Chapter | 16

Today I’ll pick up my grandpa from the airport, but right now it’s just my dad and I sitting down together for breakfast. We don’t talk about what happened yesterday, but I think we both feel like some of the pressure that was building has been released. I know my father was disappointed whe n I went up to my tent after dinner last night. I’m sure he hoped we’d made enough progress to bring me back into the house. But to his credit, he doesn’t say anything about it and I know he’s trying hard to understand me.

My father gives me a piece of paper that lists the doctor’s appointments he’s scheduled for my grandfather, beginning with a visit to his own office tomorrow. After breakfast, he excuses himself and clears his dishes. I wash the morning dishes and tidy up the kitchen. Then I go to the guest room and put clean sheets on the bed that Chad uses when he’s here, and I set out clean towels and a few water bottles in the guest bathroom. Emma and Chad will have to sleep in my room while my grandpa is here. They only come every other weekend so one of them can use the air mattress. While I’m working, my father comes in to say goodbye. He gives me a big hug and a kiss on top of my head. Yesterday was traumatic for both of us, so much so that it almost feels like a physical injury. We’re both being careful with each other, as though our bruises are visible.

My grandpa’s plane arrives at three-thirty so I have an empty morning. Empty mornings haven’t been great for me lately but this one will be different. My new goal is not really to make good things happen. It’s just to make bad things not happen. It doesn’t seem like a big deal but it is. I have a plan to achieve this goal that was partly inspired by Chad. The morning we spent kicking the soccer ball felt great—that is, until the football team arrived. Running, sweating, focusing on the physical side of me changed me for a few hours and I remember that sensation. Maybe it’s true that endorphins released during exercise provide a temporary feeling of well-being. I plan to test that theory this morning.

It’s still early enough the day isn’t too hot. I step out into the street wearing my running shoes, shorts, and t-shirt. My hair is pulled away from my face and neck into a pony-tail high on my head. Rachel is at the end of her driveway, bent over picking up her newspaper from the ground. She sees me when she straightens up and I make a small circular wave with my open hand. She points to her chest, makes a heart sign with both index fingers and thumbs and then points to me. For some reason, sign language feels better than spoken words today.

I take off jogging down the street, planning to only run our neighborhood loop today. But when the two-mile loop is done, I still feel toxic energy that needs to be burned away, so I jog down the steep hill that leads toward town. After about twenty minutes, I’m on the main street and I’m feeling muscles come to life that haven’t been called on to perform for a long time. The sun is almost overhead, sweat is dripping into my eyebrows, and my back is drenched. I feel warm and loose—like nothing can stop me—but I haven’t brought any water and I still have that hill to climb on the way back. I pick out a tree as my turn-around point and just as I round it, a Jeep drives by the same color as Jake’s. It goes by so fast I don’t have time to be sure it’s his. There must be a lot of Jeeps the same color as Jake’s in this town but I never had a reason to notice them before.

The hill on the way back is intense, and I have to walk some of it. A well-meaning neighbor slows down and offers me a ride but I shake my head and smile in between gasps of breath. By the time I get to my house I’m so exhausted, it’s an effort to walk. I think my plan has worked. All those things tumbling around in my head are still tumbling around. I’m not exactly happy, but I’m not sad either.

Traffic on the bridge was worse than I expected for early afternoon and I was already running a little late to begin with—not exactly a promising start to the first day of my “job.” When I pull up to the Passenger Arrival area at the airport, Grandpa’s already cleared customs and is waiting at the curb. We’re in fog country now so, although there’s nothing but sunshine where I live, here in San Francisco it’s cold, gray, and windy.

It’s been several years, but Grandpa looks the same to me. He’s on the short side and I’m pretty sure I’m at least two or three inches taller than him now. He’s bald, but has grown the right side of his hair long enough to comb over to the left side in order to cover the bald spot. But with the wind blowing the way it is, that plan has backfired and I see him put a hand up to his head to force the hair back into place. He seems a little less round than I remember him, but that’s still his general shape.

