Hour of the Bees (5 page)

“May I. And no. Not until we’re all finished.” I know this strategy. Mom’s payback for losing the car argument will be to micromanage Alta, whenever possible, for the next two months. “And you’re grounded from driving that car until Gael is home. I need to have a talk with him.”

“But he won’t be back in the country until August!” Alta barks.

“Then go ahead and put your keys somewhere safe,” Mom says.

Summer’s going to feel much longer than two months.

Alta slumps down, and her phone stops ringing. But her sourness melts away; the car is hers. She’s smug as can be.

To be honest, I’m kind of happy, too. Over the years I’ve learned that Alta’s victories will one day mean my victories. Like when she was eight and fought to get her ears pierced. When I turned eight, Mom took me to get mine pierced without a fight. Seventeen-year-old Carol will definitely want to use her saved-up lifeguarding paychecks to buy a cute car.

But still, Mom looks like she needs a hug. She surveys the table, dribbles of her delicious dinner clinging to bowls and spoons that will have to be washed. Behind her, the window’s open, the flat desert stretching to the ridge, and Mom, profiled against the twilight, seems small. The desert could swallow her up. I catch the weariness in her eyes before she blinks it away.

We’re quiet, except for the sounds of clinking utensils.

“Eat your soup,” Dad tells Serge. “It’s good.”

Serge folds his arms. “No.” The sight of my grandfather, pouting like a toddler — I don’t know whether to giggle or cry.

“Come on. You’ve got to eat. You’ll be hungry,” Dad insists.

After a moment, Serge takes his spoon and scoops it into the bowl. His hand trembles — the only movement in the room — and we watch him spill each spoonful he tries to lift.

“Papá,”
Dad says, and I cringe at the awkwardness of this moment, of the child feeding the parent. “Let me —” Dad reaches for the spoon, but Serge shoves the bowl with all his might. The soup splashes down the table in a tidal wave, soaking Mom’s lap.

“Uh-oh!” Lu crows — one of his favorite phrases — and repeats it over and over, banging his spoon on the high chair as percussion.

“Hey!” Dad shouts at Serge and slams his napkin down on the table. “Watch what you’re doing!”

“It’s my house! My house!”

“It’s okay.” Mom wets a dishcloth and mops up the spilled soup. “Accidents happen.”

No one calls her on the lie that hangs there. That was no accident. It’s right in the Seville pamphlet, the warning of aggressive and possibly violent behaviors,
as your loved one attempts to navigate through their new and frightening reality
.

Dad takes a calming breath, then changes the subject. “
Papá
, we drove past the Seville on our way down. They’re getting the grounds ready for summer.”
Discuss upcoming changes with a positive outlook
.

“Seville?” Serge twists his wrinkles into a confused face.

“Remember?” Dad says. “The Seville? The new home I — we — found for you?”

Serge reacts to the news with as much enthusiasm as Alta would give a sheep. “I’m staying here.”

Dad shreds his napkin into bits. “We decided this was the right choice.”

“No. You decided,” Serge says, and he’s right. Earlier this year, when Dad first learned that his dad was sick, Serge wouldn’t agree to move away from the ranch. Doctors told him he needed to be somewhere safer, somewhere closer to a hospital, but they couldn’t convince him. “He won’t even discuss it,” Dad had told my mom while tugging his hair in frustration. “He just keeps shouting, ‘This is where my roots are!’ ”

“So what does that mean?” Mom had wondered.

Dad had sighed. “It means I have to hire a lawyer.” And he did. He hired a lawyer to make Serge move —
for his own good
, Dad kept on saying.

“I’m not going to some raisin ranch,” Serge says now. “You can’t make me.”

“Papá.”
Dad groans, and I see a flash of what he must have been like as a teenager, with a flawlessly executed roll of the eyes. “It’s not a raisin ranch, it’s . . . it’s a private residence. Practically a hotel.”

“Too expensive,” Serge says.

“It’s not, remember? We looked at the numbers? It’s completely doable,” Dad says. “There’s round-the-clock medical staff, jetted tubs, a four-star chef. It’s the best place in New Mexico.” Dad’s guilt is bright as a sunburn. Serge would never care about Jacuzzi tubs or gourmet food; Dad picked the swanky Seville to feel better about putting his dad away against his will.

