Brighter Than the Sun, page 7
“I don’t like the idea of you taking the trolley after midnight,” Nancy says. “Do you want me to pick you up tonight?”
“You don’t have to,” I reply. “I’ll be fine.” She’s already woken up at four in the morning twice this week. The last thing I want is to cause more trouble for her.
“If you change your mind, just let me know.”
“Thanks, Nancy. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Of course I worry, mija,” she says. “Of course I worry.”
And just like that, the feeling of lightness returns, spreading to every inch of my body. Because no matter how much time has passed since Ari and I first became friends, and no matter how much things have changed since then, she and Nancy have managed to remind me of something that has become too easy to forget lately: That I don’t have to feel lonely all the time. That Soledad doesn’t have to always take over. That Sol is still here, and that maybe she’s not as buried within me as she sometimes seems to be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING, I SNEAK OUT OF THE HOUSE right before seven. The sun is already shining and the sky is a deep shade of blue, but there’s a still silence around me as I walk toward Palomar Street station. There are no cars, no people. It seems as though even the birds have decided to sleep in today.
I left a note on the kitchen table for Ari and Nancy to find: I’ll see you on Monday. Thank you for everything. I wish I could’ve left something more—flowers, or a small gift, or an envelope with money for all the extra expenses they’ve had to cover with me living at their house this week. Perhaps I’ll be able to do that once I’ve gotten my first paycheck, but for now, I hope the note is enough.
I make it through Mexican customs quickly, to find that on this side of the border, the city is already awake. Street vendors move around in circles, selling candy, and necklaces, and chicharrones, keeping their eyes peeled for tourists. There are also taxi drivers waiting at the bottom of the ramp, leaning against the hoods of cars and talking casually to each other while they wait for customers to arrive.
I’m walking toward the Azul y Blanco bus stop when I realize something: There’s a light-blue Volkswagen parked on the side of the road, just behind the taxis. I mentioned to Papi that I’d be getting home around eight, but I never asked him to pick me up.
Ignoring a taxi driver who’s gesturing toward his car, I approach the Volkswagen. Sure enough, I spot a familiar scratch on the back door, and when I lean over to look through the window, he’s there—Papi, sitting in the driver’s seat with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes closed.
“Papi?” I ask, knocking on the window.
He jolts awake and looks around quickly, as though he’s trying to remember where he is. When he sees me, he smiles and unlocks the doors.
“You didn’t have to pick me up,” I say as I jump into the car.
“I thought you might be tired. I didn’t want you to have to make your way home on your own.”
I smile back at him. I can picture him waking up this morning, and leaving the house, and getting here extra early just to make sure he’d be waiting for me by the time I made it across the border.
“Why didn’t you text?”
Papi shrugs as he turns on the engine. “I, uh… I switched to a cheaper phone plan, so now I have to be careful with how many texts I send a month.”
I’m about to say something—that having a cell phone is too important, that he should keep his same old plan because he needs it for the restaurant and to stay in touch with the rest of the family—but I stop myself. I suppose we all need to make sacrifices.
While we drive through my city, I can’t help but feel as though I’m seeing these streets for the very first time. And after feeling like I couldn’t breathe for an entire week, I am finally able to draw in a deep breath and let the air out.
My heart starts beating fast as we enter our neighborhood. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to see my house—not even when we’d come back from a trip to visit extended family in Mexico City, or when I would get home after a long day at school. It’s not much bigger than Ari’s, and way older, but it’s always been so ours. The facade, which was once bright orange, has been in need of a paint job for many years. The windows are tiny and curtained, with cracked panes here and there, and the wooden front door is worn and faded from standing in the direct sunlight for decades.
When I walk in, the smell of fresh coffee and eggs hits me immediately. For the briefest moment, I imagine Mami in the kitchen. A part of me is certain that as soon as I walk in, I’ll find her wearing her apron, holding a spatula and humming to herself while she cooks, but instead, I find Abuela.
“Sol,” she says the instant she sees me, letting out a long sigh. “How are you, mi amor?”
Before I can answer, she wraps her arms around me and plants a kiss on my forehead.
“You’re just in time.” Her gaze shifts toward the stove, where the eggs are starting to look cooked. “We’re almost ready to eat.”
Even though I’m exhausted, I head straight for the sink to wash my hands, and then I try to find small ways to help—by setting forks and knives on the table, by taking the salsa out of the refrigerator, by pouring cups of coffee for Papi and Abuela.
I’m about to go wake Diego up, eager to see him and tell him that breakfast is ready, when he appears at the kitchen door, wearing his pajamas. My first instinct is to run toward him and give him a hug, but something stops me, keeping me frozen on the spot: There’s a purple bruise on his face, right under his left eye.
“What happened?” is the first thing I say to him.
“He got into a fight at school, that’s what happened,” Papi says bitterly as he walks into the kitchen, throwing my brother a disapproving look.
“Is that true?”
