying isn’t true.
“I think I should get a job, save up some money,” he adds.
Papi frowns. “You already have a job.”
“A different one.”
We played around with this idea at some point—the idea that if Luis got a job on the side, we’d be able to manage a lot better, and Diego and I would be able to keep focusing on school. But it didn’t take long for us to realize that whatever job Luis could find around here wouldn’t make much of a difference—not when the minimum wage for full-time workers in Tijuana is less than two hundred pesos, which comes to about ten dollars a day.
That was when we began doing a different kind of math: If I got a minimum-wage job in California, working after-school shifts, it would take me two or three months to make the same amount of money that Luis would make in a year. That was when I started looking for jobs, when I started getting used to the idea that I’d have to be the one to help the family.
“We need you,” Papi says to Luis firmly. “I need you at the restaurant. I can’t do it all on my own.”
“The restaurant is a lost cause,” Luis says, and suddenly, it’s as if a dark shadow has fallen over the dining table.
I have no idea how he can do this—how Luis is capable of speaking our worst fears out loud. The restaurant is the one thing that has remained constant our whole lives. We may grow older, Mami may have gotten sick, and no matter how hard she tried to stay with us, in the end she may have lost her battle, but her restaurant remained. Her biggest pride, her biggest source of joy. If Luis is right—if the restaurant is truly a lost cause and we’re left with no choice but to close it down—I don’t know what any of us are gonna do with ourselves.
Papi is the first to find his voice. “We will get the restaurant back on track.”
Luis shakes his head. “That’s what you’ve been saying for over a year.”
“I mean it this time.”
“Why?” Luis says, leaning forward over the table slightly. “Because Sol is magically gonna save it?”
He throws me a quick, resentful glance, and I’m left frozen, unable to speak up, unable to move, unable to do anything at all.
“We are all doing our part,” Abuela says. “And we will continue to do our part.”
“Why does she get to leave, then? Why does she get to start over somewhere new?”
“I’m not starting over,” I say, finally finding my voice. “It’s not like I want to leave. I’d much rather—”
“You have options,” Luis snaps back. “You always have.”
I watch him for a moment, thinking about how we used to be close growing up. We used to run around the restaurant together, and play on the street outside our house until the sky turned dark, and laugh for hours at each other’s jokes. I’m not sure when all of that changed, but I do know that right now, it feels almost as if there is a stranger sitting across the table from me, and I can’t help but miss my brother. I miss the person he used to be.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I say.
I wish I could make him understand that I didn’t choose to be born in the US, that Mami never wanted to be rushed across the border to give birth to me, but he’s already heard this story a million times. Mami was eight and a half months pregnant when her doctor warned her that things were not looking good. There was a chance that neither of us would make it, and so she and Papi decided to try their luck across the border. She had to keep a straight face and her big belly hidden under a coat long enough to drive through the border crossing, and by the time she made it to a clinic in California, it was almost too late.
I wish I could make Luis understand that being the only American citizen in the family isn’t what he thinks it is, because none of what I do is for myself. I cross the border every morning to go to school so I can become the first person in our family to go to college. I’ll get a degree so I can get a good job. I’ll work hard so I can take care of Papi and Abuela when they’re older. And, come Monday, I’ll move in with Ari so I can make enough money to keep the restaurant running, and so we can pay the bills. But if I could take all this responsibility off my shoulders, I would. If I could choose a life where I didn’t have to look after everyone else, I’d take it, without a doubt.
“Your abuela is right,” Papi says firmly. “We will all continue to do our part. For Sol, it means helping us with money. Luis, for you it means being at the restaurant. And that’s the end of it.”
Luis doesn’t reply, and I don’t, either. I notice the way he’s twitching in his chair, eager to storm out, but he doesn’t. He remains sitting at the table, eating slow bites of paella.
After a while, once the air around us has become a little less heavy and we are all getting full, I start to notice the way Diego is slumping in his chair. He’s been so quiet all night, but I know he’s been listening intently to what we’ve been saying, feeling more and more alone with each passing second.