“Then move in yourself.” The oxygen shoots through Serge’s tube and squeaks with rage.

“The ranch is too far for hospice to drive. You need hands-on care. The dementia is just going to get worse.”

“I’m not leaving the ranch, Raúl,” Serge says. “Not when the bees are coming.”

“Beeee, beeee,” Lu chants.

My heart pulses. Bees.

Dad rubs his temples. “What are you talking about? Bees,
Papá
?”

“
Sí, sí
, the bees! They’re coming; they’re bringing the rain.”

“There are no bees here anymore. It’s too dry for them, you know that.”

“No, the bees are coming! Caro-leeen-a saw one!” Serge points a chalky-yellow fingernail at me.

“I —” I start, then realize everyone’s staring. Our number-one goal this summer: don’t do anything to upset Serge.

“Um,” I barely whisper, “it was just a fly.”

My lie is painful to deliver: Serge’s hope melts out of him, his mouth goes slack, and his eyes become blurry, icy-blue watercolor versions of themselves. “No bees?”

“No,” I say. “No bees.” I wish I could dive headfirst into my bowl.

“The Seville’s the best care center in the state,” Dad says. “It’ll be a vacation after the ranch. You can relax for once in your life.”

“We’ll be able to see you more often,” Mom adds, ignoring the fiery look Dad gives her.

Serge’s hand reaches out, a clammy, pasty claw. “Water, please.”

I pass him a glass, which he drains. “Bones are so dry,” he says. “Drought dries everything to dust.”

Dad clears his throat. “So this week, we’ve got to meet with the real estate agent.”

“Real estate agent?” Serge repeats.

“We decided,” Dad says carefully, “that it’s time to pass the ranch on. This way, everything at the Seville will be paid for.”

“You were born on this land,” Serge says. “Raised on this land. Your mother —”

“I know.” Dad’s voice cooks hotter and hotter. “But it hasn’t been properly maintained. When we sell it, somebody else can clean it up, get it up to speed with the twenty-first century. It will have a future — another family to look after it. Won’t that be great?”

“This land belongs to my family, Raúl. To your family.
Tus raíces significan nada para ti
.” Your roots mean nothing to you, Serge says. “You’ll pass it on over my dead body!”

“That’s what I’m trying to avoid!”

Dad storms out of the kitchen. Seconds later the TV volume cranks up.

Serge pushes away from the table slowly, trembling as he stands. Mom opens and closes her mouth, trying to find the right thing to say, but it doesn’t come in time, and Serge goes outside, carting his oxygen tank behind him, and parks himself on the porch.

Alta starts texting.

“Okay, guacamole monster. Time for a bath.” Mom plucks Lu from his high chair. “Will you girls get the dishes cleaned up? That means
you
.” She narrows her eyes at my sister.

Alta makes a big show of putting her phone away and carrying her own dishes to the sink. “I
am
,” she says.

“What about . . . ?” I say, pointing at Serge on the porch. “Should someone go talk to him?”

Mom glances at him, crumpled in his wicker chair, staring across the land at nothing. “Give him time,” she finally says.

Bzzz, bzzz
. I jerk my head around. “Bee,” I whisper. But it’s Alta’s cell phone, vibrating on the countertop.

“Alta. Clean up first. Then phone.”

“Fine.” My sister, queen of the monosyllable. But as soon as Mom’s out of sight, she abandons the sink and grabs her phone.

“Hey, Mom said you have to help.” My heart thumps as I say this; I’m risking being yelled at, or pinched, or worse.

Alta’s eyes flash danger. “I won’t tell her if you won’t.” She slips out of the kitchen, her only contribution clearing her own dishes. It’s more than she usually does, anyway.

It’s not fair. Alta always manages to talk or walk her way out of work. If I tattle to Mom, Alta will spin an excuse, elaborate as lace, and get away with it. She always gets away with it.

“Chiquita?”
Serge calls through the open kitchen window. “Did Inés get fed?”