Slowly, Diego nods. We stare at each other in silence for a moment, while I think of the reunion I had wished we’d have. It didn’t involve this sad look on his face, or the lingering bitterness that Papi brought into the kitchen. Deciding that I’ll ask him about the fight and the bruise later, I smile at Diego, gesturing at him to come sit next to me at the table.
“Is Luis awake yet?” Abuela asks.
“I don’t think so,” Diego replies.
Abuela moved in with us many years ago, right after Abuelo passed away, and my two brothers have had to share a room ever since. It used to be the source of many conflicts and complaints—mostly from Luis, who resented not having his own space. Over time, though, they’ve found a way to coexist. Luis has learned how to help Diego brush his teeth and get into bed every night, and Diego has learned to sleep through the noise that Luis makes when he finally goes to sleep after midnight. Over the past week, though, Diego has been staying in my room, which might just be one of the few good changes that have come from my absence.
“I’ll set aside his breakfast, then,” Abuela says, lifting up the pan to split the scrambled eggs onto different plates.
I’m hoping for something more—toast, or chorizo, or bacon—but when Abuela sets a plate on the table in front of me, I realize this is truly all there is: A scoopful of plain scrambled eggs for each of us. Meals have been getting smaller for months, but the food Abuela made today would barely be enough for two people, let alone five.
While we eat, I notice certain things about Papi and Abuela. Even though they don’t have bruises beneath their eyes like Diego does, there are other signs on their faces that reveal how this past week went. Abuela’s wrinkles look more pronounced. She seems tired, worn out, as though her energy levels have been turned down really low. From the way she’s staring at Diego, who’s barely even touched his food, I can tell there are words hanging from her lips. She must want to tell him to finish his breakfast, that he needs to eat, but she just can’t bring herself to do it. I imagine she’s had to repeat the same things to him all week—and that he hasn’t been very willing to cooperate.
Papi, on the other hand, looks wide awake. He eats his eggs loudly, slurping coffee after every few bites. He doesn’t stare at anything or anyone in particular, but I’m pretty sure that his mind is hard at work. I wonder what he’s thinking—if he’s keeping track of the time he has left before he needs to head to the restaurant, or if he’s dreaming of receiving my first paycheck from the store next week, or if he’s trying to figure out what to do about Diego.
And then I start to wonder what stories my face would tell if any of them looked closely. I wonder if they would see the longing I’ve felt for this exact moment—for the moment when I’d be back in my own house, eating breakfast next to them. I wonder if they’d see any signs of the exhaustion of the early mornings and the late nights, or of the kindness Ari and Nancy have shown me.
“I’d better get going,” Papi says suddenly. He’s already finished his breakfast, even though the rest of us are eating slowly, trying to make our eggs last as long as possible.
“I wanna come,” I say. “Can you wait for me?”
“Está bien. Be ready in five minutes,” he says to me before walking out of the kitchen.
I wish I could stick around to help Abuela clean up after breakfast, but there is no time. I’m barely able to finish eating before Papi reappears, wearing a jacket and holding the car keys.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I say to Diego and Abuela as I push my chair back.
“Can I also come?” my brother asks in a small voice.
There’s something in his eyes that makes my heart melt. Without saying anything, he begs me not to leave him alone for the rest of the day. Abuela, on the other hand, nods from behind him. She may be thinking the exact opposite: That she could really use some alone time, especially after all the extra work she’s had to do this week.
I nod at my brother. “Bring your homework,” I say. “Come on, let’s hurry.”
When we walk into the restaurant, I feel as though I’ve finally arrived at the one place where I’m absolutely certain I belong. This is my favorite place in the world—the safest one I know. I love its warmth, its smells, its noise. Mostly, I love the fact that Mami’s presence still lingers here. She may as well be hiding behind the counter, or back in the kitchen. It’s as if she never truly left.
It was her parents who first opened this place, long before El Arco de Tijuana was installed right around the corner. I’m not sure what the area was like back then, but the location is nothing short of perfect now—just off the street from Revolución, the main tourist street, but not right on Revolución, which means that most of our clientele are locals, but we’re also in the way of tourists who wander off the main street and decide to try a more authentic Mexican restaurant.
I’ve seen photos that Mami salvaged from the old days, and the place hasn’t changed one bit—the tile on the walls, the wooden tables, even the ugly tapestry on the chairs. Mami kept it all the same, except for the menu, which she expanded over the years. At first, my grandparents mostly served Mexican antojitos—sopes, molletes, quesadillas, and tostadas—but Mami wanted more. She wanted to offer comida corrida—a special menu with a starter, a main dish, a drink, and a dessert, all for an affordable price and a short preparation time. Coming up with each day’s menu was Mami’s favorite thing to do, and now it hurts to see Papi’s scribbles on the chalkboard above the counter: sopa de tortilla, milanesa de pollo, agua de horchata, and flan—one of the old, boring combinations he came up with last year, which he hasn’t been willing to change despite the fact that all of our regular customers have gotten tired of it.
Once Diego is sitting in a corner with his books spread open in front of him, I do a quick lap around the place. From what I can tell, Luis and Papi have been doing a decent job at keeping the restaurant clean, but I figure it wouldn’t hurt for me to sweep and mop, just in case.