When I catch my first glimpse of him, it reminds me of something I’ve lost, and I realize that he and I are starting all over with each other now—almost like we’re meeting for the first time. He’s seriously underdressed in a Hawaiian short-sleeved shirt and dark blue slacks. His head is down and he’s sort of marching in place like he’s trying to keep himself warm. I feel guilty for being late. Everyone should feel welcomed when they arrive in a new place. Someone should be waiting for them with open arms, a meaningless greeting like “how was your flight?”, and maybe even some kind of present—or at least an offer to carry your bag. I haven’t done any of these things for Grandpa.

I tap on the horn as I pull to the curb and Grandpa looks up surprised. I hop out of the car and walk around to greet him, and I’m suddenly feeling very shy of this man who’s only a few degrees away from being a complete stranger. Neither of us is comfortable enough to embrace but we take a clumsy stab at it.

“Hi, Grandpa.” I feel like a giantess standing next to him.

He looks me up and down. “You’ve grown up.” His strong Hungarian accent is just as I remember it.

“Let me take your bag.”

But his masculine pride won’t allow it, and he grapples with his bag, struggling to lift it into the Hornet’s cramped back seat.

“So you will be my driver?” he says once we’re strapped in and on our way.

I’m a little embarrassed by that question but I just smile and nod my head.

“At your service.” I’m trying to be flippant and funny, but I don’t do either of those very well.

“It’s summer here, or winter?” His eyebrows raise at the sight of the thick fog that surrounds us.

“Don’t worry, it’s hot where we live. San Francisco is always like this in the summer.”

“Yes, I remember this.”

It’s a long drive back to my house and I scramble for what to say next. “Dad told me . . .” I start to say just as he starts talking. “I’m sorry. What were you going to say?”

“No, no, you,” he waves me on.

“Oh. I was just going to say that Dad told me you aren’t feeling well. What’s wrong?”

“I’m very tired all the time,” he says in a voice that’s very tired. “And my friends tell me that I look peel.”

I try to puzzle this one out. I don’t want to offend him by not understanding.

“Your friends tell you that you’re looking . . .”

“Peel!” he says with emphasis as though he’s just proved a point. When I realize he means pale, I take a quick sideways glance to see if it’s true—and it is.

“Oh.” I’m not sure how to respond. “Well, Dad is a good doctor and he’ll be able to find out if anything’s wrong, but hopefully it’s nothing.” I sound stupid even to myself. My grandfather wouldn’t fly to another continent if his symptoms were just nothing.

“I’ve gotten too used to good weather,” he says.

“Is that why you and Grandma moved back to Venezuela—the nice weather?”

“That and also some other things. It’s where your grandmother and I met each other and started our life together, you understand? There were many good memories. Cheap to live and beautiful country. This country took me in when I had nowhere else to go.”

I look at him from the corner of my eye. He stares out the window as we’re crossing the bridge high above the San Francisco Bay. The water is dark gray and choppy, but we’ve left the thickest of the fog behind and there are scattered patches of blue sky in front of us.

Unless I’m with Lyla or someone else I’m totally comfortable with, I’m not the greatest conversationalist. So, at some point, I learned that asking questions is a way to fill the silent gaps and people usually appreciate the attention. With Grandpa though, I’m not sure how much he’ll like it. I remember my grandmother stepping in to wave off Mom when the interview went too long. So I begin with mundane things.

“Why did you leave Venezuela in the first place?”

“We applied for visas to the United States. Everyone wanted to go there. We thought it would be a good thing for your mother to be an American.”

I kind of already knew this but it fills in a few blanks. He looks over at me—a little suspiciously, or is that my imagination?

“I think you must be hungry,” he projects onto me. “Let’s stop before we get home and I buy you some dinner.”

I don’t think Dad and Marie will mind if I text and let them know. They were just going to pick something up on the way home anyway.

“What kind of food do you like?” I ask.

“Do you have Chinese restaurant? I like Chinese food—you?”

“Me too.” Well, at least we have one thing in common beyond our DNA.

Grandpa’s a lot more comfortable now that we’re beyond the hills that trap the fog, turning the bay into a giant bowl full of mist. At last he’s wearing the right clothes for the right weather. He even wants to sit outside in the back patio of the restaurant. A little creek runs behind us. It’s almost dry this time of year, but in the winter, it swells and muddy brown water tears through its banks.

