An Infidel in Paradise (7 page)

I know they’re just being friendly, but I wish I could be invisible. It’s exhausting spending your entire life in places where you’re always the center of attention. And I know I’m unworthy, a donkey in a herd of
zebras, not stared at for any deserving quality but only for my differentness, my weirdness. Just once I’d like to walk down a street without drawing attention. Angie smiles easily, returning greetings. I force myself to do the same.

We don’t even have to shout for Mandy. They know immediately why we’ve come; a small boy steps forward and gestures for us to follow. He leads us down one long corridor and up another before coming to a stop outside an open doorway.

He leans in and says something, but the only word I understand is
Guul
, who suddenly appears, towering in the doorway. I look up into his sunken, pockmarked face, trying to make some connection, but he’s typically dour as he wordlessly stands aside so we can enter.

Mandy is in the center of the room, sitting on a floor cushion. A cup of milky tea and a plate of samosas are on a low table in front of her. She grins up at me. A woman who must be The Ghoul’s wife hovers nervously behind her. As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I notice three children lined up in one corner of the room, sitting on the bare cement, silently watching. Just one string charpoy leans against the far wall. I wonder if they all sleep together and how that’s possible.

“I’m sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m sorry for. “Mandy, let’s go.” My voice is too loud in the tiny room. Mandy jumps up immediately, looking at me with curiosity.

I turn to The Ghoul, who I haven’t exchanged more
than a few words with in the two weeks since he’s become a fixture in our house. “Thank you for looking after her. You didn’t have to. Send her away next time.” It comes out like an order. I blush and quickly back out of the doorway.

I don’t talk as we walk back to the house, but Mandy chatters away about her “adventure” and Angie seems happy to listen, asking questions and commenting in all the right places. When we get home, I send Mandy upstairs to put on her pajamas.

Before Dad left, I never once put Mandy to bed. Dad’s a writer, so he worked from home and was always around. On the rare evenings he accompanied Mom to one of her events, Zenny took over. In those days, Mandy’s bedtime routine seemed fun. I’d often find an excuse to hang around. With Zenny, there was always laughter. She’d do these crazy impersonations of every Disney character ever created. Mandy was put to bed by the genie from
Aladdin
, the crab from
The Little Mermaid
, a different character every time. I figured Zenny must have learned her English from animated movies, the way she nailed the voices and knew so much dialogue by heart.

If Dad was putting Mandy to bed, I’d stay for the stories. He’s a travel writer, but I always thought he should write kids’ books. Funny, because now that he doesn’t have kids, that’s what he’s doing. I wonder if he misses telling us stories or if it’s just that he finally has the confidence, with Zenny telling him how great he is,
instead of Mom reminding him she’s the one with brains and talent.

Dad’s bedtime stories would go on for weeks. He was right in the middle of one when he left. It was about a little girl named Mandy – we were always the heroes – who discovered she had the power to stop time, just like pushing the “pause” button on a DVD player. Ever since Dad left, I’ve wondered how that story turned out.
Would the girl ever discover a use for that power?
No question, there are moments in my life I would like to freeze, so I could take my time with them, savor them, but eventually you’d have to push “play” again. Things always move forward, whether you want them to or not.

“Come on,” I say to Angie as I trudge up the stairs to my sister’s bedroom.

Mandy is in bed under her covers when we walk in. I make my way toward her but have to skirt round the obstacle course of half-unpacked boxes that litter her bedroom – as they do the rest of the house, and will for weeks. I perch on the end of her bed, steeling myself for our nightly battle.

“I can’t fall asleep if you don’t tell me a story,” says Mandy for the fifty-third night in a row.

“I can’t
tell
you a story,” I say. By now we both know our lines. “But I’ll
read
you one.”

“But you’re good at making up stories,” she whines.

This is true and we both know it. I was the storyteller on our family outings in Manila. Most weekends we went to the beach. Vince and I were learning to surf,
and Dad never complained about driving, even though traffic was a nightmare. The only irritation was Mandy, who whined nonstop if she wasn’t entertained. Dad had to concentrate on the road, so it fell to me to tell her stories. I often suggested we leave her at home, but secretly I liked telling stories, just like my dad. Sometimes I’d even continue a story he’d been telling Mandy at bedtime. If I didn’t finish it, he’d pick up where I left off. I used to dream we’d write stories together when I grew up.