I wish I could say something to make him feel better, but I just don’t have the strength right now. Instead, I shift my gaze toward Abuela, only to find her staring right back at me. And in her eyes, I find comfort, and safety, and all the things that I haven’t been able to find anywhere else today—all the things I wish I could bring with me when I move to California, and the things that I wish I could make sure Diego won’t ever have to go without.
Abuela and I do the dishes like every other night. It’s the only time of the day that truly belongs to just us—while Luis helps Diego get ready for bed, and Papi sneaks off into his bedroom.
This was something she used to always do with my mom, but I took over for Mami after she got sick. It used to feel weird, stepping into her shoes. I used to dream of the day when she would bounce back—when she’d be cancer-free and go back to managing her restaurant, and looking after us, and doing the dishes next to Abuela every night. As time went on, though, I started believing in that dream less and less, until I was forced to give up on it altogether.
“Mañana será otro día,” Abuela whispers softly as she passes me the dish she was scrubbing.
I take it from her and start to rinse it, her words echoing inside my mind. Tomorrow will be a new day. I know that time usually has a way of making things better, but now I’m not so sure that it will. I can’t see how life will get easier tomorrow, or the day after that, or even a year from now.
“What are you thinking?” she asks me when I don’t respond after a few minutes.
“I just… I’m thinking about the restaurant.”
“What about it?”
I let out a long sigh, trying to push myself to ask this question out loud—the question that was on my mind through most of dinner.
“Do you think Luis is right? Is the restaurant a lost cause?”
Abuela nods slowly to herself, frowning sightly while she dips the sponge into the dish soap.
“What I think,” she says, “is that your brother is a little lost. And what he needs is not for us to push him away even more, but the exact opposite. He needs us to love him, and be patient with him, and try our best to understand him.”
“But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Your dad will find a way,” she says. “He’s always managed to find a way.”
It makes me a little mad to think that Luis was right about at least one thing: the fact that our dad has been making empty promises for over a year. It was never Papi’s intention to take over from Mami, but once she got too sick to do it all herself, he had no choice but to quit his own job and try his best to keep the business running. Because letting the restaurant fail would’ve been like allowing a piece of Mami to die even when she was still here, like giving up on the hope we once had that she would get better and jump back into it.
We’ve been waiting for what feels like the longest time for Papi to bring the restaurant back to its former glory, but now I can’t help but wonder if this will end up being nothing but another dream that’s meant to fall beyond our grasp.
“You don’t need to worry, mija,” Abuela says suddenly. “You’re about to start a new job, a new routine. That should be enough for you to carry, without the added weight of worrying about what your brother said or didn’t say during dinner.”
I sometimes wish I could be a little more like Abuela—that I could think of my own worries in the same way she does, as though they were nothing but clouds drifting across a clear blue sky. As I take another dish from her and start rinsing it, I can’t help but think that maybe she’s right. Maybe by Monday I’ll have to go back to worrying about the restaurant, and Diego being lonely, and Luis’s resentment toward me, but for tonight, all I want is to wash the dishes silently next to my abuela. I want to let out my breath and just enjoy this small moment of togetherness.
CHAPTER THREE
PAPI DROPS ME OFF AT THE BORDER ON MONDAY morning. If we tried to pretend hard enough, this would feel almost like every other day, except that it’s not. It’s not, because my bags are packed and waiting on the back seat. It’s not, because there’s been a painful sensation in my chest all morning, as if someone were clenching my heart in their first. It’s not, because the silence between me and Papi feels suffocating, even though we’ve been playing music during the entire drive.
We find a parking spot behind a big van, and Papi takes it before anyone else can beat him to it. When he turns off the engine, the music coming from the radio cuts off abruptly.
“Will you call us tonight?” he asks. This is the first thing he’s said to me all morning, other than random observations about the time on the kitchen clock and the traffic on our way to the border.
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll call every night.”
“And you’ll be safe.” This isn’t a question.
“I’ll be safe. You don’t have to worry.”
In the back of my mind, I can’t help but remember freshman year, and the first few times I had to cross the border on my own to get to school. I remember how intimidating the whole process seemed back then, how I carried around written instructions from my mom on where to go, and what to do, and which numbers to call if I needed help.
