An Appetite for Miracles Read online

  “Be good to your uncle, Raúl.”

  “I’m sorry, Raúl.”

  “I miss you, Raúl.”

  I miss you too, Mom.

  Words.

  Prayers.

  Sometimes pressed.

  Sometimes hammered.

  Dark and deep

  like tattoo ink.

  And when I read them,

  I don’t hear

  the rattle of the air conditioning,

  or

  my uncle snoring in the next room,

  or

  the whir of the ceiling fan.

  I hear my mother’s voice,

  ignited between my ears

  like a dream.

  A dream

  I’ll have to

  wake up

  from

  the second

  I fall

  asleep.

  Because that’s when they come

  when they always come

  to take her

  away.

  Nobody Knows

  When someone dies

  people know

  exactly what to say.

  Not the right thing.

  Not the true thing.

  But what’s socially acceptable.

  There is a script

  we inherit.

  Part of the good human handbook.

  But when someone goes to prison

  there is no script.

  Which means a lot of fumbling,

  a lot of forcing. the. words. to. come.

  People try their best

  with things like:

  “Your mother was such a sweet woman.”

  Is.

  She is.

  “Your mother would be so proud of how you’ve handled this.”

  Is.

  She is.

  Or they try and

  fail miserably

  with things like:

  “God works in mysterious ways.”

  or

  “Everything happens for a reason.”

  I smile,

  but behind gritted teeth,

  I scream

  deep down

  in the places where

  no one else

  can hear,

  No.

  No, it doesn’t.

  Then I get up

  onstage

  with the mediocre

  praise band

  I’ve been

  practicing with

  twice a week

  for two years

  and I strum,

  playing simple

  chords

  that tie up

  the truth.

  A salve

  to my uncle’s sermon,

  making it go

  down

  easy.

  “Remember,” he tells them,

  “to give your pain to God.

  Nobody knows

  your suffering

  like Jesus.”

  Lost

  Sunday School

  compounds

  my suffering

  exponentially.

  Even though

  they bribe us

  with bacon and pancakes,

  Manny and I

  still spend the whole time

  hiding in the back,

  listening to

  The Mars Volta.

  Manny is my friend

  by default.

  He’s the only other kid my age in class

  and sometimes

  he tells jokes that are actually funny.

  Other times, he laughs alone.

  But he doesn’t mind.

  I appreciate that.

  He also plays the drums

  and on days

  when it feels like I’m being smushed

  by a giant thumb,

  I’ll show up at his house,

  unannounced,

  and he’ll let me beat back the feeling,

  knuckles blanched around the drumsticks,

  sweat pouring

  down

  my

  face.

  Heart pounding.

  Pounding.

  And he never asks why;

  never asks questions.

  He just listens.

  Unlike Señora de Souza,

  the Sunday school teacher,

  who asks so many questions,

  too many questions.

  That I can’t answer.

  That no one can.

  So we sit

  in the uncomfortable

  silence, waiting for

  the Holy Spirit

  to slip down

  over our skin,

  for Faith

  to burrow

  like a beetle

  into our hearts.

  For it to war

  with the doubts

  inside us

  and win.

  And for those

  who’ve already lost,

  we pretend.

  Every day,

  we pretend.

  So when Señora de Souza asks,

  “Raúl, would you like to

  lead us

  in our closing prayer?”

  I smile

  and nod

  and speak

  to a God

  I know

  isn’t listening.

  Danna

  Sunday Cena

  Thank God

  Papi is cooking

  dinner tonight.

  Mami is busy

  telling Aunt Veronica

  about the drama

  at work. “I did

  everything and

  she took all

  the credit.”

  Uncle Moises

  is flipping

  channels on

  the TV. “I’ve

  got a hundred

  on this game.”

  My cousin Victoria

  is scrolling

  through social,

  waiting for me

  to finish helping

  Papi with dinner.

  “Is it ready yet?”

  Grandpa is

  sitting

  and

  watching

  the floor.

  Like the sounds

  of their voices

  are cracking

  something

  open

  inside him.

  I wait

  for memories

  to slither out.

  “See if he wants some.”

  Papi hands me

  a cup of

  coffee

  because Grandpa

  always used to

  bring home

  a Styrofoam cup

  from Gloria’s Cafe

  after picking up

  the Sunday paper.

  Tall,

  dark roast,

  with a shot

  of vanilla.

  I blow on it,

  steam billowing up

  like tiny clouds

  like ghosts.

  You are not one yet.

  I take his fingers,

  so cold,

  and press them

  against

  the warm

  mug.

  He smiles

  and it’s like

  watching an

  old photograph

  come to life.

  “Danna…”

  I blink,

  not sure if

  I just

  imagined it.

  Mami and Aunt Veronica

  choke on their words,

  quiet.

  Uncle Moises

  turns the volume down on the TV,

  staring.

  Victoria

  stops mid-text,

  mouth open wide.

  Papi

  drops

  an

  egg.

  It splatters on the floor.

  “You better clean up

  that mess

&n
bsp; before

  your mother

  finds it,”

  Grandpa says.

  Grandpa says,

  in a voice

  that is a glimpse

  from the past,

  peeling

  himself

  from the confines

  of that two-dimensional

  photograph

  that is his disease;

  he wakes up.

