Dream Things True (40 page)

He walked around and took his mother's hand. “Come on,” he said. “I'm going to show you before I leave.”

“The car? My goodness, sweetheart,” she said. “How hard can it be?”

He slung a large duffel bag over his shoulder and led his mother, still protesting weakly, into the garage.

The garage door began to grind open, slowly flooding the space with dim light. Propped against the wall was a metal “For Sale” sign.

“What's that?” he asked his mom.

“Lord, Evan. I have no idea,” she replied, looking at the sign as if it were some sort of foreign object. “I came home from lunch with Aunt Maggie yesterday, and a strange man was standing in the middle of our yard, hammering away at that ugly sign.”

“The house is Dad's?” Evan asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” she replied. She walked over and touched the edge of the sign. “Metal,” she said with disgust. “Good heavens. Who uses metal signs any more?”

“So, you took it down,” he said.

“Why, yes, pumpkin. The last thing we need in our lives is an ugly sign announcing your father's financial troubles.”

For their entire marriage, Evan's mother and father had maintained completely separate finances—twenty years of split dinner bills and separate checking accounts. Evan learned this two nights after graduation. His mother had explained that his father's finances were tumbling into free fall as a result of several risky real estate investments. She told Evan not to worry. Her own, more conservative investments remained rock solid.

“But, Mom,” Evan said, “if Dad needs to sell the house…”

His mother broke in. “If your father needs to sell this house, then I'll just buy it from him. There's no need to make all of this public.”

He led his mother to the car and handed her the square key. She eased into the driver's seat and daintily lifted the key to inspect it.

“Where's the key?” she asked, turning it in her hand.

“Remember, Mom?” he said patiently. “There's not a metal key. No ignition, either. You just have to keep that in your purse, or in the car somewhere, and the car will start when you push this button.”

He leaned across and pressed the power button. “And your foot has to be on the brake, or else the car won't start.”

“Well, isn't that interesting,” she said.

Evan shook his head slowly. “I'm glad I showed you,” he said as he took his mother's hand to help her out of the car.

“Yes, pumpkin,” she replied. “So am I. I would have been looking for a key inside that little black box for a very long time.”

“We have to stop pretending, Mom,” he said.

“I know,” she replied, stepping out of the car. “I'm going to try.”

“You should put the sign out,” he said.

“Maybe you're right, sweetheart,” she replied. “I don't need to rattle around in this big house alone. And I certainly don't need the trouble of maintaining the garden. I'll call the agent, whoever he is, and tell him to send out a more attractive wooden sign.”

Evan pulled her into a hug, and she buried her face in his chest.

“Thank you,” he said.

He knew that all of this was confusing for her and hard to accept. But she tried her best to understand, and now she was letting him leave.

She rested there for a moment and then pulled away.

“Now, go,” she commanded, shooing him with her hand. “I'm sure they're waiting for you.”

He got into his mother's SUV and cranked the engine.

“Call me twice a day,” she called out. “No texts. I want to hear your voice. And be sure to put premium gas in the Escalade.”

Evan nodded obediently, but where he was going, he wasn't sure premium gas would be an option.

 

 

Could it really be morning? Alma sat up in the makeshift bed she had created on the floor of her brother's room. She counted the days backward in her head—fourteen nights since she'd told Evan about her recurring nightmare. Those fourteen nights had been filled with deep and dreamless sleep, restful, like nothing she had experienced before.

She got up and wandered into the kitchen. The counters were bare, save a coffeepot and one mug neatly placed alongside it. She pulled the milk from the otherwise empty refrigerator and poured herself a cup of coffee. She wandered into the living room, cupping the warm mug between her hands, wishing it were an espresso drink from the Dripolator instead of her grandmother's cheap Nescaf
é
. But this would have to do.