There’s a banquet of plates set before us—Grandpa has seriously over-ordered but we can take it home and have it for lunch tomorrow.

“You’re too tinny,” he announces after studying me carefully. “Eat some more . . . please.”

It hasn’t taken long for me to pick up on the accent I remember from my childhood, so I know that tinny is thin. I also recall stories my mother told of my grandfather’s obsession with food and making sure everyone got enough of it . . . something left over from his childhood. My father is so different. He’s lean and athletic and encourages me to eat light and healthy and to push away from the table as soon as I’m satisfied. But he’s never had to go without food like my grandpa.

“I don’t think I can, Grandpa. My stomach’s not big enough.”

“No, it’s not,” he states sadly. “That’s no good for a girl. You want to find a husband one day, no?”

I let that one pass with an awkward smile. Agree to disagree and all.

“Your father tells me you have some problems,” he says out of the blue, catching me completely off-guard.

“Like what kind of problems did he tell you I’m having?” I had counted on Dad’s phone conversations with Grandpa to revolve around health issues. I thought I’d have an opportunity to reinvent myself for someone who hadn’t been around and seen me these last few years.

“He says you’ve been going to the Afghan boy’s house—this Omar.” Apparently, my grandfather has no difficulty in speaking his name out loud. “He’s out of prison, no?”

“No. I mean yes. Yes, he’s out of prison and yes I’ve gone by his house a few times.”

“Why you go there?”

How do I answer? Because I can’t pry him out of my mind? Because I think about him every day running around free—doing whatever he wants? Because I want to make him suffer, and if my presence outside his house makes him suffer even a fraction of what he’s made me suffer then it will be worth it? Because I need to see him, I need to put a real face to the name—a face that I can pin all my hate on.

But how can I say all that and still come across as a rational human being?

I shrug my shoulders. “Just curious, I guess.”

My grandfather chews slowly and swallows. Then he sips his iced tea. The red plastic cup is sweating from condensation and a few drops of water fall onto his shirt. He puts the cup down on the table and looks directly into my eyes.

“Let’s go there right now—you and me.” He waves at the waitress and motions for a check. “Are you ready?”

“No, Grandpa, we can’t do that. I’ll be arrested if I go there again. You probably would be too if you were with me.”

“You think I’m afraid to be arrested?” He speaks slowly and raises his eyebrows as if he’s unable to believe I would think something as simple as threat of arrest could stop him. “You think your grandfather is afraid of a policeman in America? You should come see what the police do in Venezuela!”

I suppress a laugh, trying hard not to think about my plump little grandpa fighting off the cops.

“It’s not a good idea,” I say as seriously as I can.

“So then it’s your decision. We just forget about that place and that young man.”

“It’s my decision not to go there. But I can’t forget about him.” I don’t want my grandfather to think that I’ve caved. I just want him to know I’m being practical.

“No, you can’t forget.” Grandpa pulls some caramels out of his pocket and offers me one. When I shake my head ‘no’, he proceeds to unwrap the clear cellophane from the candy. It’s a complicated procedure and takes him a while. He’s totally focused on it.

“Never forget,” he says in a way that makes it seem like he’s talking to himself. The wrapper is fully removed and he pops the caramel in his mouth. He chews with a thoughtful look in his eye. “You’re a good cook?”

“No, I don’t know how to cook.” I’m a little embarrassed by this admission. “Maybe some scrambled eggs or French toast . . .”

“You have never made a soup?”

“No, not really.”

“Pity your mother never taught you to cook. She was a good cook.”

“Yeah. She was.”

“If you take a small cup of water and add a few spoons of salt, you wouldn’t drink this. It would be too much salt.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“But if you add juices from carrots and tomatoes and some other vegetables, then you stir in the broth of the chicken, and maybe some cream, and some more water.” He has a faraway look in his eyes as though he’s in the kitchen adding the ingredients as he speaks. “And then you taste it and now it tastes good. You can drink a whole bowl of it.”

I’m watching my grandpa carefully because I know this is not about soup.

“So don’t forget—never forget. But you add. Keep adding to your life—a little bit this, a little bit that. The salt is still there, but one day you won’t notice.”