I peer at the dog’s food and water. Both full. “Yes.”

“She’s a good dog,” he says.

I wash dishes like a factory worker, letting the cold suds drip down my arms. I breathe, forgetting the unfairness of the evening with every exhale; the ranch is no place to rewrite the rules of my world.

“
Chiquita?
Did Inés get fed?” Serge pops his head in the window this time.

I stare. “You just asked me that.”

“No, I’m asking it now.”

“Yes, she’s got food,” I say.

“And water?”

Sigh. “And water.”

“She’s a good dog.”

Loved ones with dementia may repeat the same phrases or questions, or repeat the same tasks, such as washing their hands, getting dressed, or showering. Do your best to be patient
.

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” I reply to the pamphlet in my back pocket. I finish washing the last plate and declare the kitchen clean.

In the living room, Dad faces the general direction of the TV, but he looks through it, his eyes puffy, an unopened can of beer in his hand. Both he and Alta won their arguments tonight, but unlike my sister, Dad isn’t the gloating type.

I zone out for another hour, shifting my lukewarm attention between the TV and my phone. When my text conversations with my friends drop off one by one, I watch the movie. It’s in Spanish, but it’s still nice to be lost in someone else’s world, someone else’s problems.

Mom comes in. “Bedtime.”

“It’s only nine,” I say.

“Okay. Let’s play a game where I’m the mom and you’re the kid.” Mom squeezes the bridge of her nose. “Trust me, you need sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

“You mean a long summer.” But she’s right, I need sleep. My muscles ache — I’m shattered.

“What exactly are we doing tomorrow?” I ask.

“Same things we’ll be doing every day,” Mom says. “We pack. And clean. And try to fix things that are falling apart.” She drags one hand along the hallway wall. “This ranch is so full of junk, it’ll be a miracle if we fit half of it into one moving van. A lifetime of junk. Of memories.”

“Mom?” I say, as quietly as I can without whispering. A thousand questions line up single file in my throat.
Will Dad be okay? Is it going to kill him to be here with Serge for two months, or is he just being dramatic? Why are there bees here? They’re not supposed to be. And why does it seem like they’re following me? Why do I feel like the ranch is brewing something extra weird? Am I going crazy, like Serge, or is it just the heat?

I want to tell her how Serge’s eyes glow, how they are cat’s eyes, wide as a newborn’s, ringed like an ancient tree trunk. I want to tell her how lucky I feel that Lu’s alive, and talk to her about Alta, how I wish I could transform into a giant, just so I can pick Alta up and say, “You’re not the biggest, not really.” I want to tell Mom that living with Alta is like having a rattler in the house.

But what I ask is “Mom? What happened between Serge and Dad?”

Mom comes out of slow motion and studies my face. “You’ll have to ask Dad. That’s his memory to share.” She kisses my forehead. “Get some rest. See you in the morning.” Then she goes into her bedroom, and I’m in the hallway with no answers.

The door to Dad’s old bedroom is closed, so I knock.

“What?” Alta calls, instead of “Come in” or even “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” I say. She doesn’t respond.

“Mom says I have to go to bed.” Still no answer.

“Can I come in?” Nothing.

I go in.

She’s scrunched in the corner of the bed, painting her toenails purple, copying the flower pattern from some fashion magazine. She’s alternating between this, texting, and watching a teen vampire show on her phone.

“I thought the ranch didn’t have Wi-Fi,” I say.

She points to a thin black box plugged into the wall. “My dad let me take his hotspot,” she answers in a bored voice.

“Oh, right.” I wonder if my dad even knows what a hotspot is. “How should we — I mean, do you want to share the bed?” I say this cautiously. My communication has to be void of emotion, purely neutral, because if Alta’s in a mood to bully me, she’ll deny me anything I seem to want.

“Not really,” she says, and locks eyes: a dare to challenge her.

In the closet I find a sleeping bag and a Superman pillow. I unroll the makeshift bed, then lie on the floor, flat as the desert.

Above me is the tangled cord of an old Nintendo video-game console, dusty on a shelf. “Can you believe Dad grew up here?” I say.