Sixteen

Cofre del Tesoro, Colombia
July 2008

“What is it?”

Christina stood at the edge of the grass, small fingers worrying against the seams of her pale pink dress. She looked up at him.

“It’s a tire swing,” Michael said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his fatigues.

“What’s it for?”

“It’s for fun.” What seemed like a good idea this morning now felt silly. He grimaced at the old jeep tire and rope he’d found in the garage. He hadn’t even thought to wipe it down before stringing it up. Jesus, he was bad at this. “Never mind. You want to go back inside?”

“No.” She said it quickly, her pigtails bouncing wildly with the forceful head shake she gave him. “I’m tired of inside.”

He smiled down at her. “Me too. Want to give it a try?” he said, cocking his head at the swing.

“Yes, please.” She smiled back, looking at him like he’d just offered her something priceless. The smile faded a bit and her fingers started to worry again. “What am I supposed to do?”

He took her by the hand and led her onto the grass. When he’d first found the tree a few months ago, he’d hardly been able to believe it. An oak tree growing on an island off the coast of Colombia. He’d been so curious that he’d asked one of the other guards about it.

“When Mrs. Reyes was pregnant, Hefe had it shipped all the way here, fully grown from America and had it planted so that his son would have a good, sturdy tree to climb,” the guard had told him. “Hefe is still waiting for his son.”

He hadn’t said it, but the implication was clear: Christina was a disappointment to her father. The tire swing had been an impulsive reaction to what the guard had told him. A fuck you to Reyes for discarding his only daughter like a broken toy. For treating her like a thing instead of a child.

They stood in front of it now, and he gave it a push so she could watch it swing gently back and forth. “You put your legs through the hole and sit on the edge,” he said to her, brushing the black smudges touching it left on his fingertips off on his dark pants.

“I’m going to get dirty.”

“Probably,” he answered, ready to take her back into the house.

Christina watched the tire sway for a few moments, doubt slowly being replaced by determination. She lifted her arms, looking up at him, this time with expectation, and it took him a second to realize what she was asking. Lifting her, he held her up so she could thread her legs through the hole in the tire. “Hold on here,” he said gruffly, suddenly attacked by the memory of doing almost the exact same thing for Frankie when she was little. He moved her hands to the base of the rope. “Don’t let go,” he said just before giving her a gentle push, sending the tire away from him.

She came back and he pushed her again, a little bit harder this time, and she spun around on the return trip, her eyes wide with worry but also something more. Excitement—the kind of terrified joy that makes you believe you can do anything. That you are not a disappointment. That you are perfect, even if your hair is loose and your dress is smudged with grease and road dust.

He pushed again and this time she squealed, “Higher!”

He pushed her until he could barely lift his arms and her dress was ringed in black. Neither of them noticed. “Did you have a tire swing when you were my age?” she said to him, taking hold of his hand on the walk back from to the house. He didn’t pull away.

“No. I didn’t live in a place that had trees.” How could he explain to her that when he’d been her age he’d live in a shitty rent-by-the-week with his heroin-addicted mother? That he didn’t even remember seeing a tree until he’d been taken to Sophia and Sean for fostering after his mother died. “But I did when I was older.”

He still remembered sitting in the front seat of his social worker’s ancient VW Beetle staring out the window at the place that would eventually become his home. The tire swing looked like it was there just waiting for him, and he wanted to swing on it so bad he could taste it. He hadn’t been there a week before he found a hacksaw in Sean’s tool chest and cut the rope from the branch, the tire hitting the ground with a dull thud.

“Did you love it?” Her eyes were wide, cheeks still flushed by wind and exhilaration.

“I did love it,” he said. When he’d woken up the next morning after cutting it down, it’d been strung back up, as if he’d never touched it. It became a sort of game between him and his new father. He’d cut it down and then Sean would string it back up. Him telling Sean to give up. That he was hopeless and would never allow himself to be loved. Sean telling him that no matter what he said or did, he would never give up. He would never stop trying. “My sister loved it too.”

“You have a sister?” Christina stopped, her hand jerking in his. “What does she look like?”

He looked at her. She had the same curly dark hair and smooth olive skin as Frankie, who looked so much like Sophia. On impulse, Michael pulled the photo of a twelve-year-old Frankie from the pocket where he always carried it and held it out to her.

Christina’s gaze latched on to the photo along with her fingers. “She has curly hair too.” She traced the crazy tangle that surrounded Frankie’s face with the tip of her finger. “Does she like the beach?” she said, searching for something that would connect her to the wild-looking girl in the picture.

“She does, but she’s older now. In high school, but that’s how I think of her.” That’s how she looked the last time I saw her.

She handed the photo back and resumed walking. “Thank you,” she said as they stepped into the looming shadows of the house.

“You’re welcome,” he said, giving her hand a small squeeze before he pulled away. “Sorry about your dress.”

“It’s okay,” she said, giving him a smile, wildness playing at the corners of her mouth and for the first time, she looked like what she was: a child. “I never liked it anyway.”