Where You End (20 page)

We snake through the cars in rush hour traffic and make our way north, and the uncle and I only talk when he needs directions. He doesn't even tell me his name. When we arrive at the top of the hill, we find a side street to park on and he asks me to wait inside. I want to go, but I understand now that this is not just my story, so I agree to stay in the car and watch Pablo, who seems to be okay with me so long as the goldfish don't run out. I explain to the uncle how to get into the Cathedral, and he takes the car keys, probably because he doesn't want me to run off with the other child in his care. He tells me he'll be right back.

Pablo and I stare at each other for a long minute, then he asks for more goldfish, but instead of eating them, he starts counting.

“One, two, three, four, five,” he says.

I notice he's skipped a few crackers, but I'm not sure if I'm supposed to correct him. He doesn't seem to be interested in eating them.

“Actually,” I say, “you missed some. Try again.”

“Okay—one, two, three, four, five,” he says, again skipping two.

I reach for his palm to start counting out loud, but Pablo pops exactly two fish in his mouth before I can get to three. It cracks me up.

“Five!” he says.

He's right. It reminds me of his mom.

“I'm cold,” he says.

“Me too,” I tell him. “Your uncle will be back soon.” I point to the spires of the church.

No word from Eva. I don't know what I was thinking, why I imagined she would update me. I brought him here, I remind myself. That's all that matters.

“Where did he go?” Pablo asks.

I pretend I didn't hear the question, and Pablo messes with the Velcro on his shoes. Except for the Velcro, little boy shoes look like old man shoes.

“Did he go to hear the music?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

A few cars roll by, but no one comes out to tell me what to say. He starts squirming in his seat and asks if he can have his ball. I look everywhere for it.

“It's red,” he says.

I keep looking, but I can't find it. I tell him I'm sorry and offer more goldfish, but he shakes his head.

“Did you go trick or treating last night?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

“It was raining, right?”

“Yeah, but I was a dragon, and dragons can spit fire.”

I nod, trying to guess if Eva bought the costume before she left. My heart breaks at the thought of the uncle going to get a polyester dragon at the store.

“But the rain did not kill the fire that I spit, because the rain is little and the fire is big.”

“That's right,” I say, thinking that
kill
sounds strange coming from a little guy, but I believe him. I believe his dragon.

“My
t
í
o
said I could have four candies because I am four years old, but I had one chocolate one because I am more than three, because my birthday party was in June.”

In June, I was in love. I could have had seventeen candies yesterday, and I didn't even have one. June. Was June the date on Eva's neck?

“Were you a princess or a fairy?” he asks.

That makes me laugh a little, and I remember Pablo's thing for dinosaurs.

“I was a dinosaur,” I say.

He gives me a serious look, followed by a quick smile, and then he's back to his shoes.

“What dinosaur?” he says.

I can't remember any of the names. It's too long ago.

“The mean one with horns,” I say.

“Big?” he asks.

“Huge,” I say.

“Triceratops!” He beams, and looks through his bag to hand me a plastic version.

“Exactly!” I say. “Where does a triceratops live?”

Pablo is confused. “I don't know.”

“Yeah, that's sort of a stupid question.”

“Don't say
stupid
.”

I apologize.

“You can say
silly
. We don't say stupid in this house, and my mama says it hurts people.
”

I tell him he's right.

I don't tell him his mama is missing, and I definitely don't tell him she will be here soon to congratulate him on his impeccable manners because, frankly, I have no idea whether she will or not, and it would be silly for me to give him false hopes. (Is hope what he misses or what he wishes for next? Is hope to smell her neck at bedtime, to count the loops around her jeans, to push his arms through his dinosaur shirt and catch her distracted eyes in front of his? Does he know what to call it when you have something and you can't keep it and then you don't have it and it's with you, all the time?) It's been over a week since he's heard her voice. Only twenty minutes in this car.

He starts to kick his legs like a possessed pair of scissors, and whine. I look for his ball again, but he's getting frustrated. Pablo wants to get out of the car.

“I know, Pablo, but we have to stay here so your uncle can find us when he gets back. He might get worried if we leave. You understand? Does that make sense?”

He doesn't answer, but instead gets quiet and sad-looking. Shit. I made a mistake.

“Hey, you know what?” I say.

Silence.

“Look what I have.”

“What?” Pablo says, humoring me.

I pull Adam's camera out of my bag. He was so mad yesterday that he forgot what he came for.

“It's a camera.”

I turn it on, switch to automatic, and look through the viewfinder. There he is, right in front of me. If I move back enough, I can get all his hair. Here he is, Eva, your child, the live, three-dimensional version.

“Can I see it?” he asks.

“You have to be very careful, okay?”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because there are lots of buttons, and it can break if you drop it. It's not mine.”

“Is it your mommy's?” he says.

Oh man. My mommy is home, making dinner.

“No. It's my friend's.”

“Oh. I'm not gonna drop it,” he reassures me.

“Good.”

“Because your friend will be very mad if I drop it.”

I laugh.

“He probably wouldn't get too mad. He's nice,” I say, thinking that's the truth. Even if he said something horrible, that friend is the nicest one I've got.

Pablo holds his little hand out to take the camera. I unbuckle my seat belt and put the strap around his neck. The camera covers most of his face, and, when I tell him to look through the hole, he keeps both eyes open. It's hard for him to keep the thing still.

“You have to look with one eye if you want to see better. You have to close one of your eyes … like a pirate.”

Pablo squints. I put one hand over his eye.

“Your hand is cold,” he says.

I rub my hands together, against my jeans, and then together again. I put my hand back on his eye.

“How's that?” I say.

Silence.

“What do you see?” I ask.

He puts the camera down. “The car.”

I try to remember how my mother taught me. It's too long ago.

