Let Me Explain You, Page 8

  “And you look like you’re up to no good,” Stavroula answered.

  “I’m looking for his will.”

  “What do you need to see his will for?”

  Stavroula, the goody-goody. She suspected Litza was looking for money. On top of all this, in her hand was a brown bag full of medicine for Marina. That was why Stavroula was here on her day off. Litza knew this from when they used to be friends, sort of, around the time of the wedding, and got lunch in the city. Had she come at this time on purpose, hoping she’d run into her sister?

  Litza said, “He’s changing it.”

  This had an effect, though Stavroula was hesitant, suspicious, weary, all the things she had been in the final days before they stopped talking. “You’ve seen it?”

  Litza nodded.

  She thought that Stavroula might sit in the metal chair. She did not. Litza thought about switching to the metal chair so Stavroula could take the office chair, but then it would look like this was Stavroula’s idea, and Litza didn’t know how to say, Don’t worry, I’ll say it’s me, which it is, which it always is, even if it’s you, too. She wanted to give the impression of ease, that she would confront their father for the both of them if he came down suddenly.

  Dear Stavroula: Everybody deserves a second chance.

  Stavroula closed the door.

  Litza rolled the photo into her jacket pocket so Stavroula couldn’t see it, then brought the papers to the desk. Litza pointed out the missing information in items one through four and explained how this new Last Will and Testament revoked his old Last Will and Testament. She could feel her sister softening. A cricket chirped in Litza’s chest, too noisy with pride and fear at having something her sister, who wanted nothing to do with her, might now want.

  She could let this dangle, if she wanted to. She could make Stavroula fucking beg for a second chance, see how she liked it.

  She could feel Stavroula leaning in, learning, and it reminded her of the last time they were this close—Stavroula lifting the long train of her wedding gown as they circled the altar three times for holy, holy, holy matrimony. And Litza, encircled by her husband and her sister—in that moment, they were the two people who could understand her in a world of people who couldn’t, and then the priest stopped his chanting and the spell broke and she remembered that no one, actually, understood her. But right now, as Stavroula’s brow furled, Litza felt again that they were joined.

  “We have to come back,” Litza said, “as soon as he finishes it.” Her breath was caught in her throat.

  A little tuft of air escaped Stavroula’s lips. Her eyes, stupidly wide, the way they had been on the wooden man, thinking that Litza was going to break it when she had no intention of doing that, only wanted to cup him in her hand to see how much space his full body would take. Only wanted to touch it, to hold something her father cared about.

  But, right now, Stavroula wasn’t running to tell. Stavroula folded the sheets, placed them back inside the portfolio. Litza put the portfolio back into its spot. Their eyes met solidly.

  Stavroula said, “What the hell is he doing?”

  Pause. “What, you want me to smell my fingers and tell you?”

  Stavroula let out a loud laugh. Then Litza laughed. They were quiet for a second, and it began all over again. One stopping, then the other getting her going. Laughing with their mouths full as if they had stuffed them once more with those after-dinner mints, stuck them to their little-girl teeth, the mints dissolving into a fluoride-tasting paste. The laughter was like that—the kind of fit that children fall into and can’t get out of—and it only got worse when it gave Stavroula the hiccups. It hurt so much, Litza felt tears. Dear Stavroula: Smell my fingers! A Greek idiom, a favorite of their father’s that was supposed to mean: Am I a mind reader?

  A beat, a door opening and closing, something in her telling her this had to end now. And their father was entering the office. “What is this?” he said, looking from one to the other. “What are you doing?” His hair was crushed from where he must have been lying on it, his eyes a little crushed, too, from sleep. He didn’t sound angry. That stunned them both to silence, then back to laughter. He laughed because they laughed. This had them laughing more.

  He realized the laughing was not with him, but still hopeful, said, “Are you here to visit with me for the final wishes?”

  Litza’s eyes shot to Stavroula. She felt herself pleading for Stavroula not to tell. Her sister’s mouth, turning like a knob. Her own mouth preparing to say, Be on my side for once.

  Litza’s mind raced through a catalog of items her hands had picked over. She spun the chair and grabbed at the pile to the right of the desk. She picked up two copies of To Live Until We Say Good-bye and held one out to Stavroula. “We came for these. They’re for us, right?” Litza forced herself to keep her arm outstretched. Take it, Litza said to herself. Dear Stavroula, Take it.

  “Yes, a gift. One each,” her father said, a little surprised, also gleeful.

  He was not concerned that Litza was in his office unattended. Or maybe he thought Stavroula was her supervision. Or maybe he’d like her to stay in his office the rest of the day, reading To Live Until We Say Good-bye, telling him why it was such a good gift. He was smiling.

  Stavroula took the book.

  He said, warming up, “The three of us, we can have lunch. We can talk all this unfinished business.”

  Litza shook the book as if it contained coins. “We already took care of business.”

  She got up. She got out as fast as she could. She took the photo from her pocket, and she tucked it into the car’s visor as if it might bring good luck, which maybe it did. She threw the book under her seat.