Stupid dream
.

“I can’t make up stories anymore, Mandy,” I say firmly. I’m telling the truth, but she doesn’t believe me.

Angie, who has followed me into Mandy’s room, sits down at the desk and listens to our conversation with interest. I should have left her downstairs.

“I can’t get tired unless you
tell
a story,” repeats Mandy. In fifty-three days, she hasn’t won this battle once, but she never gives up. She’s a determined kid. Even when she’s driving me crazy, I can’t help but like that about her.

I go over to her bookcase and pick up the chapter book we were reading last night.

“I’m not listening,” Mandy shouts. “I hate that story. It’s stupid and boring!”

“Fine, then we’ll leave, and you can go to bed with no story.”

“I hate you!” Tears fill her eyes, and I feel my own start to prick. It’s totally humiliating to have Angie
watching all this, but it’s like a soundtrack we play over and over. I can’t figure out how to turn it off.

“I’ll tell her a story,” volunteers Angie.

We both stare at her.

“You know how to tell stories?” asks Mandy.

“You kidding? I’m an expert! How about
Little Red Riding Hood
?”

“I’m eight years old, Angie. I’m too old for fairy tales. And it has to be a
made-up
story.”

“Trust me. You’re never too old for this story, and it’s totally made-up. But true at the same time.”

Mandy and I look at her skeptically, but finally Mandy shrugs and snuggles deeper into her covers. “Okay,” she says.

“So,” Angie begins, “there was this little girl, Red, and one day she was riding in the hood –”

“You mean, she was Red Riding Hood.” Mandy wiggles up on her pillow. She gives Angie a look as if Angie might be the stupidest person on the planet.

“Well, that’s one version,” says Angie smoothly, “but in this version, Little Red is out one day riding her very cool, low-slung, fifteen-speed, off-road Del Mondo racing bike in her hood when –”

“On her way to Grandma’s house,” interrupts Mandy, who is sitting right up in her bed now and eyeing Angie suspiciously.

“Right,” Angie continues, “so Little Red is minding her own business, riding through the hood on the way to her grandma’s –”

“Where are the muffins?” asks Mandy.

“What?” asks Angie.

I’m pleased to see Angie is getting the full experience of life with Mandy. Maybe I’ll finally get some sympathy.

“She’s taking muffins to her
sick
grandma,” says Mandy.

“Of course,” agrees Angie calmly. “Those are in her pannier bags on the back of her bike. So, as I was saying, she’s riding through the hood when who should leap out in front of her but the wolf!”

“Yes!” shrieks Mandy, obviously pleased that Angie has finally got one detail of the story right. “A wolf jumps right out in front of her.”

“Well,” says Angie, “not so much
a
wolf as
the
wolf. You see, this particular wolf was the biggest player in the hood.”

“What’s a player?” asks Mandy.

“Are you sure this story’s age-appropriate?” I ask.

“Emma,” says Angie seriously, “I have two little sisters, and believe me, it is never too early to hear
this
story.” She turns to Mandy. “A player is a guy who wants to get on the ride without buying a ticket.”

“A lot of rides,” I add helpfully.

“Right,” agrees Angie. “Anyway, Little Red practically goes over her handlebars stopping her bike so that she doesn’t run right into that wily wolf, and when she’s finally resting there on the side of the road, sweating and panting, that wolf sidles right up to her, calm as you please, and says –” Suddenly Angie’s voice
drops to a deep, cajoling snarl. “ ‘Little Red, you look good enough to eat. Why don’t you and I go out to the deserted warehouse and see if we can’t wake us up some sleeping dogs?’ ”

“What about Grandma?” asks Mandy.

“Exactly,” says Angie. “That’s just what Little Red said. ‘I’m on my way to visit my sick grandma,’ says Little Red, ‘and I’m sure not wasting my time with a no-good wolf like you!’ ”

“So the wolf runs ahead and jumps into Grandma’s bed!” says Mandy, leaning forward in excitement. No way is this going to help her fall asleep.

“That’s exactly what he does,” says Angie. “When Little Red shows up at her grandma’s house, she finds the front door wide open. Of course, her first thought is that Grandma’s been robbed and she doesn’t know if maybe the robbers are still there, but Little Red from the hood ain’t afraid of nothin’, so she rushes right into that house and up the stairs to Grandma’s room. And who does she find in her bed?”