Papi stays busy in the kitchen while I grab cleaning supplies and get to work. After a while, I start thinking about the fact that no one has walked in the door, even though my dad turned the sign to OPEN as soon as we got here. My throat tightens when I think of the good times—when the restaurant would get so crowded that Mami had to hire more waiters, when she spent her days and nights dreaming up ideas on how to keep growing the business. I wish I could find a way to bring all that back, but there’s nothing I can do—nothing but sweep, mop, and hope that keeping the restaurant extra clean will make some sort of difference.
I’m almost done by the time the front door swings open, and I turn toward it expectantly, thinking we’re finally getting our first customers of the day. Instead, Luis walks in.
“Hey,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets.
“Hey,” I say back.
We stand awkwardly in front of each other, and it takes me a moment to make sense of the look on his face. It’s as if he’s wary of me. He’s probably wondering if I’m about to give him a hard time for showing up this late, but I don’t have the energy to have that conversation.
I press my lips into a smile, and he nods vaguely at me before turning away to walk into the kitchen.
“What’s the menu of the day?” I ask Papi once I’m done cleaning and have put everything back in the closet.
“Sopa de tortilla y milanesa de pollo,” he says.
“Again?”
I linger for a few seconds, but he doesn’t look up from the cutting board where he’s chopping an onion. In the back, Luis is stirring a big pot that’s sitting over the stove.
When neither of them says anything, I turn around and walk out of the kitchen, eager to sit with Diego for a while and hopefully get some homework done.
“So,” I say to my brother as I take a seat in front of him, staring at the bruise on his face. “What happened?”
He looks back at me with pursed lips. For a moment, it looks as though he’s about to cry, but he manages to stop the tears from coming.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says in a whisper.
“It matters to me.” I lean over the table to look closely into his eyes. “Was it those kids at school? The ones who have been… saying things?”
The thought of kids calling him names just because he’s sensitive makes my blood boil. It makes me want to throw this table aside, just to reach out and wrap my arms around him.
“It didn’t happen the way you think, though,” he says, avoiding my gaze.
“What do you mean?”
“They didn’t start it. Or, I—I mean, they did. They were laughing, and I knew they’d just said something about me, and I couldn’t keep it in.”
I let out a long sigh, slowly making sense of what he’s saying. “So you threw the first punch?”
“Not a punch,” Diego says. “I pushed one of them, but one of his friends got to me, and well…”
“Did you get in trouble?” I ask.
Diego looks down. “Not at school—not really. But Papi’s mad at me.”
“Well, he’s probably just—”
“He said I shouldn’t be weak—that I should’ve done a better job at defending myself.”
Something burns deep inside of me. Papi used to be much softer, but there is a bitterness inside him that has only grown stronger over the years. It must’ve appeared when Mami first got sick, because the old Papi—the one I remember from my childhood—would’ve never said something like that.
Staring into my brother’s eyes, though, I realize just how unfair this is, because it shouldn’t be up to him to deal with Papi’s harshness. Diego already has plenty to worry about with those kids giving him a hard time at school. The last thing he needs is to face pressure at home, too.
“How about Luis and Abuela?” I ask. “What did they say?”
“Luis took me to the ice cream shop on the day that it happened. I think he was trying to make me feel better, but then Papi found out, and it all got so much worse,” Diego says. “He kept telling Luis that he shouldn’t be rewarding me with ice cream right after I’d gotten into trouble. Abuela just tried to heal the bruise. She put ice, and ointments, and even bags of chamomile tea on my face, but none of it helped much.”
I nod slowly to myself, wondering what Mami would’ve done if she’d been around to deal with this. She would’ve probably found a solution that none of us can even think of. She would’ve found a way to comfort Diego, to help him feel more confident, to protect him.
“Don’t worry about Papi,” I say. “I’ll deal with him.”
Diego’s expression softens, and I feel it again—the desperate need to hug him.
“You’re not weak, you know?” I say, marking my words carefully. “You’re strong—stronger than anyone who tries to tear you down.”
Diego nods quickly, but he doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure how long we sit here in silence, but eventually we both remember that we have homework to do, and so we turn our attention to our books.
A few customers start flowing into and out of the restaurant a while later. I get up from my chair right away and go greet them, making sure they’re seated quickly, that they feel looked after, with the hope that they’ll want to come back to the restaurant soon enough.
Ana Sánchez, one of our oldest customers, shows up with her family. At first, I’m thrilled to see them, but then, when they start asking for items that are no longer on the menu, I get a little nervous.
“What about quesadillas fritas?” Ana’s youngest daughter asks me after I’ve already told them we’re not serving paella, or fish, or shrimp cocktails. “Can you make those?”
“Let me find out,” I say. Quesadillas fritas were one of Mami’s specialties, one of the old favorites that survived from the original menu that her own parents created. I’m just not sure if Papi has the ingredients we’d need to make them, or if they now fall in the same category as seafood—stuff that we can’t afford to buy anymore. “I’ll be back in a second.”