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  When Stavroula and Litza came to the States, Carol taught them how to take a shower, how to zip a baggie, how to turn on a TV set, how to flush the toilet, which they already knew. She taught them English words that Ba-ba didn’t—leaves, underwear, sandbox, McDonald’s (which they already knew). She taught them that jeans did not start with a Z. When Stavroula got elephant wrong on a quiz in kindergarten (Carol, what is elephant?), Mother turned her arm into a trunk and trumpeted. Stavroula, delighted that elephant was something she knew now, did it, too. Litza did it, too, without knowing what elephant was; she did it because Stavroula was doing it. Stavroula learned that American food tastes like paper and is served on paper; children are fed but do not actually eat because what they eat looks like toys, not food. Also, she was shown how ketchup is not sauce for spaghetti, a lesson she would never forget. Because Ba-ba came home late, Mother put the sisters to bed each night, which meant letting them curl into a pile on the couch until they got drowsy. She stroked their backs. Stavroula could tell that Carol wanted them to be lulled but never forget that it was her doing. Carol whispered, “Call me Mother when you’re ready to.” Stavroula did right away. Litza took longer.

  Their second month back in the States, starting on Monday, Litza’s freckle was the size of a pin: only a mother who had spent long days staring at a child’s face would have been able to spot it, so no one spotted it. On Tuesday, it was the size of a pencil eraser. On Friday, Litza woke Stavroula up because her face itched. The entire left side of her face was surly with pus. Mother was panicked, couldn’t get the child—who was growing exponentially more infected cells than little-girl ones—into shoes fast enough.

  Stavroula did not understand why they were not bringing her to the doctor’s office, too. She knew Litza’s likes and dislikes, her real cries from her phony ones. She knew that Litza slept on her side with her arms shoved between her legs, as if she were hiding a pork chop she wanted to save for herself. Stavroula knew Litza better than anyone, and if there was something wrong with her, Stavroula would be able to translate. She said to her father, in Greek, “I have a question for you, Ba-ba. To help Litza.” By question, she meant she had some knowledge for the special doctor. But Ba-ba was putting on shoes that meant work.
The cigarette on his lip tipped up and down, in time with his speaking. He gave Mother money and a kiss on the lips, Stavroula a touch on her face. Litza cried because he gave her nothing.

  Stavroula was patient for her sister and Mother to get back, even though she was with Mom Mom. This was Mother’s mother, whom she was supposed to call Yia-yia, but Mom Mom could not be anyone’s yia-yia, for yia-yias were gourdish, plump with age. Mom Mom was bones crisscrossing a body, plus a wardrobe of pants that made shushing noises when she walked, and glittering shirts that kept her far from the labor of feedings and farm. The scarves around her waist weren’t for wiping noses or keeping two-three eggs safe until they made it back from the henhouse. In Mom Mom’s ears there were holes, as if a mouse had been nibbling there; from the holes hung gold hoops that Yia-yia would have placed only on the shrine to her dead parents. It was these mouse holes that made Stavroula feel most nervous around Mom Mom, and was the reason that she did not cry while she waited. Also, her hair was as pretty as a horse’s. Also, she smoked cigarettes. She said things that Stavroula didn’t understand, such as, “Don’t trust boys” and “If it has anything to do with his cannoli, don’t believe him. Just ’cause they’re cream-filled don’t mean they’re dessert.” Because Mom Mom laughed, Stavroula laughed. But Mom Mom did not like that Stavroula and Litza called Mother Mother. She wanted to know why Carol wasn’t good enough, even after Mother had explained that the girls could only manage Carl. “I brought them into this country,” Mother said, “that makes me more than just their babysitter.” Stavroula understood enough to feel her chest glow with loyalty. Still, whenever Mom Mom was in the room, Stavroula avoided saying Mother. She tried not to say it now, as Mother pulled up. She rushed to unlock the door, even though she was not allowed to unlock the door. Mom Mom had to compete with her quick, ineffective fingers and finally said, “Don’t they have doors where you come from?”

  The doctor prescribed an ointment for impetigo, an infection of the skin.

  Stavroula waited for her infection to come. She looked every day for the cloudy blisters that would turn into sores. But Litza was very, very careful. She did not want her sister to have a slippery face, too; as a result, Litza was the only one to suffer through it. It was the first thing they had not gotten together.

  For days, Litza’s face ruptured. The drain ran from the meat beneath her eye to the side of her mouth. The scabs would not heal—perhaps Litza kept opening them—and her face was constantly blubbering. Litza did not cry. Mother said, “Oxi, don’t scratch. If you scratch, it gets bigger.” To distract her, Stavroula and Mother made a game of English words. Stavroula said “nose” and touched her own nose for Litza, who was not allowed to touch anywhere above her neck. She touched her lips, so Litza could remember there was a new, better way to say “lips.” When Mother shouted out “Cheeks!” both little girls puffed up their cheeks the way Papous used to do, but only Stavroula was able to clap all of the air out of hers. Mother gave Litza sticks of spaghetti to break into little pieces so that Litza would have busywork for her hands. Stavroula broke the pieces, too, and when Mother wasn’t looking, she scratched Litza’s chin with an end of pasta.