“The wolf!” Mandy and I say in unison. Okay, so maybe I’m a little
too
into it, but I haven’t heard a good bedtime story since Dad left, and this girl has skills.

“Yes! And Little Red marches right up to that smart-alecky, no-good wolf lying there in Grandma’s bed, and she says, ‘What the heck do you think you’re doing?’ ”

“No,” says Mandy. “She says, ‘What big eyes you have.’ ”

“That’s coming,” says Angie. “So little Red says, ‘What are you doing?’ And the wolf says, cool as a
Popsicle on a hot day in July, ‘Don’t you recognize me, sugar? I’m your dear old grandma.’ And Little Red looks deep into the wolf’s eyes and she says, ‘My grandma doesn’t have big brown eyes like yours. A girl could drown in those eyes.’ And the wolf says, ‘I’ve only got eyes for you, baby.’ ”

“Now the ears,” says Mandy.

“Right. So Little Red reaches over and tucks a lock of the wolf’s hair behind his big wolfish ear and she says, ‘I never noticed what big ears you have,’ and the wolf says, ‘The better to listen to everything you’ve got to tell me, darling.’ ”

“What about the teeth?”

“Yes, so then Little Red says, ‘I never noticed before what big white teeth you have,’ and the wolf spreads his lips in a big wolfish grin so Little Red can see every one of those teeth, and each one is whiter than the next.”

“But what about Grandma?” says Mandy.

“Well, you know, Little Red wasn’t thinking about Grandma right then as she leaned in close to get a better look at the wolf’s big grinning mouth. She was thinking that this might just be the best-looking mouth she’d ever seen, and a girl could do worse than to spend some time in the company of a mouth like that. But just at that moment, she heard a banging from inside the closet. And she stopped and thought of Grandma. Then she remembered that the wolf might be more handsome than the devil, but he was still a wolf, and every girl knows that there’s only one way to treat a wolf.”

“Did she shoot him?” gasps my bloodthirsty sister hopefully.

“No, though he did deserve it, but that would have got Little Red into a whole mess of trouble, and most times, the best way to deal with a wolf is just to call his bluff – because that’s all he’s doing. That cool doesn’t go very deep, and if you don’t let it fool you and you let him know you aren’t fooled, well, he’ll either change his ways to hold on to you, or he’ll turn tail and run.”

“So, what did she do?” I ask.

“She told the wolf to get his sorry butt out of her grandma’s bed and let her grandma out of the closet. Then she said that if he ever hoped to get with her, he would have to do at least a year of yard work for her grandma for free. And that was just for starters.”

“Did he do it?” Mandy asks.

“I don’t know,” says Angie, looking at me. “I think your sister needs to finish this story.”

“But I don’t know how it ends,” I say.

“Then the story stays unfinished until you do,” says Angie.

“I’m never going to hear the end,” says Mandy. I can’t help but agree with her, but I keep my mouth shut.

“Don’t give up on your sister, sweetie,” says Angie confidently. “Sisters always come through. Sometimes it just takes awhile.”

“Jeez, Angie,” I groan. “Put it on a Hallmark card, why don’t you.”

She grins at me and doesn’t look the least bit
embarrassed. Then she walks over to the bed and leans in to give Mandy a hug, and Mandy wraps her arms around Angie like she’s the last thing floating in the open ocean during a hurricane. They stay like that long enough for me to wish I’d left the room when the story ended, but just as Mandy pulls away, I get a look at her face and something inside me shifts. A memory of a time when it wasn’t so hard to give a hug – or accept one – flits through my consciousness, too quick for me to grab on to, but I feel the ache of it.

“Let’s go, Emma,” says Angie, walking out of the room. “We’ve got an apology to write.”

“I’m coming,” I say, but I don’t leave right away. I pull Mandy’s blanket up as she rolls over onto her stomach, just as I’ve seen her do every night since forever. Then I go check her AC and fiddle with the temperature for a minute.

“Will you finish the story, Emma?” Her voice comes out muffled from under her blanket.

I walk back over to her and lean down to turn out the bedside lamp. All I can see of her is the top of her head, white blonde hair spilling out across her pillow. I make a move to touch it, but my hand stops inches away. Dad used to do that – ruffle her hair every night before she went to sleep. I pull back, straighten up, and walk to the doorway to turn off the overhead light.