Surviving Santiago by Lyn Miller-Lachmann Page B

rage outside the ice-cream shop. Could he have returned to a similar scene at his house?
    The thought of seeing Frankie again makes me feel less alone, as if there’s someone else in this country who could possibly understand my life here, between the minusválidos and the ratones that drink and don’t work.

C HAPTER 7

    Sunday, June 18: 64 days until I go home
    S omeone’s banging on my bedroom door. It pulls me from my dream of Frankie in his leather jacket, but in the dream he’s leaning back in his desk chair in my classroom in Madison, snoring. Like Max always does. I burrow under the covers and pull the pillow over my head.
    â€œTina, wake up.” Papá’s hoarse voice slices through pillow, sheets, and blankets.
    â€œIn a minute,” I say in Spanish, but I want to shout, why are you banging on my door and screaming at the crack of dawn? Then I realize this could be an emergency. Last night I put my father to bed piss drunk. I throw off the covers and stumble to the door.
    Outside in the hall Papá leans on his wooden cane. He clutches a gray sweater and his leg brace in his bad hand, his elbow bent at what appears to be a painful angle. His boots are unlaced and he’s buttoned his shirt crooked.
    â€œ Chuta , you’re a mess,” I say. “What time is it?”
    â€œEight fifteen. Can you help me?”
    â€œHow did you get upstairs?”
    â€œSlowly, with great difficulty, and the whole time cursing myself for buying a two-story house.” I laugh. At least Papá finds humor in his purchase of a house with grab bars in the bathroom and stairs all over the place. He coughs and clears his throat. His face has a gray-green tint like the smog-filtered daylight.
    I rebutton his shirt from the bottom up and the cuff of his right sleeve, too. His aftershave smells like VapoRub. My fingers stumble over each other, and not just because I’m half-asleep. I shouldn’t have to get my own father dressed for work. I yank the sweater and brace from his clawlike grip and maneuver the sweater over his head while holding up the dead weight of his bad arm. The sweater’s neck is stretched out and fraying. I roll Papá’s jeans leg above his knee to reveal a pale, skinny limb with curls of fine hair the color of rust. I snap on his brace and tighten the Velcro straps over his knee, ankle, and foot.
    â€œOkay. I’m going back to bed,” I tell him when I’m done lacing his boots.
    â€œYou’re coming with me. I told you last night.” He squeezes his eyes shut. Hung over.
    â€œNo, you didn’t. You passed out.” He has to be kidding. It’s at least four hours before my normal wake-up time. I’d planned to spend the day writing my friendsto tell them about the awesomeness of Frankie. And separating the pieces to start the jigsaw puzzle because I won’t get to see him again until Tuesday. Besides, I want my dream back, the one Papá interrupted for nothing more than a clothing problem.
    â€œGraciela’s off, Ileana’s away, and you’re not staying here alone.”
    â€œI can take care of myself.”
    â€œI’m not up to arguing today. Be ready and downstairs in half an hour.”
    I cross the hall to the bathroom and slam the door. “Not up to arguing. Whose fault is that?” I say, loud enough so he can hear me through the thin wall. He doesn’t answer.
    I shower, dress, and go downstairs to the kitchen. Papá stands at the counter, sipping a mug of tea. “Where’s breakfast?” I ask him. Having Graciela around has already spoiled me.
    â€œGet your own. I’m not hungry.” He sorts different-colored pills from a bottle and swallows them one by one.
    â€œSo you’re just going to eat pills?”
    He turns his back to me. “Don’t give me a hard time.”
    I carry a bowl of cold cereal to the dining table and flip through the morning newspaper. The