  Stavroula had Mother tie her cooking apron around her waist and insisted on serving Litza the orange medicine. Mother followed with a damp cloth to blot out the itches. Stavroula leaned forward on her tiptoes. “Can I do it?”

  “Not this part.” She folded the cloth into a neat square and brought it to Litza’s face.

  “I want her,” Litza said.

  Mother reached in again with the cloth. “She’s too little for that, Litza. This is what mommies do.”

  Litza pulled away. She threatened to scratch off the bloated welts. “I want her.”

  Stavroula reached for the cloth and said, “I can do it, I am good with her.”

  Mother stood. She said, “You pat, you don’t rub.” She monitored Stavroula for a minute, then went to the kitchen.

  Stavroula knew that Mother would do a better job, so she went slow, every tap purposeful. Everything she did to her sister registered on Litza’s face. “Does it hurt?”

  “It tickles.” Litza probed at her cheek with her tongue, but Stavroula reminded her that Mother said not to. She said, “Mother knows how to make you better.”

  This went on for a few weeks, the scabs hardening and then opening again, her skin weeping and forgetting what it meant to be dry. Every time it seemed she was getting better, another river opened. It ran down to her neck. Litza was scheduled to start preschool but would have to wait until she was no longer contagious. For Stavroula, kindergarten was starting. At first she thought she could do both—take care of Litza and go to school, but then Mother corrected her. School in America was a privilege that village girls in Greece didn’t get, so she had to take advantage of it. Litza would go when she was no longer suffering.

  So, every day, Stavroula woke from the couch, where she was quarantined, and ran in to ask, “Is she suffering anymore?”

  “A bit,” Mother said, brewing water. “But she’s a little better today.” She turned off the burner and brought down a packet of instant oatmeal.

  “Is she suffering enough for school?”

  “Not yet.” Mother smiled.

  “Then I am not yet, too.”

  Mother poured the steaming water into a bowl of oatmeal. The oats sucked in the water, then more water. “If you were the sick one and Litza were starting school, wouldn’t you want her to go?”

  Stavroula shook her head. She groped for the right English. “We do together.”

  Mother put the bowl in front of Stavroula. She added a spoon with peanut butter, the way Stavroula liked it. Today, the oatmeal looked like her sister’s lumpy face. “You’ll see, it’s fun. You’ll want to go.”

  Stavroula ate the peanut butter, left the oatmeal. She inspected Litza in her sleep. She poked her awake and said, “If they ask, tell them you aren’t suffering anymore.” But how did the first day go from being many days away to being one? Ba-ba waved at them, not touching either child. “Be very good girls today.”

  Mother pulled Stavroula to her lap and stroked her hair. She glanced up at Litza. “We’ll be waiting the whole time, won’t we? We’ll be first in line to get you at twelve-oh-five.”

  Stavroula kept her body very still so that Mother would not know she was stopping herself from crying. Then Mother said, “Litza and I will have all kinds of fun together,” and Stavroula didn’t want that exactly, either. The best would be if they just let her stay. Even after Mother left the kitchen, Stavroula resisted crying.

  Litza said, “They can’t make you if you don’t want to.”

  Stavroula repeated, “They can’t make me,” but she was not so sure. So far, they had made her do all kinds of things.

  Mother brought her to school the next day. Litza stayed in the car while Mother walked her to the line. Stavroula looked back but could not see Litza. Mother carried her brand-new purple backpack for her. It was filled with a lunch pail that she had packed herself, and a notebook with lines thicker than her fingers.

  Mother said, “Just remember that everyone else is nervous, too.”

  “What is nervous?”

  “It feels a little bit like ants are crawling in your stomach.”

  Stavroula nodded. She knew what that was like. She stayed in line and didn’t speak so that none of the children would ask why there were funny words in her mouth. At the last minute, she turned around and saw that Litza had snuck out of the car and was standing there in bare feet. The bell rang, the line moved, the car left, school began.

  Stavroula was determined to hate school: she loved it. She loved the way the teacher pointed at the letter A as if to say, We will do this letter by letter, together. As if to say, It is the same as Greek, only it’s English. She liked being placed in line, and then getting compliments at how she didn’t even fidget (what is fidget?). She liked how she could mix different colors of clay together—a little of this, a ta
ste of that—to create something new, even a color the other children found grisly. When Mother came at 12:05, Stavroula tried to look sad. She tried to look the way the sores on Litza’s face looked. She touched her chin to her chest and dragged her backpack behind her the whole walk back to the car.

  Mother said, “It’s OK if kindergarten makes you smile.”

  There was dinner, and Mom Mom came, but Ba-ba worked. There was cake. Litza ate two pieces. Her face was crusting over, no new sores, which put her in a good mood, all of them in a good mood.

  When they were alone that night, Litza said, “Carol made hot dogs today.”

  “What’s hot dogs?”

  Litza shrugged. She pulled the blanket to her chin.

  They were quiet. Stavroula sat on a plastic chair next to the bed. They only had a few more minutes before bedtime. She still wasn’t allowed to sleep with Litza. She said, “Did you let her touch your face?”

  Litza shrugged.

  “Did you?”

  “One time. But not two times.” Litza smiled. “She wanted to.”