“You have to keep looking through the hole, until the picture is done. Or it will come out blurry.”

“What's blurry?” he asks.

“Like, fuzzy.”

“Like a bear?”

“Like a … ”

“Like a dog?”

“Like the shower door,” I say, which is not fuzzy at all.

“I don't like showers.”

“Okay. That's okay. Forget that. Let's try again. Keep the camera in front of your face, like this.”

I hold the camera and cover his eye with my palm. He lets me.

“Now tell me what you see, on the other side.”

“The car.”

“Okay. What else?”

“The wheel.”

“Great. Now move the camera and keep looking.”

I take my hand off Pablo's face.

“Keep looking, don't put the camera down. What do you see?”

“The seat.”

“Can you see me through the camera?”

He turns to face me. He moves back, without dropping the camera.

“Yes.”

“What do I look like?”

“You have a finger and eyes and a nose. This is heavy.”

I reach for the camera, but Pablo plops it on his lap.

“Do you want to take a picture?” I ask.

“I took a picture,” he says.

Now I remember. “You
saw
a picture, Pablo. Now you have to take it.”

“Okay.”

“You look, and move it around, and when you see something you want to keep, you push this button.”

It sounds a little loaded for a four-year-old but that's what my mother always told me.

“But you have to be very, very still. You can't move when you push the button.”

Pablo brings the camera back up, and I leave his eyes alone. He turns back and forth a little and then points the camera at the church. When he's done, he gives me the camera, and I show him his picture, happily breaking my rule. He smiles and asks if he can take one more. I put the strap back on and he points it straight at me and waits the longest second.
What do you see?
I want to ask,
What do you see?
He pushes the button and tells me he has to pee.

Shit. I don't want to leave the car unlocked, but it's been long enough, and there must be bathrooms somewhere in there. Pablo holds my hand to cross the street and does not let go until we are next to the church, when he breaks free and runs to the side doors. He seems to know the way. I run after him and ask him to stay close. He looks embarrassed. I ask a purple-robed lady where the bathroom is. No sign of Eva or uncle. I would check my phone, but I have no idea what to do if Pablo pees his pants.

I opt for the girl
's bathroom. I ask him if he needs help, but he says he can do it by himself and can I wait for him, please. Sure. Pablo comes out of the stall with his shirt half tucked, but I don't say anything, and he tries to jump for the soap, but he can't reach it. I lift him up and run his hands under the water, and we smile at ourselves in the mirror. “Can we go get my
t
í
o
now?” he says as we walk out.

“Okay,” I say, hoping I won't disappoint him. “Do you know where to go?”

“Yes,” Pablo says, and he laughs, and I feel a hundred times better.

We walk through the large wooden doors, back full-circle into the maze of stained glass and marbles. Pablo grabs my hand. There are flowers in the nave and along the aisles, which could mean a wedding. Pablo launches into a bouquet, inhales, and tells me it's yummy, and we move to the back of the church, toward the tip of the cross. After a few steps, Pablo lets go of my hand and runs full-speed away from me. A few people turn around and I walk faster, until I see who he's heading for.

Eva stands up in a pew next to her uncle. She's wearing my green sweater. Pablo stops before he gets to them and just stands there, frozen. I walk up and stand next to him and he grabs my jacket and tells me that's his mama. I grab Pablo's hand and it's sweaty and warm, and I know it's wrong, but I don't want to let go, so we stay exactly where we are, Pablo's face fixed on his mother.

She walks toward us, and he lets go and walks away from me, and she hurries up and grabs him and hugs him hard, and, although I'm sure he loves her, he doesn
't hug her right back, probably because he doesn't know what is in her head.

Pablo asks for a couple of bucks to turn on a candle, and they each light one and say a prayer, which makes me think of my mother, and how she's still here.

forty-four

In the car on the way home, Eva sits in the back with Pablo and he falls asleep on her shoulder. We don't say a word to each other, even though I want to tell her I know everything, especially about her mother, but maybe it doesn't matter now that she's going back. Maybe this is really the end of her trouble. Uncle is driving with one hand, and every once in a while he sighs, like he's letting the air out a little at a time, and I can see in the rearview mirror that Eva's got one hand on Pablo's knee, and they both have their eyes closed now. It would make a great picture.

When we get to my house, the uncle walks over to my side and opens my door, then he shakes my hand really hard and says thank you, about five times. I tell him I'm sorry about all the confusion, and he waves it all away, now that his sister's child is back in his car, now that he can keep his promise. Eva steps out.

“So this is where you live?” she says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“It's nice,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Look … ” she says, and I should stop her, but I don't because I don't want to say goodbye.

“There's a lot going on, but I'm sure you'll be okay,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “You too.”

“You have the book?” she asks.

“Uh, actually, your uncle has it, but you should keep it.”

“Maybe I can give it to you the next time,” she offers.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“So what are you going to do about the sculpture?” she says.

“
Well, I told my parents, so we have to think of something.”

“What are they going to do?”

“I don't know, but they're going to make me tell the truth. They're big on that,” I say.

“That's good,” she says. “That's hard, but it's good.”

“Yeah.”

“So … ” She looks back at the car. “He's awesome, right?”

And I say, “Your uncle?” which makes her laugh until I say yes, he's awesome, like his mama, and we both look down.

I can't wait any longer, and neither can Eva, so we hug, and she smells like ten days outside your home, sleeping God-knows-where, having God-knows-what nightmares, battling God-knows-what creatures with sharp teeth who eat your hopes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She pats my back, and I grab my sweater and whisper that I'm sorry about her mom, because I am, because I can't even imagine. She says thank you again, and it's time to go.

But as she walks away, I see the date, those swirls of ink on her neck, and think it could be either—a birth or a death.