ANDREA NEVER LOOKED AT THE CELL PHONE BILL, but this month, she’d gone over her daytime minutes and Verizon had charged a ridiculous fee. The table held stacks of bills. For almost all her adult life, she had barely squeaked by at best; she’d had to declare personal bankruptcy when Luz was eighteen months just to clear the credit card debts. Then she landed the teaching job—which was at a private school, so the pay was low, but for the first time she had a salary and benefits. Half the kids blew off art class, treated it like a joke, plaster penises and crappy drawings of cartoon characters, but they were easily outweighed by those who realized art class was a refuge: the ones who had real talent and the misfits who took their lunches to her classroom to eat. Every cent of her money had gone toward absolute necessities and Lucia’s day care, but she had learned how to survive.
Now, with Beatriz’s part-time income and share of the rent and utilities, the weight had lessened—they squeaked by more easily—but Andrea still tracked every dollar, and forty cents a minute for going over was a stab in the gut. How could they have been so careless? Had Beatriz called Brazil? Or was it Beatriz’s work? They would have to increase the minutes on their family plan.
She pored over Beatriz’s call log. There were a few ten- and fifteen-minute day calls that added up. Nothing international. She glanced at the log of Lucia’s—usually it was only a few numbers, hers and Beatriz’s and Sydney’s.
But what was this? A 411 charge, and two calls to a 218 number.
Where the hell was 218?
Lucia crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I didn’t know 411 calls cost money.”
“Luz, you should have asked me first. Us first.”
“Would you have let me?”
“Probably not!”
“See?”
“What did he say to you?”
Lucia’s voice got small. “He said . . . Sydney and I should make a record. Then he changed his mind and said we had to be careful not to be a novelty.”
Beatriz nodded, but Andrea said, “Career advice? That’s rich. Did he say anything about me?”
Lucia shook her head.
“What are you looking for, Luz?” Andrea dropped to her knees in front of her daughter. “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Lucia said, “I want to meet him.”
Andrea sat back on her heels. “What?”
“For my birthday. It’s the only thing I want. The only thing.”
Andrea couldn’t speak.
Beatriz stepped in. “You’ve thought about this, Luz? Or are you just saying this now?”
“I’ve thought about it a lot. All week. I wouldn’t ask for it if I didn’t mean it.”
Andrea found her voice. “We’re not enough?”
Beatriz touched her shoulder. “I don’t think it’s about that, Andy.”
“I mean, what do you think he’s going to give you? He left. He left before you were even—”
Beatriz gripped her shoulder harder. “Babe! Stop.” Andrea covered her mouth. She’d almost said the unforgivable, the thing she never wanted Lucia to know. Bad mother.
Lucia’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know why! I just want to. I just want to see him in real life.”
Beatriz let go of Andy and wrapped her arms around Lucia. “We’ll talk about it, Luz, okay? It’s a lot to think about. Give us a little time. Okay?”
Lucia began to cry openly. “He was really nice.”
“Oh Jesus,” Andrea said.
Beatriz shot her a look that was part compassion, part warning. “We’ll figure something out.”
Still on her knees, Andrea fought the urge to beg Lucia to—to what, feel differently? To not want what she already wanted? To not wonder what she of course wondered? For the first time in years Andrea was angry at him, she realized, furious that what he’d given—what he’d left behind—he could also take away. He couldn’t take custody, not that, but something nearly as frightening: he could seize Lucia’s imagination, her heart. She could come to believe in him. He could leave her now too.
Don’t be your mother, she thought. Don’t push her away. She breathed deeply, in, out. “It’s your life and your decision to make,” she said. “Beatriz is right. We’ll work it out for you.”