Try to Remember by Iris Gomez

Author:Iris Gomez [GOMEZ, IRIS]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000
ISBN: 9780446569101
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2010-05-05T04:00:00+00:00

[ FIFTEEN ]

IN THE WAKE OF MY DRUNKEN EPISODE, I occupied myself with collecting Avon orders to appease Mami while staying out of my father’s way as much as possible. I lied to him that Camila had asked me to teach Olguita English. Camila’s only reference to my embarrassing episode, fortunately, was a teasing remark that I should go for the aguardiente next time. Olguita just shook her head.

In the days before her departure, Olguita hauled out Hernán’s old guitar to teach me some Colombian songs. Singing along to “El pescador barquero” helped put the sorry knife business out of my mind, though I knew the songs wouldn’t sound so great with just me singing. Lydia, my only other friend, seemed pretty busy with some boyfriend and was hardly home. My summer days would soon fill with the papers my father had been amassing since the doctor talk failed so miserably. On the good news front, there was no-news from our friendly community police officer, so I finally stopped worrying about her.

The day before Olguita’s trip home, I went over to help her pack and found an unusually tall woman, who’d apparently moved onto that street, visiting Camila. “Mi amor,” Camila greeted me, apologizing that Olguita hadn’t returned from her expedition and then inviting me to sit and wait.

“Bien,” I said, taking the empty rocker beside the neighbor.

Camila introduced Lara, who smiled up at me out of curious gray eyes. She had a lanky build and thin shoulder bones that protruded. Her hair was a mass of evenly gray and black curls—surprisingly, she didn’t dye her hair.

Lara was German, Camila explained, and had lived in Spain and Latin America.

In native Spanish Lara added that her husband Walter was from Argentina.

Her daughters, little wispy blondes, were running around with a boy from the neighboring yard. The girls spoke to their mother in a mix of Spanish and German that Camila said was enchanting. Lara laughed as if Camila had said something witty, and then Camila went inside to make us coffee.

“What grade are you in?” Lara inquired with a warm smile.

“I just finished ninth,” I replied. “I switch to high school in September.”

“I see. And what subjects does one study in that grade?”

I ran through my report card classifications, leaving out the questionable Physical Education curriculum.

Lara nodded, as if she were actually taking in what I’d said. “And do you enjoy these subjects equally?”

“I guess,” I said, considering her question. Most people—namely, my relatives—wanted to hear that I was a good student but weren’t too interested in the specifics. As long as their kids stayed out of trouble, parenting was on a need-to-know basis. “Mostly I like classes where we read.”

Camila pushed through the screen door with a tray of demitasse cups and Lara switched back to Spanish. “Let me help you,” she offered, opening the wooden folding table.

Camila’s cups had colorful miniature paintings of ladies who stood in 1800s-style bustle dresses and parasols under great leafy trees. Lara smiled when she caught me admiring the cups.

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