  He remembers.

  My grandmother.

  Aurora.

  His North Star.

  And as I kneel

  in front of him

  I pray

  that something

  of her

  still

  twinkles in my eyes.

  That he will find it

  and hold on.

  That if he remembers

  That when he remembers

  that she is dead,

  he will hold on.

  Fault Lines

  In between

  bites

  we take turns

  joking, talking, asking questions.

  To keep him

  in this time and place.

  Even though stillness

  is against his nature.

  Even though

  he was as in love

  with going somewhere new

  as he was with Aurora.

  And as I watch Victoria

  pepper him with questions

  I realize that’s what I miss most.

  Going with him.

  Every meal

  and every story

  making me believe

  I had been there too.

  Like the world belonged

  to the both of us.

  Like it was ours to devour.

  “Weren’t you worried it might erupt?”

  Victoria leans forward,

  listening.

  “Lanzarote has been sleeping

  since 1824. I was more worried

  about the geothermal heat

  drying out the chicken.”

  “Five stars?” Victoria asks.

  “Two out of five

  for the food.”

  Grandpa winks.

  “Five out of five

  for the sunset.”

  He looks past us,

  remembering

  a sherbet sky.

  “It was like

  the mountains

  were on fire.

  A snapshot

  of what those

  fault lines

  were truly

  capable of.”

  He whistles

  between his teeth.

  “I wish I could have

  taken a bite out of that.”

  Seconds

  I’m so wrapped up

  in Grandpa’s stories

  about getting lost

  while truffle hunting

  in Florence

  and hugging the deck

  while snow crab fishing

  in Alaska

  and eating fermented shark

  in Iceland

  before waking up

  to a midnight sun

  that I almost

  don’t sense

  her staring

  at my empty plate,

  at my hand reaching for

  the basket of croquettes.

  Victoria sees Mami

  and me

  in a standoff.

  “These are delicious,

  Tío,” Victoria says,

  reaching for more too.

  “Here, kiddo”—

  Papi tries to spoon

  more food onto my plate—

  “there’s plenty.”

  Mami raises an eyebrow.

  I sink

  in my chair.

  She waits

  for her voice

  to needle inside,

  shoving away

  my own thoughts.

  A second

  on the lips

  for a

  lifetime

  on the hips.

  The words lasso me.

  I turn to Papi

  and say,

  “I’m

  full.”

  Just Like You

  Across the table

  Grandpa winks again.

  “Too full for dessert?”

  I smile,

  remembering

  the poem

  at the bottom

  of the fridge—

  the Key lime pie

  I made yesterday

  because

  Grandpa

  always said

  they taste like

  summer rain

  and

  his mother’s hugs

  and

  fireworks

  on the Fourth of July.

  If Grandpa had gotten his way

  we would have eaten it first,

  but Mami’s off sugar

  and no one gets their way

  but her.

  Papi brings it to the table

  before cutting everyone a slice.

  I watch Grandpa closely,

  waiting for fireworks.

  He takes a big bite.

  “It’s glorious,”

  he says

  before looking

  at Mami

  and then back

  at me. “And so are

  you.”

  Lists

  If food is the thing that combats

  my fears

  then lists are the chains

  that tie them down.

  My grandmother

  was always making lists.

  Lists for the grocery store. For errands. For Christmas gifts.

  For phone calls to the friends who lived just around the corner but would rather gossip in separate rooms.

  For doctor’s appointments, and baby showers, and funerals.

  Even for her own.

  She had the event planned down to the minute

  with a song list, Bible passages, pallbearers, speakers, prayers, and flower arrangements.

  Everything perfect.

  That’s how Mami likes things too.

  Like her cooking (which is why she doesn’t do it very much)

  and my body (which is why she is always measuring me

  with an invisible scale that seems to change,

  to train its eye on new flaws

  as soon as

  I erase

  the old ones).

  I make lists

  because I know

  things are

  never perfect.

  Because I know

  bad things

  lurk

  around

  every corner.

  So I make lists

  and set traps,

  trying

  to catch

  the bad

  before it gets too close.

  Trying to write

  as many unknowns

  as possible

  out of my future.

  Trying to mold

  that future

  with my

  bare hands.

  I grab the notebook on my nightstand

  and flip to my latest

  trap.

  Tikka Masala from Teji’s

  A Root Beer Float from Big Top’s

  Pork Dumplings from Wu Chow

  Homemade Lasagna

  A Bagel and Schmear from Biderman’s

  Rice Pudding from Casa Costa Bakeshop

  Aurora’s Mashed Red Beans

  Sunny D

  A list

  of all of the ways

  I’ve tried

  to make him

  remember.

  I write

  Coffee

  and put a star

  next to it,

  glad;

  relieved

  that

  the monster

  is slain…

  at least

&nbsp
; for

  tonight.

  Raúl

  Combustible

  School

  isn’t for me.

  But it’s the only thing

  my mom

  asks about

  on our five-minute

  phone calls

  once

  a week.

  Not how I’m doing

  or feeling

  or drowning

  without her.

  But whether or not

  I’m turning in

  my homework on time.

  If I’m still getting

  As and Bs.

  If I finished

  that chemistry project

  I mentioned.

  If my teachers

  like me.