Back then, at least I knew that I’d be coming back home at the end of the day, and having dinner with my family, and sleeping in my own bed. Now, all I have is the hope that I might be able to come back to Tijuana most weekends, although I can’t fight off the feeling that I won’t be coming back for years. I’ve never spent a night away from home, other than the occasional sleepover at Ari’s when we were little. I’ve never been on the US side of the border on my own for longer than a school day, never been away from my dad and my brothers for more than twelve hours.
Papi loosens his tight grip on the steering wheel. When he turns toward me, there’s sadness in his eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time. If he aged a decade in the year since Mami died, then he may as well have aged another decade between yesterday and today.
“It’s really come to this, hasn’t it?” he whispers. “My daughter has to do all the things I’m not strong enough to do.”
“You are strong,” I say, leaning slightly toward him. “Stronger than anyone I know, Papi.”
He shakes his head. “I should’ve been able to take care of the family. I should’ve been able to dig us out of this mess.”
A dark, heavy feeling invades my stomach. I’ve known all along that he felt guilty about needing to accept my help, but he has never said these things out loud before. Sitting beside me is not the father who’s always been so tough, the one who used to take so much pride in looking after all of us. Instead, there’s the man I first caught a glimpse of when Mami got sick—the one who’s capable of feeling uncertainty, and fear, and helplessness. The one who’s trying desperately to do his best, and failing in the process.
“We’ll fix things together, Papi,” I manage to say. “You don’t have to do it all on your own.”
He nods slowly, looking down at his hands. “I called Rafael again last week.”
“What did he say?”
“Same thing as last time—that he’s fully staffed, but if one of his men leaves, I’ll be the first to know.”
I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. Even if Papi was able to do shifts at the car shop where he used to work, we’d still need more money, but maybe he doesn’t need to hear this right now. Maybe I can allow him to hold on to the hope that he’ll be able to go back to the car shop soon and make some extra cash, because I can tell he needs something to hold on to.
Turning to look out the window, I notice that the crowd moving across the esplanade toward the ramp is becoming thicker. If I don’t head up to the bridge soon, I’m gonna be late for school.
“I should get going,” I say softly.
I lean over to grab my heavy bags from the back seat. I set them both over my lap and then turn toward Papi, waiting for him to say a few last words. I have a feeling that there are things left unsaid between us, that he’s not quite done speaking, but even as the seconds stretch on and a car beeps somewhere nearby, he remains silent.
It isn’t until I’m halfway out of the car that he clears his throat.
“Sol?” he says, which makes me stop suddenly. “Te amo, mija.”
“I love you, too, Papi.” I give him a small smile before swinging the passenger door shut.
As I turn around and start walking across the esplanade, I can feel his gaze following me. I know that if I looked back, I’d see our car still parked there, and that he’s gonna wait until I’ve disappeared from view to start the engine and head back home.
For a moment, I almost turn around. I almost look over my shoulder to wave at him one last time, but there’s something that stops me. And so I keep making my way toward the ramp decisively, with my school bag hanging from one shoulder and a heavy duffel bag hanging from the other.
The wait at the border feels extra long today. By the time I make it to school, my back and shoulders are sore from the added weight of the duffel bag, so I don’t head straight to first period. I walk toward my locker instead, thinking that I’ll be able to breathe a little easier once I’ve dropped off the bag and a few of my books.
No matter how many ways I try to make it fit, though, I just can’t find a way for the locker door to close with the duffel bag inside it. In the end, I have no choice but to unload a couple of the heaviest items—a pair of shoes and a Ziploc full of toiletries—and then make my way toward my first class of the day.
“You look like you’re in pain,” Ari says to me when I run into her in the hallway right before lunch. There’s a joking tone in her voice, but I can’t manage to laugh.
“I am,” I admit, readjusting the bag over my shoulder.
“Why don’t you put that in your locker?” she asks.
“I tried, but I couldn’t make it fit.”
“Oh,” Ari says. Her expression shifts, turning businesslike all of a sudden. “Come with me, then.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’ll run out and put it in my car.”
Once the bag is safely stowed in the trunk of Ari’s car, we make our way to the cafeteria. While we wait in the food line, Ari stares at me expectantly, almost as if she’s waiting for me to say something, but the only thing on my mind right now is getting food.