The house was still and silent. All of the others were gathered in the driveway, busily preparing for the journey. Isa struggled to lift lawn chairs into the trailer. She hoisted them high in the air as Mrs. King and
Abuela
Lupe called out instructions in two languages. Selena sat on the edge of the driveway and sifted carefully through the neat pile of her most cherished possessions—a scruffy stuffed pig, her backpack, and a small case filled with DVDs. Manny secured the concrete blocks that held the trailer's wheels in place on the steep driveway. His car was parked on the street, and Flor stood beside it, gently rocking the baby with one hand while she cradled a telephone in her ear. Pel
é
the dog curled around her ankles.

And then she saw Evan. She smiled as he hoisted the U-Haul trailer onto the Escalade's hitch, and then carefully removed the neat stack of stones that held the trailer in place. Evan drew two long chains from underneath the trailer to connect it to his mother's SUV. Manny handed a padlock to Evan, and he secured it into place. It gave her a strange sense of comfort to see the U-Haul and the Escalade so sturdily connected, and to know that her near future, at least, was securely linked with Evan's.

Alma marveled at how much could change in a couple of weeks. Selena, Isa,
Abuela
Lupe, and Alma would not be boarding a bus today. They would not depart on a several-day journey bearing only the possessions that would fit into a small suitcase. They would not leave two decades' worth of accumulated family possessions in the hands of an unscrupulous relative who offered, for an exorbitant fee, to ferry their items back to Mexico in his truck, bit by bit over the course of the next several months. Instead, they would pile into Mrs. Roland's white Escalade, and Evan would drive across the border, through the interior of Mexico, and—in a few days—to San Juan, the place Alma was now expected to call home. He would stay with her family for four weeks. He was already enrolled in intensive language classes at the university in Oaxaca, an hour from her family's small town, and the credits would transfer to Berkeley in the fall. After four weeks of Spanish, they all hoped, Evan might finally be able to keep up at the dinner table.

She knocked gently on the window to get his attention. He stood up, wiped his hand across his brow, and smiled broadly.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” he called out, loud enough that she heard it through the glass. “There's a double cappuccino from the Dripolator waiting for you in the microwave. It was hot when I brought it an hour ago!”

How strange it was that something so simple as a double cappuccino could fill her heart with joy.

 

 

Flor approached Evan, holding a map in her hand.

“My dad says you should cross at Harlingen—don't go to Reynosa.” She hoisted Jasmine over one shoulder and then spread the map onto the hood of the Escalade and pointed to the far eastern edge of Texas. “The lines at Reynosa can take, like, thirty-six hours.”

Who knew so many people were trying to get into Mexico?

“And you shouldn't try to cross today. Stay in Houston or Corpus Christi tonight and go down to the border early in the morning.”

“Thanks, Flor,” Evan said.

“I marked the map with the best route,” she said, offering it to him. “My dad knows it well.”

“I have a GPS,” Evan replied, waving the map away.

“You should take it just in case, Evan. You never know about signals.”

“You're right,” he said. “I might need it.”

Manny approached them, carrying a four-pack of Rockstar energy drink. He offered the drinks to Evan. “You're definitely gonna need these, man.”

“Thanks, Manny, but, uh, I don't drink caffeine.”

“Dude,” Manny said, “you're about to drive two thousand miles with Isa whining in the backseat. Trust me, you'll want caffeine.”

Evan took the drinks and let them dangle in his hand. He knew that Manny was offering more than caffeine for the drive. He was offering an apology, and Evan felt ready to accept it.

“Thanks,” he said, giving Manny a quick pat on the back.

Whit's instincts about his dad were dead-on. Manny had been released from jail without charge three hours after his arrest. The next morning, Whit visited Flor to make amends. He did not speak of Conway or of their hunch about the Jell-O shots. He never explained why Flor couldn't recall the events of that night.

Whit had different plans for Conway. Two days before graduation, Troy arrived at school in his cruiser, accompanied by two narcotics officers and a drug-sniffing dog. The dog headed straight for Conway's locker, where the officers found a synthetic “date rape” drug called gamma hydroxybutyrate, also known as GHB or “Georgia Home Boy.” Conway fought the entire way to juvie, insisting that he had never even heard of GHB. Maybe he hadn't. Whit always enjoyed fooling around with chemistry, even as a kid.

