to an old sink behind a gas station, Faith was sort of cleaned up by the time we reached Mom’s place. The wrought-iron gate where José let us off led to the villa where her employers and landlords must live, the ones who ran the language school she worked in. The swimming pool, bougainvillea, mango, and banana trees we glimpsed from the road must belong to them as well. As must the broken Coke bottles glued to the top of the gate and along the fence, their jagged edges forming a bizarre frame.
She appeared in the door of a two-storey apartment block down the driveway from the villa, greying hair pulled back into a sloppy bun, loose strands escaping around her face. I had a flashback: Mom standing in more or less the same position at the foot of another hill in Montreal, one covered in snow.
I waved. She smiled, waved back, started up the drive. Her breasts were heavier now than they were those many years ago, but her waist still indented slightly above generous hips — just like Faith’s. Compared to the two of them and Papi, I’d always been out of place. Skinny, curveless me.
“I was starting to get worried,” she called out to us. “You’re late.”
I certainly wouldn’t be the one to tell her why. Mom tended to imagine the worst ever since Papi disappeared.
The day before Papi left, Mom stood at the bottom of Mont-Royal, just like she stood at the foot of this rise, while the three of us — Papi, Faith, and I — trudged to the top above Beaver Lake dragging the crazy carpet behind. Once there, Papi lay stomach down — mouth down as the Mexicans say — toes digging into the snow, with Faith boca abajo on him because she was the oldest and the biggest and me on top of the two of them. In one motion, Papi pushed off.
Papi was a big man, thick bones, solid muscle, with a bit of a paunch. Faith took after him, except for the paunch. The two of them like two sturdy cushions under my bony frame, softening the bumps and hollows we hit. It never got that good again.
That day, ten years ago — me fourteen, Faith sixteen — we must have looked bizarre, too old for kids’ games but shooting down the hill anyway. Racing after a childhood.
Faith gave a gasp on the first bump as my body floated up and slammed back into hers. Wind chomped at the top of my head and along my back. Crystals of snow flew up from the toboggan runners and burnt my tongue.
That time, Papi didn’t whoop and sing, or even gasp and grunt. Just kept his head to the sled as we hurtled down. Like he was trapped between the lash of wind, the crunch of snow, and his daughters’ weight.
I saw the approaching sled.
I tried to shout, but my voice — high and breathy at the best of times — was swallowed by the wind.
Our path veered. We headed for the trees along the sides, on target for the spear of a branch. I tucked my chin, closed my eyes, and felt the scratch of a twig on my cheek.
I raised my head and saw we were headed straight down the hill now, on a collision course with Mom. She waved, hair and scarf whipped by wind, her body standing firm, smiling as we plummeted down. God, couldn’t she see? The ride from hell, and she did nothing but smile. No wonder she named us Faith and Hope; she wasn’t capable of imagining anything else.
At the last minute, Papi put his head up, threw his arm to the side, and changed the course of our run. Mom kept waving and smiling, pretending everything was all right.
The next day Papi left. Without saying a word. Then or now.
They say Mont-Royal is a volcano, supposedly extinct. But I swear I have felt its rumblings ever since.
Papi’s leaving was as physical as a sled broadsiding Mom where she stood. From out of nowhere, she said. When she could have seen it coming. So could I if I’d only read the last poems he’d typed: “The Forgotten Lines,” “Intimacy Untold,” “Animal of Despair.” The words he never spoke that I might have heard if I’d read them in time. He painted word pictures, now I tried to bring them to life with a graphite pencil or a brush. Both of us looking for what could have been, what wasn’t, and the wide spaces in between.
So many words still left unspoken. As many after his departure as before, if not more. Meaningless words were the only ones uttered, not the words that mattered most. Why did he go? Where had he gone? For how long?
The only thing I knew for sure was that ever since that day, Mom had learned to fear the worst, as if making up for lost time. It was better for everyone if we kept Faith’s spell of sickness quiet. Our secret.
We all smiled awkwardly as Mom walked up the slope, fumbled with the lock and chain, and swung the gate open.
She came up to me, kissed my cheek once, turned to Faith, and brushed her cheek as well. I held my breath. She didn’t seem to notice Faith’s still-pallid skin, red-ringed eyes, or limp hair. She was too busy turning to José with a questioning look.
“Mom, this is José Molinar, a friend. José, my mother, Ramona Alder.”
She smiled and shook his hand. The calculations had already begun. How much of a friend? How long? Where from? “Won’t you come in?”
“Gracias, but no. I’ll leave you to your homecoming. Better without an intruder.”
Homecoming. Strange home considering I’d never been here before. The last home I had with Mom was in Montreal. The one the three of us stayed on in after Papi left; a mother and two teenage girls, not the perfect mix. But then Faith moved out with her boyfriend and I reached college-age and Mom decided to start over again. Now I wondered if she and I would ever catch up on that time she had missed between my teenhood and womanhood.
José had mentioned an intrusion, too. There could be no intrusion when he had been invited in. But Mom didn’t insist, her attention was already turning back to Faith and me. So I didn’t insist either. Although I wanted to.
José opened the trunk and held out Faith’s suitcase and my backpack. Faith didn’t even make a show of taking charge, she must really be sick. I hoped Mom didn’t notice. She’d have Faith at death’s door in no time. José came close, his arm brushing mine as he handed over the bags. His touch was a magnet to my skin, the prick of iron shavings coming to life. I wanted to drop the bags, grab his neck, and give in to the pull. I didn’t. He kissed me lightly, gripped Mom’s hand, then Faith’s with a pat on her shoulder, and climbed back into the car. “Give me a call from the bus station when you get back.” He stared pointedly at Faith, who still looked like she was having trouble finding the strength to stand straight. “I can give the two of you a lift.” I watched him drive off as my mother and sister started walking down the rise.
Mom gave us a whirlwind tour of her apartment, then over to the villa, where we had to climb a ladder attached to the outer wall to our guest room, actually the maid’s room, a concrete box perched on the top of the flat roof. Dozens of birds chirped from among the leaves of a tall mango tree whose top hugged the outer wall of the box which was actually a bedroom that had no door, just two openings, one the doorway, the other a window entirely open to the elements, and one bunk bed. The only other furnishings were an ironing board and a wooden chair piled high with clothes. I’d thought Mom’s apartment looked spartan, this was beyond belief.
“The dueños are between maids right now. Their last girl left, so they offered to