To protect Flor and Manny, Whit apologized, but he also hid the full truth. Then he figured out a way to keep Conway from causing the same problem again. This solution made Evan uneasy, and maybe it had been the wrong one. But if Evan had learned anything over the past few months, it was that doing the right thing is not always as simple as it seems. Seeing Manny and Flor together with that baby, Evan felt pretty sure that keeping Manny here was right.

 

 

Alma took an empty box from the hallway and wandered from room to room, looking for items left behind. She filled the box with a pair of Selena's flip-flops, a heavy wool sweater that must have been her father's, and a mug from the bakery on the town square. She wandered into Ra
ú
l's room, folded the blankets, and stacked them in a neat pile. She shoved them in the box, and on top of them she laid a small black book. She thought about the family's last night together in the house; she wanted the memory imprinted on her mind.

Manny and Flor understood that Whit's dad had arranged for Manny's release. Even though he was grateful, Manny still didn't trust himself near Whit. So when Manny and Flor offered to help Alma's family prepare to leave, Whit knew he would need to stay away. He came to the house to say his good-byes the night before.

They all sat on the bare floor and ate
sopes
from paper plates. Whit distributed gifts: a SpongeBob DVD for Selena, a stack of gossip magazines for Isa, and a dessert cookbook for
Abuela
Lupe, who had developed a fondness for American pies. To Alma, he offered a small journal with lined pages and a black leather cover. He said that it would be her friend—a much better friend than the pewter flask he had given her months ago. He instructed her to fill its empty pages whenever she felt despair. Alma joked that, next fall, the journal would return with her, its lined pages still blank. She'd use it instead to take notes at Princeton, or whichever fabulous university she decided to attend after they fought over her for a while, throwing her scholarship money and begging her to choose them.

Her phone vibrated and lit up with a picture of Ra
ú
l's face. She hesitated to pick it up, not wanting to hear what he was about to tell her.

On the fourth ring, she answered.

“Hi.”

“Are you all packed and ready to go?” he asked, cheerfully.

“Pretty much. Where are you?” she replied.

“Ju
á
rez.”

She held the phone more firmly to her ear, trying not to picture Ra
ú
l in Ciudad Ju
á
rez—that dangerous city carved from the edge of the desert.

“Alma, are you there?” Ra
ú
l asked.

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry I won't see you.”

“Me, too,” she said. “When will you cross?”

“Tomorrow morning. I should be in Gilberton by Friday.”

“Be careful,” she replied. There was so much more to say, but Alma couldn't find the words.

“You'll be back soon, too, Alma,” he said. “I know you will.”

She didn't respond to that. Instead she said, “Call me when you get to Phoenix.”

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

When the line went dead, Alma wandered to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, clear and cold, from the tap. Without thinking, she offered a sort of prayer for Ra
ú
l, pleading for him to find water when he needed it. A part of her hoped they might be able to reunite at the border before their futures moved in opposite directions. But she knew that would be impossible. Alma was crossing the border in the easy direction. She would be going through a gate at a busy checkpoint on the far eastern edge of the border, safely enclosed in an air-conditioned vehicle. Ra
ú
l would need to travel the hard way. He would cross on foot, as far as possible from a checkpoint, in a burning stretch of hot desert beyond the border wall.

She hoped he would make it back to Gilberton safely, but she didn't want to come back to this town—maybe not ever. She would not give up on her future, though, and she had a lot of good people pulling for her. Ms. Chen had found someone with deep pockets to pay most of Alma's tuition at the academy in Mexico City. The donor insisted on complete anonymity. Ms. Chen wasn't even sure who it was. The donor also insisted that Alma and her family contribute 10 percent of the tuition. According to Ms. Chen, this anonymous benefactor wanted to be sure that she would take personal responsibility for her success.